Parmenion

I wanna hug and kiss demons!!! Whats worse is I think they'd let me!!! I enjoyed this. Felt like I was seeing the world through the greyed eyes of war feeling. Well done

It all began some years ago, The cancer – it began to grow… But dear child now I float, Around and about as a ghost, Feel my beard beside your face, I kiss your heart with death’s embrace, To damn your life to my despair, Genetics dear – is that unfair? Now there is nothing – all is black, You pray in mass – you want me back, But I never cared for you while here, Now I’m dead and without ears, When you whisper problems through your tears, I chuckle softly at your fears. Speak what you will to your walls, I’ll not be answer-ing your calls, You may think all this is just being bad, It’s for your own good, just call me “Dad”.

I really enjoyed the realism of this poem. I felt the emotions that you must have felt were put across very well in that the reader would have felt them line by line. I enjoyed in the last stanza how you admit that though the longing still remains you've recognized the strength inside to do what must be done for your own well being, "I won’t be waiting for you". The symbolism of desire versus peace of mind (if thats right?) is gotten across nicely. Bravo!

*Hugs little one* Good to see you started writing. All my love and enjoyed reading this very much. Keep it up my dear, I look forward to more

This was very original and thoroughly enjoyable!! Thank you for sharing this wonderful little piece

This was written by a friend of mine who I hope will be joining us soon. She has just started writing recently and wanted some feedback so all comments are appreciated. Standing in a dark black tunnel, Not a flicker of light in sight, The walls are cold and damp, She stands there dressed in white. Her breathing becomes heavy, Feeling trapped between these walls, With no escape, nowhere to run, Her voice echoes as she calls. She wonders why she's here, Frightened and alone, Nobody ever told her, She'd be going on her own. They said it would be peaceful, Her pain would go away, They told her they would be there, They would help her find her way. The tunnel now seems blacker, She remembers years gone by, Memories of a pain she caused, She question's herself "why"? Her surroundings now seem brighter, She knows now why she's here, She turns back to change the past, And wipes away the final tear. ~~Laura~~

Catchy

I had to read that a couple of times before I got it, maybe I'm slow tonight I like happy endings

Goodie - I just had to post some thoughts on this one as to what I read in the poem itself; which I enjoyed. There are parts where I thought - should that go there but I don't know enough to comment on those aspects. I want to comment on what I read the idea to be The unanswerable question(s) I felt were posed by this piece was "Is there a point to life?" and if so "What is it?" In other words that age old question of "What's the meaning of life?" or more to the point..."Whats the meaning of my life?" After all, we are all of us unique. The reason this struck a chord so deeply for me to respond in length (apologies btw ), is because I was musing with a similar question recently even though I thought I had it all worked out. Its good to re-ask some questions of oneself sometimes IMO. Philosophical questions such as these have been debated throughout the ages from the first great Greek lads as we know and yet still we futiliy struggle to answer them. There will never truly be an end-game or all encompassing answer, not in our lifetimes anyway! So we can either accept that there is no real point other than procreation (spelling?), for such is the way of nature outside our civilization. We can seek the answers we want through religion which some do in the hope that this is not all there is, or that we have other chances to come back to achieve the answers to the questions we seek if we don't do it in this lifetime. Such are possible paths (obviously there are for more reasons for religion etc.. than just to answer these questions - twas just an example). I think the question itself is flawed. We know the eventual outcome (in a practical sense - we can always rely on Pascal's Wager if we have any doubts ). This is only my opinion, but the question that should be asked is "What do I want the meaning of life to be for me?". It alleviates all that stress and ultimately inconsequential debating on a subject on which has been discussed since man pretty much began thinking on such things. The answer decided upon should be practical and achievable. The reason I say "should" is because I believe that when we are old we will have a lot of time to reflect (hopefully), and we will spend a lot of time thinking back on our lives. The questions at that stage that we will ask ourselves are not "What is the meaning of life?" but more likely "Am I happy with how I lived mine?". In another sense - are we comfortable with our views on the world at that stage, after all we have spent our lives living a certain way (by certain meanings). The idea behind that way of thought is peace of mind and an epitaph which will read "no regrets" (in principal). Some might say that it side-steps and doesn't address the true painful challenge and grit of the essence of the question; I would argue that it surpasses it. Sorry I have ranted all over your poem. I enjoyed it and for me to post so long - it definitely made me think and talk! Bravo!

