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The New Coffee Room

  1. TNCR
  2. General Discussion
  3. The poetry thread

The poetry thread

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  • Aqua LetiferA Offline
    Aqua LetiferA Offline
    Aqua Letifer
    wrote on last edited by Aqua Letifer
    #40

    The Old Man

    In the hours between night and morning
    As my family dreams deep in their bed
    I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
    I’m exhausted and shaking my head.

    When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
    Every night, it's been always the same—
    There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
    From the Man with a Song for a Name.

    “So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
    As he glances from me to the door
    “I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
    “I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”

    When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
    “My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
    “My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
    Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”

    “Just as well if I would, and you know it,
    For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
    “I spend night after night chasing nothing!
    And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?

    “For a decade, I follow this calling
    I put blood in my truth and I give
    And I know that I’ll never be famous
    But at least some would know that I lived

    “Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
    When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
    Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
    Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!

    “The world has moved on—words are worthless
    I spill as much of myself as I can
    And you know what they do when I share it?
    They ignore it, you silly old man!

    “I don't have some glorious struggle
    Or a face that commands their respect
    I just live in a house with my family
    And the bullshit my notebooks collect

    “I’m no internet-famous sensation
    I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
    I make marks on the world with stale water
    And my writing will fade when I die.”

    The other just raises his eyebrows.
    “I take it you’e finally through?
    With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
    Can’t you ever express something new?

    “You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
    Discounting your nonsense, of course.
    Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
    It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.

    “My birds used to visit, remember?
    They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
    But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
    To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
    So why don’t they join us awhile
    To pay you what you think that I owe.”

    As two ravens fly in from the window
    The man stops to consider his words
    When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
    But a voice whispers out from the birds:

    Beneath the pines
    Below the leaves
    Where bones are shrines
    To death achieved
    That’s where you’ll go
    And where you’ll be
    Again you know
    And now you see
    Your spirit shows
    You’re more than dust
    You’ve room to grow
    You can adjust
    Death comes again
    As twice it must
    Returning when
    You’re last discussed
    For throngs of men
    The gap is small
    They’re buried, then
    They’re never called
    For you, the word
    Is fate forestalled
    It’s heaven heard
    Beyond its walls
    Your soul is stirred
    And shines anew
    And grace returned
    Will visit you
    But grace will fade
    Its moments few
    The vows death made
    Are followed through
    Once all is played
    You’ll join the dark
    But what you’ve laid
    May rouse a spark
    And show the world
    That you persisted
    Your hope was hurled
    You once existed
    The future swirls
    It’s never known
    So share those pearls
    You call your own

    The ravens fly out past the window
    The man, with a wink, disappears
    And when all once forgotten emerges
    My heart reconciles and clears

    In the hours between night and morning
    Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
    I abandon my fears to tomorrow
    And I pick up my notebook again

    Please love yourself.

    HoraceH 1 Reply Last reply
    • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

      The Old Man

      In the hours between night and morning
      As my family dreams deep in their bed
      I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
      I’m exhausted and shaking my head.

      When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
      Every night, it's been always the same—
      There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
      From the Man with a Song for a Name.

      “So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
      As he glances from me to the door
      “I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
      “I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”

      When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
      “My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
      “My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
      Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”

      “Just as well if I would, and you know it,
      For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
      “I spend night after night chasing nothing!
      And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?

      “For a decade, I follow this calling
      I put blood in my truth and I give
      And I know that I’ll never be famous
      But at least some would know that I lived

      “Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
      When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
      Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
      Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!

      “The world has moved on—words are worthless
      I spill as much of myself as I can
      And you know what they do when I share it?
      They ignore it, you silly old man!

      “I don't have some glorious struggle
      Or a face that commands their respect
      I just live in a house with my family
      And the bullshit my notebooks collect

      “I’m no internet-famous sensation
      I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
      I make marks on the world with stale water
      And my writing will fade when I die.”

      The other just raises his eyebrows.
      “I take it you’e finally through?
      With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
      Can’t you ever express something new?

      “You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
      Discounting your nonsense, of course.
      Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
      It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.

      “My birds used to visit, remember?
      They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
      But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
      To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
      So why don’t they join us awhile
      To pay you what you think that I owe.”

