I turn away the light of truth,
though bright it shines eternally;
for I now search the dark of youth
when life was without history.

Born filled with primal fear inbred,
a wingless mountain butterfly,
who waited death entrapped by dread,
within mad vision graves, to die.

This body broke with rhythmic birth
as I suck marrow out of brine,
my wounds leak blood back into earth
for I am now blood turned to wine

Each fragile cut is foul and spent
but no stitch thrown show's obvious;
its fabric labored, torn and rent
but images speak spurious.

And this we carry to our grave
in extant bliss of ignorance.
No worthy worry left to save
before the black of permanence.

A life once sewn with threads of smoke,
(translucent trends in lunacy)
becomes illusion's buried yoke -
a veil of failed transparency.

Edited 6 time(s). Last edit at 03/06/2022 05:27PM by easyeverett.

I'm always impressed by an attempt to write metered poetry. There are some stretches here, but not as many as I feared when I started reading, especially the yearn to spurn in the first line. Too much, I cry.If you're going to do that, at least keep it up like Shelley in The Cloud.

Still, it helps to make sense overall, even with stretches. extant bliss of ignorance?

Easy to be critical as Simon Cowell has made a career from. I liked translucent in its lunacy and yoke is too rarely used, It's a great word, though the sense in which it is used here is translucent to me.

Hi Chesill I always have at least four versions of
poems I write. So, here is Madness doce. My yearn
to spurn just took a turn. If you have found places
where the iambic tetrameter has failed to conform
I will correct promptly. Sometimes I miss it and
a reviewer catches it quite easily. But unless I know,
I cannot correct. I wish I could join Shelly in his
cloud but clouds are fickle things and very fragile
so only time will tell. Extant bliss of ignorance
means ignorance continues without a bump. Illusion's
yoke is illusion's burden to bury..thanks.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/05/2022 01:16AM by easyeverett.

Always interesting to understand how people write.

Less the meter than the rhymes. Eternally history and clouds endowed bothered me especially. But stretches in rhymes are common things and bother me less than some other stretches, such as who waited death. I think I'd have used await and given up entrapped for trapped, but I'm not the poet.

The Cloud was hardly Shelley's finest work, but as an object lesson in in-line rhymes it is probably unsurpassable.

I enjoy allowing words to apply to their object
in varied ways if possible. "waited death" or "weighted death"
is more habitual for me. I it do automattically because of
the double perspdctive on death. Thanks again. tom

Well, we'll be happy to disagree.

I'm not that easy to make happy Chesill.
You have to say it at least twice
with a reversed Dorian Gray card in your
hand and the ali ali ox in free registered
and officially signed papers to have a chance
given to me first and then, I'll say, maybe
ok, maybe we'll be happy to disagree.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/06/2022 06:54AM by easyeverett.

Virtue
Posted by: JohnnySansCulo (192.168.128.---)
Date: November 27, 2021 04:23AM


The octopuses’ sorceress
Initiated lawlessness
And chlorophyll analysis
With whimsy and aplomb

The catechism merchandise
In summer fails to winterize
A cop with populating eyes
Who sings a hefty psalm

Tomorrow’s cars are here today
In Hyundai’s child a full of grey
A syphilitic Santa Fe
When convolute is calm

Contented cordials I now sip
From ornate brandy glasses cut
To fit quite snugly on the lip;
Erotic like a fickle slut.

A lilac weds a ruby rose,
As taste of truth just grows and grows.

I tasted truth of pure desire;
My strung-out loins still stagger me
With heat that drips from raptures fire:
I stand before a sinner's sea,

Accused and then Indicted
With loins still quite excited.

Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 03/16/2009 12:02AM by easyeverett.

He held it in too long
And heard some father swear

A poison that will have a lag
The orchids aren’t just unfair

A bright Emasculinity
It’s plucking to infinity

An acorn in a bluster rough
And loin and groin are not so tough

with spanking as they slumbered
as the partisan renumbered
through the amplitudes of selling magazines

Extraordinary is her love-ripe beauty,
Honey-colored skin and raven hair.
I feel so up and ready for my duty,
I am one who needs no one to share. (smile)

Last night when Luciana came to sit,
I knew the time had come for me to quit. (tears)

When young I met a friend along the way
We raced the Silver Bullet to get home -
My mind now often drifts back to a day
When I saw Death's dark shadow creep down from the dome.

I turn away the light of truth,
though bright it shines eternally;
for I now search the dark of youth
when life was without history.

I like the twist in the contrast here; there is wisdom in MPOV in such inversions!

K.Q.

Aeacus' poem reminded me of this one, I miss Tom's writing. He was a good writer.


Les

sure is.

I hope he is all right.

Joe