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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: tomb of the unknown poetdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: rws
    ASL Info:    57/m/ohio
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 2777/1297/258
    Words: 52
    Class/Type: Random Thoughts/Misc
    Total Views: 1217
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 342



    Description:
       10.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotstomb of the unknown poetdots
    -------------------------------------------


    Thirty unfinished poems later
    I'm no closer to an epiphany
    Than a bureaucrat is to an angel
    Or a derelict is to a dream

    I'm told we all fall down like stars
    Around the rim of heaven
    Weaving the earth into splendid light
    (or that's how I've heard it happens)




    Submitted on 2011-06-25 21:35:57     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      counting down is a funny thing,
    counting never helped,
    counting came automatically,

    I've heard that heaven is wherever,
    yet that Heaven can decide,
    we sell greed to all our children, sadly
    when if we knew language plainly,
    we could see reason from many more sides.

    Thinking outside of the box, is to paraphrase the paradigm
    that everything we gather is extensive from the mind,
    thinking outside the circle, see the box has always one,
    but the square would know the triangle fooled everything but 1
    asked in in every angle, whilst the venom we dismiss
    is that we choose to fuck like angels when we're cautious with our lips
    but oh my taste buds warn me that the spelling of a which
    spread a dogma to the masses that a song could be the switch
    with their cupcake love-like humor,
    and their endless masking show,
    they snort the seeds of spreading laughter,
    so that the garden bends back fro
    but if Eden had No master,
    and If God were ever true,
    then the laughter is our Heaven,
    and the many are it's glue,
    so as Saratonin greets me,
    by the many waves for dope,
    i will simply smile politely
    to say that amine nope
    for that never was the shelling
    that had ever got me high,
    it was the smile of trustful doings
    in the gleam of neighbors eyes
    so as heaven is by orbs
    woven from the light,
    the light can not be measured
    as we all have different eyes
    therefore i dare to question
    how we damn all those that see
    a heaven meant for them
    when there's a heaven meant for you and me
    and ever in the virtue,
    so do kingdoms choose to rise
    that know the difference between martyrs
    and the suicidal slime
    and beyond the the many wicked
    and far past these times of gray,
    the greater son will rise again
    as we will adapt to all the change
    for as evolution pushes,
    the unadapted claim
    that it's the fault of all the demons
    when the world just works that way
    so if ever i was lesser
    than the greater i could be
    then i could better me forever
    in the growth of logics tree'
    and truly eat the fruit of wisdom
    as humble Pi is what we need.
    | Posted on 2015-09-16 00:00:00 | by ShyOne | [ Reply to This ]
      this is a really excellent piece, Bill. ars poetica par excellence! the analogies used were magnificent, but it was the imagery and the first two lines of the last verse that really did it for me.


    -JP
    | Posted on 2012-01-02 00:00:00 | by rev.jpfadeproof | [ Reply to This ]
      A thought for your thought, good sir. If I may be so bold.

    I believe that there are derelicts in the eyes people that are seen as dreams in the eyes of others. That would've worked out so well for us if the epiphanies of others matter just as much to us as our own epiphanies. I guess that's the flaw in the machine which makes me sad.

    But, if it makes you feel better, I think that the derelicts and bureaucrats still have irreplaceable worth in the eyes of those who see them as dreams and angels, respectively.

    <3
    | Posted on 2011-11-13 00:00:00 | by ANGELO | [ Reply to This ]
      Hanging on that rim of heaven,
    Will thy ask for thine own raven?
    Or will thee vanish like another fallen star,
    Into the dark and become another long-forgotten altar?
    | Posted on 2011-09-05 00:00:00 | by AbsolutelyLost | [ Reply to This ]
      Beautiful! The second stanza deserves to attain immortality. It could be the whole poem or the whole epic.

    It is so visual, so cosmic and corresponds perfectly with the ache in the title.

    The first stanza embodies the dissatisfaction of the artist in his own skill and talent but if the following stanza was not an epiphany then what was it?
    | Posted on 2011-09-01 00:00:00 | by Kaddish | [ Reply to This ]
      When a writer can say as much as this poem did without being wordy, it demonstrates how powerful the written word can be. This poem made me smile, laugh, and reflect.

    I enjoyed it
    | Posted on 2011-08-13 00:00:00 | by spoken | [ Reply to This ]
      Hi RWS!

    Long, Long time! I had to read as I knew you are skilled whether you are still kicking for life or not.

    Bill:

    There are poets who will remain unknown until death like Sylvia Plath, but there are poets whose words impact the lives of others unknowingly. This, to me, is a great poet. When you move the crowd in an unseen way to live better lives, to achieve greater goals, to take challenges...you are considered powerful and alive...even in death.

    Why? I am matriculating into a writing school. I would have to say you and many others on poetry sites have inspired this spark. One other individual who I actually spoke to of renowned character said, "Saby you have a gift that you are letting it ride away on the water side. Do something about it!"

    You have a beautiful gift and it is written all over your work. Death cannot detain even the most prominent writers. Although we fall like stars, our words will resound in the hearts of many men...men who will take these writings to where they need to be...the top. Words are powerful whether you are dead or alive. I enjoyed greatly! Death is just the beginning of life, RWS. Hugggssss. I have missed you.

    It is ironic to hear poetry buffs call me a plagiarist. They searched all over for the poem, "Two Nightingale's in a Tree". I do not have this poem and lost it, but a friend has it. It was written for him. His name is Antonio Siclari. They were wealthy clients of his and he told them that he is sure the person is not a poetic plagiarist. They searched poems from this poet whose work rang in the same tone. They could not find me as a plagiarist. Two weeks later they came into his office and apologized. They re-read the poem and asked for a copy and he refused. He said because she would not allow it and because it is something special between her and I. They told him that the talent was definitely there. I know you have this talent and would not be surprised if I heard your name running through the MEDIA. GO GET WHAT IS YOURS!

    Love,
    Saby
    | Posted on 2011-08-04 00:00:00 | by CaramelCandy | [ Reply to This ]
      a very tight piece....ahh. that search for immortality, elusive as always. funny thing about epiphanies though...we keep searching for them, but once we're lucky enough to have them, then what? and when we find ourselves studying those who've reached immortality, do we do them justice? in their eyes, most likely not....

    i love the analogies in the first stanza. really underscores the gap that is so tough to close....
    | Posted on 2011-06-26 00:00:00 | by rubie | [ Reply to This ]
      :) Excellent as always.
    And to the above-comment from Jacob, I only have 1 thing to say: Bukowski.

    Interpretation? Defying all laws of Good Things Are Remembered... You just have to catch their attention with some crazy glitter, and the rest is history... and literature class, of course...
    | Posted on 2011-06-25 00:00:00 | by Runes | [ Reply to This ]
      kick ass analogies in this....

    all the way through...yes, no closer to the epiphany or to writing the great poem...or at least the poem for which i might be remembered....

    oh, will any of us be remembered...we study poets in high school and college classes...in our literature books and think...wow...that poet stood the test of time...and is studied in school...

    we only can hope to leave something of ourselves that some will later read and think worthwhile..
    this piece is close to my heart...

    nice write, Bill...

    jacob
    | Posted on 2011-06-25 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]


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