Healing Waters (for n00bs, poetry/song thread)

[AnthonyByakko]

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[AnthonyByakko]

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[Virlomi]

I really love this line:

Sheep without a shepherd get tough or they die
‘Cause Saviors these days are in short supply

I'm glad this thread returned. I would add to it, but I don't really do written things of any variety except journal entries, and trust me you don't want to read those. Art stuff I could do, but that's another thread.

[AnthonyByakko]

[AnthonyByakko]

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[AnthonyByakko]

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[Mahatma]

I like all these... especially the last one. Love the more metaphysical stuff. I write poems, but I have this thing about them being just for my own eyes and maybe my best friend's if she asks, so I guess you've still got the thread to yourself.

Just one question, what's "coquart"?

[zeroguy]

Coquart means "black eye" according to babelfish. That seems to make sense from the context, even though I don't speak French. (Guessing... "Fight me and you'll get a black eye"?)

[Mahatma]

Ah... yes, that makes sense

'Give me liberty or give me death
Fight me and you will get a black eye
A man's life is his reason and his house is his castle
The only thing you have is your life and your brain'

...hope the translation didn't ruin it or anything

[AnthonyByakko]

Not at all - the translation is correct. I usually don't do foreign language passages, but it seemed to fit this time. Thanks for commenting.

[puppets]

There once was a man
Who did all that he can
But he failed at that
So he kicked my cat

Yea, I suck at poems.

[AnthonyByakko]

I ah, appreciate your contribution, puppets.

[luminousnerd]

The Open Prison of my Mind

So, what will it be? You were suspended between two realities.
Your brain was flowing with unwelcome ideas
That never come when they are summoned but always show up unexpected,
Unwanted for the time being.
And now you're back into the real world; the world you know,
The world you can deal with--or can you?
Because now it's gone, now that you want it, it won't come to you.
You have to stretch farther than it is possible to stretch
Just to get a glimpse
Of what once provided you with a continuum of perfect creativity.
And then you realize it's still there; it always has been.
But now there's a new roadblock in your brain,
Stopping you from accessing the things you need
Except when it wants you to have them. It controls you.
Only when you understand that it is trying to control you
Can you hope to gain some semblance of power over it.

[AnthonyByakko]

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[puppets]

*grins* I like this thread alot. Granted my poem is not amazingly wonderful, but I really do enjoy all the posts on this thread so far.

[luminousnerd]

Yea, it was about writer's block

Nice poems in this thread

[AnthonyByakko]

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[AnthonyByakko]

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[peterlocke123]

FROM ABOVE

I WATCH from above.
The ships sit silently,
Floating in shadows.
The fog drifts gently
Into the dark harbor.
The sun rises slowly,
Radiating over the horizon.
The darkness of the ocean
Turns into red and gold.
Everything happens below.

I watch from above,
The grey winged gulls below
Loudly fly over the market.
The ships swim along the docks
Carrying blue fish, red shrimp.
Children call for mothers.
Their voices echoing, repeating.
The sun peaks in the blue sphere,
Starting its fall into the deep water.
Everything happens below.

I watch from above.
In my tall tower,
Aging, day by day.
Nobody notices me,
No one knows I’m here.
This day ends and I sit,
Watching over the city.
The sun descends into the sea,
And beauty is lost to darkness.
Everything happens below.


Edit: Adding another poem.


Sleeping Sweater

New bright red sweater
Once new, now old
Old dull red sweater

Nights slept in this sweater
Have changed its color
Changed its texture

Thoughts of this sweater make me tired
I slowly drift to sleep
Wearing my once bright red sweater

Dreaming all night in this sweater
The years gone by
Wearing this sweater night and night

[eriador]

I don't know if this belongs here; I got it out of Readers Write in The Sun. Enjoy.