      As two ravens fly in from the window
      The man stops to consider his words
      When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
      But a voice whispers out from the birds:

      Beneath the pines
      Below the leaves
      Where bones are shrines
      To death achieved
      That’s where you’ll go
      And where you’ll be
      Again you know
      And now you see
      Your spirit shows
      You’re more than dust
      You’ve room to grow
      You can adjust
      Death comes again
      As twice it must
      Returning when
      You’re last discussed
      For throngs of men
      The gap is small
      They’re buried, then
      They’re never called
      For you, the word
      Is fate forestalled
      It’s heaven heard
      Beyond its walls
      Your soul is stirred
      And shines anew
      And grace returned
      Will visit you
      But grace will fade
      Its moments few
      The vows death made
      Are followed through
      Once all is played
      You’ll join the dark
      But what you’ve laid
      May rouse a spark
      And show the world
      That you persisted
      Your hope was hurled
      You once existed
      The future swirls
      It’s never known
      So share those pearls
      You call your own

      The ravens fly out past the window
      The man, with a wink, disappears
      And when all once forgotten emerges
      My heart reconciles and clears

      In the hours between night and morning
      Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
      I abandon my fears to tomorrow
      And I pick up my notebook again

      HoraceH Offline
      HoraceH Offline
      Horace
      wrote on last edited by
      #41

      @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

      The Old Man

      In the hours between night and morning
      As my family dreams deep in their bed
      I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
      I’m exhausted and shaking my head.

      When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
      Every night, it's been always the same—
      There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
      From the Man with a Song for a Name.

      “So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
      As he glances from me to the door
      “I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
      “I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”

      When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
      “My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
      “My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
      Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”

      “Just as well if I would, and you know it,
      For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
      “I spend night after night chasing nothing!
      And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?

      “For a decade, I follow this calling
      I put blood in my truth and I give
      And I know that I’ll never be famous
      But at least some would know that I lived

      “Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
      When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
      Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
      Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!

      “The world has moved on—words are worthless
      I spill as much of myself as I can
      And you know what they do when I share it?
      They ignore it, you silly old man!

      “I don't have some glorious struggle
      Or a face that commands their respect
      I just live in a house with my family
      And the bullshit my notebooks collect

      “I’m no internet-famous sensation
      I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
      I make marks on the world with stale water
      And my writing will fade when I die.”

      The other just raises his eyebrows.
      “I take it you’e finally through?
      With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
      Can’t you ever express something new?

      “You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
      Discounting your nonsense, of course.
      Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
      It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.

      “My birds used to visit, remember?
      They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
      But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
      To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
      So why don’t they join us awhile
      To pay you what you think that I owe.”

      As two ravens fly in from the window
      The man stops to consider his words
      When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
      But a voice whispers out from the birds:

      Beneath the pines
      Below the leaves
      Where bones are shrines
      To death achieved
      That’s where you’ll go
      And where you’ll be
      Again you know
      And now you see
      Your spirit shows
      You’re more than dust
      You’ve room to grow
      You can adjust
      Death comes again
      As twice it must
      Returning when
      You’re last discussed
      For throngs of men
      The gap is small
      They’re buried, then
      They’re never called
      For you, the word
      Is fate forestalled
      It’s heaven heard
      Beyond its walls
      Your soul is stirred
      And shines anew
      And grace returned
      Will visit you
      But grace will fade
      Its moments few
      The vows death made
      Are followed through
      Once all is played
      You’ll join the dark
      But what you’ve laid
      May rouse a spark
      And show the world
      That you persisted
      Your hope was hurled
      You once existed
      The future swirls
      It’s never known
      So share those pearls
      You call your own

      The ravens fly out past the window
      The man, with a wink, disappears
      And when all once forgotten emerges
      My heart reconciles and clears

      In the hours between night and morning
      Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
      I abandon my fears to tomorrow
      And I pick up my notebook again

      Excellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.

      Education is extremely important.

      Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
      • HoraceH Horace

        @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

        The Old Man

        In the hours between night and morning
        As my family dreams deep in their bed
        I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
        I’m exhausted and shaking my head.

        When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
        Every night, it's been always the same—
        There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
        From the Man with a Song for a Name.

        “So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
        As he glances from me to the door
        “I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
        “I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”

        When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
        “My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
        “My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
        Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”

        “Just as well if I would, and you know it,
        For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
        “I spend night after night chasing nothing!
        And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?

