drummondo

Stumbling & Learning The sun played heavily Upon the face Of things to come. We offered help to all The fast arriving fawns, Flocking to be Part of the Great Community of trust. Yet as they made their way Into the copse, The rain began To threaten from above, And on the eyes of hope, Of innocence, Fell countless drops Of Purifying hate. And from the eyes of hope, Sallow and dimmed, Fell subtle floods Of reason, still ignored. The trees around the copse Flourished and grew, Now nourished by The gloom of others' strife, And soon the branches closed, And all the fawns Were left outside, So helpless, so alone.

So you're from Newcastle, then?

Eva or Roz I like short names

Hip-hop is a curse, each verse you make From the first, to the next, is a worse mistake, A circular hex, waiting for the perfect take, Waiting years and days, it doesn't work that way, Like a poker, it brands your soul and mind, Marks each line you write with a rollin' rhyme, Bowling blind, pin the blame on older times - You say your soul is marked; well there's a hole in mine. Hip-hop is a hustler, it draws you down, Into the depths of rap, until you hit the ground; You think you're doin' okay until you're upside down, The floor's a crown, and you're the one that's causin' frowns, Forcin' nouns to rhyme in a torsion sound, Twisting malliable syllables to roar, somehow, But there's more than now, the present's for the poorer crowd, And I'm sure of how to make you seem the smaller now.

I was thinking Cryptomancer too, for what it's worth

Italics? That's just what I do I find it easier for people to differentiate from the blurb and the poem if I place the poem in italics. That way, you can tell where my introduction ends and the poem actually begins. It doesn't affect the piece at all, I prefer to use other methods for that, like the odd bold word, or by de-italicising it

Follow the rhymes... Sepia Sepia Seeping through photographs. Weeping at memories Keeping the cemetaries Filling with epitaphs. Shrilling alarms Slowly following felonies, Folding 'long' arms Out of time with the melody, Scalding their palms With the heat of the ropes That they tighten With strength unenlightened, Just hoping they might Understand all the writings, Joking that 'right' is An ownable item, Don't run inside To escape from the light when You know all it takes Is to open the curtains. Fading farces, Arson aided by Red pigmentation; The colour of flame Will wane in time, As memories wilt, And curl, and die In fire. Ink spilt, And time remains. Sepia Stains just like blood, Given time. Instant history, Orange and mud, Unattainable mystery, Misunderstood. Hidden crime; Given time, Would you show all the lies That you should? There's deceit in those proud dreams, So keep all your memories, Nothing but crowd scenes, Now creeping with enemies.

So we're just waiting on dark hair and brown eyes now

I'm saying girl. And she will have dark hair... And brown eyes.

I wrote this a while ago when I was just getting in to First World War literature. I just want to know whether people enjoy it or not Useless Hindsight Scrawled Upon A Cross In transformed fields, the wind still rustles trees But carries with it sounds of pain in flight, Infects young minds with dark, unknown disease, Yet brings relative silence in the night. Those still with sight see death wait patiently, The lucky few with legs march through the mud, The fortunately wounded think they're free, Those faces still intact now caked with blood. But freedom only visits upon a blackened bed, And lets them roam in honour-bound manacles instead. They'll have pride in graves, rather than engraved In churned up ditches, nameless in their end, With no more concealed fear, their glory saved, Unfinished loyalty, their lives defend. Whoever heard of the unknown father? It's "Unknown Soldier" pasted on the stone, His family still smiles at his ardour, But suffering in rain, he died alone.

That image of fog fading in the sun is beautiful, and you used it really effectively. Good piece

Good spot Wyv, although no-one ever really pays much attention to that title Go ahead and download it and do with it what you will. Just don't download the Stairway cover And cheers Mira, much appreciated \o/

I'm pretty sure there's a 'Download' link on the dmusic site, if you look at all the coloured buttons it's the third one, which is either orange or yellow depending on how your monitor's feeling at the time. If that doesn't work, give me a shout on IRC when I'm around and I'll be happy to DCC send it.

Another attempt at performance poetry, this takes a hip-hop theme in order to bring across the message that modern rap artists focus too much on money, and have too much of it. Listen to the RECORDING in Section 4. Marvel at the fake American accent, an attempt at showing the farcical nature of many raps. Oh, and comment on the lyrics too, I'd love to hear some different interpretations. Dropping Heads Dropping beats Like sweets down stairs, Hoping they hit the bottom Without hitting the railings, If the sides had caught 'em It's another kid's failings, But murdering a beat leads To sentence and jailings, Your honour, he pushed, Your honour, he pushed, And beats fell as the feet fell, Like thugs run to street's hell, I can't stand to see your beats sell I take a seat while you eat well, And greet hell like an old friend, You scream while I hold pens, Yet you're in a gold Benz, So much money and no sense, I write, yet he drives a better car, I set the bar while he's sellin' more, I rent, while he's gonna getta far, Et cetera, Et cetera, blah, blah, Et cetera. My closing speech, I reach for water, This guy slaughtered music, it's a form of torture, And my demands for a charge of manslaughter Must be met, for kids, sons and daughters everywhere, Dropping heads for earphones.

