Thread: Witchy's Poetry and Prose Haven

Witchy, I rather enjoyed reading both of your pieces. Your pieces sprang forth from the screen like two beautiful paintings made into words. I'll be checking in this thread more often. ^_^

Aww... thanks Jeff, I'm blushing.

Ode to a Fallen Friend...
May she Rest in Peace.

Here before me stands an Angel,
Whose wings are tattered and torn,
And her heart battered and bruised,
Yet she stands for all to see.
Right on her own two feet,
She walks with her head held high,
As she escapes the mouth of Hell;
Here before me stands an Angel.

Here before sings an Angel,
Her voice ringing with clarity,
As the tune dances to my ears,
Singing of her sweet redemption.
The words that fall from her lips,
Enrapture my plain and simple soul,
Their beauty stealing my breath away;
Here before me sings an Angel.

Here before me cires an Angel,
With bitter tears falling like rain,
As she starts in the cold night,
From a dark nightmare unknown.
She clings to her waning sanity,
Fighting away her deepest fears,
Keeping abusive monsters at bay;
Here before me cries an Angel.

Here before me dances an Angel,
With grace completely unmatched,
And with a spirit free and unbridled,
Spinning and twirling in the firelight.
Precious like the sunshine,
She beams a smile through the dark,
Loved more than she'll ever know;
Here before me dances an Angel.

R.I.P. Brooke M. ~ January 12, 1987 --- July 29, 2007

Really, not bad. I'll also check back. I enjoyed reading.

Originally Posted by Witchy

Lessons

Anticipation, stress, nerves, joy and sadness,
all things felt at the end of the year,
but this time it is different, for I am undergoing a right of passage,
that passage into the wolrd of adults.
That world full of choices an dopportunities, that can lead to good or trouble.
I rejoice, I'm almost there, but with so much say,
so much to do and so much to remember,
I find I remember the wrong things.
Facts are all well and good but what really needs remembering,
is my time well spent and well wasted.
I should remember the lessons so valuable in life
and the people who taught them to me.
The fun of something new, the comfort of something familiar,
the humor of something witty and the humbling of something embarassing.
This is my solemn vow to never forget the little miracles in life
and the angels who delivered them.

Two minor typos there, which I bolded.

The message of this is so undeniably true, yet you've presented it in a straightforward manner that requires no cryptic interpretations. To me, it reflects everything that is graduation, and more importantly, what graduation should be about.

I tried finding a couple lines that were my favourite, but each impending line builds upon the previous until the poem ends. In this poem you are basically writing a sentence with a perfect period at the end (and I hope you know what I mean by that).

Facts are facts, but life is life. We look back and remember memories and teachers and sometimes forget that it was these moments that DEFINED us.

Wonderful!

Why thank guys. I'm pretty sure I know what you mean CoLd BlooDed , and your opinion of my poem is highly valued as I have read your poetry and find it wonderfully unique and enjoyable. You are very well "spoken" and your writing style is a good one. I look forward to reading more of your stuff!

I was writing this all morning, and LD inspired me, so this is pretty fresh with little editing. It isn't a poem, its more like a story. I wanted to see how it would come out and it is interesting. I don't think it's one of my better efforts though.

The Dragon and the Savior

... and with a fearsome eruption of flame, the beast emerged from the mouth of the cave and let loose a savage roar that echoed from mountain, to mountain, reverberated from valley to valley and struck fear into the hearts of many.

The beast had scales harder than diamonds, teeth sharper than blades, wings that spanned the sky, and a mind more cunning than the fox. His eyes and scales were blacker than acheron, and his talons longer than a tall man stood.

He set from his cave casting a shadow over the land and set free another earsplitting cry. Everyone now knew the horrible truth fo what had just happened. The beast had awoke.

Mountains bowed down, rocks screamed and hid beneath the soil in an effort to hide. The ocean floors cracked and drained the seas. Trees howled and picked up their roots and attempted to run, but none could escape the ravagings of the monster.

When the flickering candle of hope had been extinguished, nerves had run thin, and people slowly decresed in their numbers, the Mother of our wolrd sent a plea to the heavens, a plea for a savior. Brother Moon heard the call and heeded it.