        “For a decade, I follow this calling
        I put blood in my truth and I give
        And I know that I’ll never be famous
        But at least some would know that I lived

        “Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
        When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
        Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
        Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!

        “The world has moved on—words are worthless
        I spill as much of myself as I can
        And you know what they do when I share it?
        They ignore it, you silly old man!

        “I don't have some glorious struggle
        Or a face that commands their respect
        I just live in a house with my family
        And the bullshit my notebooks collect

        “I’m no internet-famous sensation
        I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
        I make marks on the world with stale water
        And my writing will fade when I die.”

        The other just raises his eyebrows.
        “I take it you’e finally through?
        With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
        Can’t you ever express something new?

        “You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
        Discounting your nonsense, of course.
        Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
        It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.

        “My birds used to visit, remember?
        They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
        But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
        To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
        So why don’t they join us awhile
        To pay you what you think that I owe.”

        As two ravens fly in from the window
        The man stops to consider his words
        When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
        But a voice whispers out from the birds:

        Beneath the pines
        Below the leaves
        Where bones are shrines
        To death achieved
        That’s where you’ll go
        And where you’ll be
        Again you know
        And now you see
        Your spirit shows
        You’re more than dust
        You’ve room to grow
        You can adjust
        Death comes again
        As twice it must
        Returning when
        You’re last discussed
        For throngs of men
        The gap is small
        They’re buried, then
        They’re never called
        For you, the word
        Is fate forestalled
        It’s heaven heard
        Beyond its walls
        Your soul is stirred
        And shines anew
        And grace returned
        Will visit you
        But grace will fade
        Its moments few
        The vows death made
        Are followed through
        Once all is played
        You’ll join the dark
        But what you’ve laid
        May rouse a spark
        And show the world
        That you persisted
        Your hope was hurled
        You once existed
        The future swirls
        It’s never known
        So share those pearls
        You call your own

        The ravens fly out past the window
        The man, with a wink, disappears
        And when all once forgotten emerges
        My heart reconciles and clears

        In the hours between night and morning
        Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
        I abandon my fears to tomorrow
        And I pick up my notebook again

        Excellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.

        Aqua LetiferA Offline
        Aqua LetiferA Offline
        Aqua Letifer
        wrote on last edited by
        #42

        @Horace said in The poetry thread:

        @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

        The Old Man

        In the hours between night and morning
        As my family dreams deep in their bed
        I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
        I’m exhausted and shaking my head.

        When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
        Every night, it's been always the same—
        There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
        From the Man with a Song for a Name.

        “So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
        As he glances from me to the door
        “I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
        “I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”

        When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
        “My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
        “My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
        Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”

        “Just as well if I would, and you know it,
        For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
        “I spend night after night chasing nothing!
        And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?

        “For a decade, I follow this calling
        I put blood in my truth and I give
        And I know that I’ll never be famous
        But at least some would know that I lived

        “Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
        When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
        Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
        Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!

        “The world has moved on—words are worthless
        I spill as much of myself as I can
        And you know what they do when I share it?
        They ignore it, you silly old man!

        “I don't have some glorious struggle
        Or a face that commands their respect
        I just live in a house with my family
        And the bullshit my notebooks collect

        “I’m no internet-famous sensation
        I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
        I make marks on the world with stale water
        And my writing will fade when I die.”

        The other just raises his eyebrows.
        “I take it you’e finally through?
        With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
        Can’t you ever express something new?

        “You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
        Discounting your nonsense, of course.
        Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
        It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.

        “My birds used to visit, remember?
        They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
        But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
        To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
        So why don’t they join us awhile
        To pay you what you think that I owe.”

        As two ravens fly in from the window
        The man stops to consider his words
        When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
        But a voice whispers out from the birds:

        Beneath the pines
        Below the leaves
        Where bones are shrines
        To death achieved
        That’s where you’ll go
        And where you’ll be
        Again you know
        And now you see
        Your spirit shows
        You’re more than dust
        You’ve room to grow
        You can adjust
        Death comes again
        As twice it must
        Returning when
        You’re last discussed
        For throngs of men
        The gap is small
        They’re buried, then
        They’re never called
        For you, the word
        Is fate forestalled
        It’s heaven heard
        Beyond its walls
        Your soul is stirred
        And shines anew
        And grace returned
        Will visit you
        But grace will fade
        Its moments few
        The vows death made
        Are followed through
        Once all is played
        You’ll join the dark
        But what you’ve laid
        May rouse a spark
        And show the world
        That you persisted
        Your hope was hurled
        You once existed
        The future swirls
        It’s never known
        So share those pearls
        You call your own

        The ravens fly out past the window
        The man, with a wink, disappears
        And when all once forgotten emerges
        My heart reconciles and clears

        In the hours between night and morning
        Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
        I abandon my fears to tomorrow
        And I pick up my notebook again

        Excellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.

