Some threads are very easy to mute.

^^ Those who can't do, hate.

One does not simply mute a poetry thread.

A haiku:
Those who can't do, hate
A bee can make no honey
If those who eat, hate

"Packing a Musket"

When you work from your home
and johns call on the phone,
you're a call girl.
When you walk 'til you limp
and give a cut to a pimp,
you're a street whore.
When they're beggin' you please
to get down on your knees
near their groinage,
excusa me,
but you see,
don't you touch
where they pee
without coinage.

a wide wench ~
it's her honey groinage's
for the coinages

One fish
Two fish
Red fish
Blue fish

nigga nigga nigga

I also wrote this one today. It took me less than a minute, and it might be the best thing I've ever written.

Bear witness:

In the garden, Peter Rast,
Leaves the children all aghast.
For when it's time to choose a plume,
He picks the flowers before they bloom.

Women and Men failed
But she is like no other:
A eunuch's campaign

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/04/world/asia/a-eunuch-in-india-campaigns-as-a-political-none-of-the-above.html

Some time ago I did finded
A lass narrow waisted and broad minded
Now, alas, the reverse is true
Why did I ever say "I do"?

A small angry man named SYnapse
Was prone to a cognitive lapse.
Whilst practising wit
The malodorous tit
Would tremble and shake, then collapse.

There once was a member called "YJ"
Whose slogan was "I do it my way"
He opened a thread
Where poems were spread
And trolls that complained got the highway

That's it?

You bunch of illiterates.

The illiterate
criticizes others, but
fails to criticize self

The dumb bee bumbles;
No thought goes through his head, yet:
he claims to be smart

Libtards are stupid
They use flawed Lib-tard logic
which never makes sense

The GOP: bad
They are racist and have guns.
Guns do kill people

The poetry thread
The poetry hatred

Politicizing:
Great for derailing these threads,
brings lots of anger

The poetry thread:
What, is this a haiku, hoss?
The poetry HATRED.
Aww naw it's a TANKA, hoss,
freestylin' shimo-no-ku.

Insane deprave
Dig your own grave
Load the gun
They've all but won
Vandals over the border
Theft, rape, murder
A dying empire
Hopelessly mired
Dead tired
Needs to be inspired
Why, why are they so tired?
Of fighting?
Of winning?
Of sinning?
Take a stand
Aren't you a man?
They'll pollute the nation
Hatred, the only salvation
Poor, yearning to breathe free
Hah! They're not like me
Good citizens, they'll never be
Just mooching wanderers
Why should we squander
Our wealth on these indigents
Who are no different
Than our grandfathers?

hm... hehe... Sterile as I am, I shall only appear as a critic...

I give my prize, a qualified +1 to YJ's opus#2

I googled Peter Rast - There are at least 9 such on Facebook...
Ah... Then it strook me... Paederastes - lover of boys...

As a pun on paedophilia it is indeed witty. But even without this it reads very concisely and suggestively as true poetry.

^^

Glad at least one person gets it :)

pad kid poured curd pulled cold
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
Faster, faster
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
Faster, faster, faster
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
pad kid poured curd pulled cold
Repeat 10x at speed
A poem you cannot repeat, but will never forget.

"The laddie fancies himself a poet!"

I was born too late
I should have been a hippy
Getting hassled by the fuzz on the Haight
Tripping to the Dead
At a be-in by the Gate
Lusting after Grace and Janis
Settling for some runaway jailbait
Loading up my stash
Of Owsley acid and fine Moroccan hash
Into a tie-dyed microbus
Bound for bust or Woodstock
Stones and Beatles on the eight track
One more protégé of Kerouac

I warn you for Diplomat "gantz" (userID=21124)
When playing he mostly makes friends
He talks with affection
And makes a connection
But screws you while wearing your pants

Forward... MARCH!

I don't know but I've been told
Diplomacy is mighty cold
Make a pact, you think it's true
Then your allies turn on you

A "Putin" lives here on this site
The poor and oppressed are his plight
A typical leftie
His posts can be hefty
And even when wrong, he is right

haiku
I'm an angsty teen
Don't be hat-in on my swag
I leave tags on hats

Haha redhouse I like your style.

So there's this fellow called redhouse
Criticising people in the madhouse
If you have a stone
It should ne'er be thrown
By residents of the glasshouse

I write sonnets at work for fun. Here is my favorite:

"On a Visit to Jean Lafitte National Park"

“At once repulsive and alluring,” says
The sign, describing swampy, flooded land.
The flora, called luxuriant, conjures dread –
Its “deeply shrouded mystery” demands
A nod to Lovecraft’s horrors of the bog,
Grotesque, and brooding in the turgid gloom.
A hooting owl, a lonely croaking frog;
The bayou, choked with lilies now in bloom.
An ancient cypress, tall above the rest,
Attracts my gaze. Like cobwebs hangs the moss
From branches at the canopy’s high crest,
All thick and muscled even through such dross.
And yet, this cypress, though deserving fame,
Was but a runt before the loggers came.

Here is a random poem in French:

Comme des porcs les gens circulent dans la rue.
De ce qu’on cherche on ne sait plus.
Le Bonheur? Évidemment ça veut dire plus rien,
Sauf que celui qu’on cherche n’est que le mien.
Dirait-on égoïsme? Cela ne suffit plus.
Pour ces homme-porcs qui circulent dans la rue.

Whoops, first line first poem it's "said" the sign, not "says"

crispy crystals fall
not officially winter yet
shoveling sounds

@Thucy: l'as-tu trouvé eh?

euh je cherche autre chose, je dirais

France: Culture, Language,
and many fancy cheeses.
Also, a white flag

Paging Obiwanobiwan:

I just read Shakespeare 17- good shit:

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

I wonder if she has living descendants, whoever the subject was.