AstroPoetry

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Comment by Valus on April 25, 2009 at 9:46pm

'the artist'

he stares off into space
he's full of grace

his eyes are full of moon
but he'll say something soon
you'll understand

sometimes he forgets
all the things he knows
he's kind of old

but every now and then
he's really very zen
or getting close

you might think he's deaf
that he's got nothing left
but you'd be wrong

he hears between the lines
and answers every crime
it won't be long

he'll sing a song
so strong

Comment by AquaLover on March 8, 2009 at 12:36pm

Lost

Little boy wandering around looking for me
Me wandering around looking for thee
I see you, but it’s not true
Where was I, when you flew
Away, far but close, here but not
How do I find your true heart?
Give me a hint, leave me a trail
Please help me, I don’t want to fail
We love you, I love you don’t you know
My tears just flow and flow
When will you come home back to me?
Be a rebel, dance and be free
Look back, here I am, calling your name
You were wrong…I care….I came……..

Comment by Valus on March 2, 2009 at 9:52pm

PILGRIM SOUL


I would relinquish my pilgrim soul
to curl over thought and thing
like a spacious tongue, and return.

I am Void; -
severe spectre of occult industry.
Solemn am I, sombre long before the world,
shrouded in myth and song.

I am Ocean; -
Deep in splendor,
storyteller with salted breath.

I do not decry the sober dark;
I give birth to agitative visions.

I am Awe; -
inscrutable light,
whom the fibrous eye of the poet covets;

Source of Orphic bliss,
that beats and quivers in mists unfathomed,
'neath soft, encaging, elliptical boughs.

I am Solitude, inconsolate;
modest juggernaut of Saturn,
just beyond the ornamental throne of Jupiter;
the Stillness of Fate, inside of Fire

Comment by Rie on March 2, 2009 at 2:06pm

Hello all! I love artistic expression of any sort.

Comment by PensiveGemini on December 16, 2008 at 1:35am

April 5th

Idiosyncrasy- life.
Unrequited "love"
with an equal distribution of bodies.
Respect after calculated submission,
defeat following the brush of your hand
against the forehead that pleased you.
I wanted you completely—
Incompletely.
Accepting you were promised elsewhere,
it was enough
as long as your body entangled mine after midnight.
--Here comes the sun--
and your hand became a paint brush against my back.
“Time to leave…” it whispered,
and I complied with my need
to run away before my awareness found me.
Together we cultivated a moment
that ended the same way it began—
familiarly hesitant.

Comment by emma sweeney on September 22, 2008 at 8:13pm

The Dinner Party - by Emma Sweeney

It was a delicate affair
New faces would grace her table
And the familiar ones would also appear
Her children could complicate matters

The menu was carefully planned
Green chicken curry, saffron rice, a green salad and apple tart
The shopping took half of a Saturday morning
Her trusty old cow-patterned shopping trolley did the honours

Her partner in crime, another cook, a vegetarian Aquarius
Met her at the old fruit and vegetable market in town
Aubergines were handled and admired
And the luscious purple fruit passed all their stringent tests

The produce was assembled, cut, sauteed and stewed
Until three separate dishes stood guard on the old wooden table
A salad and two bottles of rose accompanied the meal
And a quartet of cheeses lay breathing on the sideboard

The guests devoured all before them
And saluted the chefs with tall-stemmed glasses
A poet of the Virgo persuasion boasted of his sexual prowess
and a Scorpionic psychotherapist played with a wind-up crab

The children wove in and out and splashed in an azure pool
Bought that morning from the local pound shop
Their squeals of delight echoing lightly off the sandy coloured bricks
They sunbathed on stripy towels prickling on the grass

All the guests left at midnight. Unlike Keats, they did not cease upon the hour
But bundled themselves into taxis and stumbled up their stairs.
Once inside they slithered into their sheets and murmured a slurry goodnight
They would save the fuck for the morning, it was a Sunday after all.

Emma Sweeney June 2008 Brighton.

Comment by Samantha on September 3, 2008 at 6:25pm

Poetry is such a beautiful way to express emotion. It comes so naturally to me though. I would imagine most of the people in here like poetry to be drawn to such a group! :)

Comment by TheProfesh on August 15, 2008 at 2:29am

Does anyone enjoy poetry?

Comment by ZoraidaGitana on July 7, 2008 at 1:03pm

It looks like a beautiful place to be in......


xx