        You've a white male face, bro. Might wanna rethink that last.

        Please love yourself.

        1 Reply Last reply
        • Aqua LetiferA Offline
          Aqua LetiferA Offline
          Aqua Letifer
          wrote on last edited by Aqua Letifer
          #43

          Robin Hood and the Monk
          —my version, adopted heavily from the Cambridge Ff.5.48 manuscript. This was a real bitch to do.

          In summer, when the woods were bright
          And leaves grew large and long,
          The merry forest welcomed in
          The sparrows’ morning song

          The deer were drawing to the dale
          And left the hillocks free
          And sheltered in beneath the shade
          Of vaulted emerald trees

          White Sunday, when the flowers bloomed
          So brilliantly in May—
          They rivaled dawn’s own gilded glow—
          Such was the scene that day.

          “A merry sight,” said Little John
          “By Christ Upon the Cross,
          To find a man as half-content
          You’d all be at a loss!”

          “Pick up your heart, my master, please,”
          He ventured on to say,
          “No light is ever fairer than
          The morning light of May.”

          “Except I’m troubled,” Robin said,
          “I’m sorry that it shows.
          It’s time for Sunday Mass again;
          It’s there I ought to go.”

          “It’s been a fortnight since I’ve been—
          Much longer than I’d planned.
          I’ll try today—but led, with luck
          By Mary’s gentle hand.”

          Along came Much, the Miller’s son,
          Who took the two aside.
          “So bring a dozen merry men
          And let them be your guide!
          If any wished to do you harm,
          They’d risk their suicide.”

          “Just one, my friend,” said Robin Hood,
          “To keep us out of sight.
          So Little John shall hold my bow—
          Unless we find a fight.”

          “You’ll hold your own,” said Little John,
          “And me, I’ll carry mine.
          In fact, a dollar wager for the man
          Who shoots the truer line.”

          “A dollar? No,” said Robin back
          “Let’s have a little fun:
          For besting me in archery,
          I’ll give you three-to-one.”

          They wagered once, and wagered twice
          As both dared not to lose
          ‘Till Little John had won enough
          To buy new socks and shoes.

          Then silence grew between the two
          As Robin stormed ahead
          The other tried to claim his prize
          When Robin turned his head.

          He fiercely struck at Little John—
          “You cheated!” Robin roared
          And Little John responded fast
          By brandishing his sword.

          “Were you another’s master, Robin,
          I’d sorely make you pay.
          Return to town. Go where you will.
          You walk alone today.”

          So Robin walked to Nottingham,
          Uneasy and alone,
          And Little John, to Sherwood by
          The paths he’d always known.

          And later, once in Nottingham,
          A hooded man began
          To pray to Mary and to God
          To see him safe again.

          He stepped inside Saint Mary’s church
          And knelt before the Lord
          And all within saw Robin Hood
          Alone, save bow and sword.

          Across from him, a local monk
          Whose head sat full and round
          Identified the visitor
          And quickly spun around

          He bolted out the door and sought
          The sheriff as he fled—
          Disrupting Robin’s sanctuary,
          Betraying him instead.

          While searching all of Nottingham,
          He told the sheriff’s men:
          “Secure the gates and arm yourself—
          The Thief returns again!”

          He found the sheriff as he yelled,
          “Rise up, and fix your ears!
          Surround the church with all your guards,
          Your ‘Robin Hood’ is here!

          I saw the felon there myself,
          Attending Sunday mass
          The failure’s yours and yours alone
          If he’s allowed to pass!

          I know the traitor, same as you—
          He sprang and robbed me blind!
          A hundred pounds he took from me—
          It’s never left my mind.”

          The sheriff nodded, thanked the monk
          And smiled, now content.
          He mobilized his strongest men
          And to the church they went.

          They beat upon St. Mary’s doors
          With staves dispersed and drawn
          “‘Just two,’ I said,” spat Robin Hood,
          “And now, no Little John!”