Nicey

oops, forgot this: parmenion_eire@yahoo.com

I can think of better ways to immortalize a moment than killing someone but I do enjoy a good old fashioned chop 'em up poem! As long as such thoughts remain just thoughts I'll sleep better

The joys of highs and lows - bravo!!

I'm sure you've made him very proud hun. I enjoyed this dedication, I know how much he meant to you

Want to take your hand and show you, That dreams DO come to life, That seeking out a challenge, Will help overcome your strife.

It was inspired as a result of a conversation with one person but it does in that stanza refer to a certain "clique" of people so thats why I used the plural. lol@peredhil

/me gives smallscale_mind_games a little blue teddy as a reward for such a nice little poem. forget me not...

In yer face j00 poets you! Nicely written and kudos ;P

Dashier had not met anyone on the road to Pontaka for over two days. Not that he was complaining because there were two types of people he was most likely to meet. The first (and most likely), were dull redneck farmers who would probably drone on for as long as they could get you to listen about the wonderful animals they had purchased in the spring markets. The second, were bandits who had become more widespread of late, the reasons for this we will be getting to in a second. The bandits would be slightly more entertaining than the farmers would. They would boast about their recent raids, including the slaughtering of dull farmers who liked to talk a lot about the sheep they bought, before they took your money and/or your life. It really depended on their mood and if there were any homosexuals in their group who liked the look of you. The king of the land, Bob, had died two months ago and left no heirs. As usual in these situations the lords, barons, illegitimate children, cousins, nephews, nephews who were nieces until recently, all became part of the power frenzy. Alliances between the nobles and gentry were formed, broken and renewed as often as the local serving wench drops to her knees to mop up spilt liquid. The majority of the organised military was too busy serving the nobles in minor skirmishes and quelling riots in towns and cities to patrol the roads and protect farmsteads and small villages. The two-horse cart stopped in the middle of the roadway caught Dashier’s attention, mainly because it was hard to miss unless your eyesight was bad. An enormous man dressed in the bright colours of a merchant seemed to be repairing the wheel. If indeed the man was a merchant, Dashier thought he must have been a damned fool to be dressed the way he was despite the dangers of travelling these roads alone. Uncertain whether he should skirt the area or indulge in his usual generous nature and help the man, he decided to forgo his generosity yet again. In a bid to let his conscience know that he was not listening to it, he started to whistle as he walked from the road into the woods. A few seconds later he realised his conscience had tricked him when he heard the other man bellow. “ Ho stranger!” The voice sounded familiar, unfortunately, and Dashier recognised him as he approached. It was Porky from Ikinloa. It was the same city that Dashier was from and although he had not seen the man in years he hadn’t changed much apart from the bright clothes and about one hundred pounds. (On a man his size it made little or no difference.) Of course, Porky was not his real name but people had called him by it for so long even his own parents could not remember the original one. Porky, worked as a blacksmith, or rather his occupational title was that of a blacksmith. He spent most of his time eating and drinking beer. It was a wonder his father’s business did not fall apart. Rumour has it that his father mended a lot of pots, pans and tankards from the local inn after Porky visited. The pair were friendly before Dashier enlisted in the king’s army five years previously. Generally, it meant that Dashier would hang around with Porky for free booze and food when it suited him or when he was broke. It was compulsory for all human members of the kingdom to spend at least three years in the army. The tradition of enlistment existed for over two hundred years since the great wars the kingdom fought against their neighbours. When the wars ended about one hundred years ago the following kings never bothered to abolish the tradition. “Well I’ll be the great grandson of a human woman raped by a troll who later had her belly beaten by her father when he found out she was pregnant, if it is my old pal Dashier,” laughed Porky as he approached and slapped Dashier firmly on the shoulder knocking him clean off his feet. Dashier picked himself up off the ground and glared indignantly at Porky as he dusted himself off. “You are, and it is,” he replied. “Sorry Dash, I’ve been told I’m a tad bitter about my lineage. Still, it saved me from having to join the army and sadly, that’s the best redeeming quality I can ever seem to come up with for it. Anyway, it’s good to see you, it has been quite a while hasn’t it?” “It has,” responded Dashier somewhat distractedly as he frowned at what appeared to be fresh horse manure on his elbow. His suspicions were confirmed as he traced the offensive trail to Porky’s cart where both horses were indulging in another session of relief. Unfortunately, his deteriorating mood was soon to get worse and so it did when he noticed his boots were nicely decorated with around-the-side-of-the-sole shit smearing. He heard his conscience giggle slightly at his misfortune and then burst into a