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RE: The Dark marauder returns. Poetry dice 37.
Well done.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly who's who in this poem but it probably doesn't matter ... Dark Marauders, Pirates, Zombies, Aliens and Wizards ... I suppose there's an overlap in personality type and underlying motivation. I always thought you were a bit of a rebel ... but are you sure you should be hanging out with this crowd? :-)
Anyway, good rhythm and no obviously forced rhymes. You've sharpened your sword!
Hope everything's going well.
Quill
Quill my friend
My sword couldn't be more blunted. But it is nice hear from you.
I haven't been doing much of anything. I haven't been writing at all. I have had an interest in writing, but.. Stuff is tough at the moment.
No the who's who is unimportant and undisclosed. Those outcast by the mainstream corrupt corporation were expelled and called any number of derogatory terms. In exile they became strong and have returned for a degree of satisfaction in the way of vengeance. Whether or not they did evolve / devolve while living on the fringe is left ambiguous.
Warfare does that, doesn't it? Turning the enemy inhuman I mean. Its a useful and not unheard-of tactic. Both for the purpose of propaganda and to get the job done.
Sorry, I am well aware you are a vet, and this is just word play. I hope I haven't blundered AGAIN!
Nice to hear from you.
Hope you are well.
@girlbeforemirror,
Darling, I've yet to see you blunder at anything. And, your sword is most certainly not blunt. You're getting very good at this. Indeed, I'm wondering if you're not getting a little TOO good. As long as you were writing Free Verse, I was safe. But it seems you've taken a liking to Verse ... and I'm afraid you're going to start making me look bad. Have I created a monster? :-)
Marg, a lot of people are pulling for you. Me included. Hang in there.
Quill
I've heard it said the quill indeed is mightier than sword
To which I too can testify it's worth,
It is however sword which oscillates perpetual
Etching internally eternal dearth,
And etched in deed words ever scribed upon the mind they cry
Particularly nocte it's script cry's mirth,
Illuminated by minds eye chanting mantra is born
Ingrained the verse now cast a textual birth,
Pen in hand void hibition bard but transcribes thy log
No thought of pride or wit, estranged from worth,
Essential task not will driven, unburdening cargo,
Obligation to avoid rupture of girth,
So it seems dear quill it is equilibration of the fire,
A careful tendering of private hearth,
Succeed in symmetry balancing sword and pen through life,
One achieves that which we all desire on earth.
@girlbeforemirror,
Marg ... did you write this?
Quill
I feeewrite sleepless from my bed, where words reverberate in head.
It's 2 am I wake too soon, the moon is high it haunts my room, I cannot sleep, yet can't be woken, it's in this space such truths are spoken.
Caught between the here and there, where quills are real, my lament bare.
The words they roll with ease tonight, echoed from within, space between bright. What is it that I wrote that stirs you? Balance, poise wordsmithed ego true? Yes I forged these words for you, a random strike of sword swept through. Not forced just flowed, as flowers bloom. The sun will rise in just 3 hours, my words they once again will cower. Simple things the daily grind will rob the mind, and all I find.
I sit, no lie within these walls, at night no deviance befalls. As all are resting, all are home, not left alone while others roam.
I feel a stillness, not disconnect, the self engulfed, damn nears respect. But quill the morning fast approaches, poverty of my thought it poaches. Reproachful retreat vocab evades. Fatigue malaise it raded my words, leaves cavernous a space unheard. Reverberating echoed sounds is all that's left till words are found. Then in the finding shower down. Should I cover cower, should I frown. Should I choose the swim or life raft boat, return to shore or chance to float. To frolic in the word play now, full knowledge of what waits somehow. The stipping down the stopping short, the ravens come, they pick my thoughts, dismember words caw at my text, claw at my flesh til recalls bereft.