As an exchange student in Tokyo, I joined the university judo team and spent my first week at the dojo flinging myself to the mat, learning to fall without getting hurt.
The sound of a fall is important. A well-executed one sounds like a hundred-pound bag of sand hitting wet pavement: a single, wet, heavy smack. That means that all important body parts have hit at once, absorbing the shock equally. But a fall that starts with a thud, immediately echoed by limbs hitting the floor, means someone is in pain.
After I'd gotten good at falling, I learned how to flip men twice my size. I couldn't wait to get to the dojo each day, and I practiced until my arms and legs trembled with exhaustion.
I became involved with the team captain, who didn't speak English. Our relationship was against team rules, so we kept it a secret. We ignored eachother at practice, then rode the subway home together, purposely choosing crowded cars so we could press up against one another.
One night I snuck into his dormitory, and we lost our virginity to each other.
As the end of the school year approached, I prepared to return to the United States. The team captain and I had never discussed our future. Though I loved him, I knew I couldn't stay in Japan. The day I left, I gave him a blue aerogramme already addressed to me and asked him to write.
A month later, the blue aerogramme arrived in my mailbox. I opened it with trembling hands. In carefully penned English he had written, "Please forget me."
I never have.

Laura K.
Brooklyn, New York

[starlooker]

First draft of something or other.

Undrifting Moments

The jewel is
the moment in time buried
under cotton and static noise when
reverberations echo into
my heart and I move
delicately so as not
to disturb them but
add a harmony pattern and
there we are. Singing in an unspoken way.
Fifty minutes with a stranger who
is in love with you and
you’ll never know how
much her heart holds and keeps
of you and
releases and lets go. You never should know.
There was a moment and that was
a jewel we stumbled across pretending
not to know it was there but looking
for something with awkward tools and
silence and questions that didn’t always fit or make
sense so how is it that you changed and my
heart stretched and how is it that
the memory is palely copied from
experience? How can you make a
miracle overtone stay? Powerful?
A room set off for us in
which we tell your story all
secluded and you may
cry wet tears and your eyes may
sting and then the day moves
on and the ending is more cotton and
noise that we move between
us complicitly and quietly so that we
hide the jewel from robbers and rust and
people who call it pretty glass.
And the danger is we call it pretty glass but I will
always always hope for you it is a fixed memory of
a jewel that will not leave and
will not let you go and you will not let go and
in my mind I will not imagine you giving up, will not
let you give up because
we found it once and that is
my hope that what we do and what we did is
your hope.

[Oliver Dale]

This is a bit different in feel from the other poems in this thread in that, other than the science, this poem does not reflect myself. It is largely narrative. At any rate, it was published in the April issue of Star*Line (the journal of the science fiction poets association) and therefore I am now allowed to reprint it here.

Singsong of Suns
by Oliver Dale

The professor sits alone in his cell,
screams about violins and quarks,
demands a refill of his pureed apricots,
sweet and sticky like the galaxies he hears.

It's harmonic, he said once, hooking a speaker
to the telescope. We sipped on apple juice
overnight beneath the stars in a bowl
upended, running fingers down skin,
across keyboards, tracking heaven's tune.

Now he spits whole worlds, words
like pills they pop into his mouth:
Yellow, red-striped like rings -- planets
swaying to a cosmic metronome.
They're notes, he tells me, murmurs of strings,
protons, photons. The music of matter,
singsong of suns.

Nurses push poison in his veins,
kill the chorus he once used to seduce.
And I walk away.

[Eaquae Legit]

Oh, hey! Congrats on the publication! I'm glad to see this poem got accepted somewhere.

[luminousnerd]

I just want to know what you guys think of this. I don't mind if you're brutal, but my main objective here is not to perfect this particular poem, it's to find out what you guys think of my poetry skills (or lack thereof) and how good (or bad) I am at it. What is the quality of this poem?

Thanks

Above him, there was no moon.
No stars. No light to speak of.
He saw what was himself:
A chasm of smog shrouding the beyond.
The beyond; his hope:
Obscured. Unreachable.
He closed his eyes and enshrined:
Millions of tiny fireflies lightyears away.
A mass of resplendent orbs,
Illuminating the galaxies.
As light he once had,
As light now withdrawn.

Breakable skin was thrashed by frigid wind.
His eyes eased open to reality,
And beheld a single point.
One particle of brilliance
Gave refulgence to the sombre abyss.
And the outlying horizon,
Previously Indistinguishable,
Was etched with ethereal violet,
Promising the coming aurora of sunrise.

