I'm going to try to do NaPoWriMo this year, I'm very excited! Good luck to everyone! I'm probably going to end up writing a lot of haikus, but I'll try my best!
Last edited by Sparkle on Mon Apr 01, 2013 1:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
Hard and fast rules about grammar go out the window when it comes to poetry (although beware of improper uses of semi-colons in Audy's presence), so use whatever punctuation makes it read the way you intend. Personally, I think it's fine like it is, without any punctuation.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Today I did one of those stream of consciousness poems where you just write and don't do any edits. It was pretty fun.
Sometimes I walk in the mornings, Early, before people wake up And the world buzzes gently With the potential Of everything that still sleeps. I walk out the door And into world unknown Where no one exists except me My shadow And sometimes a book. I sit on a bench Or on the grass Or on hard, unrelenting concrete. Sometimes I read Sometimes I draw or write And sometimes I just close my eyes And think. When dawn cuts pink and blue and orange Into the navy morning I open my eyes And look up And watch the world Come to life.
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
This is a bit more morbid than most of what I usually write, but I thought I would try something new. I was experimenting with format, too. I also decided to forgo the pink font, as it kind of ruins the tone of the poem.
F I wait on the brink, my mind in turmoil. I cut white paper into tiny pieces, the scissors glittering in my hand. I am waiting, for what I don’t know. For dawn. For dusk. For nothing at all. For everything. A The wind whistles in my ears. I rock back and forth in the old rocking chair. It creaks, each noise a tentative scream. My hair flutters about me like a cluster of butterflies startled by a movement. L The scissors snip at the paper, and suddenly they catch something larger and softer. Blood seeps from my finger, staining my dress. The scissors stop. The red is bright in this sharp, grey landscape. L I stand up, the pieces of cut paper tumbling down into the ravine at my feet. Blood drips down with them, intermingling with the snow-like flakes of paper. A deadly rain of red and white. I My dress snaps and whips around my legs. Bare feet gripping the edge. Tenaciously or barely? I can’t tell. N Whispers. Screaming. Silence. Blood in the snow. Wind. Nothing but wind. I can’t hear I can’t hear I can’t hear I can’t hear the silence for the wind G Suddenly my feet lose their grip and I realize I have always been
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
Come into the forest, dear! You’ll see the faeries have danced here In circles ringed with toadstools red Upon bare feet they swiftly tread.
There is where the old witch dwells Whose hair is long with braids and bells. One wish, she’ll grant with toss of dice But only if you’ll pay the price.
The trees, the speak in somber tones Of whispered tales and dead men’s moans Watch out! They’ll just as soon ensnare As embrace all who enter there.
The gremlins and the goblins creep The dark grows large and black and deep Softly, slowly, sneaks the Night Run back, run back! Or die of fright.
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
Yesterday’s yesterday, I found a box Buried in the park Under a rose bush. It was old, or Seemed so at least, With a dancing elephant carved Into the soft light wood Blackened with dirt. I was digging for buried treasure. Seems I do that a lot these days, Search for things I know I won’t find. But maybe I did find it, Somehow, Buried treasure at the heart Of an enchanted forest Where young couples walked Hand in hand Amidst the screaming children And lonely walkers. That thrice-damned box. It’s sitting on my bedside table now. I don’t know what to do with it. If I open it, who knows What I might find? Closed, it could be anything. A secret journal. A dead man’s skull. A million dollars, My ticket out of here. But even I know Elephants can’t really dance And they always did say I was a coward.
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
I fell in love with books in second grade When the words on the pages Grew wings and flew to my brain And out again through my lips, Silky and smooth and beautiful. When the smell of the pages And the way the black letters looked On white or beige, like some Elaborate pattern stitching worlds And stories and people together Enthralled and enchanted me. When the people in the books Came to life and I realized That every single one of them Was me Or who I used to be Or who I could become. When I walked a thousand lifetimes In someone else’s shoes And found things I didn’t know existed And wonders I had never dared to dream. When I realized that reading Is the same thing as flying But with less audacity and more beauty. When the books brought me others, Readers and writers alike, And I realized that I wasn’t The only one.
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
Isn’t it strange That I’m nothing like you But we feel the same things We both do what we do That we think different thoughts In the same sort of rhythm That we pass people by And the next day walk with them That you are a stranger And you are a friend And we both can break Soon after we bend That we like different books That tell the same stories That we like some things sweet And other things gory That we may pass the other Every single day And yet say nothing; Is there nothing to say? For we are the same Just as much as we’re not. Are we too old for new friends Or have we just forgot?
"So what? All writers are lunatics!" -Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
