Treasure Island

Writing Poetry

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  • Pranay Aich Roy (12/15/2013 12:33:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    To Those...
    To those, who brought us light,
    To those, who won the fight.
    The fight for truth, a fight for freedom,
    Which brought us the sun of the rising dawn.

    Thank you brothers and the sisters,
    To the thinkers and to the prolific writers;
    Without whom, we can’t thrive,
    We can’t die in peace, we can’t live life...

    Today in this world of lies,
    Their frame from the walls gently cries.
    Is this the world for which they desired?
    Is this the world for which they lived?

    But now who cares, now who thinks?
    They have the freedom in their dirty pair of hands.
    But they will never know when darkness will ring,
    Snatching away the unity and free air of our lands...

    This world is nothing, but a darkened path.
    Who will light it, who will tear it apart?
    Not those pairs shading the evils,
    But some pure pairs who will slay the devils....

    Pranay Aich Roy,
    VIII, South Point High School,

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    • Fiona Schwartzinoff (12/19/2013 7:17:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      Beautiful! Sometimes the rhyme is not clear, but like Dickenson, you are able to get away with it by your diction and imagery. Thank you to " Those" !

  • Edward Webb (12/11/2013 6:20:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Serpent -


    There hides a serpent in a; damp,
    lipped cavern,

    long, moist and venomous,
    its known as the


    It can kill like a sharpened sword and draw not a drop of blood,
    weaves the air of which we depend and spins a silken word,

    to ears of another so heard, its venom travels as a wave,
    in forms of barbed syllables, it hisses from its cave,

    some who have minds unheard,
    are to it a traitorous slave,
    but no serpents words shall meet a heart,
    once ears are put to graves,

    Notes are best heard and remembered,
    when positive sounds,
    a fact as invisible as music,
    and apparent as swelling Bells

  • Patrick Fealy (12/11/2013 12:52:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    No one wants to see your feelings. you need to be the master. So people and to have their own feelings moved by reading a good poem. So I like to hitch my wagon of feelings to a star. When I see something in my poem that reminds me of a well known story such as a fairy tale or a well known story or a film I go there and assume some part of the role. Hernan Cortez did this on his conquest of Mexico. When he saw how the Aztecs considered him a god he started acting the part. writers need to act the part as well and begin to conquer the hearts of a the hungry public.

  • Mark Kevin Piañar (12/10/2013 6:24:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Remember always that poetry is about expressing your feelings and sharing your thoughts, if you write a poem, make sure it comes from your heart. Because poem that comes from your heart will be full of happiness, love and understandable to our fellow readers :)

  • Christopher Moore (12/9/2013 8:35:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    A honest way to increase your vision in writing to me is reading the bible and appreciating life...just a offense to any other religions

  • Dr Cobra Rahbar (12/8/2013 6:37:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Where are my time to truly love my dear where are indeed times when I wake up in the morning I closed my door to see everything lies open I see a Yellow Leaf open my eyes telling me I am friend of

  • Dr Cobra Rahbar (12/8/2013 6:28:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    People love to have a piece of cloth, others we do not then we're not jealous

  • K.c. Ford (12/8/2013 4:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    I was walking past a news stand when I saw the headlines that Ted Hughes had died of cancer. The sadness I felt produced this poem.


    Drug induced sleep
    deceives watching eyes
    gathered around the dying bed
    that you pass peacefully into oblivion.

    No blaze of glory, no glorious end,
    No stampeding hooves
    over the horizon hammering
    clear into history.

    You died alone. Each alone
    we suffer what we cannot share,
    we endure until the moment cracks
    and the will slips through.

    All that remains is the mourners grief,
    the anguish, the vacant loss,
    the darkness out side the curtained window,
    the cold enduring night.

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  • Edward Webb (12/7/2013 11:03:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Life's Accident

    life's own awareness,
    made by its will to survive,
    yet survival of the fittest,
    not all what paved man kind

    For if one is to think
    a course of planned divine,
    then accident be awareness
    given to life in mind,

    for whom could survive the chance,
    galactic untamed wonder,

    that came with out a glance,
    killing most found on her,

    The fittest can not adapt
    to such a timeless blow,
    for surviving that death bared hour,
    earths fittest, died under such power,

    the weakness then grew to strongest,
    and then so climbed the trees,
    then when climatic changes,
    forced apes to ground-ward eves

    they dropped their fur and tail,
    and stood two legged with hands,

    They then seemed undefended, pink and weak compared,
    yet brains that grew tremendous,
    imagined past the body, over came weakness, and created self-awareness,
    then through sounds of meaning
    passed in taught, to new
    the knowledge age had taught,
    through a divine gift of human thought.

    SO to be here and aware of it, an accident or luck,
    should count the lucky stars above, for we be life's mistook,
    of not so luck to be,
    aware of all around,
    as then you contemplate compared,
    when you are in the ground.

  • Edward Webb (12/7/2013 11:00:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    The Song of the forest-

    The song of the forest is a beauteous verse, it plays at all levels,
    from canopies tops, to a streams singing whirls,
    middles-to-trunks, down into the sod
    and up-to tops of green leafed oaks, ,
    including every worm found in the mud,
    and the buzzing humdrum of busy bees,
    which; stop not to rest to leisurely live,
    worrying not of honey and its pedigree's,

    all sing a forests song as balanced in sweetest set harmonies,
    to make good the verse thats sung, of days and morns when the chorus sings
    within a stage when the days sun sits long, temperate in Summers seasonalities,
    birds in nest on dawns eastern comings
    sing sweet a chorus off feathered wings, from in the bountiful plenty summer brings, and then an edition to numbers sung
    from fledging wings as nestlings age,

    but not just is the Forests song sung,
    in Summers seemed seasonal qualities,

    as soon its date course furthered on,
    erupt in voice do all the trees,
    turning their green leaves as worn,
    to a deep crimson, with slashes of degrees,
    as though painted to image a blazes licking flames,
    they sing in colour, before the last note is taken,
    from branches tips ' on the breeze,

    the verse seems to turn to sorrow,
    and winds hallow through bare trees,
    tweets of mirth,
    swap to struggling dims,
    and like all good verse,
    an uplift sits coming, ready to give back what seemed robbed off the trees,
    something stirs with in forests dwelling,
    spring approaches is what it sings,
    though voice, colour, life and deathly things,
    New life is coming posterior the chorus,
    untrimmed is the song the forest sings

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