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[Tomasque]

Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Sigged, 'cause this is really good.

Thanks! There was actually a small typo in the original version, which I've fixed. Now the 1st line has 15 syllables like all the others.

[TheBiggerFish]

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

[Tomasque]

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

Thanks for the correction (and the reference). I'll edit my post before internet drops out again.

[TD1]

Myself:

When I was young, I looked out of my window.
There, in the gloom partitioned by the glass
Was light. It trembled in the jumping motes
Of static falling from the sky.
It seemed apparent only to my eye.

When I grew older, I made patterns.
Dragons, knights. I took comfort
From their honour and their kindness,
Raised them from the baseness of creation.
I gave them hope and gleaming decoration.

Still older and I laughed to read the stories
Made by others. The world still seemed new
And gleaming with the potential of its birth.
All that I saw was good, for it was fiction.
I lived in worlds of others' diction.

Now, when I look out of the window
All I see is greyness, tightened eyes
Strain through the murk and see chimneys,
Money is the new principle
And I, unwilling, its disciple.

And because I've been reading up on G.K. Chesterton:

The Rolling English Road

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

Edit: Actually, I'll say something of what the poem inspired in me. It made me think of the M1 and all the chocking lanes of traffic into London, the endless stream of commerce. I cannot help but think that we would be happier to go slower and perhaps lose a bit of money, but gain the ability to wend and enjoy life.

I think if everyone wanted a rolling, drunk-seeming road it would be a better place. Chesterton applies this concept to life; me, to living.

[TheBiggerFish]

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

Thanks for the correction (and the reference). I'll edit my post before internet drops out again.

You missed hew -> hue.

[Tomasque]

Thanks - also, I should have the chance to update Mafia Marathon soon.

[Tomasque]

 Huh, no one has favorite poems they want to post?

Here's another one of mine, from - of course - The King in Yellow:

Cassilda's Song, by Robert Chambers  ((I know it says song, but I always think of it as a poem!))

Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
Lost Carcosa.

[Tomasque]

*Tomasque powers up the defibrillators*

Spoiler: ZAP!!! (click to show/hide)

The Liar, by myself

In mindless mantra makes amends
with promises he swiftly spends.
A broken trust, but mind that bends
can twist the truth to suit his ends.


Iron Mind, by myself

In mind designed of rails resides
free will that still aids and abides
the rules for tools that force its flesh
of steel unreal and metal mesh.


Dead Gods, by myself

Awakening from bleaker days,
a darkened god in darkness stays
when finding - though he has the rays
of sun - his sons have passed away.

((Yeah, basically just a bunch of little poems I made since the last time I was here.))

[TD1]

Suitable for Dwarf Fortress:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

---
The hammers fall, a work is born,
The forgers smite with eldritch might.
The lantern’s sway recalls the day,
And down, down deep, makes shadows leap.

Here dwell the Dwarves. Here they are,
Here pillars rise in carven arch,
Bejewelled with gem and crafted star
And stand on row, and silent march.

Here craft is made in Dwarven shop
Where jewels lie in gleaming pile.
The hammers ring, then briefly stop
While work is done with rasp and file.

They smelt the gold and mine the ore
With skills revered in tales and myths,
They hoard their goods in storied store,
To save the art of master-smiths.

And there is throne of gilded lights
That rises golden in the Halls;
By flame its shape with fire ignites,
By dark it wanes, its beauty falls.

By day the throne held mighty kings,
Proud men who walked when Urd was young.
And from their hands flowed golden things,
The likes of which by bards were sung.

But that was then, a shadow’s passed
Between the sun, upon the throne,
Those days, oh woe! They were the last
Of kings, of gold, of crafted stone.

The darkness broods in hallowed halls,
Where light and coin both flowed and fell,
It pierces arch and graven walls,
And lurks in room with drinking well.

Where once was wealth there now is naught;
No gold is fitted to the stone
Where skilful hands had reached, and taught
The two to join, together sewn.

No fiery gems of morning’s light
Aglow are set into the Door;
It fell to ruin with ne’er a fight,
The Dwarves, they fell with ne’er a war.

No gold that gleams can kill a foe,
No treasure hoard defend its walls
Nor can a silk be made a bow;
And so they fell, those Golden Halls.

The Silence came and broke those doors
That long had gleamed with gems and light;
He broke them down and plundered stores
To which he had no lawful right.

Bereft they fled their ancient home;
This noble race was brought down low,
Forever cursed to walk and roam
By him, their god, their Silent foe.

New lands awoke to feel their touch
On farm and taverns, forge and mines;
They dwell there now, the Dwarves,
And wait for new, more vengeful times.