From the sky shot a brilliant light that tore through the heavens and rocketed to the soils of our earth. Light flashed out, threatening to blind on lookeing surviviors, who witnessed the celestial being land.

The beast was enraged at this presence, and sought to best this new being. For days their battle raged on, changing everything that came in their midst; they were remaking our world. It was teeth against light, fire against light and claws against light.

Finally after many days of battle, light won out, and in another brilliant flash the beast screamed out and fell silent; all fell silent.

As the survivors crept toward the body of the beast, they found the being of light was gone, and next to the beast lay a woman of fair skin and silvered hair, clad in softly glowing robes.

The people crept ever closer to view their savior, when the woman awoke with a startled "Oh!". She smiled gently and stood dusting herself off and spoke to the people.

"As a token of your gratitude I ask for only one thing in return." The people nodded eagerly, anxious to hear her speak again. "I only ask that you carry my legacy on in your hearts and pass it unto your children through your stories." The people heartily agreed to her terms.

And with a warm smile, a soft glow envelpoed the woman and the people. The people closed their eyes and basked in the coolness of the moonlight and when they opened their eyes the woman had disapeared. She lived on on the hearts of the saved peoples; thus magic was born.

This poem was written about a month after my 18th birthday. It is another coming of age, and finding your place type of poem.

18

I am young and I am a teen,
adults say my life is a "scene".
But, ah, awkward is what they mean,
For I am not just a teen but 18.

I'm but a child to far too many,
yet I'm now "legal" in the eyes of plenty.
I have parents who are lamenting,
and deeds for which I should be repenting.

I'm too young for my words to have weight,
but too old for cartoons and waffles to sate.
I'm stuck with a new yet unclean slate,
and undecided if I really do believe in fate.

I have so many choices and roads ahead,
with both wise and stupid things to be said.
I won't be satisfied with following, I won't be led,
for I have my own new and exciting paths to tread.

Nice! That one was very well written.

The message in your last one is solid, but you should really work on your meter. I mean, your syllable count stretches from 8 to 13... it breaks flow.

Originally Posted by [SomeGuy]

Nice! That one was very well written.

Thank you.

Originally Posted by CoLd BlooDed

The message in your last one is solid, but you should really work on your meter. I mean, your syllable count stretches from 8 to 13... it breaks flow.

I know it sucks! I try, but there is too much I want to write and I can't quite get it down. I've even tried writing villanelles and sonnets for practice on that but my meter is still sloppy. It's a work in progress for me, any tips would be appriciated.

I didn't notice any sloppiness...

You also do not write poetry.

It's not like the end of the world, Witchy, everyone starts like that. Hell, I look back on poems I did when I was twelve and thirteen and they'd be the exact same, and I'd think "How the hell did I not notice it before?"

Truly, I think it's all practice, just keep writing. Eventually you'll find a way to meld words to your choosing without miring down your real meaning.

For example:

I am young and I am a teen,
adults say my life is a "scene".
But, ah, awkward is what they mean,
For I am not hust a teen but 18.

I am young and simultaneously teen,
adults often say my life is more like a "scene,"
But awkward is what they must truly mean,
For I am not just a teen, but soon seeing 18.

Just something like that.

It has to do with how the flow of words match in their syllable count. I've been trying to fix it for a while, but I find I'm too fond of certain words and phrases. When it comes to writing metered poems for classes, I get slaughtered. I think my best attempt was a sonnet involving Egypt... I'll have to see if I can find that one and post it.

But on a different note, I'm glad you like my writing!

EDIT: You posted while I was typing...

I see what you mean, and it works great, I just haven't been writing long enough I guess to think about writing it that way. I, think I'll go dabble around with that some, thank you.

Originally Posted by CoLd BlooDed

You also do not write poetry.

It's not like the end of the world, Witchy, everyone starts like that. Hell, I look back on poems I did when I was twelve and thirteen and they'd be the exact same, and I'd think "How the hell did I not notice it before?"

Truly, I think it's all practice, just keep writing. Eventually you'll find a way to meld words to your choosing without miring down your real meaning.

