Rath/Brendan
07-19-2002, 04:26 PM
Since our wonderful headmaster doesn't seem to accept poetry as a valid form of expression, post your poems and song lyrics and whatever here. I've got a bunch of poems I would like to share, so please let me know what you think :D
“Writing, or, A Game of Hearts”
A poker table,
A barroom nightclub,
Etched in shades of grey and brown.
Fine newspaper shadows
Lie printed on concrete blocks
Sponges masquerading as brain cells.
Five chairs sit
Laughter, curses fill the smoky haze
Even though no one smokes
Light dust tinged with stale beer’s smell
Even though nobody drinks.
The games is Hearts, and
Stephen deals the cards.
Plastic kings twirling like saucers
Hurled by a rough hand whose
Tough fingers danced
Upon keys and candlelit pencils, whose
Hard grip stirred
Castle rocks and dreamcatchers, whose
Main palm carried mice
Down prison miles and
Up dark towers, whose
Carved fingers toss
The last card.
With the dealing done, and,
The youngest first,
Neil plays his cards
Blue shadows spill over
Darkening clubs and diamonds, as
British tips, stained with
Printer’s ink and dark mud
Found in London’s below, while
A highway’s smell clings to boots,
Odin’s talisman hanging.
The suit is clubs, and
Play moves left,
To Harlan
“Tick tock,” says the watchman
As cranky fingers look at soldiers,
Onyx eyes staring,
Driving in spikes,
That thick red moment found
In galaxies and Bradbury-tinged
Hometown fantasies.
Harlan leaves two spades, and
James must follow.
Heart’s hit men look back at
Spectacled spheres with a
Reckless versmilitude found
In cold six thousand
L.A. streets and Vegas clubs,
Flying cards scrawling
An American tabloid of
Black dahlias and Brown requiems.
Stephen moves to play, and
A knock from the door.
I enter.
My trembling notes flash yellow,
A nervous pencil asking,
Slipper’s feet smash, tripping,
Blue lines and dandelion rectangles
Floating through a lightbulb clone
I reach for my notes, but,
They are reading them.
Eight ellipses criticize pages until satisfaction,
Thin smiles creeping, considering
The stories and themes printed there.
I shake my own, anticipating
A well-earned rejection.
Stephen puts down his pages, and
Turns to me
“Have a seat,” they say.
“Writing, or, A Game of Hearts”
A poker table,
A barroom nightclub,
Etched in shades of grey and brown.
Fine newspaper shadows
Lie printed on concrete blocks
Sponges masquerading as brain cells.
Five chairs sit
Laughter, curses fill the smoky haze
Even though no one smokes
Light dust tinged with stale beer’s smell
Even though nobody drinks.
The games is Hearts, and
Stephen deals the cards.
Plastic kings twirling like saucers
Hurled by a rough hand whose
Tough fingers danced
Upon keys and candlelit pencils, whose
Hard grip stirred
Castle rocks and dreamcatchers, whose
Main palm carried mice
Down prison miles and
Up dark towers, whose
Carved fingers toss
The last card.
With the dealing done, and,
The youngest first,
Neil plays his cards
Blue shadows spill over
Darkening clubs and diamonds, as
British tips, stained with
Printer’s ink and dark mud
Found in London’s below, while
A highway’s smell clings to boots,
Odin’s talisman hanging.
The suit is clubs, and
Play moves left,
To Harlan
“Tick tock,” says the watchman
As cranky fingers look at soldiers,
Onyx eyes staring,
Driving in spikes,
That thick red moment found
In galaxies and Bradbury-tinged
Hometown fantasies.
Harlan leaves two spades, and
James must follow.
Heart’s hit men look back at
Spectacled spheres with a
Reckless versmilitude found
In cold six thousand
L.A. streets and Vegas clubs,
Flying cards scrawling
An American tabloid of
Black dahlias and Brown requiems.
Stephen moves to play, and
A knock from the door.
I enter.
My trembling notes flash yellow,
A nervous pencil asking,
Slipper’s feet smash, tripping,
Blue lines and dandelion rectangles
Floating through a lightbulb clone
I reach for my notes, but,
They are reading them.
Eight ellipses criticize pages until satisfaction,
Thin smiles creeping, considering
The stories and themes printed there.
I shake my own, anticipating
A well-earned rejection.
Stephen puts down his pages, and
Turns to me
“Have a seat,” they say.