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Charles Clive Aug 2010
Now, when I mention Poetry,
your eyes will glaze, I guarantee,
and then you’ll smile and say to me;
“This modern stuff's is *******!”

You’ll claim it’s clouds with beige and blues,
bedecked in caerulean hues,
all fancy words and curlicues.
“That's right.  A load of *******!”

You’ll say it’s nonsense, sometimes crude,
pretentious, sloppy, often pseud;
no more than prose, with attitude.
“A bucket full of *******!”
    

Not me.  I write a different way,
in words which mean just what they say;
more like the Giants of yesterday.
My writing isn’t *******.

I take a theme and, where I can,
I fit it in a structured plan;
what’s more, I make it rhyme and scan,
as verse - and not as *******.

Then, should you like my classic style;
perhaps it’s when I make you smile
or ponder for a little while?
That’s proof.  It isn’t *******!

                             ~
galaxys archive Sep 2019
they said she would never feel the rain
see it gently pour again and again
watch dewdrops settle on fresh green grass
or feel caerulean waves crash over her back
they said she would never feel the breeze
get lost in forests emerald green
yet she steps outside with her heart on her sleeve
the world and its beauty just within her reach
slow shallow breaths she manages to choke out
crying for help but she’s unable to shout
her hope she knew was too good to be true
an unfamiliar world blurred before her eyes
all it was was beauty in disguise
red and blue lights accompanied by sirens
but she knows they’re too late to prevent her silence
they said she would never feel the rain
because all she ever knew was the feeling of pain

— The End —