Skip to content
  • Categories
  • Recent
  • Tags
  • Popular
  • Users
  • Groups
Skins
  • Light
  • Cerulean
  • Cosmo
  • Flatly
  • Journal
  • Litera
  • Lumen
  • Lux
  • Materia
  • Minty
  • Morph
  • Pulse
  • Sandstone
  • Simplex
  • Sketchy
  • Spacelab
  • United
  • Yeti
  • Zephyr
  • Dark
  • Cyborg
  • Darkly
  • Quartz
  • Slate
  • Solar
  • Superhero
  • Vapor

  • Default (No Skin)
  • No Skin
Collapse

The New Coffee Room

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

The poetry thread

Scheduled Pinned Locked Moved General Discussion
144 Posts 16 Posters 3.8k Views
  • Oldest to Newest
  • Newest to Oldest
  • Most Votes
Reply
  • Reply as topic
Log in to reply
This topic has been deleted. Only users with topic management privileges can see it.
  • Aqua LetiferA Offline
    Aqua LetiferA Offline
    Aqua Letifer
    wrote on last edited by
    #28

    That's excellent, Mik. I've not read that one before.

    I love this one because it has two elements you almost never see in poetry: plot revelation through dialogue, and drama through stage direction.

    The Fear
    —Robert Frost

    A lantern light from deeper in the barn
    Shone on a man and woman in the door
    And threw their lurching shadows on a house
    Near by, all dark in every glossy window.
    A horse’s hoof pawed once the hollow floor,
    And the back of the gig they stood beside
    Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel,
    The woman spoke out sharply, “Whoa, stand still!”
    “I saw it just as plain as a white plate,”
    She said, “as the light on the dashboard ran
    Along the bushes at the roadside—a man’s face.
    You must have seen it too.”

    “I didn’t see it.

    Are you sure——”

    “Yes, I’m sure!”

    “—it was a face?”

    “Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in,
    I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled.
    Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.
    I always have felt strange when we came home
    To the dark house after so long an absence,
    And the key rattled loudly into place
    Seemed to warn someone to be getting out
    At one door as we entered at another.
    What if I’m right, and someone all the time—
    Don’t hold my arm!”

    “I say it’s someone passing.”

    “You speak as if this were a travelled road.
    You forget where we are. What is beyond
    That he’d be going to or coming from
    At such an hour of night, and on foot too.
    What was he standing still for in the bushes?”

    “It’s not so very late—it’s only dark.
    There’s more in it than you’re inclined to say.
    Did he look like——?”

    “He looked like anyone.
    I’ll never rest to-night unless I know.
    Give me the lantern.”

    “You don’t want the lantern.”

    She pushed past him and got it for herself.

    “You’re not to come,” she said. “This is my business.
    If the time’s come to face it, I’m the one
    To put it the right way. He’d never dare—
    Listen! He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that!
    He’s coming towards us. Joel, go in—please.
    Hark!—I don’t hear him now. But please go in.”

    “In the first place you can’t make me believe it’s——”

    “It is—or someone else he’s sent to watch.
    And now’s the time to have it out with him
    While we know definitely where he is.
    Let him get off and he’ll be everywhere
    Around us, looking out of trees and bushes
    Till I sha’n’t dare to set a foot outdoors.
    And I can’t stand it. Joel, let me go!”

    “But it’s nonsense to think he’d care enough.”

    “You mean you couldn’t understand his caring.
    Oh, but you see he hadn’t had enough—
    Joel, I won’t—I won’t—I promise you.
    We mustn’t say hard things. You mustn’t either.”

    “I’ll be the one, if anybody goes!
    But you give him the advantage with this light.
    What couldn’t he do to us standing here!
    And if to see was what he wanted, why
    He has seen all there was to see and gone.”

    He appeared to forget to keep his hold,
    But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.

    “What do you want?” she cried to all the dark.
    She stretched up tall to overlook the light
    That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.

    “There’s no one; so you’re wrong,” he said.

