The Poetry Section

Just found this post, haven't been on here for over a year with all that's going on. As a person with ADHD I like this thread & love poetry, I also write & would like to share some of that if it's ok. I'm 45 & currently living in SA originally from NT. Here's a poem (if you can call it that) on November 12th 2021. I have nfi what it means, my head just has words when it wants to so I write them down. This one is very short, others are not. If anyone likes this I'm happy to share more.

No Title, No Order

No order to life, no manual to learn from
Word's are screaming from different directions

Yet from the same mouth are thoughts gone wanton
Bringing depth to pause and consider upon them

If no hold's are barred and all is bespoken
Then life as it is will be re-awoken

Lightspeed

Beaten, broken, battered or scarred, what are the choice's that makes life hard
Beautiful, ugly or torn right through, the flame of the fire that shrouds the hew

Of the colour of light from within the night, the separation between one's fiscal delights
In depths we prowl of feeling aloud to offer a soul as a mental shroud

There's no light like frightin the darkness beyond, as a calling that takes us to the gong
It's sound is hollow yet shoots right through, your soul and body are utterly moved

From down here up there it looks like heaven, but the stars have plans and they are scary
For there is no light, nothing left to do for it will all burn forever and true

Kestrel Be Free

To live is to fly, to fly is to be free
Free from the world and all it's degree's

Fly safe fly high, turn wing to the sky
Lift up from the earth on eddies and glide

Into the future and making a past
These feathered friends have the will to last

Bring love and light and passion home
Be proud to know how well they have grown

Under your gaze, wisdom and care
These beautiful birds can enjoy the air

That's nice and fresh Brush_Mop... I've got a gong outback that I give a bash sometimes to let the sound ring through, not sure what the neighbours think(at least it's not a huge gong).
That's the dong'a hanging up above erfect:

I have a metal square nose shovel hanging there too for if I require a differing sound lol


I like your poetry :Y:

Awesome stuff! I bet that sounds good!

My gosh I just came accross one that blows my mind from over a year ago. Don't remember writing it or why.

Left of Centre.

My brain needs to settle an gather it's thoughts,
this isn't so easy from my recourse
The thought's that flow come from within not hidden
or bound to where it begins

Next level is to take it to submission, my brain refuses to do that mission
it seeks and finds the cause for the fault and lifts it to another cause

A mission of faith or a mission of love my brain does this just because,
it evaluates everything from all above and rolls it all into a ball of love

There is no here and no now but the passion spilled is forever proud,
Love what you do and what you're about for life will continue within and without...

Brush-Mop, . :Y: I would most emphatically classify your writing as Poetry my friend and you are most welcome to express your thoughts here for that's what we all do after all is said and done. There is in my humble opinion NO bad Poetry that comes from the heart via the written word.For many of us it's a way of trying to make sense of what feels in the mind like scattered and random thoughts.When we write them down it then gives us a visual insight to what can often be a very confused and intangible mind...if you get my drift.The thing is,we all see the world in very different ways...my concept of reality is different from yours and the same can be said of all of us.If one takes into account the findings in relation to Quantum mechanics and 'string theory'...wherein everything in creation is comprised at the molecular level of vibrating filaments 'strings and membranes,called 'branes' and so how all this is connected to visible and detectable physics like gravity and spacetime is the continuing conundrum for scientists...it's no wonder how we mere common folk can be tangled up and confused by the enormous complexities of our individual brains and how we perceive the world.
I guess...what we do is we write about it...and share it...and we all collectively learn and heal and live our lives on an elevated level. ..sorta,kind...like aahh,yeah :lol: Rossco.

Gotta be a contender for the world's most short poem.... it's called simply.....

WHERE.

Where.

Silver
94530122021

My last one for the year

And the only one I could possibly quote verbatim from memory

It's meant to be thought provoking

Your Dreams and Your Visions
And so you think about your future and the state of your affairs
And you've taken to believe that there is no one who cares
About your Dreams and your Visions.

And so the best thing you can do is try to write it all down
But the words don't tell the story if there is no one around
To share your Dreams and your Visions.

So you pour another whiskey and you drink the whole lot down But the memories and feelings keep on churning around
In your Dreams and your Visions.