          He drew his longsword out at once
          And held it by his knee,
          Then charged against the sheriff’s men
          Their staves now swinging free

          Thrice through did Robin come at them
          And those who saw it say
          He wounded countless armored guards
          And twelve he killed that day.

          His sword, upon the sheriff’s head,
          Abruptly broke in two.
          “The smith that made you,” Robin said,
          “Deserves to be run through!

          I’m weaponless, and so I yield,
          Before more blood is spilled.
          (And if I ran, they barred the gates—
          They’d surely have me killed.)”

          ————————————

          Within the forest, past the towns,
          Beyond their field and glen,
          Stood Little John, who spoke at once
          Before the merry men:

          “Our master’s not returned and I
          Suspect he’s locked away.
          But quiet! Listen up, my friends,
          And hear what I would say—

          He’s served Our Lady piously;
          For us, She will provide.
          Because of Her, despite my fears,
          I don’t believe he died.

          So please be glad,” said Little John,
          “And let your mourning go.
          I’ll leave with Much to bring him back;
          The monk? We’ll bring him low.
          If Mild Mary lends Her might,
          We’ll give him what he’s owed.

          Keep watch upon our meeting tree
          And while we’re down the trail,
          Bring back that summer venison
          That stalks our wooded vale.”

          They crossed the forest, John and Much—
          Beyond the trees, the two
          Arrived at Much’s uncle’s house,
          The highway in full view.

          The morning came, and from the house,
          The two companions saw
          The monk come riding with a Page
          In the gentle light of dawn.

          “By faith alone,” said Little John,
          “Our luck would be this good!
          The very monk we’re looking for—
          I know him by his hood!”

          They joined the road, both Much and John,
          And like two gentlemen
          Approached the monk and little Page
          As if they’d been old friends

          “From where’d you come?” asked Little John.
          “I’d heard a merchant say
          An outlaw stalking Nottingham
          Was taken yesterday.

          He stole from us some twenty marks—
          We wondered if you knew
          Was what our friend had said of his
          Incarceration true?”

          “A hundred pounds,” The monk replied,
          “He lifted from my purse!
          He’s captured, thanks to me alone;
          It’s I who saw him first.”

          “Give thanks to God!” said Little John,
          “We’d like to, if we may,
          Provide you two some company
          And bring you on your way.

          It’s up to you—the two of us
          Aren’t felons to be feared;
          But Robin’s woods have many friends
          and you could disappear.”

          He’d gladly bear their company,
          The monk told Little John.
          But the king was waiting for his word,
          So they continued on.

          John walked beside the monk awhile,
          Then turned to speak. Instead,
          He grabbed the horse the monk was on
          And yanked him by the head.

          Then Much locked arms around the Page
          In case he tried to stray,
          As John pulled down the hefty monk
          Whose horse began to bray.

          When Little John unsheathed his sword,
          His wild eyes grew wide;
          The monk, who saw his death at-hand
          Fell to his knees and cried.

          “You jailed my master,” shouted John,
          “Your soul I see is rotten!
          You’ll never meet our king. What’s more,
          Your fate will be forgotten.”

          John slew the monk and took his head,
          Dispatching him to hell,
          Then Much removed the Page’s, too,
          For fear that he might tell.

          They stole the letters from their bags,
          As swords rejoined their sheaths,
          They buried both the page and monk
          In shallow graves beneath

          When John appeared before the king,
          He knelt upon his knee,
          “May God preserve you, lord,” he said,
          “And Jesus save and see!”

          He gave him letters that the monk
          Had kept before he died
          The king drew close, inspecting them
          At once, and then replied:

          “Upon my throne, there never was
          Such trouble on my mind,
          Or a yeoman all throughout our land
          I wanted more to find.

          But where’s the monk who wrote to me?
          I’d see him, if I may.”
          “My lord, I’m sorry,” mumbled John,
          “He died along the way.”

          The king gave Much and Little John
          Both twenty pounds before
          He made them yeomen of the crown
          Requesting one thing more:

          He gave to John his seal in-hand—
          The sheriff, as his arm,
          Shall carry Robin to the king
          But none shall do him harm.

          Then John and Much took leave at once,
          And as the stories say,
          Toward Nottingham they never stopped—
          They ran for one full day.

