Education

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, Rhyme scheme ABBCCDDEE....JJA
I can't believe I actually managed to glean some meaning out of this poem. It's ridiculous.


Lying in a sea of arbitrary constants
Is everything and nothing
And all that grieving brings
Is a sentient mattress
Coddling a swampy mistress
Exuding a lachrymose fog
That burbles in tagalog
But angels dine on lead tonight
Disguised as sheet graphite
Whose layers spill forth, incontinent
Like a shedding onion meant
To do naught but strip itself
Prior adornings adorning the shel
Of self, propagating strip terror
Most would agree it was an error
To strip it; slicing would be tastier
Though julienne belongs not in the patissier
Rising like baking soda meets vinegar
Or pantaloons balooning forever
Leaving the round with growing distance

Dictation

Elusive threads

Tugging at minds' ends.

Chess pieces caress the board

Playing an intense game

The outcome played out

Long before.

One chooses his choice of food

Never realizing

It was never his choice to begin.

And when a poet writes

About what one calls 'inspiration'

He'll never admit:

Every thoughtful word

Meticulously hand-picked;

Is but dictation.

Alienated

@#*&^$^&*#@ xyz

I sure do know my ABCs

Yet I try and try

Till I fail to deny

That I'm may actually not be

A specimen of mankind

A glimpse of my mind

Is a different space

A different time

Radiating with a wavelength

like no other kind

Well allow me to explain

To feel is to:

GRR baaah Tskk RAWRRR Booooooom!

A flurry of colors

And a mess of rhythms

In a vacuum of darkness

Neither alive nor dead

Reaching my hand in yet again

Drawing out

A series of unfortunate needles.

To feel

Is to feel the stab in all

Or the swaying flowers in the wind

But to communicate this

Is but an endless dream

I call out to the infinite void

But no like wavelengths

Were to be found.

But yet this smile never wanes

I think,

yes I do think;

That

I must be

insane.

Thanksgiving

Roasted brown crisps

Perching upon a tree

Combing off remnants

In a boyish wind.

Down below

A cleaner groans

Of the endless fall.

Forgetting whose shade

Embraced him through

The summer's glaze

The Death Of A Poem

I tried to write a poem
That came into my head;
But when I tried to form the words
A void opened instead.

The idea crouched inside my mind
Piping up now and then
In a tiny voice as if to
Remind me yet again.

But I could not give it life,
As hard as I had tried.
The words simply refused to come
And so it promptly died.

Is This A Poem?

Is this considered a poem
If I break up the lines?

What if I were to
Break them at awkward
Lengths
In the middle
Of the sentence?

What if I took the time
To make everything rhyme?
And if these rhymes are cliché
Would it matter anyway?

Is this now a poem
If I took the lost sighs
Of love, loss, life,
And wove them between
The untied laces of
A lonely man’s shoes?

What if I threw in an abstract
Image for the reader to ponder,
Which in fact holds no meaning
to uncover?

What if one finds meaning in it anyway?
Is it the elusiveness of imagined meaning
That defines the spaces between these lines?

Is this now…
A poem?

Cynodon Dactylon

Welcome to the end.
Many little feet flash up and down,
Stomping over the grass to send
Millions of bacteria to their doom.

Screams erupt. Do I hear the death throes
Of microorganisms cruelly crushed,
Bemoaning their fate? My gaze rose,
And 'twas but the shrill cries of

Overexcited children. Sunlight
Bathed us all, giving the grass the
Energy it could never have at night.
But the grass doesn't look excited

At all. It just sits there, being green
And docile. Resting and soaking in
The sunlight like an old has-been.

Maybe it has secretly resigned itself
To being trampled on. Maybe it was
Unsuccessful in love, left on the shelf,
And so just mopes here aimlessly.

I shudder at the thought.
Poor grass. It gave up so easily.
I would have at least fought
A little, for something of value.

And so enraged by this apathy
I was, I proceeded to tear up
The grass by its' roots maliciously.

"Rise! Do something with you life!"
Not realising I was in fact, extinguishing
It. They could never be revived.

Gasps of horror and looks of befuddlement
Now fell upon me. I sort of stopped
And looked up. Behind this puzzlement
People remembered times past spent doing

Nothing. Did such an outcry lend
Some new perspective? Apparently not.
People scurry off to meetings they must attend.
Welcome to the end.