PoB's Quotes, Poems, Rhyms, and Limmericks

This is for Nerdanel

Drawing

I gazed outside a window pane,
To see a sketched rolling field.
One tree to grace this greenless pasture
And a blank sun halfway under.

I touched this windowless pane,
To see it too was drawn upon a plain.
Hands that were traced to feel this surface,
Meticulous design and detail to convey truth.

The floor exists upon tracks of lead,
The shoes with different shades of grey.
A mirror, upon where the window stood,
Without glass but a reflection of my face.

This white world with illustrations.
Black and white with shades of grey.
Brought into existence by a hand,
Brought to life by the imagination.

Inspired by SexyKing

A Father's Dream

The father was heard to cry out for his son.
The youth was out to play in the afternoon.
Twas lunch and mother had cooked quite the meal.
Again the father hollered for his boy.

The boy came breathless from his tiresome run
Mud and dirt made homes upon his shoes.
With gaping breath his lungs made air to steal.
No other emotions consumed his face but joy.

This tall man did gaze upon his boy.
Stern anger broke away for pride.
Though dirty yes, this boy would soon be great.
His father held firm this child's fate.

At dinner time the boy just sat and ate,
as the father bragged of what he should become.
And all in all the mother would nod and smile,
and the boy would kick his feet beneath his chair.

"He'll be docter once he's studied law,"
half eaten meat still chewed within his mouth,
"to teach everyone to strive for greatness too.
This here will be my son, my right hand boy."

And greatness proceeded all this boy would do.
With law upon his tongue, medicine in his hand.
A teacher too for all the youth to learn.
And felt never happy for all the things he did.

Older as the boy became, so too the father followed.
Right behind his every move, the eye did watch him well.
When friends would play he alone would practise.
And study hard for the future yet to come.

And so it was for all his life and more.
Forever to be the product of his dad.
And all the world will shed a tear for him.
The boy who lived to become his father's dream.

My Own Way

I sat across a little beach and stood,
Where many part to walk their separate ways.
And gazing at the waters looked,
To see if I could find my own.

The people I had met throughout my life,
Now great with age and wisdom all above,
With earnest fervor did to their way take flight.
And left me here to stand on my own.

I wondered if I should begin
My life with others to get a clue.
And yet I thought that it’d be a sin,
To start another’s life as my own.

So towards the fading specks still gaze
Tossing pebbles in this infinite pool.
Wondering at my stagnate state,
And deciding when to start my life.

Thoughts

One night I lied awake humoring thoughts.
As I lied awake I wondered
If any one of these would come about as something coherent.
But none did.
And yet I could not help that a part of me still kept throbbing.
A little idea that wouldn't keep from nagging.
And so it went that further into the night I humored it.
Some perverse form of sacrifice of time and rest
would somehow please this, it, me.
I would find favor for it to humor me.
And then for it to show me what it was trying to say.
But longer the night unraveled and earlier did it become
and still no thoughts coherent surfaced.
Finally I found within myself no strength to proceed further
and died upon my bed.
To perhaps awaken another day and spend a part of me one night
chasing the unknown.

With not what I have, but what I once did, I see you now

I had today decided to stop and wait again.
I had done so every day since her parting.
Hoping in some insignificant glimmer,
A infinitesimal light lost in some other occasion,
That now illuminates my darkening days.
By this spot where I always stand
I look out towards a dimming day,
Whose running sun sheds light upon
The impatience of many
who wouldn’t wait as me.
It is here where she stood with me,
Once upon a long time ago.
Together we saw passing seasons
Of exploding colors of many
And the death of even more.
Time seems so much more a greater burden
Then the other things that were spoken most of.
Infinite waltz of even greater processions
Encompass my dying view.
I see with every passing breeze, and bending stalk
Some shadow of my resolution take form, your form,
And I know that it is you and isn’t.
For a moment I humor that it is, and gently rock back
My excitement for your arrival, and tell myself the truth.
Every evening the hazel sky swallows whole
Any obnoxious colors of red and orange,
But golden rays flow from the horizon.
My sun isn’t the sun that burns upon the backs
Of men and women who are slaves
to themselves and each other.
My sun isn’t the sun the races across the sky
And steals the time away from the lives of others.
No, my sun is the sun that stands with the people
Who look out upon its falling demeanor and whisper
“will you not stay a while longer?”
A demeanor of kindness and compassion
That stops for just a moment longer.
I wait for anything to change.
It’s clear as the hour fades upon this day
That my life continues to wonder aimlessly
Down this unmarked path.
Where few do know and even few traverse,
A quality of which she was most drawn to;
An ultimate solitude where peace can truly dwell,
Where I now turn and walk away to my own peace.
Where for another day I will look out
Towards an insignificant glimmer
To shine off the flowers of trees
And the leaves of grass.

beautiful! I love your writing!

I had not seen you there 😄. I have one more on the way

Beautiful. Makes me wonder if I should post my poems on this forum... even thought hey're in french.

Translate them as best you can. Alime was a French song

Originally posted by King of Blades
This is for Nerdanel

[b]Drawing

I gazed outside a window pane,
To see a sketched rolling field.
One tree to grace this greenless pasture
And a blank sun halfway under.

