Poetry thread: New, newer newest


I have no clue who it’s about


Evelyn McHale jumped from the Empire State Building and her body landed atop a car. It’s an interesting, sad story. This is the photograph taken of the results; “The Most Beautiful Suicide”.


Monkey wins!


This is why I need to get to Dubai; so I can get way higher than the 84th floor observatory of the Empire State Building. My photograph will be entitled, “It’s everywhere. It’s fucking all over the place.”.


I missed you Monkey :grin:


She did leave a beautiful corpse…

Nice read, Tali, but a bit dark.


can you send me a selfie before you jump?


Wrote a quick George Jones song. Yeah yeah yeah, I know, the title is already done by Garth and Todd Snider, but here it is, quick and dirty.

If tomorrow never comes
Then there’ll be no yesterday
I won’t have to watch my dreams
Turn to dust and fade away
And if I stay here for an hour
The shadows won’t begin to grow
If tomorrow never comes
I won’t be the last to know

This morning I was king
Of my every world and everything
Of you and all our plans
We made them with our hands
And I thought that they would bring

The kind of love that makes us sing
Of flowers warmth and maybe spring
We’d be by the raging fire
With our love and our desire
And all our everything

If tomorrow never comes
Then there’ll be no yesterday
I won’t have to watch my dreams
Burn to ash and blow away
And if I stay here for a while
I can hold it off I know
If tomorrow never comes
I’ll never see you go

And when the daylight starts to fade
and the fireflies they glow
all the promises we made
will gather like the snow
and lie naked on the ground
with nothing but the sound
of all the things we know
of love dying in the dirt
it shouldn’t have to hurt
if tomorrow never comes


Somebody stole my belt.
I looked everywhere for 2 solid days.
It wasn’t in the laundry.
Not in the closet with the other belts.
This is putting me in a state of trauma and loss.
It was a very good belt.
Blue and kind of stretchy with a narrow buckle.
Better than any of the other ones I have.
Sure, the other belts do the job;
but it’s just not the same as my favorite belt.
Who would steal a persons belt?!
All I can say is that I hope whoever
took it needed it more than me.

^I’m not a poet.


Don’t they take your belt when you are in jail?


Yeah. Other places too.


“You don’t want my trousers to fall down, do you?”

  • Mick Jagger


I just added a hole to my belt. My average weight has been down this past year. Yay side effects of alcoholism!!!


There once was a fellow from Gainesville
Who’s music was sometimes painful
But when he was down, put his ear to the ground
And ended up singing for angels


I’ve done this as well.

Belts can stretch too.

I had to snip off the end once when it became long and unruly.



Talisker hasn’t been around in months.
Maybe she’s hanging out with egg.


a work in progress for the last 2 plus years…for my eldest daughter

Backwards Rainbow
For Hannah Foster

The beginning is the same as the end
Your echoed name trails off into a divided sky…quickly turning night
Somewhere, someone is counting the stars and making a secret wish to be with you
Life is full of Palindromes, but none as beautiful as you

Arched over a never ending green field cresting above the cloudless sky
Swoops an enormous and grand rainbow. Backwards into time . . . only in my mind.
My dead brother once wrote: “It’s funny how the things you want to forget are the things you end up remembering.”

Lights and prisms upon the inward eye are only infinite fractal illusions
A trick of the mind . . . a tragedy of what is not there, but one can still see it.
Somewhere, someone is driving a huge diesel engine head on into a Rainbow
Life is a string of beautiful fractal time, measured only by our losses.

Coda into a Grace period
Love is the never-ending fractal.
The beginning is the same as the end.
Infinitesimal to its highest power divided by sky.


Making Certain It Goes On
Richard Hugo

At last the Big Blackfoot river
has risen high enough to again cover the stones
dry too many months. Trout return
from summer harbor deep in the waters
of the power company dam. High on the bank
where he knows the river won’t reach
the drunk fisherman tries to focus on
a possible strike, and tries to ignore
the hymn coming from the white frame church.
The stone he leans against, bleached out dull gray,
underwater looked beautiful and blue.
The young minister had hoped for a better parish,
say one with bells that sound gold
and a congregation that doesn’t stop coming
when the mill shuts down.

We love to imagine
a giant bull trout or a lunker rainbow
will grab the drunk fisherman’s bait
and shock the drunk fisherman out
of his recurrent afternoon dream and into
the world of real sky and real water.
We love to imagine the drought has ended,
the high water will stay, the excess
irrigate crops, the mill reopen, the workers
go back to work, lovers reassume plans
to be married. One lover, also the son
of the drunk fisherman, by now asleep
on the bank for no trout worth imagining
has come, will not invite his father
to the happy occasion though his father
will show up sober and properly dressed,
and the son will no longer be sure of the source
of the shame he has always rehearsed.

Next summer the river will recede,
the stones bleach out to
their dullest possible shade. The fisherman
will slide bleary down the bank
and trade in any chance he has of getting
a strike for some old durable dream,
a dream that will keep out the hymn
coming again from the church. The workers
will be back full shift. The power company
will lower the water in the dam
to make repairs, make repairs and raise rates.
The drunk fisherman will wait for the day
his son returns, divorced and bitter
and swearing revenge on what the old man
has come to believe is only water
rising and falling on climatic schedule.

That summer came and is gone. And everything
we predicted happened, including the death
of the fisherman. We didn’t mention that before,
but we knew and we don’t lie to look good.
We didn’t forsee the son would never return.

This brings us to us, and our set lines
set deep on the bottom. We’re going all out
for the big ones. A new technology
keeps the water level steady year round.
The company dam is self cleaning.
In this dreamy summer air you and I
dreamily plan a statue commemorating
the unknown fisherman. The stone will bear
no inscription and that deliberate anonymity
will start enough rumors to keep
the mill operating, big trout nosing the surface,
the church reforming white frame
into handsome blue stone, and this community
going strong another hundred years.


It’s been a while; hope everyone’s doing well!

Here’s a few new ones in the past months. First one’s become a song, but I think it still counts.

Sweet Rain

your eyes, the stars that peek through the blue
your forehead, it tucks into the curve of my lips
It’s just a perfect fit
and I can’t help but submit

oh sweet rain
you come pounding at the door with a new beat
and rumble beneath my feet
oh sweet rain

like the lace in your dress,
our fingers weave delicate patterns against the breeze
as my lips trace your neckline,
I feel your heart beat in time with mine

oh sweet rain
you tear down the walls
and I’m no longer afraid of the fall
oh sweet rain

I hold you fast to my chest
and you fall slow to sleep
in my arms, a thousand miles from home
in your heart, a million colors I can’t wait to roam

oh sweet rain
your smile wanders down the winding road
and in lightning strikes this feeling is sowed
and you’re beautiful
you’re so beautiful
in the sweet rain

Tender Reprise

I look into your eyes
And the memories come pouring through
The ripe days, the sweet nights
And the sound of your voice kissing my skin

I tremble at the thought of this;
And I run my finger down your cheek
The calm excitement, the nervous quiet
And the way your hair curled behind your ear

I whisper gently as I close my eyes
And I press my lips to yours;
The soft landing, the slow roar of hands roaming
And the fire in your smile setting me ablaze