This is a little game for poetry writers to play with. Even those just getting into poetry really.
This is your palace, describe it to everyone in poem form. You can play this game as many times as you like, in as many different ways as you like. Tell us about one room today and the gardens the next, or a teddy you leave on the second last chair of the dinner table every night.
Just to get us started, this is an impromtu bit about the medicine woman who lives in the room next to the kitchen in my palace;
Peak into that window a little,
is the old witch still there?
Mumma said she's no witch,
but a lady what's hardly aware
of which way is up and which is down.
Won't stop us though,
so
peak into that window a little,
and see what we can find
to steal us from here.
Your Palace.
5 posts in this topic.
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My poem's a story about my palace being taken by an evil King, then the King dying.
A wind picks up,
The rain pounds harder,
The hail begins to fall,
And the hooves come closer.
We pull out our swords,
Lift up our shields,
Wait for the approaching army,
And stand in this field.
They come from all directions,
Gleaming horses and sharp swords,
Don't wait for a plan,
Just run right at us in our fort.
We fight bravely,
Gallantly and try,
But soon they overcome us,
And our army drop like flies.
....
The next dreary day,
We all get to work,
Under our new King,
Aware that something evil lurks,
Just in the shadows,
Waiting for us to mess up waht's planned,
Aware of our fear,
It keeps us in the cup of its hand.
Peasants and ex-royals alike,
Gather in moonlight,
Planning against,
The King in the night.
...
Standing before the castle,
Aware of the dangers and death,
We lay siege upon the towers,
And the towns filled with murder and theft.
Up in the high tower,
In the throne room he lays,
Blood on his cape,
These are the makings of brighter days...
(IS lays a wrod?) -
The garden lies in ruins where we left it years ago,
smashed faces scream in agony that we reap what we sow.
Their split arms are bent at angles, bodies separate from their heads,
it's like the concrete was alive and we've come back to find it dead.
I pick up an cherub where it well off the wall,
neglect left it stranded, we made the angel fall.
Whispers 'round my head tell me to turn away,
because when our love left the garden, that's when the devil came. -
No princess in this castle,
only stone
and ash
and dust.
Sweep up all the pieces.
(please don't let me cry) -
Wind rustles through the trees on the grounds,
thick old trees which catch the wind
and buffer it apart.
The wind slips by like a stream in pebbles, downhill.
Uphill, the creator of the wind, pillars of stiff marbled stone
clean and glistening black to hide in the darkness
specks of stars shimmer through the stone
glints of red, white, clear stones, all polished with the winds of time.
Heavy thick cloth hangs around the palace blocking off walkways
protecting people from view until the wind demands otherwise.
Draped across the top of the supports is a palette
which stairs lead up to from the back, pillar stairs,
depictions of strong animals
willing supporters of the cause to reach higher
Find the actual stars
On top of my maze castle of draperies
is nothing but a concave dome which catches water
and runs it off the sides into buckets
which crawl through the floor of my castle.
These streams are replenished
and filled by rainwater, brought by the holy wind.
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