          When Little John and Much arrived,
          The outer gates were barred.
          They tried in vain to lift them up,
          And called upon a guard:

          “What cause is there,” John asked of him,
          To bar the gates so fast?”
          “Because of Robin Hood,” he said,
          “In prison now at last!

          “Will Scarlock, Little John and Much,
          Those friends of Robin Hood,
          They sometimes stalk about these walls—
          They'd kill us if they could.”

          The two produced the royal seal,
          The guardsmen let them in,
          And by the village square, they found
          The sheriff with his men.

          John drew the message from the king
          Removed its outer band
          And with the sheriff looking on,
          John placed it in his hand.

          The sheriff glanced upon the seal
          And said, “The monk’s not here?
          But where’s he gone?” he asked of John,
          And turned so he could hear.

          “He’s now an abbot,” John replied,
          “As true as I now stand:
          Westminster Abbey. Ordered by
          The Crown and God’s command.”

          The sheriff smiled at the two,
          And treated them as guests.
          By night, the group retired to
          Their beds to take their rest.

          And later, as the sheriff slept,
          Still drunk on wine and ale,
          Both Little John and Much arose
          To slip inside the jail.

          The two snuck up behind the guard:
          “Wake up!” said Little John—
          “The bandit, Robin Hood, escaped!
          Get up! You see? He’s gone!”

          The jailer readied straight away
          But startled at the call,
          So with a sword, John ran him through—
          He died against the wall.

          “I’ve been demoted to a guard,”
          Said John with teasing eyes.
          He took the keys to Robin’s cell
          And freed him of his ties.

          He offered him the jailer’s sword
          Which seemed to be well-kept
          Then, once they scaled the village wall,
          In darkness, down they leapt.

          That morning, when the roosters crowed
          And twilight gently fell,
          The Sheriff found the jailer’s corpse
          And struck the common bell.

          “My villagers!” he shouted out,
          “If you can hold a sword
          And carry Robin Hood to me,
          You’ll name your own reward!

          I cannot dare approach the king—
          Our prisoner has fled!
          And if he knew what happened here,
          He’d surely have my head!”

          He ran to scour Nottingham,
          Through every street and stall,
          And Robin, back in Sherwood, smiled:
          Uninjured after all.

          Then Little John addressed his master:
          “I’ve something I must say—
          You owe a debt, but I’ve made good—
          Repay me when you may.”

          “Our bitterness is now cleared up,
          Again I clearly say.
          I’ve brought you through our greenwood line
          Now see me on my way.”

          “I don’t accept your leave,” said Robin,
          Not now, not even then!
          Instead, let’s make you master of
          This group of merry men.”

          “A fellow’s who I am,” said John,
          “And shall I ever be.
          Throughout our dark ordeal today,
          It’s clear for all to see:
          A master’s life is death delayed—
          Too dangerous for me.”

          Then John and Robin joined the rest
          Of Sherwood’s merry men
          And when they saw him whole and sound
          They cheered throughout the glen.

          A messenger soon told the king
          A tale beyond belief:
          His sheriff, bested by the men
          Of Sherwood’s master thief.

          But as the king began to speak,
          His wrath was quickly quelled:
          “That ‘Little John’ beguiled me—
          My sheriff fooled as well!

          The merry men have tricked us both
          It’s obvious to me
          I ought to hang my Sheriff up
          From England’s tallest tree.

          I made them yeomen of the crown,
          Put money in their hands,
          Then pardoned Little John and Much
          Throughout my sovereign lands!

          What John himself contended with,
          The lengths through which he’s gone,
          Because he loves his master so,
          I’m calling him Saint John.

          And Robin’s ever in his debt—
          By stable, street and stall,
          I’ll tell you this, and speak no more:
          ‘Saint John’ has tricked us all.”

          Thus ends the Story of the Monk
          Except to offer this:
          May Robin’s luck run ever-long—
          May Mary’s grace be his!

          Please love yourself.

          1 Reply Last reply
          • MikM Offline
            MikM Offline
            Mik
            wrote on last edited by
            #44

            Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

            “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

            Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
            • MikM Mik

              Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

              Aqua LetiferA Offline
              Aqua LetiferA Offline
              Aqua Letifer
              wrote on last edited by
              #45

              @Mik said in The poetry thread:

              Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

              Yeah, that was mine. Thanks, man.