from-the-soul laugh as he sniffed an odd smell. “Ah for fuck’s sake!” he roared. It could only be the belly-churning stink of fresh manure violently disturbed. It wafted up over him and clung to him like a lost dog when he tried to walk away. He ran to the nearby trees, kicked his boots in the loose muck, and wiped his elbow on some dead shrubs while retching periodically. He emerged after a few minutes with an expression, which could only be interpreted as – it’s going to be one of those days. “Sorry again Dash. I was really excited to see you. I was on my way to Pontaka to deliver this cart of weapons to my uncle when the wheel came off. I don’t think I could have fixed it on my own. How good are you at fixing wheels?” asked Porky apologetically. Dashier mentally calculated the amount of gold he had left and how long it would last him in Pontaka before he would be forced to find work and concluded that he might afford one good night. His expression made way for a broad smile as he returned Porky’s affectionate slap. He was momentarily disappointed when it did not have the same effect as the one he received. “So am I correct in saying Porky, old friend, that if I did not come along you may not have been able to make that delivery?” queried Dashier. “Well I suppose you could say that but someone else could have…” “Enough said,” interrupted Dashier as he turned his back to Porky and walked toward the cart. His left eyebrow raised into an arch as he continued. “I take gold up front and usually charge twenty gold pieces for my good deed of the day but since you are a friend,” he stopped and thought. “I’ll do a real upright job,” he added. “Hold on there a tick. I could nearly buy a new cart for that price!” said Porky somewhat hurt by the charge since he was an old friend. Dashier looked around and not seeing any cart stores nearby, he replied, “Maybe you could convince a few of these trees to chop themselves up and turn themselves into a cart for you. Maybe I’ll change my mind and raise the price or maybe you should stop whining like a baby, give me the cash and lift that side up while I fix the wheel back on.” Reluctantly Porky gave Dashier the gold and heaved the rear left side of the cart off the ground. It took Dashier no more than a minute to reattach the wheel and Porky’s face flashed with relief once the job was completed. In a moment of greed, Dashier decided that some company on the road to Pontaka would not go astray. Besides, he could probably hit Porky for some more gold while he was sleeping. The two of them journeyed the road for the remaining hours of light. Dashier found out that Porky was also heading to Pontaka to take up working with his uncle as a forger. He would be getting paid better and had the chance to visit the capital for the first time. Dashier did most of the talking recounting tales of various expeditions he undertook until he left the army one year ago and the more exiting ones since he left. Dashier toyed with the mental image of Porky sitting at a table tucking into brick after brick while listening to Dashier, all the while refusing the salt. He finished the tale of how he tracked down and single-handedly slew ten ogres who had raided a village for women slaves. And how they were so grateful that he pleasured all twenty-five of them that evening before returning them to their men and collecting a princely reward which he, of course, refused to accept. Dashier lapsed into silence while he wondered why the captain of Pontaka’s guards had asked him to come to the capital and furthermore why great rewards were promised. He organised to meet up with a few friends in the Scorpion’s Den tomorrow evening and was confident he would be on time. At least now, he had a little flash gold to impress potential bed warmers. Porky looked troubled as they made camp in a clearing off the road. “What’s the matter Porky?” asked Dashier. “You look like you’ve eaten a large plate of meat and can’t figure out how to tell the cow’s family how good it tasted.” “Dash,” Porky began. “I have some bad news for you but I don’t know if you already know or not so I’m trying to work out the best way of telling you.” “You’re gay and haven’t had a piece of pork in a while?” Dashier asked absent-mindedly as he collected some dead wood for a fire. “And you think I might be open-minded about the idea?” “No, no, nothing like that at all,” said Porky. “You are really hungry, don’t have enough provisions, and want to borrow my arm to tie you over until morning. Then you’ll ask if I mind giving you my other arm for breakfast?” inquired Dashier as he lit the fire and started to fish out his cooking utensils. “No, no Dash. If you’d just give me a chance I’m trying to tell you that your sister is dead.” Porky stopped as he realised he had just blurted out callously what he was trying to get across in a delicate manner. “How?” asked Dashier as he began heating some water from his canteen to make a stew from the few scraps of dried jerky he had left. “Now I’ve gone and done it,” said Porky. “Oh well I might as well just tell you. Do you remember that guy your mother didn’t want your sister to marry?” Dashier was not a very family orientated chap. In the last five years, he had not been home at all. He had sent some gold home from time to time with short messages that usually said that he was on a top-secret mission and that he could not be contacted. In truth he felt like a failure for the first few years as his rank in the army meant that he had the prestigious job of cleaning the soldiers’ mess and privies. After that he moved on to