I touched this windowless pane,
To see it too was drawn upon a plain.
Hands that were traced to feel this surface,
Meticulous design and detail to convey truth.

The floor exists upon tracks of lead,
The shoes with different shades of grey.
A mirror, upon where the window stood,
Without glass but a reflection of my face.

This white world with illustrations.
Black and white with shades of grey.
Brought into existence by a hand,
Brought to life by the imagination. [/B]

Drawn in Gray, Response to the poem Drawing

This stencilled landscape I look upon,
Rolling planes of grassy gray fields, shaded trees, and earth.

Crosshatched rocks darkened by charcoal,
All through a plain window, lined in gray.

Birds of blackened feathers,
Fill a sky of white and gray.

This lead laid landscape,
A vibrant drawn vale.

Where clouds of light meet the dark of day,
Lines from a pencil cratch detail in shade.

A splash of white glaring the sun,
Half dipped below a hill of subtle shadow.

-Kevin Traynor

Enjoy! 😄

Wonderful, beautiful, sensational. Am I your inspiration? 131

Yes... and its not that good.. but glad you enjoyed it! 😄 I have also written another poem in my own thread. 😂

I read it. The adrenaline one. Not as good as this one in my opinion, but it's decent. I believe I have another poem around here somewhere...

Yea I kinda havn't written proper poetry for two months so I'm trying to get back into it. Got any advice?

Originally posted by Jedireaper
Yea I kinda havn't written proper poetry for two months so I'm trying to get back into it. Got any advice?

Read this, it's called Sleep. It's not a poem, but I think it's very poetic.

By what motive do we find ourselves each evening to chance upon a restful slumber? To move us to our sleep that for any other reason then to merely dream? What glance appeases us to shut out eyes to darkness and create within us a light for us, that by no other light could it compare. And air that only we shall breathe and others could only dream. Do we find this air escaping? Do we find this light protecting? Where is the heart of safety if not in darkness? Nor where is a troubles-less man if not in his sleep. For surly he who fears rest for the sake of the darkness sleeps not but endures the subtle nature of true horror as it consumes the man in his own imagination. Ride not this magnificent horse of pitch black, whose darkened coat swallows all the stars in the night. And heed not his neighing cry that serves to waken the dead beneath your feet, and move abyssal shadows within the trees. Their bodies are made to infiltrate stone walls and dance before your eyes that you may not see blindness but dread. But the moon is your enemy that brings upon this light for you, and a light for which they dance to. For the moon that is slain by the bow and star besides it holds no old moon but new darkness. And no light but true night. By which not even this night mare can compare in obscurity, and even he sets down his head to rest.

So hear me insomnia, wicked witch of elegance. Dressed in light, splendor and desire. Your song carries only as far as the bold man dares before he must leave you for the fluff of feathers and the comfort of cotton. And your brilliance seems no more then a fading star. And when the moving hoofs of Apollo trample your golden robe you are cursed for your vanishing grandeur. So I say caress me not with your silken hands and kiss me not with your lips of roses. For who are you to ensnare a troubled soul deserving of respite? No wealth upon this world could buy me of a treasure that can be spent but never recovered. No gem upon any crown could trade me from time lost from sleep. For it is as the labor of a bee. A sweet nectar from God to man’s soul, this is sleep. For surly no mortal lip can taste it. No mortal hands can touch it. Nor eyes upon a mortal’s head can see it. For sleep closes these lids, and rests his hands. Muffles the mouth but makes sharp the ears. For here it is when sleep whispers to us our desires. When we who often speak first and seldom listen are now made to listen to fate. And those who listen carefully hear their stories, and those who do not are often chasing sheep.

Yet what do I hear? Pray it is not the cock who crows off yonder near the country side, who sits upon the post a sentry of the sun. Plead gentle soul that it is not his song he wishes to utter that announces the coming destroyer of rest. For as he stands this sentinel upon a flattened plain of expanse of amber ocean and emerald sea, he looks out towards the boarder of heaven, and watches as the golden door is opened. And no sooner had I found the means to which I could chase her away, must I now chase away the light. For the moon is merciful to the fool who begs long enough, or wise enough to wait, and takes himself a cloak to hide his face. And the man who watches the night gives himself blithe rapture. Man sees the light as the yolk of his existence. For as the sun rises so does his burden. And when it falls so does he.

*cries* That... was... amazing. Its so artistic that the poets themselves could not have done better. Here is a piece of writing worthy of Gods attention, something to show the worlds. Its good.

Originally posted by Jedireaper
*cries* That... was... amazing. Its so artistic that the poets themselves could not have done better. Here is a piece of writing worthy of Gods attention, something to show the worlds. Its good.

Now you've gone over board 😆 I wrote it while awake one evening, and I couldn't sleep. I thought it was fitting, and since I seem to be great motivation for you, I figured I'd give you something worth reading.

GET IT PUBLISHED

I might try and get a poem out of that if I was insomnia enough... but I'm dead tired.

Originally posted by Jedireaper
GET IT PUBLISHED

I don't have the money 😛

and people write better then me I'm sure.