A poem

[Lady Midnight]

Ok it's a little early for this one but the weather where I am is VERY COLD so i thought i'd bring some springtime cheer into everyone's lives. it's an old one I wrote some years back but people still like it.

Daffodils

Stolen from the sun
In an azure sky,
This stray beam fell to earth:
From which sprung up
A golden flower,
The trumpet-hearald,
Announcing Spring.

The cease-fire in Northern Ireland
Has ended;
And it's not safe to eat a burger
These days.
My friend and I once planted
Seeds by the roadside,
Hoping to see some urban beauty
Amongst this dereliction,
And degredation,
And heaps of rubbish.
Never thinking of this golden beauty,
That rejects not the filthiest part of the city
Nor the greenest field:
In this bleak and dismal wasteland
I spy a single, solitary
Daffodil.

[Tessar]

wow! not bad!

its very long.

[Renille]

It was a beautiful call of hope amid the atrocities of violence. I loved it!

[notthatinnocent]

That was a really good poem.

-Laura

[galadriel88]

Really good!

Tessar, that is not long!

[noldo]

Yeah, a true cry for help.

[Pailan]

A single bloom can soften much hardness in our world. Nice poem, LM. Thanks.

[Laurelyn]

Vanya.

[aldesign]

A Poem
A cookie to the first correct guess, where i stole it from.


As he came into the Window
It was the sound of a crescendo
He came into her apartment
He left the bloodstains on the carpet
She ran underneath the table
He could see she was unable
So she ran into the bedroom
She was struck down, it was her doom!

[Aragorn]

Alien Ant Farm, who stole it from Michael Jackson! Or you could of just stolen it from Michael Jackson!

[Aragorn]

A cookie to who can guess who I stole the rhyme in my sig from and the name of the song!

[elf_princess]

hmm... I have know idea!!!

Anyway, GREAT POEM!!!

[aldesign]

to Aragorn a COOKIE
yay!

its Michael Jackson
(not AAF, although they are ok and did a nice cover version, but im a hardcore MJ fan!)

The ORIGINAL SMOOTH CRIMINAL is my favourite song ever ever ever in the world ever!!!!!!

[CardenIAntauraNauco]

Linkin Park', :Aragorn

[Aragorn]

d'oh! Here's one nobody will ever get:

Who sang the son "Day Dreamin' Fazes"?

[Lady Midnight]

Ummm no offence here but does this have anything to do with the topic? Ok well could you please start another thread? Thanks!

[CardenIAntauraNauco]

What else is there to say besides that it's a nice poem (which it is). Hey why don't we just close it there's not much more to be said.

[Lady Midnight]

Well people could post other poetry for a start.

[CardenIAntauraNauco]

I wrote this poem It's not very good but...

It's called Paul Revere's Ride

Listen, my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfrey arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be;
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex villiage and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm,"

Then he said "Good-Night!" and he with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom shop,with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By it's own reflection in the tide

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still.
That he could hear, like a sentinel's treas,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurres, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girths;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns

A hurry of hoofs in a villiage street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet,through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with it's heat/
He has left the villiage and mounted his steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft ont the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the villiage clock,
When he galloped into Lexington
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the villiage clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall
Peirced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulatrs Fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night wnet his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex villiage and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere

[galadriel88]

Wow, that's really good CIAN! Here's one of mine, nothing much...

Dreams

Fears, worries
Wishes, Hopes
Reflections on conversations
With friends
Loves and hates
A kind word
The late breaking news of the day
A movie we saw
That day, or years ago
A song that
We just can't get out
Of our heads
Or the latest news from cousin Susie
A long lost memory
A crush, or an enemy
A "What if" situation
Or just plain silliness
These are our dreams.

Whether they be
In the stillness of the night
When the world is at rest, or
When one simply pauses
In the middle
Of the schoolday, or workday
To think, for a while,
About whatever pops into our minds
These are our dreams.

Like a flying bird, dreams come and go
And are often forgotten quickly.
But remember Langston Hughes
And his words of wisdom.

For our dreams, though swift
In coming, and in going
Are often our inspiration
For any number of things -
A story, a project, a poem (like this)
Or even -
A career choice, or a difficult decision
For these are our dreams.