webdiplomacy.net

His mattress dotted with arrows
Strung from a bow that snapped when drawn back
Was there influence?
Of course, they were deep in the Irish cream
The smears of paint echo the sap rush when bark town was dusted
The cardboard target shredded like lettuce over tacos
And there lay the old wooden bow
Its drawn string slacked
Splintered fragments among the Tarawa grass
The unmowed and relentless growth
Now sits an orange bucket
A mattress
And a tree ghost
Playing Hamlet to my arrow
The syrup from within pulp
Smoldering in a glass you gulp from the host

White Castle fries only come in one size.

Your poems are always cryptic, but this is the first one that sounds more like a jumble of unrelated ideas than a beautifully new understanding of an issue. Just a small critique, but also a plea for you to help me understand it

the irony is it has no double meaning.

there is literally a mattress in the garage at my parents that I tried to turn into a living sculpture/3d painting. I shot arrows at it and dripped paint all over it. unfortunately the project never was all that visually interesting. the only interesting element to it was the arrows were antiques from my grandfather. and on the day i graduated high school my best friend and I stole a bottle of my parents Irish cream and we went out in the yard shooting the bow and arrow at a target made of cardboard.

unfortunately the bow snapped in half and broke. so explaining it was a bit problematic... like we werent supposed to be drinking, and probably shouldnt be shooting a bow and arrow while drunk lol

My dad told me he played a game with his brother when he was my age where they shot an arrow straight up and umm.. tried not to die, in an attempt to influence me to go out with my friends more often

Once you cross that Red River Haus you'll stay there forever,
'Cause the girls from Texas are just a little bit better.

Take a wiff of the lettuce and you’ll soon see
You’ll be taking from the devil before you count to three

Spinning around
Not in a random sense
But rather, like a roundabout
Filled with different motives and different directions
Each passenger being unique in its own way
And for that very reason,
A danger all the same
With each new passenger brings more
More distraction
More interaction
More factions
Smaller fractions
Decimals
What’s your chance of wrecking when the roundabout fills?
When your mind finally slows down the chaos
and realizes the terrible thing it’s done
My mind is spinning around
Not in a random sense,
But kind of like a roundabout

What should everyone’s thoughts? Am I good enough to try publishing?

What should everyone’s thoughts... hmm.

In the East there’s peace
Miracles everywhere to be found
In the south there’s famine
The closest bell with dampened sound
In the North there’s melting
Water levels rising up through the common ground
In the West there’s protest
About standing or kneeling for a paint peeling country that’s far too proud

The buzzing street lights,
The approaching glare
a closing shop
Are over there

A lost boy
Stuck in the stars
Ignoring the stares
Is over there

He walks with the cars
Seemingly passengerless the way they pass
Windows tinted by absent light
Makes it seem the boy doesn't exist

He's in the middle,
But somehow never hit
His steps so little,
He's bound to never arrive

Wherever it is he goes, that is
No one really knows
He's gone by morning
Only in the snow do his prints show

He's never missed,
Except by one lady
She sits in her chair till day
Considered crazy

Before she passed away
She wrote one thing
It was beautiful
But not a soul in the town could understand

"His eyes reflect moonlight into hope,
His nose, smog into fresh air
He walks on God's creation,
And watched men make their's"

It only snowed once while the boy was alive
It was cold, ice stinging his feet like knives
As the last car passed he breathed in regret
And smog and lost cause were his final breath

Oh fun oh fun, oh look far o'er there -
It's a year old and more, an old forum thread.
(To help revive or to not revive, doth I dare?)
with my shitty rhymes, filling readers with dread ;p

Or perhaps a half-assed limerick
about the wonders of eating dick:
Of which there's none,
it shan't be done -
coz those teeth will snap close with a click

perhaps this aspect of my press is why I get stabbed lol

(but regardless, I did enjoy reading this thread, glad to see it again)

It’s a good one. I was a little more edgy 1 year+ ago

Apologies

Every now and then,
It feels like a guilt,
Why can't I apologise,
And make everything right.

It's rather difficult,
To make the first move,
When things are bad,
And strings too loose.

Let me try once,
Build the courage,
Face the consequence,
And find peace to forage.

I went ahead with fingers crossed,
Paced around and took a while,
Framed a lot of conflicting tries,
To gain the nerve for that extra mile.


Dated: 26th September 2018

Did you join diplomacy for BB’s poetry thread? Respect

Not exactly. I joined in after a very long time and was happy to see a poetry thread.
English is not my first language but the poetry still brings me joy. So, here I am.

Poetry was what helped me understand my emotions and channel them into not only an art, but also into maturity

True, tottaly agreed.
There was a time when I couldn't put my thoughts clearly. I kept on going round and round into the same thing. But once I started putting it down, I found it better to write in poem than a prose. And, I wrote many poems, mostly in Hindi, in just one month of beginning.

Ursula K. Le Guin

When I take you to the valley, you'll see the blue hills on the left and the blue hills on the right.
The rainbow and the vineyards under the rainbow late in the rainy season
And maybe you'll say, there it is, that's it. But I'll say, "a little further," and we'll go on, I hope.
And you'll see the roofs of the little towns and the hillsides yellow with wild oaks, a buzzard soaring, and a woman singing by the shallows of the creek in the dry season.
And maybe you'll say, "let's stop here, this is it," but I'll say, "a little further yet." And we'll go on, and you'll hear the quail calling on the mountain, by the springs of the river.
And looking back you'll see the river running downward through the running hills behind, below, and you'll say, "isn't that the valley?"
And all I will be able to say is, "drink the water of this spring, rest here a while, we have a long way yet to go... and I can't go without you."