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  • Rookie - 32 Points Erhard Hans Josef Lang (10/18/2006 8:43:00 PM) Post reply
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    Eclipsing Untimely Queues On Whims Of Practical Intuition

    Nor briskets nor biscuits,
    No greens, no grains to eat left over on the shelves
    Where to feed on at home
    Time again it was to go shopping for life's victuals.

    Money that buys the things first was needed to get more of.

    Ah, what a terribly huge crowd of clients
    Inside that bank then again, and
    How many hours again of life's precious time
    I'd lose over waiting for my numbered deal
    After I was through with this queue?

    'I could have easily done my shopping in the meantime
    While I'll be waiting in here -
    50 numbers ahead of my own turn, '
    I heard another one say, likewise caught
    In the waiting's turning-mill.

    And suddenly, carried on a
    Whim of practical intuition,
    Making true on the word just heard
    I went to betake myself away, out from the bank,
    On the very same thought of what my wearied by-stander had sighed.

    I left, with my number tag stuck in the left hand,
    Left the bank, without a note or coin for a bill to be paid,
    Hied into a nearby mall's grocery station,
    Where all the goodies are there for the buying,

    Took the shoppers basket cart and started
    Filling it with all kinds of goods, item by item
    Selecting exactly what I thought I needed.

    My purse empty, but
    The bank's number tag all the while
    Stuck In my left hand.

    Bread-fruit, canned food, some tastes of
    Liquid for drinks & morsels to snack on,
    Sugar, salt, chillie, cheese,
    Maybe something special yet for
    The unexpected valued guest that might come visiting in the house...

    Staples and extras in no time, thus, as it were,
    Filled up the shopping basket to the brim.
    And, yes, time had elapsed by then,
    Since I had unqueued myself from waiting in the bank.

    I placed my shoppers cart in a corner of the mall's
    Where it would be out of he way of all others -
    All the while with the bank's number tag still
    Stuck in my left hand -

    Went back to the bank, and lo, right
    In time for
    My turn to be served,
    I signed request and receipt scrips,
    Took and pocketed the given urgent argent agent
    - Money -

    Made it back to the trade-center
    Retrieved my barrowful of houseware
    Cashed in on my counter bill

    And hadn't I gained, on top of all,
    Paid by nothing else but a leap on a daring whim of the moment,
    One and a half hours of quality time in life?

    In another instance, on an
    Autobahn diversion forest override,
    A never-ending queue of cars and nothing but cars
    was that time
    That time-snatching chain of waiting in queue
    I once again dared to unqueue myself of.

    That queue was caused by something graver than
    What any money, even how painstakingly awaited, could purchase one:

    Due to a fatal series of crash-on
    Accidents of several cars on the run in that stretch
    Total blockage there was of all traffic
    On all lanes, on that very superhighway
    Where I was then gliding down in an automobile,

    On a drive only for shopping for the extra rare foreign article,
    There in one of cosmovillage Munich's unique railway kiosks,
    Wanted just one interesting reading material,
    Only there as they sold anything in
    That exotic language I had learnt.

    But suddenly all vehicles, small and big, slow and fast,
    Ended up being diverted, through
    The billowing far-stretching countrysides, from the
    One Autobahn outlet before the disaster spot to the
    One Autobahn entry behind the disaster spot,

    Porsches and Gogomobiles alike, back to back,
    Mercedeses and Unimogs teeming flank by flank with
    Cow-herders from the nearest village goading home over the road
    Their cattle to their night shelters,

    Smiling into the faces of frustrated racing-car drivers -
    Stuck in a queue of no end of cars
    That were all melting up into one endlessly long metal snake

    Meandering for two and half hours extra and additional,
    On a stretch they would have covered, if on the Autobahn,
    In a matter of minutes,

    Now trapped in such a mess, up and down
    Provincial hills along romantically winding hillbilly-roads
    Through forested stretches,
    Across farmers' meadows and fields,
    And through their slow-life villages.

