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Leone Lamp May 23
Skipping class, ****** off his ***,
Never showed and never passed
Teacher was teachin' it
But Dylan never needed it,
Writ to his own beat
And now he's free wheelin' it
On down the road
A heavy moss laden load
Sixty-one routes
And that stone keeps a-rollin',
The times keep a-changin'
The river keeps flowin'
Rainy day women
And legalized growin'
Bob cantcha spare,
A nickle or rhyme?
A solid gold medal,
Nobel poet sublime?
Sing us a song
Jingle jangle along
The Luckiest Wilbury
In the Wilbury throng
Singin' so right
It must be wrong
Keep doin' your thang
You'll never get gonged
My wife's grandpa had a writing class at MSU (Minnesota State University) with Bob Dylan, but Dylan never showed. He turns 80 on Monday (05/24) and I threw this together in his honour.
Pining to be loved
I sought asylum within these pages
Every line, every word, every rhyme
Was a reflection of the sorrow that ruminated
Beyond the looking glass.
Yes, I fathomed I was alone without a
Guiding star, without a lodestar to lead the way, O, but now I am liberated
By The Sovereign of Songbirds
Who solaces me by his mellifluous musicality.
(Yes, I am free)

Soaring beneath the stratosphere, thermosphere, mesosphere, and exosphere
I saw all the suffering underneath the sun
And remembered what it was like to slumber.
Rest is something I took for granted
Feeling it was only forged to flee lament; oh, but that is only half the freedom
Of truth: Yes, we are reborn when we slumber.
So lull me and lead the way; furthermore, I am liberated.
The Sovereign of Songbirds enspirits me
By the clairron lullaby, by His voice.
(O, I am free)

Dreaming, I lost sight of all that made me human;
Limitations forgotten, I drifted heavensward. I forsook
All I held beloved.
Why must phantasy mean sacrifice? Must the fantast
Be sundered in order to claim transcendence, ascendence?
Yes, I was burned by The Incendiary Sun but
My heart has survived. It leads the way to liberty.
I am risen by The Sovereign of Songbirds who resurrects me.
I am summoned from the ashes like a Phoenix Rising.
(O, I am free)

(Se’ lah)
Excelsior Forevermore,

Sanders Maurice Foulke III

10/29/2020
Oka Mar 28
Dream on!
Cause legends were fools who never ceased to stop
and nobodies were sages who hesitated to take a step
Let's say it's bardic inspiration
Lead K Feb 4
When guilt burst forth, at Menden's door
We could not speak, we did not know
The toll the rage of men might seek
Through witless priests and burning snow

That Sword was forged in Elwen's fyre
With magic signs embossed in vain
The power of steam in crooked lines
To cleave the brows in villainous twain

Thus Emnoch came to shield the world
A hero's hero of countless girth
The ***** of shame that numbered zero
A blade arrived to state his worth

This dismal feast of brutal love
Will never sate a horse's tune
Senescence and honor entwined in fate
He ever swells that liquid boon

Asunder sliced was Denzhen Yeep
Just as Vile Ben wast slain
The Witches Five broke on the Pile
A magic Pentagon of pain

But do not braise the glance of morn'
We cannot love what has not hair
Embrace the stench of Emnoch's glove
His tale is there for you to share
Tale as old as Thyme
rig Jan 29
you arrive as expected - legendary.
a beautiful white horse: leaves behind brothers
of salt and sisters of foam, unrecognized,
meets the morning mist on a shore close to home;
astride it: you - the lost king returned, almost
divine, here to answer the calls of those who
still sing your name faithfully to the heavens;
at the beach: me – barefoot on the rocks, waiting,
watching you approach me, confused – your journey
through the mysteries: unimaginable…
you halt. i aim. you breathe the bullet and fall.
Amanda Jan 28
How quiet is the rolling breath
Of foam upon it’s seeping death
The grey winds taken from the shore
As sand and rock are left no more
For life will not tally beneath the sail
Of crisp white linen, slashed by rusted mail
No more, no more the bell will chime
Upon the passing winds of time
The dead are sailing upon quiet seas
Their hopes are scattered in the breeze
Far from home and far to go
These unquiet souls lie below
Cursed forever, to sail and roam
This Flying Dutchman will hold no home
No port awaits this journey’s end
No harbour sits around the bend
It sails through twilight, night and day
The bow holds its course, the star leads the way
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.

Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.

Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.

The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,

(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).

Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.

His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.

He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.

Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Femi Sep 2020
her name was season
she could change four times.
her name was silver,
they called her dime.
her name was motion
she came, and went.
they called her good-time,
money well spent.
her name was legend
villain, hero, lover, and friend.
she left with everything,
that's how the story begins...
Shane Leigh Sep 2020
The tale goes:
If you lose a loved one to the sea
It will be kind and carry a message.
Place the letter in a bottle
And upon Its currents place it.

Take heed, this message
Has but once a year to give.
By sunset love, by sunset,
The oldest rule – It won’t forgive.

The sea shall swallow, with the sun,
The letter, It will not forget.
And it shall be delivered so
On the very morn their fate was met.
I just did this as a writing assignment for class and I thought it was a fun write. I'm not sure what to title it lol
I hope you enjoy (:
© Shane Leigh
Benjamin Aug 2020
Like Sisyphus,
And Atlas himself,
We endure and we struggle,
To maintain our health,
The weight of the world,
An impossible task,
A moment of respite,
Is all we could ask,
Our life is no myth,
No legend of old,
But our story is real,
A tale to be told.
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