              Please love yourself.

              brendaB 1 Reply Last reply
              • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                @Mik said in The poetry thread:

                Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

                Yeah, that was mine. Thanks, man.

                brendaB Offline
                brendaB Offline
                brenda
                wrote on last edited by
                #46

                @Aqua-Letifer ♥

                1 Reply Last reply
                • Aqua LetiferA Offline
                  Aqua LetiferA Offline
                  Aqua Letifer
                  wrote on last edited by
                  #47

                  Fire and Ice
                  —Robert Frost

                  Some say the world will end in fire,
                  Some say in ice.
                  From what I’ve tasted of desire
                  I hold with those who favor fire.
                  But if it had to perish twice,
                  I think I know enough of hate
                  To say that for destruction ice
                  Is also great
                  And would suffice.

                  Please love yourself.

                  MikM 1 Reply Last reply
                  • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                    Fire and Ice
                    —Robert Frost

                    Some say the world will end in fire,
                    Some say in ice.
                    From what I’ve tasted of desire
                    I hold with those who favor fire.
                    But if it had to perish twice,
                    I think I know enough of hate
                    To say that for destruction ice
                    Is also great
                    And would suffice.

                    MikM Offline
                    MikM Offline
                    Mik
                    wrote on last edited by
                    #48

                    @Aqua-Letifer

                    Love that.

                    “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                    Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
                    • MikM Mik

                      @Aqua-Letifer

                      Love that.

                      Aqua LetiferA Offline
                      Aqua LetiferA Offline
                      Aqua Letifer
                      wrote on last edited by
                      #49

                      @Mik said in The poetry thread:

                      @Aqua-Letifer

                      Love that.

                      Typical tone for ol' "Bitter Frost," but yeah, still good. 😄

                      Please love yourself.

                      1 Reply Last reply
                      • taiwan_girlT Offline
                        taiwan_girlT Offline
                        taiwan_girl
                        wrote on last edited by
                        #50

                        Some good and interesting stuff here!!!!

                        1 Reply Last reply
                        • MikM Offline
                          MikM Offline
                          Mik
                          wrote on last edited by
                          #51

                          DBF29723-6B55-46B3-83D5-CB553194A3AE.jpeg

                          “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                          1 Reply Last reply
                          • Catseye3C Offline
                            Catseye3C Offline
                            Catseye3
                            wrote on last edited by
                            #52

                            'When You Are Old' (1892) by W.B.Yeats

                            When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

                            And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

                            And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

                            Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

                            How many loved your moments of glad grace,

                            And loved your beauty with love false or true,

                            But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

                            And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

                            And bending down beside the glowing bars,

                            Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

                            And paced upon the mountains overhead

                            And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

                            Success is measured by your discipline and inner peace. – Mike Ditka

                            1 Reply Last reply
                            • Aqua LetiferA Offline
                              Aqua LetiferA Offline
                              Aqua Letifer
                              wrote on last edited by
                              #53

                              It's World Poetry Day, so here you go.

                              I wrote this about 11 years ago, give or take.

                              (For those interested, instead of iambic pentameter or some other form we borrowed from the Greeks, this was written in fornyrðislag, a pretty common alliterative verse form in medieval Iceland and Anglo-Saxon areas. It's good for long narratives.)

                              Contemplate carefully your curious eyes:
                              Your world-windows and wondrous informers
                              For our forebears, foregone by eras,
                              Scores of secrets their sight could tell:
                              Where to find water, when the stars
                              Brought beasts beyond the plains,
                              The time of tides.

                              This talent evolved
                              As with our ancestors, answering questions
                              Broader, more bold; we're able by sight
                              To compare, discover, equate and to judge.
                              We discern by sight—we see and believe.

                              Are we bounded by the blessings of broader sight?
                              We've clever inventions, devices to cast
                              Ourselves into stars, inside each atom;
                              We've mapped the material, mastered its puzzles.
                              But still we sit through each second's passing:
                              Powerless against perpetual Present, we remain
                              Interned by time.

                              We've turned in the past
                              To soothsayers and sages to scry our fortunes,
                              With vague visions and evasive hereafters
                              Granting but glimpses of the games Fates played,
                              Their schemes still concealed.

                              Now consider our Future:
                              Devoid of diviners, prevailing by reason,
                              We swap sages for science, trade
                              Mysticism for method. Must our vision
                              Still be restricted, stuck in the Now?
                              Can our complex, accomplished technology
                              Award us the wisdom once reserved
                              For Fates and far-seers? What fears await us
                              When science assumes Second Sight?

