Now THERE'S a sight for sore eyes!
Owl is in the bar,
Together we were to change the world,
Our rhymes to take us far.
But, yes, life does intervene,
It tends to get so hilly,
But still, it's nice to find the time,
To come here and be silly.
I have seeen BC around,
Other OFs are here too,
But the one thing that remains constant,
Is the odd poem about poo.

The Poet's Moment

The poet's moment
is the mountaineer's,
Who reaches the summit
and finds the air
haunted
by giddy mis-steps


Plummets, awake
into chilled
writing-chairs
at 3am, naked


Desperate to recall
the slip of icy stone
underfoot
and
that ghostly plunge
through space


earth
stone
blood
sinew


into legend

"Down which hill did a small child roll?"
Found down river by a couple who stroll
was a small child, pale and still
"If we're to find the reason we must find that hill!"

the child examined, no identity found
growing frustration; "the child was bound!"
foul play it was, murder the charge
must find the culprit, still at large.

Overstepping the bounds of reality,
I wander around in search.
Looking for things
I will not find

The colors not found on the rainbow;
Such as a childs laugh,
Or the dreams
In my mind.

I must be aimless in my pursuit.
Aimlessly searching,
For the color
Of life.

Aimlessly aimless, to wander.
Out of reality,
In search,
Of what I can not find.

......................
Well, I thats mine...I actually wrote two, this was the one that sounded least like frying puke... :o)

*craving white chocolate*

Aimlessly Aimless (a poem of a wandering nature)

Ew... well, I suppose what's been done is irrevocable now... you have yourself to blame. Keep in mind, I had just finished
listening to "The Windmills of Your Mind", so it may be a little... disjointed.

Aimlessly Aimless (a poem of a wandering nature)

Like the road that stretched before you,
and the road that stretched behind.
The liimist being dictates
of your will and of your mind.

Like a winding, spiral staircase,
flowing gently to the ground.
Like the circle of a question
to the answer you have found.

Bright futures seen before you,
dark futures seen as well.
Some days to see the face of heaven,
some days the face of hell.

It's the turning of the clock's hands,
it's the beads that slip the glass.
It's the moment that you'd die for,
but know will sooner pass.

It's the fragment of the mirror,
that will not show your face.
It's wandering down your hallways,
as if they were a maze.

It's the eye that stares above you,
it's the eyes that stare below.
It's when you have an answer,
to a question you don't know.

It's the spinning of a child's top,
the spinning of your mind.
It's the sudden realization
that your whole life you've been blind.

It's the wandering aimless nature,
of this poems groping verse.
It's the question that we all must ask,
the circles growing curse.

It's the purpose that's not known to you,
but not unknown as well.
It's the eyes that look at heaven,
and see the place of hell.

It's a circle in a circle,
a spiral in a square.
It's the misty winter morning
it's the breezy autumn air.

It's the tired, rambling wanderings
of a pen within my hands
it's the music found in life itself,
and music found on stands.

It's the feeling that you've seen yourself,
in someone that you've met.
It's the ending of this rambling verse,
that hasn't started yet.

Don't even bother asking what the hell that was, I don't know either.

The Turtle Moves

Evolution

So I thought I'd drag through the bilges and found a nice little poem from my patented "Liddle Book 'o Poems" (TM) This is one of my early, early, early, early, EARLY ones, so don't be too harsh. How early do you say? Well, it's on the first page... =P

Evolution

by

Malacola

Their feathered wings, now plated steel,
Their taloned feet now rubber wheel.
Their slitted eye, now shield of glass,
Their fieldmouse now a leaded gas.
Their singing now a wailing shriek,
A nose where there was once a beak.
Their engine once a soul divine,
An engine fueled by gasoline.
There was a time we said they'd "soar",
But times do change, and now they "roar".
Thus it began, our revolution.
We like to call it "evolution".

By my troph! I am off! ::trophs off to bed::

The Turtle Moves (trophedly, no doubt...)

Written with the aid of a magnetic poetry set:

I stop to iron the gorgeous butt
Lathering puppy blood into a mist
Drunken swimmers in boiling storm water
Lick luscious peach sprays
And listen to repulsive music

I like it, what say you guys?!