Then once again I float on sea, not a drift but on a current free. Sometimes the void of words concerns, the lonesome song I've come to learn. Beyond horizon the void it waits, writing can help deny ones fate, Right now right here it flows the mind, no constrains of time to quell divine. As the sun it dips again my friend, should sleep avade and heaven send, a word or 2 a verse or curse, a lullaby for stricken and worse. I'll write to you again a garble, a spin a song , of long lost marbles, of dreams who's flames flickered too bright, vanished too soon, came mute from fright. The words that bounce all day and night, yet deathly malaise robbed their plight.
I know not when the words will spill, if I could predict your task I'd fill. Already I can feel the ebb, no point to scramble for my web. Time and again I've tried to grasp the momentary words I clasp. Yet through my fingers as I tire, words are lost moments transpire. Here they live stoked in the fire, the space between where dawns a lyre, liar, ...her pants on fire.. 😂 Before the dawn the darkest hour, that's the time I find the power, it holds the flame hidden unseen when echoed words are washed and cleaned. Frantically I watch the hour, typing before my thoughts they sour. But all she sings is a reframe, the refrain just rehashed again. The lyrebird speaks no knew truths, is no soothsayer no super slouth, more a sloth if truth be told, no fancy plume does she behold. A simple ground dwelling plain bird, repeating words which once she heard. Sometimes they come out cleverly, such moments grasped pon treasurely. The great mimic mirrored returned, all that she hears all that she learned. Is it learned or just repeated, as dawn encroaches knowledge retreated. Taking too belief in words, in light of day the pot gets stirred, the words are mixed, they're plucked and stewed, best of intentions misconstrued. That's when before the week is through and all is locked in chain block true, she returns and deletes her song, as retrospect critique calls wrong.
Short answer, yes I wrote for you a rhyme response, simple thank you.
For stopping by, for friendships gift, for continued belief in my crazy riffs.
@girlbeforemirror,
I am thunderstruck!
Marg ... your progression is astonishing.
When I read that first poem, I immediately Googled several different lines thinking you were quoting Shakespeare or Tennyson. I didn't recognize the poem and I didn't want to look stupid.
Marg ... stop fooling around with your knitting, painting, scrap-booking, doodling, free-writing and all the other artsy-fartsy stuff ... and start writing poetic verse.
Not only do you have an incredible facility with words ... you're VERY GOOD at "finding poetic ideas, ideals and insights" about which to write.
Quill
It's amazing what a retreat from cognition and a good vegetation can achieve.
I find the word stupid a little harsh, but you did reveal your ignorance re stitching techniques. I'm a crocheter not a knitter.
Also, as I head into Spring and you autumn I was going to post you a fab 100% acrylic scarves, or perhaps even one from my more exclusive Australian merino range, but...
Let me know, Iam only half jesting. Perhaps down your way you don't even require such a things in winter. My references are from TV, Dexter is always in short sleeve shirts.
I think you should send me a weekly email with similar content to this, is is good for my ego. On a serious note, my self concept very much needed a boot at the moment, you have no idea how much your encouragement helps me.
Perhaps I'll send an email. I over share on steemit enough as it is.
gb4m 💃
PS.
I haven't used this syllabic rate before, it just came out. The only formal poetry I have utilised came from a suggestion that I base my poetry around a Coca-Cola jingle.
I read one poem in high school. Robert Frost, The road not taken. It didn't do much for me then, and still doesn't impress me much.
I do like Bob Dylan's ramblings, I'm so pleased he got the recognition he deserved.
I have never read Tennyson, I will today.(After I do a little work on my cubist dog painting ).
@girlbeforemirror,
I stand corrected. Crocheter ... not a knitter. :-)
Blackmailer.
I live in Central Florida. We get 2-3 weeks of long-shirt weather per year. The rest of the year is sweltering.
I'm writing a post as we speak. I've written a "poem-in-reply."
He's a direct family ancestor. My family is "soldiers and poets" back as far as the eye can see.
https://steemit.com/poetry/@quillfire/from-whence-that-you-came-being-a-moral-person
Technical question: How do you get your lines of poetry to appear in "stanza form" (reduced line spacing intra-stanza) like you did in this post?
Quill