For example:



I am young and simultaneously teen,
adults often say my life is more like a "scene,"
But awkward is what they must truly mean,
For I am not just a teen, but soon seeing 18.

Just something like that.

Hmm, maybe I should read up on it. *goes to google* I do sometimes write, but mostly stuff like in my signature. Non rhyming, lists of words/phrases.

Originally Posted by PrettyWitchy

It has to do with how the flow of words match in their syllable count. I've been trying to fix it for a while, but I find I'm too fond of certain words and phrases. When it comes to writing metered poems for classes, I get slaughtered. I think my best attempt was a sonnet involving Egypt... I'll have to see if I can find that one and post it.

But on a different note, I'm glad you like my writing!

No problem!

Okay! Here I have something with a little more consistent meter, but I'm not very thrilled with this effort... I'll probably tweak it more later tonight.

Rose Red

Cascades of red falling from the sky,
tumbling down caressing like silk.
Thorns, sharp, they puncture and bleed dreams,
dreams of clear skies and simple thoughts.
Petals waterfalling from the thorns above,
like simple tears of passionate red flowers,
flowers of only one mind; beauty,
beauty that is only seen, but unheard,
for I am the red rose smiling at winter.

The nights slip away like bruises,
but nothing ever really heals.
Eyes scream and call out to me,
yet lips remain still and unmoving.

With those wide doe eyes of fear,
she tells not a soul of her fight,
as a single tear rolls down her cheek,
she walls her heart off from the world.

But when morning comes along,
The shock of dawn can't conceal,
her bruised and bloody misfortune,
For her tears won't fall anymore.

And with glassy eyes of dark sleep,
she can tell none of her plight,
for blood does not flow in her veins,
and her heart is dead to the world.

_______________

Emo, I know...

A Sonnet of Sorts

Sands shifting as if in an hourglass.
The sun beats down heating the grains.
Stone mark the ages and time to pass,
and pyramids thirsting for a cool rain.

The river flows through the dusty land,
palm trees wave and dance in the breeze.
The simple beauty that rises from the sand,
and it all stands time existing with ease.

Native spices scent the hot, dry air.
The day's prayer lilts into my ears.
A warm breeze gently tousles my hair.
Sunshine on the Nile shines like mirrors.

Egypt has a wonder known by few,
a wonder of pure beauty true.

There we go! Your meter improved exponentially on that last one. Really well done.

Thanks. Truth be told I wrote that one a while ago, but when I found it, I cringed upon reading it and did some major alterations. But if it works, it works.

Another nameless poem.

Stark words ride upon the tempest,
Tearing at the pieces of my soul,
Ravaging the pages of my diary,
Letting none but me see the truth.
It's arrival chimes like Death's bell,
Ringing and ringing inside my head,
Worming it's way into my thoughts,
Striking fear deep into my core,
Shattering my defenses around.
The flame finally flickers out,
And the hand reaches out for mine,
Paler than snowcapped hills,
His finger's close around mine.
I will fight, I refuse to give in,
No demon may have my soul,
No matter how handsome he is,
Nor shall he conquer my body,
While I still a draw breath of air.
I'm not a victim for the taking,
And I won't be ashamed of me,
Even if my deeds are lowly,
I'm not that victim, ripe for taking.

I like that last one. You said we could post our favorites by others as well right? Well I have an Ann Sexton poem that I love but it is huge, so I'll post a Robert Frost poem that I love.

Fire and Ice

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.

Robert Frost

I like that Frost one too. Oh by the way which Ann Sexton poem? Mine is Briar Rose, and it is huge too. Here is stanza/more like a paragraph.

Briar Rose
was an insomniac...
She could not nap
or lie in sleep
without the court chemist
mixing her some knock-out drops
and never in the prince's presence.
If if is to come, she said,
sleep must take me unawares
while I am laughing or dancing
so that I do not know that brutal place
where I lie down with cattle prods,
the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream
for when I do I see the table set
and a faltering crone at my place,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes
as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.

It was the the poem "For My Lover Returning to His Wife". A very long poem holy crow. Here is my favorite part of it...

This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --