Light House Feb 27

Before the garden was saved...  It fell countless times.
But each time it fell, it was saved & restored; & each time
..it has been worth the effort.  This is fact, not mere opinion.

The garden has fallen in many fashions.  It has gone out
every way imaginable.  It has been burned.  It has been ridden
with plague & disease.  It has consumed itself through greed.
It has killed, turning corrupt eye ...time after time after time..
It has frozen over, gone cold with stone & ice.  It has been stretched,
& all-l-l  ..the way to death, it has bled.  It has been its own worst enemy,
& has also played the victim.
As it has fallen, so shall it be risen.

It has gone out every way imaginable...  Implying then, it has been saved every way imaginable...

There is one cycle, in which the city was drenched, died due to a dogged downpour.  The garden suffocated; it was flooded,
submerged... condemned.. to the bottom of a new-lake.
Rusting & flaking beneath... drowned, Garden did..
Flowers ...to seaweeds.  Treasures & high-test soil ..buried;
everything bloated & breaking, like Atlantis rotting ...Garden sank.

But in this cycle, the city was saved... not by something with scales,
but by a creature with feathers, instead.  This is the tale of
the Sea Hawk  ..the Osprey.

He dove down from the clouds, as if they were cliffs
into this new-lake deep, full of some sort of
new-kind-of-spirit & reached... out with his grasp,
till his fingers clasped..  the tip of the ship.  Like a toothpick,
he uplifted said-ship, pinching it..  like a nerve, holding it...
like some old, legendary sword by its bowsprit-of-a-grip.

a bowsprit is the long piece of wood you often see jutting out forward over the ship's bow, extending over the figurehead.  Apologies if that is confusing.  I think that is a decent enough explanation?  Let me know if I am wrong.
Unedited for now.
Notes regarding Garden & this hawk idea I have now added to the mix.
Everything in the works.
Claiming this more unfinished than I was originally going to claim it.  Will be updating this one.

Try me!
Nothing you do will ever make me quit,
Just as nothing I do will ever stop you.
So come at me and have at me!

I have grown tired of your rights,
as you are weary of mine!
I have been silent for far too long,
and you have been preaching more than enough!

Now get down here, and face me!
Leave your crown behind,
We will fight blind,
and let me show you true bravery!

Or we can go to war, my friend,
your hounds, and my army!
Let us paint this world crimson red,
as we charge into this endless battle!

Give me that iron bludgeon,
and I will return with a concrete fist!
Feed me walls of smoke,
and I will send you floors of fire!

Do me your worst,
and shall you see the worse from me.
Stop me in my walk,
and I will paralyze you in your wake.

And when your guts are finally there to get you,
come find me, and kill me!
Throw me down off a cliff, and
send them a distress call!

For I was not killed by the fall,
and as long as you live,
Know that the only way I'll die,
is standing true, and standing tall!

I am feeling revolutionary. you have to shout it out when reading this piece to really feel the fury in you. and maybe listen to Wagner's Ride Of The Valkyrie (Die Walkure).
Phil Lindsey Dec 2015

I did not know that poetry has rules.
‘Tis not a craft for ordinary fools.
Those, that form and meter never master,
Are ever doomed; they are the poetasters.
As opera singers, out of tune, do make
Discerning listeners do a double-take,
And chefs, who sprinkle salt instead of sweet,
Serve meals that connoisseurs would never eat;
A writer with a wretched poet’s curse
Will never craft a great Heroic Verse.

So as I count my syllables and feet,
And wonder if my metaphors will meet,
I pray that hypermetrics are okay,
(For I have used a few of them today,)
I’ll leave the verdict, reader, up to you,
Affirm that to my mission, I’ve been true,
Or if the ending to my verse bathetic
Christen me a poet most pathetic.
Heroic Lines in Couplets, I intended;
Judge me, reader, now this verse has ended.

Phil Lindsey 12/24/15

I most often do not write notes to my poems, hoping that any readers out in HP land enjoy them for what they are.  Also, I am most definitely NOT a technical writer,  nor have I had formal classes or training.  But I have been attempting to read "The Ode Less Travelled" by Stephen Fry.  Mr. Fry describes (often humorously)  iambic pentameter, rhyming schemes, meter, and much more in his didactic book. Thus, I have attempted to write a poem in Heroic Verse.  With my apologies to Mr. Fry.  :-)
Lenny M May 2015

You have to be Super Human,
Your invulnerability inspires me,
When shots are fired
You try to evade not One,
You firmly plant your feet
Turn the other cheek
And reply "If you miss me , You Miss Me",
Shrug shoulders
With a stone cold face expression,
Gift wrapped with a warm smile
Every breath you take
Inhales and Exhales "I am God's child",
Thoughts of you border admiration,
I Believe you can fly,
To sore like Icarus ,but would not free-fall due to arrogance,
You have to be Superhuman,
No weapon formed can harm You,
Even when evil doers want to tarnish
Your Truth,
You retaliate with A Sunshine Force Field
And say
"It's all love boo",
Up, Up, and Away,
You slip on your cape
and try to brighten another caper's day ,
What can I say , You have to be Super Human

Up in the sky it's a bird , No its a plane, No its ...
William McLaughlin Apr 2015

My lovely voice can carry, and carry it will
For her voice is scary, and hateful, and shrill
I’ll protect humanity with sounds so pleasant
And drown out her screaming; like a dying pheasant
And i’ll be the hero, and i’ll have the fame
And she’ll go down in history as a woman with no name

Graff1980 Jan 2015

My heroes don’t wear capes or camouflage
Don’t snipe from sand dunes or hide behind mirages
Don’t shoot hoops in Nike shoes
Or praise Jesus while supporting corporate issues

My heroes hold hands on picket lines and tear gassed streets
Wear blood red wounds from aggressive police
Sigh and cry for the innocent
Try and try against impossible odds
Sing songs of freedom
Not the military type but the kind that social movements keep bringing

And they are still bleeding
And they are still singing
And they are still marching
And they are still dreaming

My heroes keep
Carrying children from the wreckage
Running into burning buildings
Bandaging wounds
Holding the hands of strangers who are in danger,
Sheltering strangers, feeding strangers,
Caring for the poor,
Singing songs of love,
Putting down their guns and refusing to kill
While they pass out water bottles on the battlefield

These are my heroes
And they are still healing
And they are still singing
And they are still loving
And they are still dreaming

NewAgeOfAnarchy Jan 2015

Darkness resides in his heart, which no man can heal. He where's armor stained with the blood of justice.

He give ups his happiness for the sake of others. He has a lover, but chooses to stay way, to protect her from the cruelty of his mission.

He never asked for awards or for a thank you. He sees no fame from his actions, but rather hides in the shadow of the night.

He is mad many have said, but the touch of madness his give him an edge. The public celebrates him has a hero.

But the whole time he denies the fact that he is a hero.

2015 copyright Michael Cross

I want to see you
Be

more courageous than
marching and waiting
in a line of ants

a daring enigma
a carnivorous plant

a pain raging against
baited seduction
and wage-slaver's plans

courageous as
a swarm of locusts
dashed by angry rakes,

audacious as
farmers eating
dead locusts
in harvest's place

DiAnna Nov 2014

You are my polonaise;
The one who makes me want to dance the night away;
The one who makes me want to never look back and never let go and do it all over again, even if it means missing a beat and laughing it off as the room stares us down with contempt.
And in that moment,
Where the world stops and the piano does not,
I am yours forever more.
My heart may be anxiously skipping beats at the thought,
But you I will never leave you alone in the polonaise.

I've been listening to a little too much Chopin lately. Until a man asks for my hand, he is my polonaise.
Next page