[Young Val]

no one can judge your over-all skill as a poet from just one poem.

that being said, i think it's amatuer at best. freeverse is incredibly, incredibly difficult to master.

many of the words seem to be doing nothing. they may be impressive words on their own, but i don't see how they come together to form a cohesive image. poetry is more than individual words. and the fanciest words are not always the most appropriate.

the subject matter is also vague, and may be grander than the poem itself can bear. poetry (in most cases) should have a clear, concise subject matter.

this doesn't mean that you're incapable of writing poetry. it means you should read a lot of it. like, a LOT. all types. old, new. i prefer some of the older stuff, myself. Edna St Vincent Millay. Lord Byron. but for contemporary poets you can't go wrong with Stephen Dobyns and Sharon Olds. read anything and everything. the more you read, the more you'll understand the form. and you'll improve.

[Oliver Dale]

There are some pretty turns of phrase, to be sure. But I largely have to agree with YV. I'd recommend you consider writing this with more concrete imagery in mind. What is it exactly that you want us to see?

[luminousnerd]

Young Val: I know, I mean the overall skill I showed in this particular poem Like I said in my original topic, I have no idea about the rules of poetry...and thus, I'm not even sure what freeverse is.

I appreciate the critique. I did already get rid of quite a few 'big words' that simply didn't contribute to the feeling of the poem. I understand that the fancy ones aren't always what belongs, but I think the ones in there contribute to the feeling I'm going for. It's supposed to be sort of surreal, and that doesn't come from being blunt. I can see maybe I overdid it though.

I don't really see what you mean by the subject matter being vague. For me that seems pretty clear. Perhaps I just don't understand what you mean by 'subject matter'.

Oliver Dale: I had the images pretty solid in my mind, but rereading with this in mind I can definitely see how they didn't come across the way I'd hoped.

He is standing in an industrial setting, he sees no stars or light because of the smog of the city. He sees the lack of light as a lack of hope in his life. He is going through some sort of rough time (in my mind he just had a tragic breakup, but I don't suppose that really matters).

In the second verse, the wind snaps him out of his state of thought, and he sees one single star, and then he sees a very thin line of the sun beginning to rise, and he sees that as "things will get better".

[zeroguy]

Young Val: I know, I mean the overall skill I showed in this particular poem Like I said in my original topic, I have no idea about the rules of poetry...and thus, I'm not even sure what freeverse is.

Basically, you're not adhering to any set pattern of rhythm nor rhyme. There is great free verse poetry, but as YV said, it's hard to do well. If you don't know what you're doing most likely it will end up looking like just a vague paragraph broken up unto lines. The idea is not just text without form, but just a less clear form than normal strict poetry (like ABBA rhyming patterns, iambic pentameter, haikus, sonnets, etc), with stranger complex patters that can be hard to see. Or I could just be full of s***. I have no credentials of any kind for anything close to anything literary; I just take a look around sometimes for stuff I like and end up reading into how it is done.

You may want to take at least a cursory look into the "rules" if you have even a fleeting interest in poetry, even if you choose not to follow them. I think it gives you a clearer idea of the direction you're going in, to either use or deform existing conventions. You must first learn the rules in order to willingly disobey them.

And anyway, trying to determine your talent this way doesn't really seem possible, with your self-proclaimed lack of knowledge of the "rules". It's like trying to see if someone would be a good programmer when they don't know what a computer is. Sure, you can look for problem-solving skills and stuff like that, but that really only would let you know if they would be good in that general field; actual skill in the subject is impossible to see.

[Young Val]

I don't suppose that really matters

of course it matters. it seems that that's what the poem is about.


here is some more food for thought: poetry in and of itself is an epic form. therefore, these days, it generally illuminates mundane moments best. and however abstract you want your language to be, your subject still has to be concrete.

the emotions, if you are going to write about emotions, have to be specific. "unhappy" is not specific. "unhappy because of a break up" is slightly better. "unhappy because of a break up that was the narrator's own fault but for which he is unwilling or unable to accept responsibility" is even better. and so on, and so forth.

here is an excellent example of a contemporary, freeverse poem about an abstract emotion/surreal experience and a moment of pivotal change.

