The official poetry thread

[Lee Bushwacker]

But you could Google it, Lee.

Couldn't be arsed Car!

 

[Carmona]

Couldn't be arsed Car!

Fair enough, m8.

 

[Chara021]

Another poem nobody will read.



Yesterday


Subtle swallows of the wind satiate,
you cower under a witches spell,
I linger on bird call willow swept blown times under a burgeoning moon.
thoughts so archaic of time fleeting, the beauty a morose and sad dwelling under a blue darkened sky devoid of stars and I fell down a ravine of misunderstood meanings.
my mother a ghost in yesteryear weeks ago, a troubled soul, I wander through milky doubts counting feathers of flocked birds too tired to sing.

I imagine love.

Fab. I love the language of this. Misunderstood meanings. Milky doubts. Birds too tired to sing

 

[dukeroyale]

But you could Google it, Lee.

his typewriter only has finbarr as its most modern function.

 

[fed up]

I tried starting the car but it never replied
And thought the engine had finally died
Out with the toolbox and opened the hood
An empty space where the battery once stood
A laugh emerged from a window above
Look at the wheels too FedY my love
Balder than Hag not a thread to be seen
And alloys with rust where it never had been
Your son called today a NCT to be had
Borrowed your battery and wheels did the lad

 

[Carmona]

In Eire's embrace, where legends entwine, A tale of Brigid, a saint so divine. Born in the twilight of pagan fire, Her spirit aflame with a sacred desire. In Kildare's meadows, where the clover bows, St. Brigid walked, with a grace that endowed. A poet's heart and a healer's touch, She weaved miracles, oh, Brigid's clutch. On Imbolc's eve, when winter sighs, Brigid's breath whispered, awakening skies. A mantle of healing, a forge of might, She forged in her abbey, a beacon of light. With rushes and reeds, her crosses are spun, Guardians of hearth, under spring's gentle sun. A shepherdess, tending both earthly and divine, In Brigid's embrace, all souls entwine. Oh, patron of poets, with wisdom adorned, Your legacy, St. Brigid, eternally borne. In the embers of tradition, a flickering flame, A hymn to Brigid, forever the same.

Jesus, that's beyond bad.

 

[thegillabbeygowl]

They do stand at my grave and leak,
I am there, and I am awake.

I am the junkie selling blow.
I am the reveller on the snow.
I am the blight upon the grain.
I am the darkness in the rain.

When you wake after the morning flush,
I am the water, about to rush
Of loud birds in circling flight.
I am the hungry owl at night.

So do stand at my grave and leak.
I am there, and I am awake.
(So do stand at my grave and sigh.
I am there, and I am awake)

 

[Carmona]

They do stand at my grave and leak,
I am there, and I am awake.

I am the junkie selling blow.
I am the reveller on the snow.
I am the blight upon the grain.
I am the darkness in the rain.

When you wake after the morning flush,
I am the water, about to rush
Of loud birds in circling fight.
I am the hungry owl at night.

So do stand at my grave and leak.
I am there, and I am awake.
(So do stand at my grave and sigh.
I am there, and I am awake)

It's got a certain je'n sais quoi.

 

[Chara021]

I tried starting the car but it never replied
And thought the engine had finally died
Out with the toolbox and opened the hood
An empty space where the battery once stood
A laugh emerged from a window above
Look at the wheels too FedY my love
Balder than Hag not a thread to be seen
And alloys with rust where it never had been
Your son called today a NCT to be had
Borrowed your battery and wheels did the lad

True story?

 

[fed up]

True story?