Wasted time and bad decisions, etched those furrows on your brow. A love that bloomed without fruition only bearing fruit now
Amid your Dreams and your Visions, Wasted time and bad decisions

Is there anybody out there, have you felt the same way too
When the world comes in to crush you, the only peace so it seems
Is in your Dreams and Your Visions, your Dreams and your Vision..mm-mm-mm. Copyright 2022.Ross.L.Langlands.

Gold Fever
It's that time when all is ready
And your counting down the days
When you'll fire up your vehicle
And pursue your fossicking ways
There's been a lot of research
Your sure you've picked the spot
You've all that you can think of
It won't matter if it rains or not
Your pans and your detector
Your classifier and tools
All is in readiness
This is no trip for fools
You have included a kit for snake bite
And some handy tools to boot Your tarpaulin and your chainsaw
For whatever lies afoot
At last, you are up and running
There's nothing left to chance
You're so keen to hit the goldfields
You could do a little dance
Oh the memories of your past trips They all come flooding back The music 'round the campfire Before you,' hit the sack'.
Copyright 2022.Ross.L.Langlands

Apologies to Clancy (and Mr Patterson).

My teeth are slowly grinding as I’m sitting in a winding
stream of traffic stretching off into a smoggy urban sprawl.
And my thoughts begin to wander and again I start to ponder
why I ever though a city life would suit a soul like me.

The endless city bustle where the people always hustle
through a life that’s never fast enough to seem to satisfy.
I see only faces frantic like they’ve lost all that’s romantic
rushing to and fro through canyons made of metal, steel and glass.

But the cars are somehow fading into mobs of cattle wading
through the shallows of the Lachlan river viewed through a dusty light.
And I hear the gentle singing of the drover that is bringing
up the rear of our procession with a poignant lullaby.

And in my dream I fancy I’m a little bit like Clancy
wandering through an endless ancient land of red and brown and gold.
And I live a life untethered, with a visage wise and weathered
and my time paced out in pony prints that follow from behind.

An honour guard of Coolibah's surrounds my camp beneath the stars,
the southern cross reflected in the waters rippled sheen.
And the rock walls tell the story 'bout the people here before me,
ten thousand seasons spent in campsites similar to mine.

And a heartbeat overtaxing sees my countenance relaxing
and slows to match the gentle tempo of the Droving man.
A man who’s only tether is a rope of woven leather
and a stock whip coiled loosely in the knuckles of his hand.

Where the scented breezes draw me to the beauty spread before me,
shrinking cares down into nothing but a calm serenity.
Yet silence seems so friendly and the beauty acts to mend me
of the wounds that I’d collected through the stress of days before.

I sometimes like to fancy that we all could be just like Clancy
taking time to write our letters with our thumbnails dipped in tar.
Instead of emails electronic there would be letters laconic
of our musings pondered lovingly and slowly written down.

And we’d find ourselves relaxing from a world so overtaxing
and we’d take the time to better know the neighbors all around.
But the blaring horn behind me serves to rather rudely find
me back in traffic in an endless stream of cars out upon the endless road

So I hunch my shoulders grimly and I dream of days that dimly
lie within my fading memory of times when I was free.
And I recognise as dreaming all my wistfulness and scheming
in attempting to return my life to what it used to be.

Still there's a place down deep inside me, like Clancy's ghost riding beside me
that let's me weather almost anything this life can bring my way.
And with Clancy’s lifestyle now connected through my dreams I feel protected
with thoughts and dreams of freedoms lost so long ago.

And no matter what befalls me, or when fate chooses to call me
from my life to see whatever's waiting on the other side.
I'm glad this ghostly fancy has permitted me like Clancy
to experience a life that's simple, safe and free.

David-Karratha said:

Apologies to Clancy (and Mr Patterson).

My teeth are slowly grinding as I’m sitting in a winding
stream of traffic stretching off into a smoggy urban sprawl.
And my thoughts begin to wander and again I start to ponder
why I ever though a city life would suit a soul like me.

The endless city bustle where the people always hustle
through a life that’s never fast enough to seem to satisfy.
I see only faces frantic like they’ve lost all that’s romantic
rushing to and fro through canyons made of metal, steel and glass.

But the cars are somehow fading into mobs of cattle wading
through the shallows of the Lachlan river viewed through a dusty light.
And I hear the gentle singing of the drover that is bringing
up the rear of our procession with a poignant lullaby.

And in my dream I fancy I’m a little bit like Clancy
wandering through an endless ancient land of red and brown and gold.
And I live a life untethered, with a visage wise and weathered
and my time paced out in pony prints that follow from behind.

An honour guard of Coolibah's surrounds my camp beneath the stars,
the southern cross reflected in the waters rippled sheen.
And the rock walls tell the story 'bout the people here before me,
ten thousand seasons spent in campsites similar to mine.

And a heartbeat overtaxing sees my countenance relaxing
and slows to match the gentle tempo of the Droving man.
A man who’s only tether is a rope of woven leather
and a stock whip coiled loosely in the knuckles of his hand.

Where the scented breezes draw me to the beauty spread before me,
shrinking cares down into nothing but a calm serenity.
Yet silence seems so friendly and the beauty acts to mend me
of the wounds that I’d collected through the stress of days before.

I sometimes like to fancy that we all could be just like Clancy
taking time to write our letters with our thumbnails dipped in tar.
Instead of emails electronic there would be letters laconic
of our musings pondered lovingly and slowly written down.

And we’d find ourselves relaxing from a world so overtaxing
and we’d take the time to better know the neighbors all around.
But the blaring horn behind me serves to rather rudely find
me back in traffic in an endless stream of cars out upon the endless road

So I hunch my shoulders grimly and I dream of days that dimly
lie within my fading memory of times when I was free.
And I recognise as dreaming all my wistfulness and scheming
in attempting to return my life to what it used to be.

Still there's a place down deep inside me, like Clancy's ghost riding beside me
that let's me weather almost anything this life can bring my way.
And with Clancy’s lifestyle now connected through my dreams I feel protected
with thoughts and dreams of freedoms lost so long ago.

And no matter what befalls me, or when fate chooses to call me
from my life to see whatever's waiting on the other side.
I'm glad this ghostly fancy has permitted me like Clancy
to experience a life that's simple, safe and free.

Click to expand...

A very cleverly put-together piece of work David.Using Banjo's work as a template-come inspiration for your own thoughts and words...I like it..well done!

I concur wholeheartedly

Hope this doesn't get me into trouble....

The National Poetry Contest


It was the National Poetry Contest, held in the Sydney Town Hall.

The grand finalists were a toff from one of the fancy universties, the other was Slim Mick, from somewhere out the back of Humpty Doo.

The judge laid down the ground rules -

1. The poem must contain 4 lines
2. it must rhyme
3. it must contain the word Timbuktu
4. The contestant must recite the poem within one minute of coming onto the stage.

The Sydney toff ascended the stage first. Within the minute he recited the following…

“Slowly cross the desert sands
Trekked the dusty caravan
Men on camels, two by two
Destination Timbuktu”

The crowd went wild, lets see the Humpty Doo yokel beat that!!

It was Mick’s turn.

The minute was just about done, when he cleared his throat and said….

“Me and Tim a-huntin went
Met three whores in a pop up tent
They was three, we was two
So I bucked one, and Tim bucked two”

Thanks Reefer,
But I have to confess - I am not the original author, I'm not clever enough to think that stuff up.
But it is too funny not to share.

reefer said:

Putting aside the ...Ribald nature of the piece, I think this has been one of the funniest things I've heard in a long time. AND IT BROUGHT OUT AN EXHILARATING JOLT to my system and I almost fell on the floor laughing! Good stuff and a welcome contribution to a thread, less visited these days while I pick up a few pieces and get back to what I enjoy...JUST WRIT'N STUFF! n' ahh. Yeah. Thank you PhilTas for sharing it...and looking forward eagerly for your future posts. ..."hang on a minute!... "Where's me bucking horse?Lol!

Click to expand...

Where's your buccaneers?
Under me bucking hat.

Cmon...... that doesn't even ryme lol

It

silver said:

Cmon...... that doesn't even ryme lol

Click to expand...

It's actually the punchline of a very old (50+ years), very funny, shaggy dog story.