Treasure Island

Freeform Workshop


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  • Richard Overholt (9/27/2006 12:44:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    My Gal Jolene

    As i sit here while my babycakes is trying to sleep
    i hope she thinking of me and not counting sheep
    Can she really be thinking about me and who i am
    or about am i the knight in shineing armor or a midnight scam
    i hope she's fallen asleep by now
    mabe its was the kiss i blew got to her some how

    i stare out the window looking between the blind
    trying to get the kiss she gave me of my mind
    her kiss's are so powerful she keeps me wanting more
    but saddens me to know she will be walking out that door
    i turn away fast to hide my tears hitting the floor.

    i want to tell her how special she really is
    she's got my heart bubbling i swear i can hear the fizz
    she's so kind and gentle with her every touch
    everysecond she's gone i miss her so much

    its now beem 15 minutes since i wrote my last line
    still cant beleive i can call jolene mine
    i want to one day wake her up
    with a fresh pot of coffee and her favorite cup
    and to share one thing like that is not to much to ask
    to your soalmate that should not be a task.

    i know my poem might sometimes not make any sence
    but leed the same direction in our new backyard with the white picket fence.
    i know nether one of us wants to win the race
    but want nothing but to hold hands andkeep up a steady pace
    the reward at the finish will be worth the chase.

  • Anthony Marriner (9/26/2006 4:43:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    An Englishman's homage!

    American Sky

    Warm and dry, Californian sky-
    That first Spanish taste in Angeles’ glare;
    No zephyr to purge Downtown’s shadow.

    Freed from the Valley’s crucible,
    Cocooned in air-con, going East to the West
    To see America’s sky.

    Mojave brightness caps light ochre soil,
    Blue ever present, ruffled by haze,
    Nevada’s inferno streaked with contrails.

    Santa Fe railroad climbs an azure grade,
    Bisecting Arizona, Route 66 hitches a ride.
    Reflecting the sapphire: America’s sky.

    One-eighty turn North, to the Colorado’s deep child.
    Strata of rust and sage, give way to cerulean vault.
    Aeons of creation bringing light to the floor.

    Painted Desert, its watercolour palette horizon
    framing a meteorite’s arc- deep clear backdrop
    As a sunset volcano ignites America’s sky.

    Monumental red cathedrals, in dusty glory
    Punching heavenwards, the stagecoach’s goal.
    Navajo light is weaving their claim.

    Emerald blue Tahoe illuminates the Sierra’s
    Cold, clear march. Through gold’s wild man
    To Manzanar, teardropp in America’s sky.

    Yosemite, primeval in majesty carves its space,
    Pines and firs lance upward, with meadows of
    Colour breathing crystal air.

    Angels returning to view as green cedes to brown,
    Smoke black horizon drapes gauze on the sun,
    The fires of renewal streak America’s sky.

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  • Marsha Todd (9/13/2006 9:47:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Guilty?

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of loving you
    Guilty of hoping
    Against hope
    That you would
    Choose truth over
    Flashy show

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of dreaming dreams
    That I know
    I had no right to
    Dreams that
    My loyalty
    And unending devotion
    Would conjure
    True love
    In you

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of hoping my constancy
    My honest true love
    Would be
    An anodyne
    To your soul
    But it seems
    You prefer
    To be a pawn
    On her chessboard
    Than the power
    On mine

    Yes I’m guilty
    Of trying to please you
    Considering your feelings
    Are worth more
    Than mine
    Trying to stay
    Within the boundaries
    You placed on me
    Never giving
    You cause
    To fear my withdrawal
    While I
    Just wait for
    An hour, a minute
    Of your precious
    Time
    I’m guilty
    But you, my sweet
    Are doubly
    Guilty

    Marsha
    ©

  • Cai Wei (9/10/2006 10:32:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Rose is a bomb
    People with wise always claim
    Rose is a bomb
    She causes things into ruin
    Work and life
    They fade away when she’s in bloom

    When the silly tend to believe
    Rose is God
    Giving all when u feel lost
    Sending hope when u are desperate

    Oh, my rose inside…
    Has been struggling for sprout
    With passion, with desire
    With his breath watering, his smile shining

    Yet he was to be
    a man with wise so someday he found
    his wise and he claimed
    Rose was bomb
    Caused life into ruin
    Work and future into ruin

    Then, nothing left but cold wind
    dry air, and silence dark
    Then, my rose inside
    Crying without sound
    Withering without a sign

    Rose is God
    Giving all when u feel lost
    Sending hope when u are desperate
    But, where is my rose again
    Where is my rose again
    Where is my silly boy
    Caiwei,9th. Sep. China
    (looking forward to be criticized)

  • Anthony Marriner (9/9/2006 3:35:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Mental anguish of many hues is responsible for so much creativity. I think being able to capture the anguish and own it can help one live with it and also help loved ones understand.

    'Cloud Cover' is an attempt to do this for me.

    I don’t see myself in this. Waiting for the cloud to part and my illumination to begin.
    When I’m warm I grasp it, mania ensues. The need for clarification overwhelms me.
    I overstep the mark and your recoil begins, reciting Oppenheimer.
    Caught in the brightness, all I can do is wait for the clouds to converge.
    You walk away.
    Wanting to feel.
    Wanting to hope.
    Wanting to love.
    Cloud cover.