    I was about to give it up and just
    Cancel my trip, getting delayed thus,
    When I had this glorious idea:

    Why not simply overtake the whole long line of cars ahead of me
    From inside the forest on its forest roads,
    There left and right of the main street?

    (Though entering forest grounds with a motorized vehicle
    Required a special permit
    I, a nature boy,
    Was not afraid of drives into the woods) .

    And so, one more driver, aside from the cow-herder
    Who had smiled into the frustrated Porche chauffeur's face,
    Was peeping over to that same face
    And with a similar satisfaction,
    This time I myself up there right in the woods,
    Before turning off along my chosen dark-hidden nature's path-ways.

    Eventually, after all my ways across areas of farm land,
    I found myself back by the Autobahn entry
    Where the accidental diversion was getting started.

    The traffic police by then were still busy
    Diverting more & more of on-rushing cars.
    But I was the only one that came from the other direction
    And I crossed the Autobahn on a bridge right there
    To go from where I also was to pass back into the next possible
    Autobahn entry,
    Coming but down all the way from the other side,
    I, the only one of
    All the other hundreds and hundreds of other vehicles,
    Who had gone on a trip of his own,
    To the other side.

    And after some twenty minutes - only -, I was meeting
    On the first batch of all those other car buddies helplessly diverted,
    The very ones that I actually, had I stayed within the queue,
    Would have been truckling yet some two hours behind of.

    And hadn't I then experienced,
    Paid again by nothing else but a leap on a daring whim of the moment,
    Another one & a half hours or more of quality time in life?

    This is a song of freedom of one
    Who at regular times
    Toggles along with others like all the others do, too.

    Erhard Hans Josef Lang

  • Rookie Wilderness Enow (10/15/2006 1:22:00 PM) Post reply

    afraid, as the vultures circle sanctimonious
    looking up with residual pain
    and the vision of despair clears

    it was time still, when clouds cried
    it was time still, when the rains usurped
    it was tme still, when the moon whispered

    looing back, nothing remains
    only a field of miser ploughing
    all the memory, stolen hearth
    like an ulcer merrily sloughing

    does it yet sunrise?
    does the nightingale stile hurls?
    does the ocean yet suffice?
    does the gale still prevail?

    now is peace mine
    in this cataclismic Mammon
    the serpent devours the moon
    darkness oozes from the wounds

    now I sleep with eternal dream
    ethereal but lives on
    like the gallow that never sleeps,
    the light prevails

  • Rookie Richard Overholt (9/27/2006 12:44:00 AM) Post reply

    My Gal Jolene

    As i sit here while my babycakes is trying to sleep
    i hope she thinking of me and not counting sheep
    Can she really be thinking about me and who i am
    or about am i the knight in shineing armor or a midnight scam
    i hope she's fallen asleep by now
    mabe its was the kiss i blew got to her some how

    i stare out the window looking between the blind
    trying to get the kiss she gave me of my mind
    her kiss's are so powerful she keeps me wanting more
    but saddens me to know she will be walking out that door
    i turn away fast to hide my tears hitting the floor.

    i want to tell her how special she really is
    she's got my heart bubbling i swear i can hear the fizz
    she's so kind and gentle with her every touch
    everysecond she's gone i miss her so much

    its now beem 15 minutes since i wrote my last line
    still cant beleive i can call jolene mine
    i want to one day wake her up
    with a fresh pot of coffee and her favorite cup
    and to share one thing like that is not to much to ask
    to your soalmate that should not be a task.

    i know my poem might sometimes not make any sence
    but leed the same direction in our new backyard with the white picket fence.
    i know nether one of us wants to win the race
    but want nothing but to hold hands andkeep up a steady pace
    the reward at the finish will be worth the chase.

  • Rookie Anthony Marriner (9/26/2006 4:43:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    An Englishman's homage!

    American Sky

    Warm and dry, Californian sky-
    That first Spanish taste in Angeles’ glare;
    No zephyr to purge Downtown’s shadow.

