Poetry

[Phoenix]

Well, thought I'd like to get this going again. It's a slow poster, but generally worth it . . . I'll begin . . .


Spirit Void Meditation Ryan Symes

The start of this is a thing called pain,
Come to haunt me once again.
Then starts the feeling called hurt,
Silently, I strike at the dirt.
Then comes rage, burning bright,
Making me want to end all tonight.
Then comes the silent void within,
Where all other emotions did once begin.
The other's that the rage does send,
Safer locked away, until life's end.

Right. Me out. NEXT!

 

[Phoenix]

No prob, Pharel.

It's called; From This Day Forward. The Author is listed as "Unknown", so no prob whatsoever.

Do you, perchance, write your own? The top one was my latest, so . . .

 

[Phoenix]

Mine too, in general. But hey, it's your choice. I try to let them be seen, so that others will maybe gain a better understanding of me . . .

Well, here's another . . .

Werewolf

The moon is high, the old blood burns
Through the midnight hours it churns
Children wake and cry from fright
As an ancient hunger walks the night
While moon is high and time stands still
It stalks until it feeds it's fill
It knows neither rest nor stay
Until the coming of the day

But at the coming of the day
The blood will cool and drain away
No trace left of ancient power
It returns to its average bower
He awakes, as from every night
Believing he has slept aright
Little does he know or dream
That he is not what he might seem

Ryan Symes

 

[Phoenix]

Please excuse the double header . . . but I had to put the whole speech here . . .


St. Crispen's Day Speech
William Shakespeare, 1599
Enter the KING
WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!

KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 

[Icewolf]

Here are two that ive done

Fickel Life

Life can be fickle.
It can bring eternal bliss,
or it can knock you on your arse.
But the greatest thing you can do
is share your bliss when life is good,
and to pick your self up when it's a pain.
Yet the greatest mistake you can make
is to greed over your bliss,
or let things keep you down.


Animal Within

Within us all
is an animal
who guides us
through life.

But it is our
choice whether
or not to listen
to the voice
hidden within.

 

[Phoenix]

Hey, Ice, nice writing!


"Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too.
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze,
On me alone it blew."
-The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge

 

[Harrie]

Thought this thread needed a little reviving, it's such a great idea: sharing our favorite poems and works of our own heart and soul.

The Soldier's Grave
Author Unknown

Breathe not a whisper here;
The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground;
In silence gather near this upheaved mound -
Around the soldier's bier.

Here Liberty may weep,
And Freedom pause in her unchecked career,
To pay the sacred tribute of a tear
O'er the pale warrior's sleep.

That arm now cold in death,
But late on glory's field triumphant bore
Our country's flag; that marble brow once bore
The victor's fadeless wreath.

Rest soldier, sweetly rest;
Affection's gentle hand shall deck thy tomb
With flowers and chaplets of unfading bloom
Be laid upon thy breast.

 

[Phoenix]

Thanks, Harrie. I was a bit worried too . . .


If by your side I cannot sleep,
I pray that you my soul will keep.
And if by your side I cannot wake,
I pray that you my heart will take . . .

Me, to Beverley . . .