    Briefest of glimpses. You see me in there.
    Promethean intensity revealing what is alive, but that which can’t persist.
    A love shaped by contrast, by shade: eclipsed.
    Within my penumbra all is bleak.
    I want to emerge and unfurl-to radiate
    You remain.
    Helping me feel.
    Helping me hope.
    Helping me love.
    Cloud cover.

    Red and Black are my world’s only colours.
    Falsehoods and deceptions, contradictions overshadow what emerges inside me.
    I am at home in Diodati.
    Corrosion can be reversed but its remnants still contaminate.
    Acceptance of the haze is the beginning of purity.
    You cleanse.
    I feel.
    I hope.
    I love.
    Cloud revealed.

    Replies for this message:
    • Nicole Miller (10/3/2006 6:50:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

      I love & feel I relate with what you've written. I don't usually post replies to things and not sure what I should say, but I thought your poem was beautiful.

  • Blood Red Angel (9/8/2006 1:01:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    i hope that yall will enjoy this

    antagonist

    I am my own worst enemy,
    a dark angel strumming my own death's chords
    Helpless against a steady self-destruction.
    Stabbing myself viciously with my self-deceiving swords:
    my words.


    I am the antagonist in my own life story.
    I hold the ropes that choke the life from me.
    I am the killer stalking in my shadows.
    I am the evil that only I cannot see.
    Me.


    I am the manic depressive
    hidden behind my mannequin grin.
    I am the darkness that thrives on isolation.
    I am the end of what I never begin.
    Again.


    I am the only one who cannot predict my fate,
    Crawling deeper into my tortured fear's lair.
    Grieving for an empty soul too far gone to save.
    Living only to reach the one thing I crave:
    my grave.

    I am the monster hiding under my bed.
    I am the nightmare lurking inside my head.
    I am the chill that runs down my own spine.
    Whose murderous grasp won't I escape in time?
    Mine.


    I am the murdering mastermind.
    I hold the chains that take my last breath.
    I end my life when I have no hope left.
    Death.

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    • Radio Head (9/27/2006 6:28:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      how very bleak and dreary. I know sometimes it feels good to feel sorry for yourself but this sounds more like a cry for help than a poem.

  • David Gerardino (8/25/2006 10:58:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    what comes first, bipoler or art, or both, i wonder how many poets on this sight write when it hitz, kinda like a push, or kick, good or bad, itz your ride, or some times rides, i call this THE FITZROY RIDE, IF YOUR ONE OF THEM, LET ME KNOW......

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    • Mary X (9/6/2006 11:48:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      This is an interesting post. Bipolar can BE art.

  • Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones (8/6/2006 2:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies Stage

    Hello again is this a confusion through your thoughts or is it and intelligent method of explaining your self then what is the problem? Can it be fixed and adjusted to suite everyone's taste in thoughts or is it just going to continue to be consider a race issue. Is the pattern considered jelousy or is it consider evey? What about your emotions that direct your thoughts so what is the psychical means of your intelligence that can be consider what may I ask or is it a riddle type of controls that adjust the thoughts of your personal emotional out puts as a selfish child or is it because you are wanting your own childish ways or is it not because you are racist? So why have you not shown for real the face in view of your own figure. My own music my own words of expressed vision. Is it a pattern of cycle that continue to ryme while others are just revealing not a thought for passion or is it because you have to be the way that you are? Can you get better and can others be left out of the picture or is that a secene again with a movie. Vision the thoughts of an inspired profound judgement that controls the movies in your thoughts or is it in my thought. Lisa

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    • Aldo Kraas (2/10/2007 9:04:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      I found this very confusing When I read it Some could thhink that you are insulting than Some may think that you think that others are racist? It is not a good poem sorry This doesn't sound to ... more

    • Kelly Gemmill (10/30/2006 11:44:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      this is a 'workshop' so i'm assuming you put this up to be commented on. I don't think this is a poem. It's not because it's written in prose form, either, because I've seen poems work that way. Th ... more

    • Radio Head (9/27/2006 6:35:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      I like this freestyle a lot. Very fluid thoughts that got me thinking.

  • Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones (8/6/2006 2:00:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    So, I am different what of it and if that is not what I am stating then what about the black darkness of my skin through hispanic culture? Whom is the judger of my personal backgrounds any ways so are you god then whom are you and why do you care so much about my backgrounds that you control my life with religion. So whom is not knowing the true light of religion then. That can be what ever they are wanting to master in so whom gives you the right to be racist of a persons thoughts for their color of their skin? So, why do you exist within this life time and how come you have no color? Is it because that is what god say or is it because you were born that way, which is it your thoughts or mine throughout the disecions of whom may I ask? Lisa

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  • Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones (8/6/2006 1:54:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    What is a thought that governs the ability to adjust to reasons of communications that don't show, but is just a blurred vision of expressed opinions that gather nothing but the amount of confusion that is not in existants with the ability to forsee the new days of views and thoughts that arrive for the views of most opinion when you are not present but keep visioning some other person in the mist. Lisa

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