Pokémon TCG: Sword and Shield—Brilliant Stars

Poetry Corner

D

dld4a

Feature Writer
Original works written by poster ONLY!
I'll start:

Each and Every One of Us
By: David B. Coleman II

Has it never occurred to you
That your mind can leave your brain
And enter a dimension of space and time
Considered to be insane
Only to return to the moment it left
To remember the sole of your name

As if you had just begun to recall
An event that had yet to pass
Like feeling the feeling of falling
Awaiting your destiny calling
Then to land in a bed of soft sand
But it's quick and your life's out of hand

Now each and every one of us
Is a unique point of view
But at the very same moment in time
I ain't no damn different than you

Step back
Get a grip
Check it out
And get hip!
 
Last edited:
The Still Spin

I am fruitful, and I fly without the wings of demons
The sphere of the inside spins in so many ways
That from the outside it seems still
Beware the stillness
It holds the unknown
Blurred to unrecognition
In the oneness of the broth of self
That sip by sip
Is drunk into feeling
and the spasm of aliveness
And welcome o the world
That also spins like our inside
And yet too seems still
Though we be right upon it
That which is the Empathic Self
Moving with parallel motion in tandem with the unknown
Side-by-side as close as to be one
Then taken for granted
In deference to the moving things we see only with senses
And thus part from the unknown to make the separateness known
Moving into the resurgement of all things
Unsatisifying in their impermanance
And so as demons we make haste of passion and sensuality
A temporarily satisfying anachronism tormenting the everness of stillness
We fly with demons wings across earthly pasture
Until we can no longer bear the loss of enchanted seeming-still
And we burn at last to ash
And the lightness that ever will be.
 
Why am I blue?

Why am i blue?
because of the world
because of you

I just want to get through
all this stress
all the stress of the world

so will you be
the one to free me
from all this?

Of all this anger and stress
of all this badger and death
of my life?

are you the knife
to cut my sad rope?
well, I just hope
wth all of my life

Sometimes I just want to let go
from this big pride show.
you know?

Life is as sad as a drama
or at least it is to me

It doesn't have to be
but dont blame me
am I the only one who sees?

You have the choice
so use your voice
forsomething other than bad
like you always had

You choose life for you and me
you control it, dont you see?

We all do
so dont be a fool
dont take the right choice and skew
it into something mean or blue

So why am I blue?
because of the world
because of you

And now you see
so dont blame me
if you try too,
we wont be blue.
 
My Fingers were the Roughened Ropes that Pulled the Paper Upwards

Washers whined, colliding colors
in the dryer, and the unembellished table.
A density of noise was packed to the corners
where it collected for ghosts to listen to later
as they had when the halls became deserted or dead,
with every eye closed as the wandering minds slept.
For the figures of night this was a dull obligation,
but I perceived it as nothing but noise.

The only apparitions seen were T-shirts white
that flew their flight (a means of getting dry).
I watched dimly while my fingers worked
at doing the better things they knew to do:
a pinch, a pull – the stark manipulation
of geometry, of what an object’s shape can be.
We start off with the unaffected plane
and shape it to our own more beautiful thing.

I sat complacent in a building born of stone:
the earth coughed up a tiny grain of dirt.
There was the noise filling up the voids
while my body told itself to make this music.
And so my fingers, folding on and on,
followed the blocky trance of the machines
until their clangs were nothing but a song
that produced – in parts – a mechanical paper crane.

The print and pattern was of such design
that the bird could have had two wings of flames.
It held my eyes as the washers still did whine,
disturbing the blessed moment all the same.
The night was cold (perhaps the fall of snow)
with all the walls restricted to their jobs.
It was a process I’d never known before –
the bird fell to the floor as I felt odd.
 
Pika-pikachu I choose you,
Beat all da enemies it what we'll do
blast team rocket with your thundershock
stalk ash, misty, may and brock
no-on's gonna beat my pikachu an me
we'll kick *** and go down in history. Yeh.
 
I didn't write it, but I have it on a shirt...is that good enough?

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator
 
Pretty much good stuff so far.

Why
By: David B. Coleman II

Why are you so violent?

Have you never been meak?
Do you just hate the weak?

Does not the air you breath,
Enter my lungs?

Do you not bleed?
Do you not love?

Anything?
Anyone?

Your mother?
Your father?
Your wife?

Your husband?
Your children?
Your life?
 
I used to write a lot of poetry, a long time ago. Haven't had the time for it really. Here's a couple of my favorite pieces:

Hidden Treasure
By: Jim Ferrell

A question that I find very funny,
Is "What is the definition of treasure?"
Some find treasure in sacks of money,
Or other shallow forms of pleasure.

Worldly possessions bring out the worst,
Corrupting one to the real meaning of living.
Would sacrificing really be a first,
To those who sincerely need our giving?

