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06-11-2010, 02:09 PM | #51 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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06-11-2010, 02:10 PM | #52 | |||
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R.I.P Kerry x
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Nice, it's one of those I could never think of an ending for
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06-11-2010, 03:02 PM | #53 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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06-11-2010, 03:05 PM | #54 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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Quote:
Poor paul.
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06-11-2010, 03:24 PM | #55 | |||
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R.I.P Kerry x
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There once was a badger called Dave, who decided to go to a rave...
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06-11-2010, 03:31 PM | #56 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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07-11-2010, 09:58 PM | #57 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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I Watched Thee
by Lord Byron I watched thee when the foe was at our side Ready to strike at him, or thee and me Were safety hopeless rather than divide Aught with one loved, save love and liberty. I watched thee in the breakers when the rock Received our prow and all was storm and fear And bade thee cling to me through every shock This arm would be thy bark or breast thy bier. I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise From thence, if thou an early grave hadst found. The Earthquake came and rocked the quivering wall And men and Nature reeled as if with wine Whom did I seek around the tottering Hall For thee, whose safety first provide for thine. And when convulsive throes denied my breath The faintest utterance to my fading thought To thee, to thee, even in the grasp of death My spirit turned. Ah! oftener than it ought. Thus much and more, and yet thou lov'st me not, And never wilt, Love dwells not in our will Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.
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07-11-2010, 10:12 PM | #58 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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Quote:
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08-11-2010, 07:23 AM | #59 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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Father of yours, father of mine
flowing blood and bones entwine You feel the heart, I feel the scorn ripped through my flesh the sharpened thorn Sweet angels guard you while you sleep while poison in my veins does seep My eyes don't see, I've lost my way in blankets wrapped, in dreams you lay I stare at you and see my eyes what could have been, with heavy sighs my blood runs cold while yours is warm protected from the howling storm Father of yours, but not of mine I bow my head before his shrine |
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08-11-2010, 06:38 PM | #60 | |||
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Cyber Warrior
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While we are poems not of our own, this is an all time classic, popularised in film
Hankies at the ready
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08-11-2010, 06:43 PM | #61 | |||
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Cyber Warrior
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Cyber Devils Advocate (Retired) Fame, Riches, Adventure, Glory - A Cyber Warrior craves not these things In Memorium
Wendy (AKA Romantic Old Bird) 1951 - 2008 |
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08-11-2010, 07:01 PM | #62 | |||
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Senior Member
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In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915 In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
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08-11-2010, 09:57 PM | #63 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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Quote:
Amazing piece of poetry this.
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08-11-2010, 10:46 PM | #64 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware |
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09-11-2010, 01:48 PM | #65 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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I discovered this, along with many others, when travelling Australia.
My Country by Dorothea MacKellar The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft, dim skies I know, but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror The wide brown land for me! The stark white ring-barked forests, All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon, Green tangle of the brushes Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree-tops, And ferns the warm dark soil. Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When, sick at heart, around us We see the cattle die But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady soaking rain. Core of my heart, my country! Land of the rainbow gold, For flood and fire and famine She pays us back threefold. Over the thirsty paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze ... An opal-hearted country, A wilful, lavish land All you who have not loved her, You will not understand though Earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die, I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly. http://australianpoems.tripod.com/mycountry.html
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09-11-2010, 05:43 PM | #66 | |||
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Senior Member
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Quote:
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13-11-2010, 01:34 AM | #67 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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Thought maybe a bit of spoken poetry maybe appreciated. This poem, although written over 70 years ago, sounds, to me as if it is talking about our decade now.
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It's never too late to be who you once could have been... Spoiler: Last edited by Benjamin; 13-11-2010 at 01:35 AM. |
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13-11-2010, 11:47 PM | #68 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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That thread on death got me thinking about the significance of life and what meaning it has and I thought of this poem. We did it yesterday in class and we were split as to whether it was comforting or not. I initially thought it was in the way it encourages enjoying life while you can and with it's carefree attitude, although some disagreed.
The Fly (William Blake) Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die. Last edited by MTVN; 13-11-2010 at 11:47 PM. |
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15-11-2010, 10:25 AM | #69 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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16-11-2010, 01:11 PM | #70 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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IF Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same: If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! |
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17-11-2010, 01:00 PM | #71 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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Mirror, mirror on the wall, keeper of the truth
can time be traded for a coin, and bought the gift of youth? Could we smoothe, like pebble stone, the lines upon a face but to remove the journey would treasured memories erase? Memories of birds of youth, whose song we all did sing the hopes and dreams we carried, the world tucked beneath our wing The reflection that you give shows me shades so pale and stretched but on the flesh, the wisdom scars, all knowledge there is etched Lashes once were thick and dark, and eyes of flaming light have said goodbye to summers day and settled into night but in their place, as bodies fade, a seed of wisdom grows and nurtured well, the blooming bud becomes a glorious rose A flower whose scent of passion has surely cast a spell and with each falling petal, a tale of love will tell Youth is for the kindling, whose sparks have yet to light while beauty carries scars, but its fires are burning bright Mirror, youth is just a chance, an opening of a door I've entered through and now i see, that beauty is much more |
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23-11-2010, 03:08 AM | #72 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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Quote:
I really like this piece, I always get excited when you post in here I found a poem today I wrote when I was 16: The Poets Collection Taught in this field the masters teach, But student eyes seem to beseech. No words, nor money or endless glory, Can ever create the perfect story. Hearts and minds will never be crossed As so many emotions will end up lost. The battle of one, this endless quest; A mans spirit is hopeful at best. Knowledge sought and knowledge brought, Still our feelings can never be taught. Hapless in life; books and palms read, Hopeless with love, carve poetry instead. Taught in this field, the poets collect, Never really knowing how much they neglect the one that loves them; live for rejection, only empty dreams in the poets collection.
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It's never too late to be who you once could have been... Spoiler: Last edited by Benjamin; 23-11-2010 at 03:09 AM. |
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23-11-2010, 11:50 AM | #73 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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24-11-2010, 09:18 AM | #74 | |||
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Cyber Warrior
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My little ditty composed for Twitter
Stupid Robin The north wind did blow And we have had snow And poor Robin seems to be hiding his head under his wing The idiot
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Cyber Devils Advocate (Retired) Fame, Riches, Adventure, Glory - A Cyber Warrior craves not these things In Memorium
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24-11-2010, 03:14 PM | #75 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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When the sun is at its brightest, but outside the skies are grey
When the words have choked the speaker for there’s nothing left to say When fear has found its lodgings and evicted old romance When your favourite song is playing, but you feet refuse to dance When the orchestra is playing, but it pounds inside your ears When all are optimistic, but you’re crippled by your fears When the beggar stretches out his hand, there’s nothing left to give When death is more inviting than the prison where you live When you’re looking for tomorrow and its nowhere to be found When you’re stuck within the moment and your arms and legs are bound When the sound of children’s laughter leaves you cold and full of sorrow and the blanket wraps around you, but inside your heart is hollow When your friends bring gifts of comfort and their love for you is strong but their love can’t stretch to reach you on the tower you sit upon When the prisoner inside you pleads for mercy to be shown but his pleadings are unheard until his flesh falls from the bone When you bathe in pools of tears and they burn your naked skin and the life that you’ve been playing is the game you’ll never win |
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