    Freed from the Valley’s crucible,
    Cocooned in air-con, going East to the West
    To see America’s sky.

    Mojave brightness caps light ochre soil,
    Blue ever present, ruffled by haze,
    Nevada’s inferno streaked with contrails.

    Santa Fe railroad climbs an azure grade,
    Bisecting Arizona, Route 66 hitches a ride.
    Reflecting the sapphire: America’s sky.

    One-eighty turn North, to the Colorado’s deep child.
    Strata of rust and sage, give way to cerulean vault.
    Aeons of creation bringing light to the floor.

    Painted Desert, its watercolour palette horizon
    framing a meteorite’s arc- deep clear backdrop
    As a sunset volcano ignites America’s sky.

    Monumental red cathedrals, in dusty glory
    Punching heavenwards, the stagecoach’s goal.
    Navajo light is weaving their claim.

    Emerald blue Tahoe illuminates the Sierra’s
    Cold, clear march. Through gold’s wild man
    To Manzanar, teardropp in America’s sky.

    Yosemite, primeval in majesty carves its space,
    Pines and firs lance upward, with meadows of
    Colour breathing crystal air.

    Angels returning to view as green cedes to brown,
    Smoke black horizon drapes gauze on the sun,
    The fires of renewal streak America’s sky.

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  • Rookie Marsha Todd (9/13/2006 9:47:00 PM) Post reply


    Yes I’m guilty
    Of loving you
    Guilty of hoping
    Against hope
    That you would
    Choose truth over
    Flashy show

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of dreaming dreams
    That I know
    I had no right to
    Dreams that
    My loyalty
    And unending devotion
    Would conjure
    True love
    In you

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of hoping my constancy
    My honest true love
    Would be
    An anodyne
    To your soul
    But it seems
    You prefer
    To be a pawn
    On her chessboard
    Than the power
    On mine

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of trying to please you
    Considering your feelings
    Are worth more
    Than mine
    Trying to stay
    Within the boundaries
    You placed on me
    Never giving
    You cause
    To fear my withdrawal
    While I
    Just wait for
    An hour, a minute
    Of your precious
    I’m guilty
    But you, my sweet
    Are doubly


  • Rookie Cai Wei (9/10/2006 10:32:00 PM) Post reply

    Rose is a bomb
    People with wise always claim
    Rose is a bomb
    She causes things into ruin
    Work and life
    They fade away when she’s in bloom

    When the silly tend to believe
    Rose is God
    Giving all when u feel lost
    Sending hope when u are desperate

    Oh, my rose inside…
    Has been struggling for sprout
    With passion, with desire
    With his breath watering, his smile shining

    Yet he was to be
    a man with wise so someday he found
    his wise and he claimed
    Rose was bomb
    Caused life into ruin
    Work and future into ruin

    Then, nothing left but cold wind
    dry air, and silence dark
    Then, my rose inside
    Crying without sound
    Withering without a sign

    Rose is God
    Giving all when u feel lost
    Sending hope when u are desperate
    But, where is my rose again
    Where is my rose again
    Where is my silly boy
    Caiwei,9th. Sep. China
    (looking forward to be criticized)

  • Rookie Anthony Marriner (9/9/2006 3:35:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Mental anguish of many hues is responsible for so much creativity. I think being able to capture the anguish and own it can help one live with it and also help loved ones understand.

    'Cloud Cover' is an attempt to do this for me.

    I don’t see myself in this. Waiting for the cloud to part and my illumination to begin.
    When I’m warm I grasp it, mania ensues. The need for clarification overwhelms me.
    I overstep the mark and your recoil begins, reciting Oppenheimer.
    Caught in the brightness, all I can do is wait for the clouds to converge.
    You walk away.
    Wanting to feel.
    Wanting to hope.
    Wanting to love.
    Cloud cover.

    Briefest of glimpses. You see me in there.
    Promethean intensity revealing what is alive, but that which can’t persist.
    A love shaped by contrast, by shade: eclipsed.
    Within my penumbra all is bleak.
    I want to emerge and unfurl-to radiate
    You remain.
    Helping me feel.
    Helping me hope.
    Helping me love.
    Cloud cover.

