[nyctom]

WITHDRAWN. The smell of horseshit was a little too much for me.




[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited April 22, 2005).]

[Michael Cantor]

Everybody go home. Tom won.

Wow! Double Wow!! Holy shit!!! I don't care what the jerks from the Society for Ethical Treatment of Ducks in Poetry and Drama say - I loved it.

Michael

Second thought - Nobody's gonna see your post.. God knows what you'd call it, or where it belongs, but it deserves far more traffic than it is gonna get buried in a
quiet contest on a recently quiet Board. Maybe it will become a cult thing, like Jim Morrison's grave. But why not join the "poetry is what you call it" brigade - at least for a day - and put it up on Non-Met?

[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited April 10, 2005).]

[Yolanda Cruz]

Ugh!!!! Sorry but I saw nyctom's rant and thought to myself. "Bad trip". After I read the first few sections I ran out of the thread. Oh well humor is relative.

[This message has been edited by Yolanda Cruz (edited April 10, 2005).]

[Alexander Grace]

I agree with Michael. Can I just also say that my poem is very silly, and that yes, I probably was drunk at the time.

[Michael Cantor]

I took another look at the image, finally saw what everybody else was talking about (I have a pattern recognition problem), and this led to another realization:

This is the time of the gander, the night of the noose;
aloof and contented, their verses run loose -
tom-foolery drives them to rain down abuse
on poets who cannot tell duckling from goose.

[Yolanda Cruz]

Originally posted by Alexander Grace:
I agree with Michael. Can I just also say that my poem is very silly, and that yes, I probably was drunk at the time.

I actually like yours Alexander and if you did this when you were drunk, then I'm really impressed by it.:cool

When I'm drunk I can't talk never mind type.

[Diana B]

INTO THE WEST

With beaks like boat prows, tilted high,
they ride white foaming clouds whereby
no breeze exists within the mist;
no wings are spread yet on they fly.

And, see, they sail serene and sure
no sign of fear and all demure.
It seems they glide the restless waves
that drive them far to destined shore.

The sky is smudged a pastel hue
of grey and pink on shades of blue
and wispy veils float gently down,
to grace the way and lead them through.

Soft silver beams and golden light,
a dreamscape journey of delight,
where whispered voices draw invite
and lift their souls to further height.


[This message has been edited by Diana B (edited April 10, 2005).]

[Robt_Ward]

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
they ride the waves and sea mist into grace;
westward they drift, they urge, they slide, they ease —
they make their way untrammeled and at peace.

They make their way untrammeled, as I sink
without a trace beneath the waters they
cross with such ease, and sinking, feel my blood
surge and release as I become the flood,

The tidal urge, that drives on them on their way,
that drives them on into the break of day.

[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited April 11, 2005).]

[Svein Olav Nyberg]

Ducks in the Mist

By autumn ducks run out of quack and greed.
Hunted for after that, they will be found
Either to have gone diving underground
(And taken with them all the duckling breed
That molted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghostly feathers from a ghostly crow)—
Or hiding in the smoke from ganja weed,
Cool foliage that is smoked from pipes and puffed,
And smuggled over borders in their tuft.
They're pictured on a faded paper sheet
The dead ducks leave together in the heat—
They're ducks to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with ducks who fly by wings, not bong.
We envy ducks their feathers, not their tar.

------------------
Svein Olav (The poet formerly known as Solan )

[This message has been edited by Svein Olav Nyberg (edited April 14, 2005).]

[Henry Quince]

Perch Rill

Now as I was young and easy under the towering necks
About the hymning flow and happy as the rill was blue,
....The world beneath the ripples trouty,
........Time let me sail and roam
....Purple in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among gaggles I was prince of the minnow schools
And once below a time I lordly had the reeds and gravel
........Trail with shrimplets and mayflies
....Down the eddies of the godsend light.

And as I was blue and carefree, famous upon the banks
Along the joyous runnels, honking as the brook was home
....In the sun that is pink once only,
........Time let me play and be
....Purple in the meanders of his muse,
And blue and purple I was finder and fisher, the perch
Fled from my eye, the grayling in the millpond feared my bill,
........And my shadow loomed scary
....On the pebbles of the wary streams.