How To Like It
Stephen Dobyns

These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let’s go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let’s tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let’s pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let’s dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn’t been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let’s go down to the diner and sniff
people’s legs. Let’s stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man’s mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let’s go to sleep. Let’s lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he’ll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he’ll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let’s just go back inside.
Let’s not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let’s go make a sandwich.
Let’s make the tallest sandwich anyone’s ever seen.
And that’s what they do and that’s where the man’s
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept-
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.


do you see why it works?

[Luet]

wow, i generally don't consider myself a fan of poetry but i loved that. thanks for posting it kel.

[Young Val]

you're welcome. it's quite possibly my favorite poem.

[eriador]

Untitled
Seth Just

I can fall in love with anybody
Looking at them and knowing they are
the center of the world
Hearing them and being lifted up past the clouds-
But only for a moment
And when I return to reality I am left knowing
I could love them more.

Dancing School
Murat Oztaskin

I tied Max's tie for him
'cause his dad wasn't there and
he didn't know how.
Friday nights I was the man
for knowing how to tie ties.

There were forty or fifty of us,
dressed up and made up,
our dress shoes slapping
the bricks of the stairs in front
of school until the bus came.
It would drive us to the old scottish ballroom, two blocks
off 405 in the high numbered streets,
but not the nice high numbered streets.
There we would congregate,
us and others, but we didn't wander too far.
After a short time in the cold
the crazy old people called us in,
leading us up a spiraling staircase
to the next floor. The inside was
real lit up.

We grouped together until everyone was filed into the
circular ballroom. By now
your player fate was out of your hands,
into those of the sorting lady.
The guy line. The girl line.
They met together at the sorting lady
who paired the next guy and girl
in line. Most kids spoke with God
when the sorting lady touched their arms
to tug them forward. You could hear
screams of despair, nails dragging,
breaking along the hardwood:
"No, there's been a mistake!"
And the winners of the lottery:
Disguised fist pumps. Discreet, but necessary.
For these are the gentlemen who were chosen,
who were destined, to foxtrot with a hot 7th grader.

As the sexes were paired,
they filed into the circles,
the mass like a funnel that squirted out
3 circles of increasing diameter,
all surrounding the crazy old people,
who were so old, and so god damn good at the salsa.

We would peruse for an hour. Switching partners
was a relief for some, a love lost for others.
One time I was partnered up with my huge crush,
and I tried not to step on her feet
during the waltz, but I was moving
like someone was electrocuting me.
Sometimes you'd see a boyfriend and girlfriend
who'd end up partners, and you'd get to witness a
pubescent make-out, free of charge, baby.

We joked with the DJ whenever
our end of the circle was at the far end
of the ballroom. He had a Latin name.
He was a cool cat, but I heard he got arrested for something.
The old guy from the old crazy couple had
a spicy 'tude, cause he would always scorn the DJ.
Kevin, my best friend, told me that
he would "show that geezer what spicy is."
While we were "hittin' that last track"
and still aligned in our perfect circles
Kevin misaligned his perfect circle.
He left his partner and
ran around the room, broke the uniform.
He went up and grinded on the old guy,
among other things. The DJ was dyin',
and so was the old guy.

The bus ride back was actually the bus ride to. We would get
treated every Friday evening to food,
out on the town. We'd go massacre
some poor, struggling family restaurant,
and never be invited back. Whatever, dude,
we were Kings. Queens, too, I guess.
We did what we wanted.

"Dude, I grabbed like 12 asses tonight," one would argue.
My friend Jason would rebut:
"Please. I grabbed thirteen." I was happy for Jason.
That was the last time he'd go to dancing school.
When we got off the bus at school the following
Friday night, we learned that he had been
diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.
I'm glad he got to go out on top.
Our parents took us back home right
after that. No matter where we all lived,
no matter where we went to high school or where
we're going for bigger things, I guess
we'll never wander too far.

Ode to My Abhorrence of all things Poetic
Kassel Galaty

Is it hypocritical to write a poem
About hating poetry?
I don't think so.
I will simply write a poetic satire,
Writing in the style of those whom I hate,
Suffering for my art.

