whether it’s a famous poem, a friend’s poem, or your own. just make sure to give proper credit, dudes.
A leader is judged not by the length of his reign but by the decisions he makes.
Klingon Proverbs
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My favorite poem I’ve written that I’m unable to translate into a song
The sun sets to shine
The Moon leaves me blind
Late June and autumn combine
I have tingles down my spine.
Caressed by a holy lady
but she leaves when I start feelin achy
Metaphors for my delight
There’s only trouble in sight.
Waiting for the winter glow
It all seems so simple when you don’t know.
The ways of days in mazes
constantly contradicting with sudden crazes.
I thought this was just a phase
but my eyes stay in a constant glaze.
New age, Old Soul
I’m a little too happy though.
A little bit up and down
Replace a regular face with a sudden frown.
Dreams of a rural town
I’m a fiend for my thoughts profound
Caught in the city ways
Caught in a nonsense chase.
Tales of tails
the cat drinks the merchants ales
The man thinks of poets, but to no avail
A slave thinks of jail
because he gave everything tooth and nail
But there’s no precense or sense
of cents or presents
he’d be better off being a grateful peasant.
Sometimes I wonder why we go on
Then the dusk is replaced by dawn
So quickly
So for at least for now I don’t feel so sickly
My stomachs growling
My mommas hounding
Telling me to get out
But I didn’t choose that route
The devil did
he gives me fits
now I’m on the side of the highway with a sweater I knit
A feather quilt
Can’t measure how long I’ve been on this trip.
But I just keep going because I’m trying to get a grip
I’m hungry as hell, and hells got another membership
And it all started with that very first sip
The very first time my momma said “Hello Kid.”
-Chew
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My favorite poem is “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrok” by T.S. Eliot.
“Let us go then, you and I,
While the evening is spread out against the sky,
Like a patient, etherized upon a table.”
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Was trying to search for a poem that was spoken about in the Symposium but this was the closest I could find:
They who over ocean bear
Traffic, and its anxious care,
On the dark wave’s foaming steep
See God’s wonders in the deep;
He commands and floods arise;
Lo! the billow flies,
Raging, high to heaven it goes,
Downward to the depth it flows;
Death-like shade He o’er them rolls,
Fear and trouble melt their souls,
Reeling, stagg’ring, to and fro,
Like a drunken man they go,
And with awe and fear full fraught,
Lose the power of sense and thought;
Then they cry unto the Lord,
He their trouble doth regard,
Gives them safety when they plead,
Saves them in their hour of need:
Yea, he calms the stormy deep,
Till the foaming billows sleep;
For this sweet, unhop’d-for, rest,
Joy pervades the seaman’s breast;
Who, though once of winds the sport,
Safe is brought into the port.
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Favorite poems:
Poppies in October - Sylvia Plath
Maud - Alfred, Lord Tennyson (long)
In Memoriam - Alfred, Lord Tennyson (long)
Beowulf (epic)
The Odyssey - Homer (epic)
Song of Myself - Walt Whitman
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It’s not the size that mattes or the length, it’s how you decide to use it .
Look at me a busy bee
as busy as a bee can be:
A bee who sees
the worlds disease.
The best bees are british bees,
the worst bees are zombie bees,
but what’s wrong with bees
is nothing that a bee can see.
When best bees
become better bees
there had better be
a party please
because this bee is a bad bee
when what bees need
is CompLX ITy.
A bee with no degree
will need at least a week
or maybe three.
Until a bee can be a bee
who happily and truthfully
every bee should want to be,
a sad bee that bee will be.
If you see such a bee
wandering stupidly
Don’t swat him!
Put him to sleep.
A brave bee might try again
to find his way some other way
to gain electric zen.
What kind bees might you be who see me?
A bee will have to wait and be the good bee
that all bees must be.
Interesting fact about Bees: If you find a Bee crawling on the ground and give him a sugary drink, it sometimes gives him the energy he needs to fly again. Or just leave him there and he’ll probably get there in the end.
its better to die by musket or pot than barley or rot
There once was a lonely E.T.
pedalling slowly in a foreign home
he marvelled at the sights within
he rued the ancient signs he’d blown
perhaps he’d quit cycling to easily
he thought, but it seemed to him
that the point of his journey
was to learn and to be known?