Writer's Lounge

Subject: Writer's Lounge Sat Mar 06, 2010 9:25 pm

Post your poems here for the world to see. =)
Our corner of the world anyway.

Subject: Re: Writer's Lounge Tue Mar 09, 2010 7:24 pm

I wrote this the other day while waiting to be picked up on campus. So, this is a real life event, just in prose poetry form. Razz

The Cigarette

A young man of small stature and exotic features goes briskly past. His small dark eyes dart back and forth. Of fear, I know not. Perhaps he searches for an elusive friend? I watch, fascinated, as the cool breeze ruffles his raven hair softly. He paces slowly. Deliberately. He shakes his hands of phantom water and hides them in his deep jean pockets. He lifts his face, inhaling a scent. Experimentally, I sniff, only to come to revelation the scent eludes my own nose. His stroll increases in tempo, making small crushes of sand grains into the concrete. A sudden halt makes his body sway. He intently studies a close approaching group of fellow camaraderie. He takes a tentative step toward them, but gleans backwards as if a wall is his obstacle. One small nod of his sharp chin to his chest and onward he marches. Soft exchanges and friendly pantomimes. A small white stick is exchanged for a smile and handshake. A clicking spark of bright hot flame. A long inhale, dragging out the taste. An exhale of grey smoke and the young man is steady again.

Subject: Re: Writer's Lounge Tue Mar 09, 2010 7:47 pm

oooh, real life experience. Me likes. Smile

Subject: Re: Writer's Lounge Wed Apr 07, 2010 6:09 pm

So, here's a poem I worked on for my poem a day during the month of April, which is National Poetry Month. It's an American Paragraph that contains exactly 17 lines of American Sentences, which all have exactly 17 syllables. It was pretty fun to write, and I thought I would share it with you guys. Smile

Little people with big dreams about a future waiting or wasted.
Looking, watching, and observing the cars go by filled with their own worlds.
I see a young girl standing on the corner of the red traffic light.
Her face is a mask, hiding the sorrow of a thousand fallen tears.
She walks along the crosswalk, seeing only her life of her own world.
She does not notice the man in the blue car who is an editor.
She does not realize that the magazine she holds closely to her chest,
Could have been her ticket out of her most unfortunate tragedy.
If only she had sent off her story a week before that Sunday...
The very same Sunday her father beat her mother into silence.
The perhaps the editor would have received the girl's story on time...
And then perhaps the magazine she holds so closely to her bosom,
Would have been her triumph over the evil sorrow of her own world.
Then perhaps, the girl could have recognized the man in the little blue car.
But it did not happen for now the light has turned green signaling go.
The cars move forward, our lives move onward, losing that moment in time
Where our world touches another and can become larger than before.

Comments are always appreciated. Smile