geekhack
geekhack Community => Off Topic => Topic started by: SmallFry on Mon, 23 April 2012, 21:34:08
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I personally find much enjoyment in poetry. Most of the time, I write my own...though occasionally I do enjoy a Robert Frost, or Langston Hughes poem. I thought that I would share my own creation. Please be kind! :smile:
[SIZE=3][FONT=arial][CENTER]The Love We Had
By: SmallFry
The roses [I]were[/I] red;
The violets [I]were [/I]blue.
Now they are dead;
Now, to me, so are you.
The Love we had is forever gone,
As I, too naive the cost.
For she was the beat to my song;
The song, “Opportunity Lost”
The roses [I]will be[/I] red;
The violets [I]will be[/I] blue.
But as you said,[/CENTER]
[/FONT][/SIZE][SIZE=3][CENTER]
[/CENTER]
[FONT=arial][CENTER]Never again with you.[/CENTER]
[/FONT][/SIZE]
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Here's my contribution:
People who write on bathroom walls,
Roll their **** into little balls,
People who read these words of wit,
Eat these little balls of ****.
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New one! This one is from one of my very dear friends...
[FONT=arial][SIZE=3][CENTER]Life's Journey
[/SIZE][/FONT][FONT=arial][SIZE=3]Life's journey is like a path untrodden,
Full of memories lost or forgotten.
Wandering down an endles trail,
Not knowing how long it shall prevail.
Hoping to find someone special along the way,
And spending your time loving them each and everyday.
Decisions made at some point are undoable,
But the time lost is nonrenewable.
MORE TO THIS POEM TO COME![/SIZE][/FONT][/CENTER]
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The In-Between Song
by Michael Foley
It's falling in love people love, the nervous excitement
Move and counter-move in the ancient game of enticement
But I don't yearn for early days with their permanent state
Of tumescence, prepared to get up on a cracked plate
Smoothtalking my way into your house and fumbling on chairs
Jumping away in fright at a bronchial cough upstairs
Returning through dark deserted streets, pounding on like crack
Troops on the march - or hobbling in agony, foreskin back
Getting home again at dawn and trying not to wake a soul
By peeing in total darkness down the side of the bowl.
Nor do I yearn to be free, casting off wasted years
To ride someone else into the sunset with joyful tears.
So that's NO bap-faced students, NO culture vultures in heat
NO colleagues or in-laws seeing my true worth, NO dark meat
NO petulant nymphets, detached and impossibly slim
NO mature divorces with it biting the leg off them
NO receptionists taking off glasses and letting down hair
NO frustrated green-belt wives in expensive underwear
- Strictly for Wednesday Plays. Real ones are tough as old hide.
There's little glamour truly. As my old friend gently sighed
Of Marilyn Monroe: How could the Kennedy boys get
Excited? Her poor little thing wouldn't even be wet.
Then there's phoney free-form passion, ripping skin and yelling.
I favour standards, traditional grammar and spelling
Calm organisation and planning, the disciplined way
(See my 'Top-down Methodology in Structured Sex Play').
You're my centre of excellence with private grounds in bloom
Resource and reception areas, hospitality room
My new in-house system with hands-on capability
User-friendly, with feedback, power and flexibility
Affording continuous two-way communication
My optimal target group for market penetration
My core-and flexi-time, my rest and recreation
My ongoing, upwardly mobile situation.
My love will survive all troubles, the fighting and *****ing
Huffs, depressions, illnesses and personal-membrane itching
The ravages of time, of course. Decrepit, fat or thin
I will never be unsure which wrinkle to put it in.
Tumultuous, piquant, the start and the end of the thing
Are the bits that sell - but the in-between time's what I sing
The lights low and half the band gone for their tea and a bun.
We take the floor again. The number is a smoochy one.
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There is a Geekhack original verse somewhere on this page:
http://geekhack.org/showwiki.php?title=Island:18024&viewfull=1&page=1&do=comments#post345500
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Oh my, Ripster's vain
I don't know what he thinks to gain
But all things keyboards he knows to explain
So Master ThreadRappingRhymin'Ripster wins again!
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The roses were red;
The violets were blue.
Now they are dead;
Now, to me, so are you.
The Love we had is forever gone,
As I, too naive the cost.
For she was the beat to my song;
The song, “Opportunity Lost”
The roses will be red;
The violets will be blue.
But as you said,
Never again with you.
Smallfry, I think that you've inspired me:
Her face is red
Her eye is blue
Next time she talks back
She knows what I'll do
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I just wanted to use the word "pinion".
Then use it! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfW0ke4bwI4&ob=av3e)
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ripster likes poetry??? I thought he was a haiku hater, since he deleted my beautiful one I wrote just for his thread. :-P
FYI, the first definition of pinion is perfect for a poem:
pinion 1 |ˈpinyən|
noun
the outer part of a bird's wing including the flight feathers.
• poetic/literary a bird's wing as used in flight.
verb [ trans. ]
1 tie or hold the arms or legs of (someone) : he pinioned the limbs of his opponents.
• bind (the arms or legs) of someone.
2 cut off the pinion of (a wing or bird) to prevent flight.
ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French pignon, based on Latin pinna, penna ‘feather.’
pinion 2
noun
a small gear or spindle engaging with a large gear.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from French pignon, alteration of obsolete pignol, from Latin pinea ‘pine cone,’ from pinus ‘pine.’
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When it comes to poetry it ultimately becomes all about Arthur Rimbaud and William Blake for me.
Here's a favorite of mine by Rimbaud & Verlaine: http://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Sonnet_du_Trou_du_Cul
None only does this blow my mind but they were totally taking the piss when they wrote it. The Fowlie translation (updated by Whidden) follows below:
Sonnet to an *******
Dark and wrinkled like a deep pink
It breathes, humbly nestled among the moss
Still wet with love that follows the gentle flight
Of the white Buttocks to the heart of its border.
Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept, under the cruel wind pushing them back,
Over small clots of reddish marl
And there lose themselves where the slope called them.
In my Dream my mouth was often placed on its opening;
My soul, jealous of the physical coitus,
Made of it its fawny tear-bottle and its nest of sobs.
It's the fainting olive, and the cajoling flute;
It is the tube where the heavenly praline descends;
A feminine Canaan enclosed in moisture!
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what the frack?!? :-/
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little pink piggies
dying on a spike
chop. chop. chop.
Now they're bacon
on your plate.
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I personally find much enjoyment in poetry. Most of the time, I write my own...though occasionally I do enjoy a Robert Frost, or Langston Hughes poem. I thought that I would share my own creation. Please be kind! :smile:
[SIZE=3][FONT=arial][CENTER]The Love We Had
By: SmallFry
The roses [I]were[/I] red;
The violets [I]were [/I]blue.
Now they are dead;
Now, to me, so are you.
The Love we had is forever gone,
As I, too naive the cost.
For she was the beat to my song;
The song, “Opportunity Lost”
The roses [I]will be[/I] red;
The violets [I]will be[/I] blue.
But as you said,[/CENTER]
[/FONT][/SIZE][SIZE=3][CENTER]
[/CENTER]
[FONT=arial][CENTER]Never again with you.[/CENTER]
[/FONT][/SIZE]
+1
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Thank you for the compliment Boost!