drummondo

Softer words were never spoken, Simple whispers in the air Wheeling wildly without care, Seemingly a sincere token; Signifying love now broken. Lying lonely, life seems lost, Love has left me in despair, Happiness beyond repair, Looking back, I know the cost of Loving someone more than most; Weakness partners joy unknown; Happiness shall bring us down. ~ Two colours on my desk; The brown of wood, The black of marker, Blackening the death of nature, But for what? A simple ode To passing favourites, or sport, Such disrespect to show support On what was once a tall abode For many a noble creature. How fitting; the ink's darker, Like its purpose, never good. Destructive art; yet more grotesque. EDIT: A plethora of first-lines for you to butcher. Do with them what you will; I'll leave you here with nothing but the silence of absence, The faceless reflections in the window fade, Words can't speak through the pain, She's the kind of girl I want... Writing his life away, The slow, swaying shuffle of the crowded queues I wish I could take a picture of this scene, I sit at this desk where the lamp's long gone out, Have fun

A graceful leap into double-meaning, And a splash as you hit the river bed, But here, you'll find, there is no dreaming; "Look before you leap", they always said. A stumbling fall into double-meaning; "I love you" sprawled across the floor, And the million meanings for such streaming Sweetness leaves me confused, and wanting more. Leaves me sprawled across the floor, As you head towards the door. Ambiguity left before, It's simple; It's not that simple anymore.

Nonsensically subtle silliness As squirrels slyly slink and shy away, The rain sluices silently from the sky, Soaking the spent soldiers where they lay. Nature, in all its ignorance, still plays While death cries, as a trumpet on the air, Eyes watch the games, but do not see because They're dead. I guess this mother doesn't care. I love alliteration Or perhaps that should be "adore alliteration"...

I fear the title may sound familiar because the reference to "Dead Poets" could possibly be construed as a cliché. Who knows, it's all relative anyway. Inspiration? I started writing it before a bout of writer's block, and added a further seven stanzas once I'd ended my curse. As far as I know, it was my own original idea, I thought up the general plot a while ago but it took a while to figure out how to accurately present what I had in my head. Thanks for reading, and hopefully enjoying

Let loose the river torrent, Ever flowing from your lips, The whitened froth of anger Crashes on the rocks, and skips Across the surface of deceit; Rising steam and vapour clings To my red face, disguised as sweat; Our love is no heated spring, But more a pool of stagnant hate, Waiting for a harsh discharge: Damn your lies, they only add To my ever-growing barrage Of replies; and pretty soon I'll let loose my gentle stream, And you shall drown; is this the end Of which you spoke? You cannot scream When water swallows whole your words; Silently note the moonlight's gleam Upon the lake; and images of birds Silhouetted against the only light In the sky, as I take flight From you. I never cared for swimming anyway

Paradigms swirling through infinity; The endless arguments follow set paths, And an inevitable example of my fallibility, As you slam the door, the perfect epitaph To put upon my headstone: "Unable to argue, always in the wrong, In death untouched, in life alone, A grave unfurling now he's gone Of weakness. This stone is too strong To represent this man against his will; Rest in peace, alone still."

Cryptomancer, you confused me. I wrote this anyway :\ Let The Mourning For The Night Begin... Gets five year old son to play the set of drums we gave him for his birthday. Constellations of citrius glitter upon the trees, And through the leaves, drops of daylight descend. Gets noble old sun to play that morning reveille for it's birthday, As each morning it's reborn with apparent ease, And between green and green, the colours blend: The yellow rays take on the hint of grass, Beneath the trees where light is seldom passed, Rejoicing in the new world found below; The conquering of shadows, And the birth of morn' at last.

Dead Poets Cannot Rhyme (With Their Head Upon The Writer's Block) The self-proclaimed poet sits At a table, candle-lit With papers strewn; rhythmic wit Is left to yellow with each chime Of careless clocks; the passing time Bears no relation to its kind, The ticking hands but symbolise This poet's unwanted reprise; His ideas fleeing from his mind. Searching deep within their lives, In each spoken word, he derives Potential images, and strives To show their stark significance, Reveal their real relevance, But always taking that soft stance, For each piece must have its meaning; But life isn't so redeeming; Just like death, it's left to chance. And our poet throws his pen Once more unto thought; but again He scribbles out each word, and then Attacks the page, not with the flair Of creativity, but despair, And he relaxes in his chair, For he cannot find the mood, And the one line that was good Is now obscured by a tear. Taking in his writing room, The reek of ink, the white of moon- Light playing o'er his unmarked tomb Of carpet and mahogany, He notices the raindrops flee, From darkened skies and chastity, To meet the tarnished cobbled lane And, pausing to tap on the panes, Add to our poet's misery. Submitting to this writer's block On which his head rests, as the clock Counts down, he struggles with the lock Of his front entrance as he leaves, Entranced by failure to achieve. Our poet hopes he can retrieve Some kind of idea or muse, A single image he can use To write a poetic reprieve. Driving through the sheets of rain Which obscure vision as he strains To see ahead. The lights now feign A holy aura in his eyes; Small halos of a droplet's size, As if their ignorant replies To heaven's call, while full of grace, And forming rivers at the base Of spattered glass, are full of lies. And now the intermittent flash Of headlights through the windscreen, clash With thoughts of poetry, awash With images and ideas, lined Across his now-distracted mind; The chance to write has made him blind, And with the screeching sound of brakes He hits the flashes, and he wakes To hear the unforgiving grind. And spinning, rolling on the street, He stops to note the harsh repeat Of death's reflections in the sheet Of rain upon the unhurt floor. And still, our poet takes in more, Unable to resist the lure Of storylines to call his own; This plot is his, and with a groan, He dies, yet still the raindrops pour. Poetic pictures parting from His mind, along with feelings, gone, For now our writer dies alone, Unable to describe the chill Of death, and lying prone until A relative who knows his will Can turn up late, and say "I see His failing was his poetry," And back home, the clock chimes still.