    Red and Black are my world’s only colours.
    Falsehoods and deceptions, contradictions overshadow what emerges inside me.
    I am at home in Diodati.
    Corrosion can be reversed but its remnants still contaminate.
    Acceptance of the haze is the beginning of purity.
    You cleanse.
    I feel.
    I hope.
    I love.
    Cloud revealed.

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    • Rookie Nicole Miller (10/3/2006 6:50:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      I love & feel I relate with what you've written. I don't usually post replies to things and not sure what I should say, but I thought your poem was beautiful.

  • Rookie Blood Red Angel (9/8/2006 1:01:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    i hope that yall will enjoy this


    I am my own worst enemy,
    a dark angel strumming my own death's chords
    Helpless against a steady self-destruction.
    Stabbing myself viciously with my self-deceiving swords:
    my words.

    I am the antagonist in my own life story.
    I hold the ropes that choke the life from me.
    I am the killer stalking in my shadows.
    I am the evil that only I cannot see.

    I am the manic depressive
    hidden behind my mannequin grin.
    I am the darkness that thrives on isolation.
    I am the end of what I never begin.

    I am the only one who cannot predict my fate,
    Crawling deeper into my tortured fear's lair.
    Grieving for an empty soul too far gone to save.
    Living only to reach the one thing I crave:
    my grave.

    I am the monster hiding under my bed.
    I am the nightmare lurking inside my head.
    I am the chill that runs down my own spine.
    Whose murderous grasp won't I escape in time?

    I am the murdering mastermind.
    I hold the chains that take my last breath.
    I end my life when I have no hope left.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Radio Head (9/27/2006 6:28:00 AM) Post reply

      how very bleak and dreary. I know sometimes it feels good to feel sorry for yourself but this sounds more like a cry for help than a poem.

  • Rookie David Gerardino (8/25/2006 10:58:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    what comes first, bipoler or art, or both, i wonder how many poets on this sight write when it hitz, kinda like a push, or kick, good or bad, itz your ride, or some times rides, i call this THE FITZROY RIDE, IF YOUR ONE OF THEM, LET ME KNOW......

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Mary X (9/6/2006 11:48:00 AM) Post reply

      This is an interesting post. Bipolar can BE art.

  • Rookie Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones (8/6/2006 2:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    Hello again is this a confusion through your thoughts or is it and intelligent method of explaining your self then what is the problem? Can it be fixed and adjusted to suite everyone's taste in thoughts or is it just going to continue to be consider a race issue. Is the pattern considered jelousy or is it consider evey? What about your emotions that direct your thoughts so what is the psychical means of your intelligence that can be consider what may I ask or is it a riddle type of controls that adjust the thoughts of your personal emotional out puts as a selfish child or is it because you are wanting your own childish ways or is it not because you are racist? So why have you not shown for real the face in view of your own figure. My own music my own words of expressed vision. Is it a pattern of cycle that continue to ryme while others are just revealing not a thought for passion or is it because you have to be the way that you are? Can you get better and can others be left out of the picture or is that a secene again with a movie. Vision the thoughts of an inspired profound judgement that controls the movies in your thoughts or is it in my thought. Lisa

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Aldo Kraas (2/10/2007 9:04:00 PM) Post reply

      I found this very confusing When I read it Some could thhink that you are insulting than Some may think that you think that others are racist? It is not a good poem sorry This doesn't sound to ... more

    • Rookie Kelly Gemmill (10/30/2006 11:44:00 PM) Post reply

      this is a 'workshop' so i'm assuming you put this up to be commented on. I don't think this is a poem. It's not because it's written in prose form, either, because I've seen poems work that way. Th ... more

    • Rookie Radio Head (9/27/2006 6:35:00 AM) Post reply

      I like this freestyle a lot. Very fluid thoughts that got me thinking.

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