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Roo May 2017
I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.

I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.

I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.

I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money,  fair exchange.

I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.
A few of my favourite films/poems/poets incorporated into what started off as a uniform poem but soon disintegrated.  (a metaphor for my life)
Stanley Wilkin Feb 2017
The flames soared high
Above the broken city-
Troy sodden by war
Necks cut, women *****, children
Enslaved. The sea mirroring
The city’s pain, screaming waves
Piling on the shore.
In the dust lay
The groaning towers of Iliam
The beaten
Shards of a brilliant culture
Felled and fouled
By barbarians.

Around the moping Cypress
Heroes' ashes
Lie infertile,
While Achilles moans in Hades
Weeping unwashed tears
For his body's fading
And his shadows continuance
In eternal gloom.
Lying waste the beauty of ancient sites
Where wisdom laments its ancient demise.
The human spirit had once taken flight
Out of dark mists and out of disguise.
Paradise found just beyond their reach.
Friendship feigned as in unwitting Troy.
Pygmalion's ideal crumbled within the breech
Pure knowledge strangled by treacherous ploy.
Yet wisdom still beckons beneath this frost
Rumblings felt faintly in purer souls.?
Vowed in blood to regain paradise lost . . .
Worlds sacrificed for one small foothold.
Beauty from ashes of ancient sites
In spirit in heart once again taking flight.
Kinda something to help bring a little  ancient light to our present plight.

Looks & reads almost like a sonnet,  but was never meant to be one. I just like the rhythm & flow.
noah w May 2016
Troy burns,
and her walls cave in around her
like a mother’s arms,
embracing her children sweetly
and sinking to her knees amid the swirling dust.

in the ashes, they fell her embrace
as they bleed and writhe and stare up at the smoke-obscured sky,
flames closing in around the edges of their vision
as their city burns and folds in over them,
putting them sweetly to sleep to the tune of victory songs in other tongues.
Mikaila May 2015
The face that launched a thousand ships.
What must those eyes have held within them?
How full the lips, how smooth the jaw, how sculpted the cheeks,
To start wars?
A face can launch a thousand ships- indeed-
Send toy soldiers marching stiff across borders
Burn cities
Make widows and orphans,
But a soul...
A soul can push saplings up through the ashes of those very cities.
Only a soul can create,
Only a soul can nourish,
Only eyes with such exquisite tenderness behind them can spin the stars and press the moon into the palm of the night
Like a promise.
The soul informs the face,
Breathes life into it.
The loveliest features
Cannot pull the tides like a soul can.
The most vibrant gaze
Cannot capture time and halt its march the way a soul can.
Perhaps your face could launch ships
Could start fires.
But your soul...
Your soul could raise forests.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Sandaled feet
fleeing into darkness
beneath the breached
and burning
walls of Troy.

That is what I fear
when you walk away
from me.
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
The clang of armour rings through the clamour
      of our men screaming thy name.
Thy name that I bear, blazing bright
      as these brazen greaves.

It is not I that they know.
It is not my feet that are thus as swift as thine;
    though they would believe it.
It is not my rough hands that are never wrong;
    but that have rather slain Sarpedon, now.

It is not thy knees that quake at Hector's call; 'tis mine own.
It is not thy eyes that water in fear,
    it is not thy hands that grasp thy spear, 'tis mine own.
Never wrong. Never wrong. Never wrong.

It is not thy gold-spun curls that spill forth,
    as thy helmet falls.
It is not thy blood that stains Hector's spear;
    it is not thy chest that splinters, 'tis mine own.

The clang of spear piercing armour rings through the clamour
      of our men screaming my name.
My name that I bear, blazing bright
      as thy brazen greaves.

— The End —