The Pendulum

[Ierrellus]

The rat race run, the dull humdrum
Swings like the dusty pendulum--
To and fro, to and fro--
There are those who never know.
Lightly swinging, such on such--
There are those who know too much.
On it swings and on it sings,
Dull or softly, slow on slow,
To and fro, to and fro,
Ever going, never showing
Just what makes it go.
Smooth to some, harsh to some,
Swings the dusty pendulum.

[Aussenseite]

An ant swings on the edge of a blade of grass
Brittle and browned by the cold and dew frost
The winds howl against his shell made of glass
While he looks back at the long distance crossed
Aches stretch along every bony leg and each joint
As he considers his bounty of storage and home
It finally comes to him from this vantage point
He'll not make the journey back through alone
The whisper thin shell that used to be black
Has yellowed and become translucent with age
Pitted and scarred from each defense and attack
To protect the small colony, whenever engaged
A fog of war covers his eyes as he's blown from atop
Past the slumbering grasses and long resting leaves
When his body, it tumbles meeting dirt with a stop
Sleeping still with the detritus, the earth he receives

[Ierrellus]

Shell

Upon our backs a shell has grown,
Slowing tracks over a stone.

Is that weight there to make us stout
When death cuts care--we halfway out?

Yet I have found cut off from skies
That even ground has butterflies.

[Aussenseite]

I am like the bird, free to soar and free to dive
Vulnerable to all that looms larger than myself
To things on the ground in a flash of fur or scale
Or to streaming metal vehicles that pierce the sky
Sometimes I am like the tall tree expanding
My branches swaying gently in the spring breeze
Arms stretched wide to give shelter to all
Quietly strong but firmly rooted to the ground
I am occasionally like the blades of grass
Ever growing, cycling through greens and browns
Sleeping rooted through the winter snows
Waiting patiently for the rain to renew my life
Reflected, I am the water smooth and serene
Powerful currents ebb and flow with the moons waning
Waves lap at the sandy shores, silently eroding earth
And feeding the smallest of creatures to the sea
For fleeting moments, I am the flush of clouds
Malleable, always flowing, ever changing shape
Always distant and sometimes altogether absent
Wispy muted whites and grays that dot the blue sky
Rarer still I am the seed, not knowing what I may be
Challenged by the rain and sun to stretch upwards
Sometimes choosing to bloom, sometimes to wilt
Not the right soil, too much shade, not enough water
Nature seeks the imagination of unquiet minds
Not trifling with the matter of what will be
For when we are the bird, the tree, the grass
Whether we are like the water, the clouds or the seed
It all is for naught--
Ever always we are victims of the winds intentions

[Ierrellus]

Pond

I live to be a pond like Walden,
Sunny golden, moony silver,
Lying in a dreamy dent
With crooked trees upon my face,
With green and blue my shades of smile,
With lyric life dinking me--
Reincarnate in the rain.

[Aussenseite]

Stopped at the old dock yesterday
Under the shade of long grown moss
Old mandrakes that jut from the shore
Keeping it still, and serene
The toads croaking at the sky
Sun dancing through branches
Lights the dragonfly that skims
Across the surface of my soul
Renewing me
Letting the cool clear water
Wash the salt tracks from my cheeks
While you creep along my lips
In a smile

[Harbal]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

[Harbal]

Swings the dusty pendulum.

Why is the pendulum dusty, by the way?

[Aussenseite]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

The interesting thing about poetry is that it is not written for you, it is written for the poet and they alone will understand the full depth of the emotion and intellect that went into its constitution. It is a way for the poet to express something that has been weighing on their mind, in a way that is transformative for them. A working through of thoughts and emotions related to things in their lives or things they have thought about. It is something they want to get across in a way that suits their complex mind and who may not have a voice to speak it well.

Poets don't write their poems for you to understand, though some times it is so. While some others may read things in the poem that are uplifting, depression, passionate, beautiful, harrowing or otherwise interesting in any way that may or may not resonate in them, it is still written for the poet. A poet writes because he is inspired to do so, and cannot put down the pen.

[Harbal]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

The interesting thing about poetry is that it is not written for you, it is written for the poet

So why can't they keep it to themselves, then?

[Aussenseite]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

The interesting thing about poetry is that it is not written for you, it is written for the poet

So why can't they keep it to themselves, then?

They mostly do.

But like most human beings, the thought that there might be others out there that can sympathize and empathize with their position or even better, connect with them because of a similar predicament is in our very nature.

[James S Saint]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

..inspires one to wonder of what you might think anything is "for".

The hour is late.
So easy to hate.
No need to try,
or reason the why.
Just hate it all,
..until you die.
Behind the closed door,
one wonders what it's all for.

[Harbal]

..inspires one to wonder of what you might think anything is "for".

All it inspires me to do is groan.

The hour is late.
So easy to hate.
No need to try,
or reason the why.
Just hate it all,
..until you die.
Behind the closed door,
one wonders what it's all for.

It's even worse when it rhymes.

[James S Saint]

"So easy to hate."

What's the point?

..any better when it doesn't rhyme?

[Harbal]

"So easy to hate."

What's the point?

..any better when it doesn't rhyme?

Poems that rhyme are a waste of time.

[Aussenseite]

Beauty
What describes pleasure
Without intention
Sans it's own aspiration
Perceived
Is more than it was
Before it was beautiful
A purity of sightfulness
Drunk without forethought
And seeping into our very being
Replacing the shadowy crevices
Taking away darkness
Warming the spaces long cobwebbed
With the deepest breath
Flooding through

[James S Saint]

Poems that rhyme are a waste of time.

And pseudo-intellectual misanthropes are a dozen for a dime.

[Ultimate Philosophy 1001]

Poems that rhyme are a waste of time.

Isn't it so? That rhymes though.

[Harbal]

And pseudo-intellectual misanthropes are a dozen for a dime.

I don't hate mankind, I'm just a pseudo-intellectual that doesn't like poetry.

[Ierrellus]

Poets sing themselves.
They do not sing for fun.
They perch on this limb and that;
And some folks like their songs;
And some folks shoot them down.

[Ierrellus]

Aussenseite,
I've just finished reading 1600 pages of contemporary poetry. Your poems stand up alongside the best.

[Ierrellus]

My god, how I hate poetry. I've never been able to understand what it's for.

I'm published. Are you?
This tread was meant to be a poetry tag. Are you trying to usurp it as Trixie did the other thread? Maybe not. Maybe you just don't get poetry. I wish I could say something to persuade you of its value. You like songs? They are poetry put to music. Rap is poetry.

[Harbal]

I'm published. Are you?

What on earth do you suppose I may have published? Poetry?

Are you trying to usurp it as Trixie did the other thread

My comments were probably inappropriate, given the nature of the thread, but I don't think my style is quite as blunt as Trixie's.

Maybe you just don't get poetry.

There's no maybe about it, I totally don't get it.

You like songs?

Music is my thing but I prefer it without singing.

[Ierrellus]

Flyswat
I sometimes stand here swatting flies
Because they are immediate,
Because I feel superior
To senseless flitting in my face.

I sometimes stand here far too long,
Absorbing meaning from attack
Because the lure of lobbing lies
Can hide a moment's impotence.

[Harbal]

Flyswat
I sometimes stand here swatting flies
Because they are immediate,
Because I feel superior
To senseless flitting in my face.

I sometimes stand here far too long,
Absorbing meaning from attack
Because the lure of lobbing lies
Can hide a moment's impotence.

Maybe when you've finished swatting flies you should go and dust your pendulum.