The thing that I most abhor
About the poetry of today
Is when people choose to just
make the last part of
their sentence
go to another line for no
reason.

Or even worse
Is when they are in the middle
Of writing a line of poetry
That has you captivated.
It speaks of wisdom that changes lives,
Wisdom that you hath never heard

before in such beautiful words.
Yes, suddenly they switch to another stanza,
Completely disregarding the sanity
Of their readers.

A common belief seems to be
That as long as one includes long words
That appear to have profound philosophical
Insight into the tumultuous esistence
That has plagued mankind
Since the beginning of time
One is therefore deep,
And for those of us who listened in Humanities know,
That is not true.

For poets in the days of yore,
Line and meter could get quite hairy
But to tell the ancient stories of lore
Poets always had to be wary.
None were ever allowed to ignore
Rhyming schemes, no matter how scary.


But then one day someone decided
Screw outlines, just write!
So now every Tom, Dick, and Harry
Can write, write, write, write, write.

Now don't get me wrong,
I love Robert Frost and adore Mr. Poe,
And they rarely wrote a sonnet.
But there are many people out there
Who are too lazy
To sit and think before they write.

So to all English 10 teachers out there,
I beg, I plead, I beseech you
Have mercy on those of us
Who cannot stand to read another poem.

Orange Juice
Anonymous

I told Alec that I have herpes.
I also told him I loved him.
He just smiled in his childish way,
holding a jug of Odwalla,
and said (direct quote),
"If I get it, I'm dumping you."
It was then, naked in my kitchen,
that he drank that orange juice
straight out of the carton,
his lips still full of me.

My mother drank from that
same bottle, only hours later,
when our pseudo dark became
all-encompassing reality.
Alec was long gone, possibly already home,
but the burgundy shirt
neglected on my bedspread
was a reminder of him
and how he smells.

I'm Going to Say it Now
Phil Ochs

Oh I am just a student, sir, and only want to learn
But it's hard to read through the risin' smoke from the books that you like to burn
So I'd like to make a promise and I'd like to make a vow
That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonnasay it now

Oh you've given me a number and you've taken off my name
To get around this campus why you almost need a plane
And you're supporting Chang Kai-Shek, while I'm supporting Mao
So when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

I wish that you'd make up your mind, I wish that you'd decide
That I should live as freely as those who live outside
Cause we also are entitled to the rights to be endowed
And when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

Ooh, you'd like to be my father you'd like to be my Dad
And give me kisses when I'm good and spank me when I'm bad
But since I've left my parents I've forgotten how to bow
So when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

And things they might be different if I was here alone
But I've got a friend or two who no longer live at home
And we'll respect our elders just as long as they allow
That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

I've read of other countries where the students take a stand
Maybe even help to overthrow the leaders of the land
Now I wouldn't go so far to say we're also learnin' how
But when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

So keep right on a-talkin' and tell us what to do
If nobody listens my apologies to you
And I know that you were younger once 'cause you sure are older now
And when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

Oh I am just a student sir, and only want to learn
But it's hard to read through the risin' smoke from the books
that you like to burn
So I'd like to make a promise and I'd like to make a vow
That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

[Confessions]

