Thank you all for your contributions.
We have enough material now to use in our finished piece and we need some time to do so, so I would like to ask an administrator to close down this thread.

If anyone is still interested in sending in something, note us.

- poeticks

hi `poeticks~

thanks for the note, sorry i've been away for so long.. i'm not much a poet, but here's my two cents' worth..

Exquisite beauty sits herself next to me,
She is a radiant picture of a goddess in celestial sheen.
Her golden curls braided atop her head, she would
Have been her best, if not for that all-black ensemble.

Everybody hates her fair and rich beauty,
For nobody misses a plucked rose.
Yet everybody knows not that she is human and with emotions,
As we sit together in this trial of sorrow; pushing through their gossips.

The big Victorian church engulfs us fifty with its
Somber hues, harsh lighting, cracked ceilings and more.
A week after her husband is passed, as today
I mourn his death and will mourn every year.

My best friend, her spouse, the world’s best designer
Gone into the grounds and never to come back.
Outside the snow falls gently as we picture
Our friend up in the heavens.

Suddenly, there are many stars in the sky above this snowy scene.

now I'm not a poet, but I'm compelled to try.

her manacles of gold hover and skim
the skin of a shallow hole,
where nobody feels the grey weight
of a withering weed.

Alone, his presence still resonates
under the cold expanse of a blue voice-
the dregs of her solitary parade
echo in the gutters of his wake.

His face tears and rebuilds itself,
endlessly, inside the layers of rust
that gather in the seasons' beds.

but pure, cold, their faces refract,
each is the same in the silver shards
that hang, in flux, precipitous
outside the gasp of a stifled shroud.

Haha, well, I think I did pretty much the opposite of what y'all wanted, but enjoyed it immensely



She wears a stunning lie which envies scorn,
in plastic-lipped allure she barbs her sneer
and masks her empty skull with golden hair
held in by plastic plugs. Admirers fawn,
(her plastic hymen they can re-attach)
and Ken’s forgot. It’s Action Man of late
who fucks her.
Poor Ken under bed interred
while dust, like snow, is sprinkled on his grave.
She thinks of him when Camo does not match
and grieves in ballgowns for his well-groomed charms.
Twin fates, like starlight, dance above as eyes
and grubbied hands declare them man and wife
so Action Man can kiss his Barbie bride
‘neath white confetti strewn by childish arms.

[i]Everyone hates her fair and rich beauty
and nobody misses a plucked rose.
I mourn his death, and will mourn every year.
There are many stars in the sky above this snowy scene.[/i]

The stars speak volumes to me
yet they are just pretty trifles to everyone else.
I know their hidden story of light and darkness
of life and death.

He always watched the stars
and told me all about them.
He spoke of other places far away
and where he'd like to go.

She watched them too
in her crystal tower
and marvelled at the glimmering lights
that shone upon her face.

She mourns him too, in her own way
in empty chambers and darkened halls.
Afraid of losing her pale composition
to the anguished cries of sorrow.

As I walk now through the pale snow
I can lose myself in the memories.
Remembering simpler times
when I was still a child.

She writes me every year at Christmas
and asks me how he is.
She asks me how he was
because she can't quite remember.

She's slipping away from us
slowly but surely sliding deeper into the abyss.
And one winter I will light two candles
to mourn them both.

petals, like snow flakes, remember
their last cycle and return as shadows
as a placefor the berieved to place their
memories. If heaven offers that golden
moment to retreat and play with light, then
we will always be a part of that kinetic journey.

Everyone hates her fair and rich beauty
and nobody misses a plucked rose.
I mourn his death, and will mourn every year.
There are many stars in the sky above this snowy scene--
is only a video, artists with jewish New York voices speak like serial killers,
masochists' thick dripping intensity, sickness like cold film solidifying
their love-speech to ragged chunks of pithy gore.
television was antique, old in the wood-paneled
futuristic sense, with dials tuning the acid 60's color-bands
into humans and their proud matrimonial disease.
but inanimate butchers feed kinky unreality
through the camera and manipulate our loving brains,
touching and talking too much, only wheezing affection into their cupped hands.

she has nothing to do with humans at all,
pretty in a white dress,
and the shock of finding her
unsanitary
sends weeping chauvanists to the side of her grave-hole.

Some notes:
-I didn't so much add imagery as I just rewrote the whole poem-- in fact, I didn't even do that, I exploded the poem and put it back together as I saw fit. But not really.
-Yes, I know, it doesn't make much sense. I just kinda created images and wrote them out, or just let my fingers go. This was more an adventure of impulse than a poem writing session-- though I suppose most my poems happen like that.

//We Lost Them
She'll
Look at
Looked at
A brittle casket
Decorated, full
With powders and lines
A service for reality
To a hypocritic eulogy
To a false dirge
Squeezed from a habitual organ
Pipes clogged
With fallacy

But still
We'll dead-eye upon
His final mound
A lost gape to let out
The wispy ghosts
Back into their nipping element

This, my person
A frozen gray
Our silhouettes
Captured in dying headlights
A noir mug shot of now
Spotlight on death
All eyes on it
His final act

Icy blades of infinite grass
Seeping off the edges
Of a solar night moment
Adding serrations
To minute shadows

Frozen ink
Scattered, spattered
Rife with
Brittle bullet blasts
Jagged holes
Depth perception
Slurred
Looking up
A million tiny razors
Falling through this
Hemispheric sieve
Flakes
Slicing
Cutting
Biting
Sawing
Ripping through this winter skin

Everyone hates her unduly for her fairness and rich asian beauty.
Standing alone as a warm breeze caresses her face.
The quiet of death surrounds her, for nobody misses a plucked rose.
A flower and a note fall gently to the ground.
Written shakily it reads, "I mourn his death, and will mourn every year"
She lightly squeezes the trigger, while being watched by only the stars.
And there are many stars in the sky above this unholy scene.

question.. we allowed to submit these as deviations?? cause i like how mine turned out, and want to check before i do so..

080 101 116 117 110 105 097
067 117 116
085 110 099 117 116
072 111 114 097 116 105 111

She! Oh that flying dutchman of the walk,
steppin all where people talk and work
and slave away.

She! Oh she steps around the mopped floors
and speaks so kindly to the whores
that we all just know she can't be anything but
hypocrite!

She! she steals my boys and makes them fools
and while she doesn't destroy my moping those boys do!
the drool is what her feet don't do to my nicely
shined floors!

But as years go by, and She steps her way into the sky
and misses not a single petal on the one whom I
by will must toil through this maze of marble death.

Now and again i glance my friend at the wall to see
the roses and axe of the Lord that was her ancestry
and yet though none can e'en remember his name..

His face was cragged and mountainous
though his eyes were the pits of friendliness
and ne'er did this man of men speak down upon
my lowly crown, though me just a drudge who mopped his floor.

The floors shone under the lune's goddess
pacing and ranting was my(now) mistress
as her feet began to lift succinctly from the realms of men.

His capitulatory sigh and gasp, rendered his crown to her at last
yet niagra still falls away from her worried glances
and life just doesnt sit right and good with her at all.

and so one morning as if in a dream,
i watched Apollo's herald call
the wonderous rising sun over a starched landscape scene
where over a parapet, this angel had to fall.

by merely encouraging me to pursue this activity, poetiks, I basically learned one valuable thing. I really attempted not only to add imagery but to make the poem my own and to uniquely stamp it with who I am, and in some cases that required imagery to be present, but in fact, those additions to the poem were slighted by my other lines which were more alliterations or allusions than imagery. Lesson learned: Poems need more than imagery, and imagery can only make something sound pretty within the context that that image works for.