    “There is.—
    What do you want?” she cried, and then herself
    Was startled when an answer really came.

    “Nothing.” It came from well along the road.

    She reached a hand to Joel for support:
    The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.

    “What are you doing round this house at night?”

    “Nothing.” A pause: there seemed no more to say.

    And then the voice again: “You seem afraid.
    I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.
    I’ll just come forward in the lantern light
    And let you see.”

    “Yes, do.—Joel, go back!”

    She stood her ground against the noisy steps
    That came on, but her body rocked a little.

    “You see,” the voice said.

    “Oh.” She looked and looked.

    “You don’t see—I’ve a child here by the hand.”

    “What’s a child doing at this time of night——?”

    “Out walking. Every child should have the memory
    Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.
    What, son?”

    “Then I should think you’d try to find
    Somewhere to walk——”

    “The highway as it happens—
    We’re stopping for the fortnight down at Dean’s.”

    “But if that’s all—Joel—you realize—
    You won’t think anything. You understand?
    You understand that we have to be careful.
    This is a very, very lonely place.
    Joel!” She spoke as if she couldn’t turn.
    The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,
    It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.

    Please love yourself.

    1 Reply Last reply
    • MikM Mik

      33AC3A28-015E-4E72-AEF5-32E084C1835F.jpeg

      Catseye3C Offline
      Catseye3C Offline
      Catseye3
      wrote on last edited by
      #29

      @Mik

      Love this: . . . Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun.

      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
        #30

        The Tuesday Afternoon All-Staff
        (for Bill Watterson)

        With chairs and tables ready
        They shuffled through the doors:
        The corporate colts, the suited dolts,
        The vain attention whores

        Hellos polite and petty
        The rabble took their seats
        Remarks prepared were curtly shared
        In white collated sheets

        His Powerpoint as reference
        The lead began to talk
        He said and smiled, "I promise I'll
        Be mindful of the clock."

        His cohorts waved indifference
        As pastries swept the room
        With platters passed and sweets amassed
        More coffee was consumed

        "In short," the speaker lectured,
        And lightly twitched an eye
        "Our profit's low. For us to grow,
        I need you all to die."

        "I've made it quick," he gestured,
        And held his coffee up,
        "On my behalf the conference staff
        Have laced the paper cups."

        "The food as well," he carried on,
        As nervous laughter spread
        But heaving loud, a VP bowed--
        His face a mottled red

        The speaker motioned, "When you're gone,
        You aren't to be replaced.
        So when you weigh staff severance pay
        With staff that's been erased..."

        He shrugged, the room erupting now
        With agonizing moans,
        "The plan appears a shock to hear,
        But know you're not alone:

        "This fiscal on, the Board has vowed:
        'Cut all redundant costs.'
        It's not just you--my living, too,
        Would constitute a loss."

        The sickly few still standing up
        Collapsed and hit the floor
        "An hour ahead," the speaker said,
        "How helpful for the Board!"

        Now sipping from his coffee cup,
        He promptly changed the screen
        "Up next is George with Corporate Purge:
        What 'Diminution' Means."

        Please love yourself.

        1 Reply Last reply
        • MikM Offline
          MikM Offline
          Mik
          wrote on last edited by
          #31

          😁

          “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
          • bachophileB Offline
            bachophileB Offline
            bachophile
            wrote on last edited by
            #32

            And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
            They just stand back and let it all be
            And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
            And try to make an honest stand
            But they wind up wounded, not even dead
            Tonight in Jungleland

            1 Reply Last reply
            • Aqua LetiferA Offline
              Aqua LetiferA Offline
              Aqua Letifer
              wrote on last edited by
              #33

              Always loved this one.

              Do not go gentle into that good night
              —Dylan Thomas

              Do not go gentle into that good night,
              Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
              Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

              Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
              Because their words had forked no lightning they
              Do not go gentle into that good night.

              Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
              Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
              Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

              Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
              And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
              Do not go gentle into that good night.

              Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
              Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
              Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

              And you, my father, there on the sad height,
              Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
              Do not go gentle into that good night.
              Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

              Please love yourself.

              Doctor PhibesD 1 Reply Last reply
              • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                Always loved this one.

                Do not go gentle into that good night
                —Dylan Thomas

                Do not go gentle into that good night,
                Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
                Because their words had forked no lightning they
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
                Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
                And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
                Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                And you, my father, there on the sad height,
                Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
                Do not go gentle into that good night.
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Doctor PhibesD Online
                Doctor PhibesD Online
                Doctor Phibes
                wrote on last edited by Doctor Phibes
                #34

                @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                Always loved this one.

                Do not go gentle into that good night
                —Dylan Thomas

                Do not go gentle into that good night,
                Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
                Because their words had forked no lightning they
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
                Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
                And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
                Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                And you, my father, there on the sad height,
                Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
                Do not go gentle into that good night.
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.

                I was only joking

                Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
                • Doctor PhibesD Doctor Phibes

                  @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                  Always loved this one.

                  Do not go gentle into that good night
                  —Dylan Thomas

                  Do not go gentle into that good night,
                  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
                  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                  Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
                  Because their words had forked no lightning they
                  Do not go gentle into that good night.

                  Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
                  Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
                  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                  Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
                  And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
                  Do not go gentle into that good night.

                  Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
                  Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
                  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                  And you, my father, there on the sad height,
                  Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
                  Do not go gentle into that good night.
                  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                  That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.

                  Aqua LetiferA Offline
                  Aqua LetiferA Offline
                  Aqua Letifer
                  wrote on last edited by
                  #35

                  @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                  I don't really get much poetry,

                  That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                  Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                  Please love yourself.

                  Doctor PhibesD MikM 2 Replies Last reply
                  • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                    @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                    I don't really get much poetry,

                    That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                    Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                    Doctor PhibesD Online
                    Doctor PhibesD Online
                    Doctor Phibes
                    wrote on last edited by Doctor Phibes
                    #36

                    @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                    @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                    I don't really get much poetry,

                    That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                    Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                    I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.

                    I was only joking

                    Aqua LetiferA 1 Reply Last reply
                    • Doctor PhibesD Doctor Phibes

                      @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                      @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                      I don't really get much poetry,

                      That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                      Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                      I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.

                      Aqua LetiferA Offline
                      Aqua LetiferA Offline
                      Aqua Letifer
                      wrote on last edited by Aqua Letifer
                      #37

                      @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                      @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                      @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                      I don't really get much poetry,

                      That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                      Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                      I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.

                      I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.

                      In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.

                      Please love yourself.

                      Doctor PhibesD 1 Reply Last reply
                      • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                        @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                        @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                        @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                        I don't really get much poetry,

                        That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                        Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                        I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.

                        I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.

                        In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.

                        Doctor PhibesD Online
                        Doctor PhibesD Online
                        Doctor Phibes
                        wrote on last edited by
                        #38

                        @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                        In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood

                        That was on the other side of the Child's Christmas in Wales I listened to as a kid.

                        I was only joking

                        1 Reply Last reply
                        • Aqua LetiferA Aqua Letifer

                          @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                          I don't really get much poetry,

                          That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                          Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                          MikM Offline
                          MikM Offline
                          Mik
                          wrote on last edited by
                          #39

                          @Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

                          @Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

                          I don't really get much poetry,

                          That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

                          Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

                          No, it certainly isn’t. Endeavoring to obscure your message is just pretension. Clarity doesn’t necessarily mean being obvious, but if you don’t get what you’re talking about across, it’s like a lot of abstract art. “What does it mean TO YOU?”

                          “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 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
                                          Reply
                                          • Reply as topic
                                          Log in to reply
                                          • Oldest to Newest
                                          • Newest to Oldest
                                          • Most Votes


                                          • Login

                                          • Don't have an account? Register

                                          • Login or register to search.
                                          • First post
                                            Last post
                                          0
                                          • Categories
                                          • Recent
                                          • Tags
                                          • Popular
                                          • Users
                                          • Groups