Treasure Island

Writing Poetry

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  • Dru L. (1/23/2014 12:44:00 PM) Post reply

    Hey, I'm inviting you to check out my site The Poet Society.Net. ( . Also if you have any suggestions or comments on the site, you can email me at CHEERS! ! !

    PS: Keep writing ;)

  • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/22/2014 11:00:00 PM) Post reply

    @ JC: The lines were good, but honesty was lost in alien words. Good poems are those which wish to connect with the least difficulty as possible. I dislike smoke-screening and pretense, but a full view of what's what is most appreciated by all. In simple understandable English like a good movie that makes you run or walk, depending on the cue.

  • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/22/2014 10:55:00 PM) Post reply

    @ Metamorphh: Yep. Rhymers are best in my opinion. They give poems that melodious quality that makes you feel welcomed by the poet. It is like sitting side by side together and going on the rhythm of bodies closely touching, rather than being pushed recklessly behind by the other, as some poems do. My poem is also somewhere in this page. See if you like the easy rhythm of waves rolling in and out.

  • metamorphhh (aka jim crawford) Rookie - 1st Stage (1/22/2014 8:52:00 AM) Post reply

    While I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry, I particularly like writing rhymers. Creating within the strictures of rhyme I find to be challenging, exhilarating and just plain fun. So, a little challenge, maybe?How's about something a bit abstract?Here's my offering, and looking forward to seeing what you've got...

    Turf Wars

    Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
    hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
    She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
    spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.

    So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
    waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
    a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
    he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.

    An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
    it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
    The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
    while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.

    All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
    and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
    to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
    the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.

    The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
    but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
    who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
    (their sh*t’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .

    The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
    all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
    the whole yawning yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
    (from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)

    The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
    as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
    ‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
    on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.

    The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
    as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
    with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
    t’was God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .

  • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/19/2014 8:07:00 PM) Post reply

    Even when running a fever due to flu virus, also very cold water, the poet survived due to a poem she wrote. So, there aside from being balm to a grieving heart, poems can also be like an antibiotic. As she told another online seafarer last night in poemhunter, don't lose your grip on your craft and let go off nonessentials...The poem written in the throes of a fever:

    Taunting Me To Come

    I know how far are the stars
    I just have to reach out and there
    Your face is ever so clear, so near
    But you are staring hard and glare
    From laptop is hurting my eyes...

    Not tonight, I will not risk your ire
    Some other night when relaxed
    When eyes are upturned and squinty
    From playing with frisky Poochie
    The two of us can cuddle and share...

    Your happy heart is made for poems
    Your eyes can see beyond the shore
    Waters lap on sand things you adore
    On and off like pendulum on clock
    Sand in glass just pours unminded...

    Where birds dip below streams
    And come up with fish in beak
    They never tire of splashing water
    Where the sun never fades and
    Wind never breaks leaves from boughs...

    There is such a world you showed
    And I brought a red canoe for us
    You believed everything I told you
    And so we drifted companionably
    The word busy is not in your tongue...

    You were singing a wordless song
    More of a hum, and a laughter to fill in
    Now there is more of nagging silence
    Like dripping water from a faucet
    Rattling my senses, nonsensical....

    I am running a fever but I survived
    Just washing my face in clear water
    I caught in the palms of my hand
    You were laughing as you splashed
    Feet swift on sand, taunting me to come...

    (For my mentor and friend...)

  • Ryan Nur Rookie - 1st Stage (1/19/2014 12:21:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I feel, I see
    dream of heaven in the hell

    Replies for this message:
    • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/19/2014 8:19:00 PM) Post reply

      @Ryan Nur: Do go on sir now that you have caught my attention. Do not tell me that you are just another tease?

  • Adam M. Snow Rookie - 1st Stage (1/17/2014 11:33:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    She became My Gallows
    Written by Adam M. Snow

    What of this! ?
    Her sweet madness beautiful as snow;
    that by starlight! The rushes lean over her wide!
    The intoxication of her insanity draws me close.
    Her voice, calling out my name;
    haunting me.

    The moonlight pours out upon her -
    her wickedness is shown, who dreams with
    - a nest of mad kisses; a thousand years sad regrets.
    She is my agony -
    my cage -
    my demise.
    My loss of sanity is due her.

    She is haunting,
    such madness is this?
    I cared nothing for all,
    she is my breath, I can't live without.
    My essence
    - sighing around her where the stars are sleeping.
    The scented twilight, I hung there.

    She became my gallows -
    my wandering noose -
    my demise -
    the fall of a tragic poet.
    She is the bearer of my heart, locked away;
    I am nothing.

    I am nothing
    but a man locked in chains,
    who bears no voice;
    a victim to her madness
    - her bitter sweet madness beautiful as snow.

    She stole my heart -
    my voice -
    my name.
    I am her insanity as she is mine.
    She left me, her ghost to wander
    - sighing around her where the stars are sleeping.
    The scented twilight, I hung there.

