Poems

[Pnarpa]

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I've got rohypnol.
And now I've got you.

[Dupa_z_Zasady]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Arthurian Lords suck
And Pawnies too.

[AMPZORD]

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
So what the fuck is the color violet?

[Angel_de_Combate]

Fairy-Land

Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again- again- again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down- still down- and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anything-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet, a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

Edgar Allan Poe

[Angel_de_Combate]

Happy Birthday William Shakespeare.

All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare ~born 23 April 1564, died 23 April 1616.

[Psynocide]

Never liked poetry, too pretentious for my tastes but I do like a good Roses and Violets.

Roses are red,
Violets are red,
Oh Christ, the garden's on fire.

Roses are grey,
Violets are grey,
I'm colour-blind,
Well fuck.

Roses are brown,
Violets are brown,
Who's taken a shit on my lawn?

[Tamui]

Originally Posted by Psynocide

Who's taken a shit on my lawn?

Sorry...

[Seher]

When I saw the title
I wondered how many roses and violets
would be in this thread



Then this page.

:3

[Angel_de_Combate]

Originally Posted by Seher

When I saw the title
I wondered how many roses and violets
would be in this thread



Then this page.

:3

/facepalms

Poetry is good for you.

[Daretobeconju]

The Whisper and The Lie

I whisper once to warn the woman who wishes for the prize
The would-be worldly worshipper of what she can’t realize
Who welcomed weathered wonderment without a watchful eye
Whilst witchery was whittling another loathsome lie

And where we wander wants to wonder underneath its breath
Just why we walk the way we walk upon our way to death
And waves of weirdness waft around the workings of the mind
But it’s worth the while to wait for wisdom to wash away the blinds

And where and why and what we will, will words ever arise
To win the well-timed wedding of the wild and the wise
And will we all withstand the whirlwind that whips across the land
The wicked watchman weaves the well-planned wanderlust of man

2006 R Patrick Martin