Their castles fell to dark and gloom,
Their heroes long rot in the tomb,
But steel is forged in these new halls,
Where miner hacks and hammer falls.

Now light is fallen on the blade
That came once beauty died.
The fire awoke to bring it forth
From smoke and tears the fallen cried.

The shackles binding them are gone,
No rod is set to drive their kind
But still, in song and verse they keep
The tales of halls their fathers mined.

No gold is forged in liquid fire,
That brilliant ore was left in smoke,
So now they wait with blades of steel,
These men, these Dwarves, this vengeful folk.

I found it mouldering in an old file, heh.

[Tomasque]

Suitable for Dwarf Fortress:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

---
The hammers fall, a work is born,
The forgers smite with eldritch might.
The lantern’s sway recalls the day,
And down, down deep, makes shadows leap.

Here dwell the Dwarves. Here they are,
Here pillars rise in carven arch,
Bejewelled with gem and crafted star
And stand on row, and silent march.

Here craft is made in Dwarven shop
Where jewels lie in gleaming pile.
The hammers ring, then briefly stop
While work is done with rasp and file.

They smelt the gold and mine the ore
With skills revered in tales and myths,
They hoard their goods in storied store,
To save the art of master-smiths.

And there is throne of gilded lights
That rises golden in the Halls;
By flame its shape with fire ignites,
By dark it wanes, its beauty falls.

By day the throne held mighty kings,
Proud men who walked when Urd was young.
And from their hands flowed golden things,
The likes of which by bards were sung.

But that was then, a shadow’s passed
Between the sun, upon the throne,
Those days, oh woe! They were the last
Of kings, of gold, of crafted stone.

The darkness broods in hallowed halls,
Where light and coin both flowed and fell,
It pierces arch and graven walls,
And lurks in room with drinking well.

Where once was wealth there now is naught;
No gold is fitted to the stone
Where skilful hands had reached, and taught
The two to join, together sewn.

No fiery gems of morning’s light
Aglow are set into the Door;
It fell to ruin with ne’er a fight,
The Dwarves, they fell with ne’er a war.

No gold that gleams can kill a foe,
No treasure hoard defend its walls
Nor can a silk be made a bow;
And so they fell, those Golden Halls.

The Silence came and broke those doors
That long had gleamed with gems and light;
He broke them down and plundered stores
To which he had no lawful right.

Bereft they fled their ancient home;
This noble race was brought down low,
Forever cursed to walk and roam
By him, their god, their Silent foe.

New lands awoke to feel their touch
On farm and taverns, forge and mines;
They dwell there now, the Dwarves,
And wait for new, more vengeful times.

Their castles fell to dark and gloom,
Their heroes long rot in the tomb,
But steel is forged in these new halls,
Where miner hacks and hammer falls.

Now light is fallen on the blade
That came once beauty died.
The fire awoke to bring it forth
From smoke and tears the fallen cried.

The shackles binding them are gone,
No rod is set to drive their kind
But still, in song and verse they keep
The tales of halls their fathers mined.

No gold is forged in liquid fire,
That brilliant ore was left in smoke,
So now they wait with blades of steel,
These men, these Dwarves, this vengeful folk.

I found it mouldering in an old file, heh.

This poem is amazing! Though there are a few flaws, the story it tells is captivating and the way it tells it really brings it to life!

[TD1]

Thanks! I wrote it as part of a world building exercise for a book I've now discarded. Out of curiosity, what flaws do you see? I see one or two myself, but help is always appreciated.

[Tomasque]

Thanks! I wrote it as part of a world building exercise for a book I've now discarded. Out of curiosity, what flaws do you see? I see one or two myself, but help is always appreciated.

Remember that these might be influenced by personal preference:

 -The first stanza has different rhyming scheme than all the rest.
 -Certain lines that are supposed to be in iambic octameter aren't (Ex: "They dwell there now, the Dwarves,")
 -A few lines feel a bit awkwardly phrased (Ex: "And lurks in room with drinking well.")
 -The early bits are written in present tense, but are revealed to be the past without a good transition.

[TD1]

Well, at least the last one was intentional

[TD1]

There was once beauty
In the poet's pen, the artist's brush
but now the lines of fate have drawn
A close to ecstasy; a breath of fog
To cloy the no-more verdant lawn.
What has done this, but time?
Words whirled, potent and strong
And figures swirled on paper, elegant
But not obtrusive. Inspiring. Now,
There is an end to rhyme
And loss of fervour.
What once was blue is red,
And all art dead, and all art dead.

[Tomasque]

 And this thread...

IS ALIIIIIIIVE!!!!