"pratchett" poems
With red and blue side by side
Who’s to decide my secret ballot
With respect and disparage likely never to divide
Choose or die I feel like pratchett
Natures evil so grossly present
With my eyes blinded by political fluorescents
Alone in a box, with an unchecked sheet
Now I understand... were all obsolete
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Up the stairs went molly Pratchett,
in her hands a little hatchet.
Squealing loud in girlish glee,
at all the gore that she'll see...
Slowly down the hall she crept,
to the room where her parents slept.
She raised the hatchet over her head
and slowly tiptoed over to their bed...
She sank the hatchet into their heads
until alas they were dead....
Now she sits in a padded cell
where they keep here very well.
They closed the door then they latched it
This ends the tale of molly Pratchett,
OR DOES IT?.................................
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Terry Pratchett died Thursday. He was a critically acclaimed British Fantasy Author, as well as an advocate for assisted suicide and Alzheimer's Disease. He himself was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 2007, yet still continued to write, even after he was incapable of using a computer to write (he used a dictation machine afterwards). Before his death at the age of 66, he wrote the popular "Discworld" series consisting of four books, as well as one of my personal favorites, "The Wee Free Men." He was inspirational for me as a writer and he changed my view of writing. With his books, I found my writing style. There are no words to express my awe at his life and works, nor are there words to express my deep sadness in which I tell you that he has passed. May he rest in peace and reach a world even better than that of Discworld.
“There's always a story. It's all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything's got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld, #32)
Well Mr. Pratchett, you've changed the story.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
My roommate sat reading terry Pratchett
on our patchwork couch
Covered in my grandmothers quilt
as i boiled water
to make americanos for us
with the aeropress i just bought
her for christmas
It was her only gift this year
Our christmas tree wasn't up yet.
we put that up about three months after everyone else took theirs down
we watched the water drip
Like clockwork from the veins in the lime wallpaper
Collecting in her blind cats water dish
Which lapped happily before tripping over a mis-placed buhhda statue.
my roomate closes her book to say:
"being polyamorous is something you should only try is you are amazing at organization and have a fettish for complicated things."
By the time I heard her say this,
I had been trying to juggle hearts for quite awhile
I must admit my dexterity wasn't high enough
To roll without dropping a few
it's hard when hearts are never the same size
Or weight, or color.
I would be a better librarian.
organizing the hearts
Holding them just long enough to capture and
Stick on a shelf somewhere
That must be why I write so much poetry.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
All great creative storytellers know,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells,
The time machine was built so long ago
Expression chassis, tonal power cells,
The primary engine, sending us with word,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells
The second engine, flashback, and a third
—portend, exhausts each piston-fired clue,
The primary engine, sending us with word
The epoch steering, future or review,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Portend exhausts each piston-fired clue
Captain Imagine, Wingman Memory,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Like Atwood, Pratchett, Liu, and Philip K,
All great creative storytellers know,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
The time machine was built so long ago
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 8:37 AM UTC
eye of newt
dash of doctor
who?
pratchett hatched it
gaiman gamed it
netflix flinched
part python humor
jon hamming it
derek? can it be?
good, evil, in between
a constellation of stars
many tongues deep cheeky
dark discworld
don’t you panic
don’t discard your towel
witches
demons
angels
bell
book
candle
those silly brits with
ineffable end-times fun:
good omens!
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
She dries her hands with the kitchen towel.
And apologizes for the mess
that isn't there.
She puts an apron
on top of her evening black dress.
She cooks eggs
and smiles with lipstick stained teeth.
I sit on the small kitchen stool
and read out loud
from a Terry Pratchett novel
laying open on my lap.
She giggles
and her laugh fills the small apartment.
She says she's so happy
and anxious
to have me in her home.
And I stare
at her back
and her messy braids.
They're falling apart.
I can't find the words
to tell her
that a late theater play
and fried eggs for dinner
in an flat the size of a cup holder
translate to salvation in my language.
I don't have enough vocabulary
to explain
how her friendship tastes
like chamomile tea when you're ill.
And how talking about boys with her
clears the cigarette smoke from my lungs.
Because she feels like starting over,
she feels like trust,
she feels like the new friend
you read about in novels
where everything clicks.
And so I'm left
with a butterfly heart.
And the only thing I can do
is thank her time and time again.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 3:13 AM UTC
there was something utterly charming
about the way you came to school
every morning at 7:30
wearing a lavendar scarf
from god-knows-where
you were eccentric, to say the least
stirring sugar into your coffee
with a ballpoint pen
and ignoring the margins of the paper
you used for last-minute assignments
but no one cared,
you were proud of you
because of you i learned
who terry pratchett is.
i started wearing ankle socks
because one day i saw you sitting
in an armchair, your legs crossed
and i thought,
"so this is adolesence"
god, you loved poetry too
scribbling microscopic sentences
onto a piece of paper you had folded
about six times into little squares
and i kind of miss how
you would go on about the beauty
of streetlights and pavement
you were a wild thing,
fickle with love
and oh-so argumentative;
you never lost a debate
even though we've grown apart
you burned a mark in my memory
one that i'll never forget,
endearingly quirky eliza
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC