The GSB Writers Circle.

FCPSITSGEPGEPGEPanda:

Ah well even if it was directly influenced by someone you did a really good job with it. I will not back down.

And to choose the next topic I appoint What's in a name?

Thank you
Gotta think of a topic! When does this one end btw?

omg I think today!

FCPSITSGEPGEPGEPanda:

omg I think today!

*freaks out* Ok, eh, the next topic will be Philosophy

Have fun!

What's in a name?:

*freaks out* Ok, eh, the next topic will be Philosophy

Have fun!

I like the sound of this.

Ah. Something easier. And it's a little more...free. Less restrictions. This might be the best topic yet.

*Bows*

Thank you guys

Philosohpy... Great subject. I have two older poems that I'd love to showcase for this topic. I might write a new one later on, but for now, here's these two.

The first one I posted on here a looooooong time ago under a different name. Sadly, I can't remember the name, so I re-named it.

The Maiden

With a small sigh
the sparkle left her
empty. Her beautiful
soul hid in her
quarantined mind
marked as incurable
on her peach temple.

Like a butterfly
floating through
the morning mist-
her hand raised to
her chin to support
her flower face-
wet with the
morning dew of
a solitary red rose.

The Earth glistened
as she walked among the
pollen flying like
faeries from their
small dandelion homes.
They danced around
her head until
the rain falls from
the silverfish clouds
lining the dark sky.
She hugs herself
as the rain kisses her
body. The wispy wind
wraps around her
cold embrace.

With a small sigh
the life escaped her
pale lips as she
fell into the opened
arms of mother earth.
The faeries danced
around her body,
reviving her long
lost hopeless heart.

Her eyes opened like
a flicker in the night.
She sat up and danced
with the moon and stars.
Flying twinkles
glowed on her peach skin.

The beautiful smell of
daisies overcame her
as she closed her eyes;
for the truth would
soon be discovered
in the field of
red, yellow, and purple
flowers singing the
dirge of death.


...and the second one....


Joy of Lies

The wind cataracts down from the stars-
it flogs the somber clouds and foliage.
It lands in her long hair, forcing it back.
Circling thoroughly, the brown spins and
sparkles in the glow of the setting sun.
It kisses her face and hugs her head
as a mother cradling and shielding
her infant from the world’s sleaze.

Corruption that takes the structure of
a militant trying to annihilate the
humanity for the greater good. The
elitist of Earth. She’s in love
with her psychosis as she reeks
and rapes the inert with the
deceit forced upon her by her milieu-

Where the sun scarcely ever shined
through the shadows of espionage.
The treachery made the sweat exude
from her concealed shape. All that no one
could perceive was the brown curls and
the contusions likely to be attained
from the simplest of Earth’s delights.

Answers to Questions Unasked.

A wish upon a land,
a star-spangled banner
littering the sky.

No rhyme governing these
commandments, no reasoning
beyond a dictator in a golden throne.

A faceless effigy of all absolution and punishment.

When will the bell toll for
when his whim takes a moderately
bitter turn with a taste of genocide?

The sanguine skyline bleeds through
the cracks of his doctrines every
dawn and each sullen dusk.

Imperfections
so bold and glaring in each
gospel; like golden candlesticks
in cardboard churches.

How can they beg for austerity,
for charity when a myopic mouse
lays his head and cap down
on slipper satin in the Vatican?

I do not understand.

So many squeaking, squirming
shrews, voles and moles in
voluminous black and white gowns.

Yet; and yet, they fight for survival,
for dominance against another pack
in equally large black drapes.

"Oh, they speak in different tongues,
they have different coloured fur
and they are our enemies!"

How can this be? How can our dictator
dictate so many messages of hatred
and vile inhumanity while sending
his heir to die for love?

I do not understand it
for those who could answer are
hibernating for the Apocalypse.

Lucifer is Lost.

Eyes whispered into mine:

"You tasted freedom for
a day, a day, a day. I had
you protected but now you're addicted.
You're nothing."

I pawed at your cold shoulder
like a bear, so bare and stark
that shore you muttered a
hasty orison, a malleable
goodbye or farewell.

I felt you run your fingers through
my then darkening hair,
my reddening skin.

Your lustful stare froze into
an askance look.

The feathers are boiling into
leathery scales and I reign
in a paradox under the glory
of heaven.

I can feel your cold temper blow even now
even when I am burning up in my loneliness.

I’m working on a new poem that goes with the topc but meanwhile I’ll post an old one.



Philosophical Dreams of Imagined Reality

Nonsense is logic from a distorted mind.
Logic is prejudges collected along time.
Time is a way of describing movement –
How an object moves from one place to another.
Descriptions are nothing more than words.
Those words are only gasps of air mixing
With our imagination and imagination does not exist.
Which makes all just a dream.
And dreams are your mind’s way to process reality.
Wake up.

Philosophy... okay... um, I'll be back soon

Dressed in curtains of soot colored silk, with a corset of velvet roses,
Veil of pure unlit lace hides the salty beads of water sliding down her face.
Gliding, almost floating, as her unaudible sobs become more raucous in her mind-
She approaches the symbol which can only be evidence- forcing her to believe.

She's told herself, repeated it in her mind. She's confronted her mirror for advice.
With few carefully chosen words, she has made herself believe that it isn't so.
But now in front of her is a forewarning, bellowing in a soft and quiet enscription-
It is so. For the dark font reads- Here he lies, here he sleeps, and here, he is dead.

Above us, an upturned bowl of stars
Has been sinfully robbed of it's color
The light from the moon caresses the ground
Like a mortal caresses their lover.
Thrashing, rapid, dangerous waters
Calm to a gentle stream
Broken stitches that hold us up
Are righted, seam by seam.

The winds that whipped the faces
Of the children's skin so sallow
Is now a softer, dying breeze
Winding through tree's that are hollow.
The dancing boughs that whisper
To their jubilant attatched neighbour
Are rustling with excitement,
for the night is in their favour.

Pushover

Where I am to go
And who I am to be
Whilst you shove down my throat
Your bland philosophy?

I eschew your rebellion
And I’ll rise above your high
These blasé swear words
Erupting from your throat
Serving no purpose
You can’t possibly know
What I should do
What I should love…

I’m not like you and I don’t need to be tough.

Take your psychobabble
Apply it somewhere else
It won’t work on me.
You may think that you’re free
But you’ve built your own cell

Take father’s money
And mom’s cigarettes
Live in smoke and mirrors
In conformist hell.

As for me, I choose to think
I’ve the rest of my life to rebel.

Synonyms to Philosophy:
Beliefs
Viewpoint
Thinking
Values
Attitude
Idea
Way of life

Helpful? I think the topic might have been too abstract

The abstractness really helps, I think. It makes it flexible.

Why of course. But when I read Kris_the_demon’s and wait_what’s poems I couldn’t really relate them to the topic. So I just thought I’d “explain� it a little bit *shrugs*. =]

Woah. This could take a while. I think I'm going to have to comment poems in sessions.

wait_what - Your poetry always managed to pull me right into every word, and wanting to read more. I can tell it's a slightly older one - the flow is very stuttered, and reads very much like fragments of longer sentences, but your imagery is already beginning to show fantastic potential; especially here - 'Like a butterfly/floating through /the morning mist-/her hand raised to/her chin to support/her flower face-/wet with the/morning dew of/a solitary red rose'.
Although, you repeated 'peach' a few times throughout the poem; that spoils it a little because it's such an unusual image that repeating it takes the strength away a little. But overall, it was definately my favourite out of the two. Beautiful and squashed full of potential, considering it's reasonably old.

I found the second one pretty interesting, if only for your choice of vacabulary in places. I also found that it could be interpretted into a very definate meaning, where as some of your poetry has more than one meaning to it. That's not a criticism, it's just an observation. I suppose it could be a compliment, that it's more accessible to both novices and experienced poets. I particularly liked 'She’s in love/with her psychosis'.

Just for the record, the second poem is my belief that night is better then day. So it is related...

and the first is kind of, since she's trying to make herself believe that he isnt dead, but he is in truth.