It's a funny thing, listening to my music. nothing is sure with it. i love almost everything, but sometimes it just doesnt work. things about music are funny. some stuff just works other stuff doesnt' all i can hope to do is to have fun when i listen, to have the music i hear match my mood a shuf i use the party shuffle so taht when i want to listen to a specific son i can, band i can also see what's coiming up next, but also it's just aregular shuffle. i love music it's an amazing experience sometimes, the way music can make you feel. it's totally immersive. pink floyd us and them it's amazing i can feel the music it becomes part of me part so taht my feelings are prfectly expressed by the music it's sad i feel sad listening to the music i don't know why but god this si so difficult with liz and all why what do i have to do wthi ther rape what do you call it skeleton i just don't know what i want to think but i can read the body language it i just don't know what it's hard i want to do certain things but i don't know what she wants it's hard being a person people are weird i hate dividing it by sexes i just don't know so much i just don'et know it's the music that helps but it's the music atht huhurths i just don't know i love music i love listening to the music and hearing things adn feeling things and it's just wonderful, but what the fighthings' all about its what the fightings all about i just love pink floyd theyres somethign about it that doesn't carry throung in other stuff i just witsh that my feelings coudl soulnd like a pink floyd song the beauty the calmness and the beauty life is so complicates somethings but i hjust have to push t=hrough i gueess doing things will teach me i can learn from what happens it's only through improvisiation that i can learn what i'm supposed to do itls like jazz life jazz, it's amazing that that's how things work life really is like music life is really amazing i guess i just have to enjoy it and do what is good live file like it's tall ive got because thats thawt it is life is a funny thing now i want van halen van halen the feelings the sound the guitar i love van halen i dont know what it is about music atht is so compelling its' just amazing to live in this world with music the way it is is this wyat i;m doing im dumping out my mind like a dump of memory wbut why start with music why? music is a key ak ey to my life to my mind to my thoughts it music is deep it's what i can use to get to certain emothins that don't show that i dont have access to i just dont know sometims i just dont know theres somethign about life that amazies me that i can be this way and that life is like this that im seventeen and learning and li love it and i jsut dont know sometims waht im doing but it works but it works but life goes on but ahts what it ist is just have to live i have to do what i can and be myself i canlt life for others i just have to live thljust live for myself live what i want do what i want be myself amazing it has to be buecasu that what isis i just dont know what im saying what im typing sometimes i get lazy i dont care but i care deeply i really do care about soe much i donkt dknow why this is so empowreing just typing and not caring thinking these thhings and jsut yping just thinking just living i just donkt know i just dont know i guess that thsas life i d be safe and warm i f in ala i just god this song is so catcy music is a key to my life it is ta key to my thoughs to my feeling and somethi this is the most compelling theraputic thing i've ver don hi have to do this mor i love thsi il ovem my life i love i love i love i can love i can love is love life fie love live life i love it is's awesome i guess that life is what has i have to do i don't know why i edit why do i edit why should i edit it should just be i gues ti should just be is hould question i should just live i should just do what i want i should just live live my life have fun be nice loove live life love i love it love love leov ai keep repating because thats all i can do i donkt dknow what will b made of my thoughs what i will says what they will say what i am thinking what im doing where im going if is shoudl slow down or speed up or just live or just be or just live i love il ive i jdonkt kown i dontk now but i have to live to love to love it's life and thats the wya it is thats the way it is i lvarn im learning i just live i just live.

[eriador]

well
if i were in your place
i wouldn't
complain

it's the impromptu poetry of IM conversations
that makes my life
the bit of art in a day
of keyboards and screens

the odd line breaks and lack of them.
funny capitalization and punctuation
the awful spelling o words
*of

It's a language of love
a true poetry in conversations
what i'm supposed to see in real life
i see on the internet

that is my life.

[eriador]

From my notebook:

WHITE NOISE is my MOST valuable Study tool. How can it be described? Hissssss... But that Doesn't cut it. It's never changing butever-variable; soft + hard; strong + weak; Imperceptibly Loud. It is an ocean at the quite beach, the wind in a girlfriend's hair, the sifting of sand in the wind, the sound of the sky, the moon, the stars. It is the sound of God.
It's funn that I'd say that, but it's true. Of course,I refer to no Personal God, but instead to the word. What other word works? White Noise is as good a god as any, + better than many. Bow before the might of the random. White noise is the sound of the universe. It is the sound of live, IT IS THE SOUND OF HUMAN CIVILIZATION!
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Does this pen write poetry? I doubt it. But ask if I think poetry And I'll tell you that any thought is poetic before the tyranny of words.
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A Show of the impermanence of thoughts
Written in the sand
Disappears
Quickly
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the sun warms me with a fraction if its heat.

Are you God?
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Will this one day be the musings of a young poet? A writer? A thinker? Or will I throw it in the recycling + let my words infuse the work of others?
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What will I come to know? The possibilities are end less.
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Who Cares?
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My personal philosophy is this:
f*** That s***!
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What is poetry but words thinking?
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Does a seagull's shadow cross me on purpose? What of its direction? What does it mean? Will I get poop on my head?
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When so much is moving (sand) why does so little happen?
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Is it All just wasted Effort?