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Paleo poet?

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  • Paleo poet?

    Are you a poet? Share yours here!!

  • #2
    Powdered-egg wigs,
    we pirouetted round the Baptist church floors,
    passed the gilded food stamps:
    sacrificed penny-sweets for Jesus.
    Forest-bound, we ran,
    sucker-sticks pointed in case of rapists,
    squealed on the merry-go-round,
    we were only eight, in leather, painted-up-jackets.
    Our Wonder Bread-fed uncle
    taught us the art of catching fireflys in jars,
    our slow cousin, Mary, cussing their burning bodies backwards,
    FLYERFIES,
    dimming.

    Mythological Great-Nana tied a string round a wart,
    rubbed that bump with a sharp stick,
    buried it under the weeping tree.
    String, buried, deep, deep, deep,
    only to pop on the toes,
    of our uncle,
    as he swung, finally free,
    on the prison floor.
    We processed, mournfully black,
    food-stamps in hand,
    to the corner-store.
    Some of us, sweets in hand, didn't look back.

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    • #3
      Sitting, Grok see squirrel.
      Grok chase squirrel.
      Grok eat squirrel.
      Not enough food in squirrel.
      Hunger.
      Crohn's, doing SCD

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      • #4
        Rhyme something. Gosh.
        You lousy kids! Get off my savannah!

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        • #5
          Originally posted by Grumpycakes View Post
          Rhyme something. Gosh.
          your stick is thick,
          yer teeth is long,
          please don't tear
          my mammoth-fur thong.

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          • #6
            Originally posted by The Return of Dado
            My balls sit, sweat
            swell with good things
            I squat and they touch
            ground is cold
            but nothing much
            more than the old
            balls hanging
            This is the best thing I've ever read. Seriously. Thank you!
            My Journal: Englishman In Oz, Skinny to Muscle in a Primal Way

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            • #7
              There once was a man named Grok
              Who rubbed iodine into his cock
              he thought it would swell
              and they ladies he'd fell
              but he just stained the sheep in his flock
              Buy house, Demolish house, Build house.

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              • #8
                Once I walked into the room
                and saw
                their fall
                and all the grace of their wrapped wings
                nothing
                -nothing-
                could ever mean
                I wouldn't eat their bones and skin.


                I miss turkey a lot but my supplier died and her nephews feed the beasts corn and soy. This will be a sad thanksgiving.


                Luce
                No limits, only my will and the worlds I build.

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                • #9
                  Not a poet, but I do write novels. My first story was published when I was 12.
                  --Trish (Bork)
                  TROPICAL TRADITIONS REFERRAL # 7625207
                  http://pregnantdiabetic.blogspot.com
                  FOOD PORN BLOG! http://theprimaljunkfoodie.blogspot.com

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                  • #10
                    Not very great, but I try to make sense etc.

                    well then

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                    • #11
                      So, this poem sucks. It's trite. But at least it's a poem written in "blank verse" (unrhymed iambic pentameter). Don't do free verse until you're competent with some kind of structure. That's why I prefer the ones in this thread that at least rhyme. Anyways, shut up and read this.

                      All through the morning bright we roamed the fields,
                      In afternoon we tamed and reaped them bare.
                      Come evening in our towers made of glass
                      We bathe alone in chilly cobalt glow.
                      How savage was the spear, how pure the gun,
                      That which was good all day seems now, at night,
                      Bathed in that cobalt glow, a thing to scorn.
                      With midnight but an hour hence seem we
                      So wise and hopeful for the brightest dawn.
                      The crickets chirp, the birds will sing their joy,
                      Just as before and for all time to come,
                      But we, failing to wake, will rot away.



                      Originally posted by Dr. Bork Bork View Post
                      Not a poet, but I do write novels. My first story was published when I was 12.
                      Orly, I will look on Amazon. What are some titles?
                      Last edited by Grumpycakes; 08-25-2012, 03:52 PM.
                      You lousy kids! Get off my savannah!

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                      • #12
                        Very nice, Grumpy. I'm afraid I fail your specifications. I'm incapable of writing in any kind of "formal" poetic structure, only free verse.
                        Depression Lies

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                        • #13
                          Originally posted by namelesswonder View Post
                          Very nice, Grumpy. I'm afraid I fail your specifications. I'm incapable of writing in any kind of "formal" poetic structure, only free verse.
                          Nonsense! You can do anything if you practice.
                          You lousy kids! Get off my savannah!

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                          • #14
                            Here's one I wrote in my journal a while back. I usually write with rhyme and some semblance of meter but this one just came to me this way:

                            Emerge with a blink, a stretch, a scratch,
                            and the morning air wipes the sleep from your eyes.
                            Cool fingers caress bared skin
                            waking an ancient fur-memory.
                            Concrete chills, deader than stone,
                            but the rains came in the night
                            and the wet earth breathes life into your soles
                            as you step into the real world
                            from the one we have made;
                            safe, and easy, and tame.
                            They stand beside you, your mate,
                            and your dog, and this is right,
                            the way it has always been.
                            And this morning you pause,
                            and almost recall what it was
                            to dwell always in what is real,
                            and what is now.
                            And this morning you regret
                            trading the real world
                            for this one;
                            safe, and easy, and tame.

                            Just like you.
                            Today I will: Eat food, not poison. Plan for success, not settle for failure. Live my real life, not a virtual one. Move and grow, not sit and die.

                            My Primal Journal

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                            • #15
                              there once was a man from nantucket..
                              beautiful
                              yeah you are

                              Baby if you time travel back far enough you can avoid that work because the dust won't be there. You're too pretty to be working that hard.
                              lol

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