Post good poetry ITT

Good execution with poor concept.

in my previous life
i was a samurai
i ate bamboo
and was a samurai
i knew kung-fu
and was a samurai
i commited seppuku
no more a samurai

I call this poem "reddit spacing"

through rose-tinted glasses
through typewriter keys
through doctor's appointments
through hair on my knees

through wet autumn sidewalks
through summer's fat ticks
through winter's dead foxes
through bees in the spring

through broken glass bottles
through wooden old swings
through prescription for glasses
through melting of rings

through tunnels of a flesh
sat a man on a bench
through a flash of an eye
that man thought and said

Does a book have to be made out of paper?
A tree out of bark?
Does a car have to drive on wheels?
A poem to rhyme?

bump

A cold winter morning, and still no revelation
Everything feels like autumn
Brown leaves still skitter across the field
And hangs on the ends of branches.
Gnawing mouse trapped
In a collapsed den
Certain the snow would breach any moment
Yet eagerly storing the last morsels of damp air
As he claws the dirt
Until light breaks in at last,
And not snow.
All certainties are lost,
Frosted-tipped meadows under Dawn's weightless fingertips,
Ice daggers slice the wind.
Retreat far into the den and huddle,
Surely this is a trick,
Winter is already come.
Wait until tomorrow to be sure.

doesn't even rhyme

user posted this is the critique breab. I thought it was nice and nobody actually critiqued it, I think

Roasted Eyes; commonalities of midnights past.
Condemned to behold the wicked dreams, an utmost fantasy.
Tampered when visiting, my memory lusts after you,
A gust of fabled fiction grandeur.
Mild whispers of an evergreen pasture.
Soft leaves turning on their backs.
Revel under ol' tales and wondrous phenomena.
Drink the scapegoats sweet milk with edible iron of the bloodied paw.
Thorns never stuck so deep.
Chain mail failed to keep me dry
And it lies mystery's falsehoods akin to the merchant's charismatic side.
Spokane; the place of mythic beauty.
The elders once scowled the boy's refusal into submission.
A limit on the field of vision, cursed with branded lids and White Iris Oblivion.
Madman of the East, They call me Roasted Eyes.

...

...

I'm gonna steal this for a shitty simple twee pop song

to lie with you on rainy days
your head resting on my shoulder
convinces me in many ways
of things inside me that are older

>roasted eyes
gross (in a poorly done way). dropped.

...

Were I to consider now the powers that be
And those such as my future poems inspired,
I tear my current ones and cast away for none to see
These hideous verses where nought but fear is thus transpired.

Long poems say less than short poems do tell
Which John Keats have mastered so none may say:
"On what deaf ears have my poems befell!"
For poetry is for not the merry nor gay.

The need to impress, to produce, goes on
While dreams of my youth may be laid to rest
Where now I pretend I am Napoleon
But with no Austerlitz to call my best.

And like a Cherubim we still march forward
Holding aloft such our drawn sword.

Wrote this just now, feel free to r8. Structured like a sonnet but I didn't really pay attention to the meter, so take no offense, English teachers

...

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

>cage
>rage
0/10

post more

There's no such thing

For I am an engine
And I'm rolling on
Through endless revisions to state what I mean
For sweetness alone who flew out through the window
And landed back home in a garden of green

You're riding alone in the back of a steamer
And steaming yourself in the warm shower spray
And water rolls on off the round captain's belly
Who's talking to tygers from his cafeteria tray

And sweet babies cry for the cool taste of milking
That milky delight that invited us all
And if there's a taste in this life more inviting
Then wake up your windows and watch as the sweet babies crawl
Away

my heart is not a baseball
but it fits in your sleek glove;
and no matter who else plays,
you will always have my love

death of the ball-turret gunner, rad. never seen that on here

Inversnaid:

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

poetryfoundation.org/poems/50155/the-last-supper-from-the-battlefield-where-the-moon-says-i-love-you

Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though
Ice-bound, lest I should cough the night away,
And when I walk the mile to town, I show
The right technique for wading through deep clay.
A sad man, sorrier than he can say.

But surely not so guilty he should die
Each day from knowing that his race is run:
My sin was to be faithless. I would lie
As if I could be true to everyone
At once, and all the damage that was done

Was in the name of love, or so I thought.
I might have met my death believing this,
But no, there was a lesson to be taught.
Now, not just old, but ill, with much amiss,
I see things with a whole new emphasis.

My daughter’s garden has a goldfish pool
With six fish, each a little finger long.
I stand and watch them following their rule
Of never touching, never going wrong:
Trajectories as perfect as plain song.

Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known
The name for Japanese anemones,
So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone
Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees
Without my seeing them. I count the bees.

Even my memories are clearly seen:
Whence comes the answer if I’m told I must
Be aching for my homeland. Had I been
Dulled in the brain to match my lungs of dust
There’d be no recollection I could trust.

Yet I, despite my guilt, despite my grief,
Watch the Pacific sunset, heaven sent,
In glowing colours and in sharp relief,
Painting the white clouds when the day is spent,
As if it were my will and testament –

As if my first impressions were my last,
And time had only made them more defined,
Now I am weak. The sky is overcast
Here in the English autumn, but my mind
Basks in the light I never left behind.

...

Love it