One could search the oceans deep,
In hopes of finding relics from long ago.
Or instead, true treasure one could reap,
If one knew which seeds to sow.

True treasure is not a secret of the wise,
Or some special, well-thought out plan.
Real treasure is looking into the eyes,
And caring, then helping our fellow man.

=====================================================================

The Eagle and the Wind
By: Jim Ferrell

The brisk wind gently shook the green leaves,
As a young eagle prepared for its first flight.
It opened its wings as it would on many later eves,
Did the young bird feel dread or fright?

Flapping its tendons and feathers with care,
It stepped off the branch with a thunderous cry.
Suddenly, the majestic bird fell through the air,
Losing its balance it was unable to fly.

Faster and faster the bird continued to fall,
Towards the ground; its future looked bleak.
The wind was merciful to something even that small,
And its current lined the bird from wing to beak.

The eagle cried as it flapped its wings,
Soaring high into the morning's rays.
Wind can be the most variable of things,
It's power changes from December to May.

The wind empowers the eagle to fly high into the sky,
Taking it to many places it's never been.
And when I needed help, you never asked why,
With your guidance, I can stand out among men.


Thanks for reading,

~Jim
 
My professor told us to write a brief summary of a piece of art we visualized as occurring in real time in front of us. We were then told to convert whatever we wrote into a syllabic poem. I chose the Fibonacci sequence as my pattern (1/1/2/3/5/8), and Picasso's Old Man With Guitar as the piece of art.

Old Man With Guitar

He
is
barking
in chorus
with an old mutt, pluck-
ing at the decaying body.

You
can
barely
hear the roar-
ing bullets or the
people over the cries of his

string
fingers
cracking ov-
er the running lines
of his guitar/ splintered neck.

Blue
sha-
dows stain
his skin like
the lines of age on
a slimy, yellow banana.


---

da da dada
 
Meh, this was a poem-type thingy that I wrote when I couldn't fall asleep last night. I tend to be... weird... at night, so it's prolly really stupid.
-------------------

Rose~​

We are young.
It is not accepted that we acknowledge our past,
Much less that we yearn for it.
It is short, and as such, it is insignificant.
We must only look back at mistakes and learn from them,
We must not look back at memories and cherish them.
No, such is the privilege of the old and the wise.
But yet, our past exists.
It is more than a series of mistakes not to be repeated.
It is memories that are forgotten, or will be, or should be.

A ballpark.
A fateful day when a boy finally succumbed to the pressure,
Finally realized -
"I can't play Pokemon, it's for losers, it's for little kids."

A new school.
Those boys whom he had tried to impress,
Whom he had quit his "sport" to please -
Were gone.
All friends, all traces of a better time -
Gone.

A light.
Shining among the dark halls of Junior High.
A hand -
A friend -
A first love.

A return.
A return to a domain he had "left," but never quite left -
A return to Pokemon.
In secret, of course - but a return nonetheless.

A group.
For the first time since that day, a group of friends -
Not just one.
A group of friends he would never meet;
The followers. The enforcers. The mentors. The buddy.
The Rose.

For first love had been abandoned,
Now a new love was found.
Unrealistic - they would never meet.
They would never know one another beyond the boards.
Wisconsin? Fourteen? He did not know.
Dreams blurred reality, the truth was lost.
The Rose -- was lost.

A second return.
A new group, now - the friends of old long lost.
Faceless friends like before, but now, real friends, too.
A rival defeated, a hatred sparked.
But it mattered not, for he now had friends -
And he had returned to that beloved game.

A new passion.
The discovery of a creative side.
Pokemon could be played, yes, but created too!
The art of fake cards - never appreciated by the masses.
Eight Heads emerged.
Two foes eternal, one indifferent chap.
Two friends, one rival,
And one for whom they all had naught but respect.

A constant sickness.
The latter most fled.
Disappeared into the darkness,
His art never heard from again.
The helicopters had ceased.

A look to the past concluded,
The present now at hand.
Ties to the past all remain -
The whereabouts are known, or assumed -
All but one.

Knowledge does not exist for her,
She has faded completely into memory.
And though one like her has been found,
It is not her.
Merely a fragmented shard, reflecting the past.
He will never find her, nay -
She has withered in memory -
A Rose, forgotten.
 
pokemon

POKEMON

Pokemon the best in the world nobody deos not know.
Out all ofer the planet in all best ways.
Kinges play the game in menny jears.
Earth yes earth all ofer the earth it was made in earth yes.
Morning is the best time, morning is the time for all doolests to wake up
Ow but the winning and fun is the best of all for the ones that love to play for fun
Now i must leave but never returne but one day ill come ill come.

made by liam delta_edge

i like making peomes oubout pokemon because
it toches me alot i dont know why but it just deos.
Pluse i like playing it too.


please give some tipes about the poem i need alot please.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top