                              Please love yourself.

                              1 Reply Last reply
                              • JollyJ Offline
                                JollyJ Offline
                                Jolly
                                wrote on last edited by
                                #54

                                An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                In an obscure corner of the net
                                Resided the battling bastards
                                Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                Strangely, they really did care
                                What happened to one and all
                                Trampling the growing tares,
                                To lay down their mace and ball

                                Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                And that you be made whole again
                                That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                “Cry havoc and let slip the DOGE of war!”

                                Those who cheered as J-6 American prisoners were locked in solitary for 18 months without trial, now suddenly fight tooth and nail for foreign terrorists’ "due process". — Buck Sexton

                                HoraceH Aqua LetiferA 2 Replies Last reply
                                • JollyJ Jolly

                                  An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                  In an obscure corner of the net
                                  Resided the battling bastards
                                  Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                  Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                  Strangely, they really did care
                                  What happened to one and all
                                  Trampling the growing tares,
                                  To lay down their mace and ball

                                  Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                  I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                  And that you be made whole again
                                  That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                  HoraceH Offline
                                  HoraceH Offline
                                  Horace
                                  wrote on last edited by
                                  #55

                                  @Jolly said in The poetry thread:

                                  An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                  In an obscure corner of the net
                                  Resided the battling bastards
                                  Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                  Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                  Strangely, they really did care
                                  What happened to one and all
                                  Trampling the growing tares,
                                  To lay down their mace and ball

                                  Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                  I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                  And that you be made whole again
                                  That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                  An ode to pwning libtards.

                                  Education is extremely important.

                                  1 Reply Last reply
                                  • JollyJ Jolly

                                    An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                    In an obscure corner of the net
                                    Resided the battling bastards
                                    Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                    Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                    Strangely, they really did care
                                    What happened to one and all
                                    Trampling the growing tares,
                                    To lay down their mace and ball

                                    Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                    I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                    And that you be made whole again
                                    That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                    Aqua LetiferA Offline
                                    Aqua LetiferA Offline
                                    Aqua Letifer
                                    wrote on last edited by
                                    #56

                                    @Jolly said in The poetry thread:

                                    An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                    In an obscure corner of the net
                                    Resided the battling bastards
                                    Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                    Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                    Strangely, they really did care
                                    What happened to one and all
                                    Trampling the growing tares,
                                    To lay down their mace and ball

                                    Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                    I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                    And that you be made whole again
                                    That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                    😄👏👏👏

                                    Nice one! Fun turn at the end there.

                                    Please love yourself.

                                    1 Reply Last reply
                                    • MikM Offline
                                      MikM Offline
                                      Mik
                                      wrote on last edited by
                                      #57

                                      9692E71C-4570-4C21-B6A2-CA0245AC8FF2.jpeg

                                      “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                                      1 Reply Last reply
                                      • Aqua LetiferA Offline
                                        Aqua LetiferA Offline
                                        Aqua Letifer
                                        wrote on last edited by
                                        #58

                                        Traveling for the Easter holiday and for some weird and crazy reason, this poem got in my head instead of thoughts of spring flowers. 😄

                                        So, on I went. I think I never saw
                                        Such starv’d ignoble nature; nothing throve:
                                        For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
                                        But cockle, spurge, according to their law
                                        Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
                                        You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

                                        —Robert Browning, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

                                        Please love yourself.

                                        Catseye3C RainmanR 2 Replies Last reply
                                        • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                                          Traveling for the Easter holiday and for some weird and crazy reason, this poem got in my head instead of thoughts of spring flowers. 😄

                                          So, on I went. I think I never saw
                                          Such starv’d ignoble nature; nothing throve:
                                          For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
                                          But cockle, spurge, according to their law
                                          Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
                                          You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

                                          —Robert Browning, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

                                          Catseye3C Offline
                                          Catseye3C Offline
                                          Catseye3
                                          wrote on last edited by Catseye3
                                          #59

                                          @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                                          You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

                                          I'm like, "Okay, that's pretty good; maybe a little labored . . .

                                          Oh wait, Browning??? I take it back, it's way good. Perfect. 🙂

                                          Success is measured by your discipline and inner peace. – Mike Ditka

                                          Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
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