Open Not 'Til The Fourteenth This card I give is plain, much like the way I feel about you; only colours eight Emblazon the front cover, yet they say Much more than any cliché could relate. Unsurprisingly, the first is red, But not for bleeding hearts; I think, instead, Of chilled cheeks, chafed by winter, and your nose, So rosy in the frost of season's close. I chose a brown to represent your eyes, But could not find the shade to summarise The way that once, you looked at me, and I Returned the glance quickly, for I was shy. A green, because I saw you once in green, and frowned as you asked, "What does this bit mean? 'From'? Surely, darling, I deserve 'With Love'?" I wish I could, I really wish I could. I used both blue and purple, for I think That they're your favourite colours, though my ink When I last wrote a poem just for you Was blue, too. Purple's just a bleeding blue. For you and I, (though you swear we're ok) I see us as an area of grey; A shaded unknown pair, although I fear That you see us as being more a "clear". And black portrays the darkness that I face, Without you here, to hold in light embrace, Yet pure white are the thoughts of you, that dance Across the bleakness of my lost romance. With love, Your poet. P.S. I had to send this, but, please, fear not, For I expect no welcoming reply, Ignore it if you must. There's not a lot That I can say to you, but I must try.

I think you should consider expanding on each of those lines. You could, in effect, produce the "Thin Line Collection", by doing something like this for each of your lines; Between Love and Hate It starts as you enter the faded bedroom, "Hi honey, I love you," My automatic greeting. Stop and think. Stop and think. Did you mean it? Love is vain, love is blind, And swings, unseeing, like birds in the wind, And in twenty minutes time We're at each other's throats with razor wit, Pouring out secrets sublime; "You don't love me," and I take a hit. Break for lunch, staring out the window Alone. This is making me feel sick, With fear, with loathing, with love, without you, I clasp my hands together and stare at the floor, There's a thin line between left and right, The point beyond sweet cards has come tonight, And you utter "I hate you" before you slam the door You've left, and I still swear I was right.

If anyone wants to hear a recording of this, find me in IRC. Merry Christmas all

So there I was, sitting around on Christmas Eve, four hours to go before it ticked over to the 25th, and I decided to write me a Christmas song. I got a few chords together, wrote a couple of verses, and tried to get a Counting Crows style throughout. The verse in italics is the chorus, and is repeated after verses two and three as well. I Don't Want This Christmas Stranded at the station, all you want's another chance to see Your family for Christmas day, But they're alone at home, and all they've got to keep them company Is news of how you've gone away. I don't want this Christmas, if I can't spend it with you, Let the snowmen melt away, watch the smiling faces as they fade, And all the children run and play, and how they laugh the whole way through, I don't want this Christmas, if I can't spend it with you. A girl stands at the bus stop waiting for a guy, they're only friends, But she wanted so much more, But the guy, he doesn't show, he doesn't care, he stands her up again, What's she even waiting for? And looking over poems and lyrics that I've written this past year, I find the one that hurt me most, I realise that all I want is for that person to be here, So I can smile and hold her close.

It was a shock to see my name up here, It feels as though I've grown, and come of age, The church drums beat with fervour on the ear; You'll see much more of me now I'm a... *checks* EDIT: Page

I am not the kind for playing roles, But know that if a character I kept, He'd jig in line with all the joyous souls, Although, in terms of dance, he'd be inept... So, watch your toes, for in your conga midst, There walks a poet's spirit, not his shoes, And even though they don't really exist, I've two left feet... or none... I get confused

Venus, faded goddess of desire, Symbolised by distant, glowing fire, As the night sky meets the day, So she shines, a judgement flare, And, noting couples as they lay, Casts rays upon the truest pair. Then I awake to visions of my love, A golden, warm embrace, lit from above.

A curse, a curse with means of voice, It binds thee to your thoughts for life, Some argue that you had a choice, But had you not put down your strife In words, you could not live now with the sane, For thoughts alone can bring us so much pain.

Picturesque powdered land, Perfect for a postcard; Beauty buried beneath Beauty. But with such bland Decoration, it's hard To look, and understand That each speck on the heath Is unique, crystal white; A storm in its own right. EDIT: I just read the poem in the first post; does each of our entries have to be a haiku or sonnet? :\

On another note, if you'd like to hear me read this poem out, you can listen to On Life at my dmusic site. It's in Section 4 - Random Stuff That Shouldn't Be Downloaded :> Thought I'd let you all have a listen, something a little different from the norm

This was an attempt at a more observational style of poetry, and as such, I did away with my usual strict rhyme schemes and meters. It's free verse, but I've tried to structure it to make certain lines stand out alone. I also tried to use a bit more symbolism than usual. Also, an odd request; if you wish to add more characters to this bus ride, feel free :> On Life It starts at the stop. The guy who strolls arrogantly up behind And waits two minutes After your twenty, Before getting the same lift. Hop on, Pay an unfair amount, Fare enough To those in control, But who don't care. Head up, Find your place amongst Returning shoppers And the lads On the way to John's night out. Pick your spot in the corner, As far back as the people will allow. From here, Begin once again To view them. The kids in suits, tracked And monitored By only the finest Metal bracelets. Notice the old man Fighting back sleep, Head lolling like a car ornament; He's at that point where Consciousness, unconsciousness And his conscience Scare him. The elderly couple; They've made it pretty far, But they get off here. There's that girl you always want to talk to. What's stopping you? Her eyes, Or the fact that You'd have to explain Meeting her in such a place? Some fat guy blocks the gangway, And half the stairs. How dare he Half block the way up. How can one big entity control our ascent? Another girl you thought was eyeing you Leaves. You're disappointed she didn't look back, But face it; You didn't once look at her When you had the chance. End of the line, You're the only one on the bus. Step from your red, velvet-style chair, And make your way to the front. It's your time. Turn to thank the driver. Realise there's no-one there. Walk away into the night.