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Julie Grenness Apr 2017
Isn't football such an event?
Listen to the philosopher's lament,
Old Socrates barracked for his team,
In the AFL, worst you've ever seen,
Socrates gazed at the replay,
Groaned, "We lost again!"
So he drank hemlock and gin,
Slit his wrists, did himself in,
Drowned in his phony spa,
His ghost calls down from afar,
"The premiership is what is meant!"
Woe, Socrates' eternal lament!
Feedback welcome.
Tafadzwa Chitagu Oct 2016
Dead poets have a death grip on my soul
with their wheedling words
Because that's where it all started:
darkness and then The Word
"Writing does not resurrect, it buries"
that's all I've ever wanted to do
to bury you -
I made a mistake
I dug your grave
in the recesses of my mind
where darkness resides,
where The Word thrives
Your grave
it turns into a graveyard
and ghosts of the deceased poets
recite promises of resurrection
in this grey area
of grey matter
that doesn't matter
Because, really, there's no right or wrong
And don't even get me started on dead philosophers
*******(tilitarianism)
I'm inherently selfish
which may be the only thing we have in common
When I finally join the dead poets society,
miscreants who hide behind the term poetic license,
This poem will bury you
This poem will always be about you
but
This poem is for me.
Or Graveyard Whistling
J Aigboje Ohiro Jul 2016
They say you can always tell a man from his shoes,
They say time makes a man,
They also said time is like an ocean in which man sails,
But if all men were to be on the ocean of time sailing together,
Would there be enough wind for all?
And if not would this be the reason for the inequality?
Would I be correct to say that God created all men to be unequal?
I know what you thinking already,
Here comes another atheist,
In fact I can’t be listening this,  
But I understand you, as we all have an unequal minds,
Yes that’s true, and you are correct,
But only if you leave now and stop listening to this,
Then you would only have half of the message,
And a huge story to tell about an atheist you have met,
But this won’t end you story if I still have your ears.

They say

You can always tell a man from the shoes he wears
But that’s not true as not all men wear shoes, as some love to wear slippers

They say

Time makes a man
But they didn’t speak of women, would I be correct to say they were sexiest?

They say

Time is like an ocean
If so what will you call rainfall?

All of this were coined by men who loved to be philosophical or loved to be called philosophers

So their name won't just be on their tombstones but in the minds of the living

The truth is God is not unjust so all men were created equal
And if I were a philosopher this would be my word to the next generation.
We are all created for a purpose
Find it, Live it, Fulfil it, while you still human…..

After all I am being Philosophical…..
Philosophy, opinions, words
Andrew Fahey Oct 2015
Dad
Dad!
I need you, Dad.
Dad!
Where are you?

What is this?
What's that smell?
Where do the ants go?
Can you tell?

Do snails have brains?
Can I feel their slime?
Where do bubbles come from?
Is there time?

Will I always grow?
Can I fly?
What can't I remember?
I do try!

Dad!
Where are you, Dad?
Dad!
I need you!
Tommy Johnson Feb 2014
Blasting out of the fog and mud
Past the forests in the sunrise
Farms and high ways
Trotting through suburbia
Through the tunnel
Defacing and refusing to allow themselves to be part of an unjust ******
Believe in the intermingling of colors
Waiting for the planets to fall into place
To stop for a moment and inhale the abundant harmony that surrounds them and emote and create a inspiring response in the form of self expressive freedom that matches the beauty that had compelled them
Steven Fortune Apr 2014
I tried to be cordial with inactivity
washing it with weeping juice like a pardoned effigy
but the diamonds of determination were so wrapped in mind debris
that I threw away a fortune in potential

The smiles of the platitudes are louder than their laughs
An appeasing of their attitudes I warrant with the gaffes
of an undertaker's underling bestowing upon epitaphs
another deadened and deprived credential

Seeing days in ways that never did occur to me
Every end a mending by default, a sour recipe
for compromise eroding in a rusty *** of empathy


The dentist rubbed his fingers when he saw my gritted teeth
No sermon on the mount from me, more a mumble on the heath
My incisor is a tack that would support a giant's wreath
Thorns of novocaine will numb my Christmas wish

For the sake of universal order I will freeze a yawn
Mostly harmless said a hitchhiker of Earth so I can spawn
a batch of clones to live on hold where all the battle lines are drawn
I'll zip up and in the universal order I'll languish

Seeing nights in ways that never did occur to me
Every satellite a telecast of fault, a sour recipe
for sleeping juice to boil over in Big Dipper's empathy


Where's a pound of flesh when needed? I've grown tired of these ribs
On the grill of soggy marrow, hungry haunts will have first dibs
Call on William Blake to send the weepers to their cribs
Wishful thinking I'll preserve beneath the floorboards

With a hand in nothing new and an incisor in the usual
intestine chains surround my motivation's hot pursual
Don't read too much into my implied acceptance of a dual
with a messenger of fact's implicit hoards

Seeing days in ways that never did occur to me
Every end a mending by default, a sour recipe
for compromise eroding in an empty *** of sympathy


Sound the bugle for my bed is made, I'm rested for detention
Solitaire I'll play in my confinement for the crime of sought attention
I revolted the philosophers in plugging my intention
I would not concede that lab rats had it worse

The satellites are full and bright, the shadows walk on lakes tonight
I'll dream of sleep but eyes will play me in my bedroom's voided sight
Lay with me and sigh and the elastic laws of nature might
halt the quivering continuum of fate's forsaken course

Seeing nights in ways that never did occur to me
Every channel plays the same old cooking show's ensoured recipe
Compromise a minor seasoning in liver-flavoured empathy


04 15 14
There may be a couple of spelling errors...the rhyme scheme was inspired by Dylan's Tombstone Blues, and the title was inspired by another Dylan song, Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.  I tried to capture a bit of his rambly style as well.

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