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LIBERTY'S POETRY CORNER
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Liberty
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CloseOkay, so I write a lot of poetry and I'd like to share some to get a general idea of what I could do better (considering that one day I'll be selling/publishing some of this stuff. ^.^)
Most of them are pretty short and very few of them rhyme. I also have a habit of not naming them. ::)
Thank you!
PAINT
Eye strokes
A brush on canvas
Spreading colours and shades.
Gentle,
Firm pushes
That belie an intimacy
Among strangers.
Whispers
Caressing and arousing
Pull closer the subject to intention.
Acrid
A fetid aroma wafts
Around decaying flesh, yet youthful, still.
Rough taste
Sour on the tongue
A texture that burns the breath.
In the comfort of a hotel room
I paint the body of a lover,
Paid
^^^This one is actually being sent to a competition soon so any quick critiques are doubly welcomed.
UNNAMED
Certain deer
At times of the year
Feel the heat of the season
Certain men
Have the same ken
With just a hint more reason
OLD
Squatters in their own land
These people, once rulers
No longer judge the manners of their visitors
But hawk and cry
Draw near these tourists
Selling bloody memories to strangers
Whilst the dead regard them with scathing, eyeless gazes
They remember the youth of this land
Most of them are pretty short and very few of them rhyme. I also have a habit of not naming them. ::)
Thank you!
PAINT
Eye strokes
A brush on canvas
Spreading colours and shades.
Gentle,
Firm pushes
That belie an intimacy
Among strangers.
Whispers
Caressing and arousing
Pull closer the subject to intention.
Acrid
A fetid aroma wafts
Around decaying flesh, yet youthful, still.
Rough taste
Sour on the tongue
A texture that burns the breath.
In the comfort of a hotel room
I paint the body of a lover,
Paid
^^^This one is actually being sent to a competition soon so any quick critiques are doubly welcomed.
UNNAMED
Certain deer
At times of the year
Feel the heat of the season
Certain men
Have the same ken
With just a hint more reason
OLD
Squatters in their own land
These people, once rulers
No longer judge the manners of their visitors
But hawk and cry
Draw near these tourists
Selling bloody memories to strangers
Whilst the dead regard them with scathing, eyeless gazes
They remember the youth of this land
Pages:
1