border patrol where nothing much happened and the most exciting part of each day was trying to avoid being gang raped by the lieutenant and his cronies. He prided himself with not being caught for the first six months but after the first time they realised what a sweet ass he had and it became regular. He decided to quit when he thought one time that he may actually have enjoyed it. He served guarding warehouses and escorting caravans after that. He had all but forgotten about his family until meeting Porky today. “Dexter the candlestick-maker? Yeah I remember him. Quite the ladies man. Go on,” he encouraged despite his overwhelming urge to ask Porky for gold for having to put up with his incessant chatter. “Well, now how should I put this? They got married.” “Who?” “Dexter and your sister.” “She has a name Porky,” muttered Dashier with distraction. He was concentrating on the patterns the bubbles were making in the stew-pot. As a secondary interest he had begun counting the seconds until the next lump of jerky broke the surface of the water. He remembered that someone, somewhere was talking at him and decided to pay attention. “…after all that she went home to your parents house last month. She didn’t speak to anyone for a few days. The postman got a funny smell from Dexter’s house and decided to investigate. He found Dexter dead with a knife in him…” Dashier had become fully aware of what was being said and whooped with delight. “Never did like that guy, good for her.” Porky seeing Dashier a little more animated continued with the obligatory, “But wait, there’s more.” “The authorities arrested your sist…Corpsis. They took her to the Council of Seven a few days later. The evidence was put forward and she said that she killed him in self-defence. The Council ruled that one hundred and fifty two stab wounds and castration did not constitute self-defence and she was sentenced to be sold into slavery for ten years.” “Ouch! The girl always did have a temper. Betcha he called her the F-word.” “The F-word?” “Yeah. You know the F-word, means the same as your name but nobody says it to a woman.” Dashier held out his arms forming a large circle around his waist for emphasis. “Hey, I’m not fat Dash. I’m just…” “Big Boned,” interrupted Dashier. “Anyway. She was purchased by a sea-captain as a serving wench for his crew. Last I heard the ship was sunk after an attack by pirates. She is probably dead but could have been taken as a slave,” continued Porky. “Glad I bumped into you Porky. You really have made my day. Watch the stew would you while I go chop some firewood.” With that Dashier grabbed his longsword and marched angrily off into the woods. Well, he thought, he best make a show of being upset. People generally seemed sad when things like this happened and even though he never felt that way, he didn’t want to seem callous. It wouldn’t be good for his reputation with the ladies, not that there were any around to draw sympathy from but he might as well get some practice in before he got to Pontaka. That way Porky could back up his grief stricken friend and he might get laid for free. A light drizzle started as they finished the stew so they both got settled under the cart and drifted off to sleep. Dashier began to dream. He was walking in a heavily wooded forest and the occasional high pitched shriek from an airborne reptile above the trees penetrated the green canopy. He didn’t feel bothered or startled by it. Eventually, while cursing Mother Nature’s insensitivity for putting all these trees where he had “chosen” to walk, he stumbled upon a clearing. As predicted there was a small cabin at the centre of the clearing and a little old man with a long white beard smoking a pipe and dressed in white clothes sat outside waiting for his arrival. “Come in my child. Your journey has been a long one and you have much to learn and so little time,” said the wise old man in an all-knowing tone. Dashier thinking quickly remembered that when he was a boy his mother had warned him about taking candy from strange old men. “Have you got any candy?” he asked the old man who turned and looked at him with a puzzled expression. “No I don’t but I do have some poppy-tea if that is more to your liking?” replied the old man. Quickly trying to remember all his mother had told him about poppy-tea and strange old men he found that she had said nothing on the subject. He did recall someone saying that poppy-tea had strange effects on people and deduced that the strange old man must be drinking far too much tea. “That would be lovely. But I think you should ease up off the tea. Maybe you should switch to coffee for a while at least until you lose that spooky, weirdo old-dude feel you got coming from you,” suggested Dashier, which was greeted with a frown by the old man as he disappeared into the cabin. Dashier decided to follow him. “Sit down my child and make yourself at home. You are about to be caught up in a tide of events that will change and maybe ruin your life forever. We have much to discuss and plan for Dashier,” said the old man while pouring two cups of tea. Dashier wasn’t fully listening and was very curious about the dimensions of the cabin. From the outside it seemed small consisting of one room or two small ones. Inside an open door opposite the entrance led into what appeared to be a massive library and there was a spiral staircase going up and down to his right. Dashier popped back outside just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. Reassured he entered the cabin again and put it down to this just being an odd dream...