    Replies for this message:
    • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/19/2014 8:15:00 PM) Post reply

      @ Adam Snow: Who is she?To the gallows with her if she is this insensitive to your poems; truly, her rightful place. But as I have observed, you are a masochist who delights in pain that you would be ... more

  • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/14/2014 8:49:00 AM) Post reply

    You need a strong emotion to be able to write great poems. If you lead a placid life, chances are, you have no depth of experience to draw out from. Maybe, this is the reason why poets are sometimes regarded as either retarded, or geniuses - extreme ends of intellectual development, middle of which is normal. Most often, they blabber about things only another poet will understand. So, now, look at this poem as an example. It is a pathetic story if told in prose, but poetically, it sounds lofty.

    Melt Into A Stare
    By: Doris Cornago

    Your coldness appalls me!
    Trying to follow your example
    Went to obedience school
    Grew a tail, taught myself
    Never to bark because useless
    sound sorely displeases you
    Difficult because I am a cat
    In your presence I run short
    for words that can catch
    your imagination because
    Every word is rated 1 to 5
    Dismissed oft with four words
    Boring give me another...

  • Femme Feeble Rookie - 1st Stage (1/11/2014 11:20:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    I am very uncertain about this; any thoughts?

    How to live:
    It all seems so simple and yet;
    It is much more difficult in execution.
    Fear is stronger than ambition.

    Speak your mind and you are speaking the truth!
    And if it pleases you to extend services of kindness;
    To remain for the sake of patience;
    To exercise your freedom to be generous;
    To look upon each fellow human with love and compassion seething through your pores
    Till they cannot bear themselves anymore,
    Then by all means, live morally!
    I cannot,
    Even though I do.
    But I cannot bear the thought that I might not,
    Only because I like to believe I am wholesome.

    Do not focus only on yourself, for everyone does.
    And they are all as unhappy as everyone,
    Who are just as depressed as you,
    Waiting for something to open up in the line;
    For life to treat them well.
    I am waiting for life to stop treating me well.

    When we are focused on ourselves we cannot see anything.
    Like focusing on one leaf in the whole forest,
    In the whole wilderness,
    In the whole world.
    If one individual gave as much attention to another as they did to themselves,
    Love would be less prevalent than it is.

    But what is life,
    If you don't look upon one person with tenderness and desire,
    Grand enough to stop a converging storm?

    I feel as though I cannot live in such an open fashion
    Until I can look upon myself with satisfaction.
    And yet I look around myself for approbation,
    I feel as though I can never be satisfied
    Through this twisted loop of fear and anxiety.

    True satisfaction is not gleamed through compliments and supportive actions.
    When I reflect on the content of my character,
    I am not pleased.
    Standards so achievable, yet I am so selfish.
    And I wonder if I manufacture all of my tears in the same factory as those nifty, fancy cars from Japan,
    All lined up in a row and waiting to be dispensed at the appropriate time.
    I am searching for an honest emotion, but I have yet to find one that I can be honest with.

    To be secure in one's own self is to be set free; how I long to be unchained!
    For only when I am no longer myself will I be comfortable with my life.
    To be seen as someone I am not, yet exactly who I am,
    That is what I strive for.

    Yet being so open, will my insecurity show?

    Replies for this message:
    • Erica Maples Rookie - 1st Stage (1/20/2014 1:51:00 PM) Post reply

      i love that poem i think you are the best one that i've ever read

    • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/13/2014 5:37:00 PM) Post reply

      Hi Femme Feeble: Re: To be secure in one's own self is to be set free; how I long to be unchained! To unchain yourself, you have to find exact spot where you are chained or by what and how. So ... more

    • Daniel Brick Freshman - 2nd Stage (1/12/2014 9:57:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      You said you were uncertain of the poem called FEMME FEEBLE and want feedback. I can do that but here's the context I'm coming from. I started writing poetry seriously when I was 36. I've been writing ... more

  • Terrance Tracy Rookie - 1st Stage (1/10/2014 11:33:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    It tickles my bones
    and pickles my tones
    to hear dogs bark
    is to hear bogs dark.

    When birds are chirping
    do you hear chirds birping
    as you walk in the shade
    do you salk in the whade.

    When you smell a rose
    it is painful to rell a smose
    when a bee stings you
    does the stee bings you.

    When you smell the mountain air
    you may mell the sountain air
    as you are sliding down to bottom
    you are bown to the dottom.

    The nuances that you read
    are products of anticipation
    in the program of voice recognition
    so don't blame me for what you see.

    Terrance Tracy

    Replies for this message:
    • Doris Cornago Rookie - 1st Stage (1/13/2014 7:49:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      This poem is good because of its unpretentious and playful nature. I like poems to be entertaining and flowing like yours, and not so complicated with obsolete words that sends you to Google search ev ... more

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