This was soooo much fun to read!! Another really good one hun

This is a disclaimer to say that the content of this may not appeal to some readers. It is not designed to offend anyone and was inspired by a conversation with a member of The Pen (you know who you are), but please note that it was written not as a rebuke but more of a flip-side outlook. It is not designed in any way to offend and if you feel even to some extent that you might find it offensive please discontinue reading. Please view this as a literary work and not an attack on anything because that is the light in which it was meant. Thank you for reading and as always all comments good or bad are much appreciated. Enjoy... Word meanings: Brays = a donkey is said to bray so... run your gob = mouth off dole = unemployment benefit hiding = bad beating Your maths and stats, Your "norms" to hell, Your non-stop thinking, on genes, and well... your college robes, Your pretentious ways, Your lack of passion, In your constant brays. I drink till drunk, I smoke till stoned, I start some fights, My skills are honed. I steal from all, I prey on meek, I do not love, Just hunt the weak. You probably know your own I.Q., Let me guess; one four two? By your standards, let me see, With eight tokens, mine comes free? Two darling kids and a stable job, Gives you the right to run your gob? I work one week and not the next, You think I think my life is hexed? In fancy clothes and a big-ass chair, You have the gall to sit and stare, As I stride through this pompous place, No shirt, no tie, no shaven face. You talk, (like dandies,) on things absurd, The last month's taxes you incurred, Which upkeep do-no-goods like me, Who spend their dole in a one-night spree. I'll tell you what, Look down your nose, At down and outs, At pimps and hoes', Lets see how long, You'll walk with grace, With a broken leg and slashed up face. You'll put it down, To genes and pools, To a broken home, And third rate schools. I'll put it down, To six months served, To giving a hiding, That you well deserved.

I thoroughly enjoyed this! Its one of those poems that works through a camera like vision which can pan across thoughts as well as what the subject of the poem sees. It mingles environment with emotion and in more places than not a sense of resignation from the protagonist. In fact that underlying form of resignation and later aloofness from the engagements he once sought. I have a huge question: Did the protagonist resign from his involvments in life because the changes he made were imperceptible or was it because he actually became omnipotent (godlike)? Damn there is actually so much more to this one that I fell hundreds more questions brimming because it could quite conceivably take many directions or be written from many angles but I'll play with that one for the moment. Thank you for sharing - I really enjoy poems written in this fashion. Most anyone can rhyme a little, few can involve without sounding like they are simply telling a story. This involves and tells a story but the story for me is worked out from the poem and not readily available to the reader, I could probably keep re-reading and writing about this one - soooo much to it

Creativity through adversity without trying to justify who you are to your critics... Shows you have great self-esteem and self-worth. Treasure those gifts, not everyone has them. For me this post is more about the purpose behind the poem than the poem itself (which i enjoyed very much), but the message is worth listening to.

I think this sounds great as a song - just don't get Chesney Hawkes to sing it when it makes it big m'kay!

Liked the rythym but would have enjoyed this being longer. It was probably my being dumb but I thought it flowed but was seeking a point. /me likes his points. /me cries for being too silly to see it.