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Post by Neo Stella on Jun 15, 2005 0:11:00 GMT
Secret Surburbia
Leafy green and trimmed to turf, the perfect life hides secrets. The other side of twitching curtains, lie passion with no restaint. Expressive desire bound on shattered wave, returned thy destructive happenst.
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Post by Adey on Apr 19, 2007 0:28:01 GMT
Tme to revisit this thread I think..
We have some new members who I hope have things to say about their own homes and places of origin. Come on people, use the poetic form to define your own origins.
Don't be intimated by the requirements of poetic form, lets here it from your heart..
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Iago
Reaching Out
Stepping out off the page.....
Posts: 367
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Post by Iago on Apr 21, 2007 1:01:13 GMT
Good Idea Adey.
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Oct 10, 2009 12:09:55 GMT
I hope you don't mind me pushing this up...
Kangaroo Steak
Out by the campfire at night a hubbub of little words wondering what tonight will bring Little do they know that the kangaroo they so loved the one who they thought had gone to a zoo will tonight be on their plate
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Jan 23, 2010 16:36:01 GMT
Allegedly, those of you in America (I think it was NYC) have earnt yourselves a reputation for asking Aussies if we ride to school/work on kangaroos. So I wrote this. Riding swiftly down the road The hat is falling off Kangaroo bounding up and down I wish that it would stop I should be on my way to school But somehow, I think I'm not The Americans told me to do this What a sorry lot! (no offence intended) SpainFlamenco is our heritage The dance of the immortal Whirling round above their heads It stills the angry bull Crowds are gathering hard and fast They want to see the end Two dancers hurtling skyward And tumbling into outstretched arms Music stops. Step forward. Take a bow. Your work is done.
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Post by Al Truest on Jan 23, 2010 19:52:25 GMT
Allegedly, those of you in America (I think it was NYC) have earnt yourselves a reputation for asking Aussies if we ride to school/work on kangaroos. So I wrote this. Riding swiftly down the road The hat is falling off Kangaroo bounding up and down I wish that it would stop I should be on my way to school But somehow, I think I'm not The Americans told me to do this What a sorry lot! (no offence intended) ^ Nice 'though I must admit 'roos seem like big bouncing rats. But I have an equal aversion to possums (from the southern US) Good Here's one from Nashville (Music City) They all flood in from far and wide with cowboy hats and boots of rawhide they wail and whine and make you cry with that awful sound I can't abide they long to be in that talent stable to be discovered like Betty Grable they try so hard to be so able but most end up just waiting tables
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Jan 24, 2010 2:23:43 GMT
Here's one from Nashville (Music City) They all flood in from far and wide with cowboy hats and boots of rawhide they wail and whine and make you cry with that awful sound I can't abide they long to be in that talent stable to be discovered like Betty Grable they try so hard to be so able but most end up just waiting tables TamworthDarfur refugees holding banjos Flooding into pearly gates Glared at by the pasty locals Supposedly a big disgrace And yet their voices stand as strong As tree trunks in a plain Shutting up the pasty faces As sainted song begins again (I have to admit, it's quite a pity that our only decent music festival is held in the middle of Redneck Land.)
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Jan 25, 2010 15:25:56 GMT
EurovisionScreaming witches singing off In shaky, off-key tones Men in crazy screamo masks Emitting woeful groans The audience should hold their ears How can they stand this din?! Eurovision songs - haha! It should be in the bin! Europe is very bad at finding its musical talent - it set up Eurovision to do it.
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Post by bartolozzi on Mar 9, 2010 18:31:28 GMT
The Murder Ballad Of Celia Holloway
Beneath this path are deposited portions of the remains of Celia Holloway who was brutally murdered in the Lovers Walk of this parish in the year of Christ 1831 Aged 32 years.
"Resting till that day when there shall be no more sin."
It was the gown of a grown-up person protruding from the Hole-in-the-Wall. An offspring from the Ardingly Poor Laws that made the blood of Brighton crawl!
As every spade of earth was dug — a thigh, a thigh, and then a trunk! Crowds of persons horror-stricken — but head and arms and life were wanting!
Celia Bashford wasn't shy at the age of twenty-five. She pumped the beers at public house and there she met a wayward louse.
John Holloway, he had his way, then only nineteen years of age. He met Miss Bashford and too soon illicit union saw her in bloom.
Now this condition drove the woman to utter want and destitution. To parish meet her case was pled and bastardy bond made couple wed.
A union forged on such connexion was hardly likely to produce affection. Celia bore John their first stillborn And then another for her to mourn.
At length, he left her claiming poor rate's 'til forced to pay by parish magistrates. But he and she were rarely together And John took Ann, another lover.
The sorry trio often quarrelled and animosities often flared. Then one fine day John asked his Celia to live together as though first wed.
The foolish woman with fond affections packed her box for him to stow. And then he took her to new lodgings a little house in Donkey-row.
Once inside, he knocked her down. He threw his hands upon her neck. Celia struggled with all God gave her. John cut her throat till she was dead.
Now how to hide this ghastly crime? With horror running through his mind, he took his hand and butcher's skill to make small pieces of his kill!
John hung the corpse for blood to gel then cut off head, the legs, and arms. Then Ann and he borrowed a barrow and wheeled the trunk to New England Farm.
The head and limbs they hid in privy. The thighs and trunk in Lover's-walk. He dug the hole, a shallow-grave. But gown of trunk was left to talk!
Celia's pieces, her unborn baby, led to husband and paramour. Thus Ann was taken into custody and John surrendered to the law.
The agonies of John's remorse — the shrieks, the faints — his hanging signed. John gnashed his teeth and sort God's mercy. His racking conscience confessed the crime.
When John confessed, his Annie raged: "The Devil's in your eyes," she'd say. But crowd around were struck with awe as human drama met the law!
John argued both had strangled Celia, that Ann had pledged her clothes to pawn, that Ann had carried pick and shovel, that both had helped dispose of corpse!
So John and Ann were sent to trial, but judge acquitted Annie's part. John's signed confession built his scaffold. Around his neck the noose pulled hard!
St Peter's Church, near Lover's-walk, proclaims the parish crime, so grim — Celia Holloway rests in portions till that day when there's no more sin!
~ Bart (2010)
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Aug 12, 2011 5:28:50 GMT
ZumbaDizzy dancing, dainty until we fall? No. That realm belongs to lesser feet. Fists pumping reveal iron in us all iron flowing as blood to each cheek shaking, shifting, slowly moving ground pounding with the moves and sound. Conquistador BabesThey travelled halfway across the world in arms of lecherous, debaucherous fathers. Who had ravished the silent, laughing women that were once called the Mayans. They stole away the children born kicking and screaming for their mothers. They, after nine months in their wombs Wanted no familial others. That tradition continues still, though babes long gone are dead, and their babes now in Spanish lands belong. Too many girls of Mayan blood today still learn what Mayan means the hard way. I have a varied heritage... the only parts that I have not expanded into yet are the Russian/German/Polish... perhaps this will be my next.
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Aug 12, 2011 10:02:54 GMT
The Jews (My great-grandmother was a Polish Jew - fortunately by the time of the Holocaust her side of the family were all in Australia. I also had family from the Spanish side who worked on the Kinder trains.)
Some were saved by Schindler's brain. Children moved by Kindertrain. We were left to meet our fate. Nothing we could do but wait...
Through silent eyes we watched as friends were led away. We would not meet again because they could not stay.
We knew that we would die. Our tombs foregone conclusions. And yet we did not cry. We would outlast seclusion.
To the chambers we were led. Not a single word was said. In those rooms our lives all ended Just as Hitler had intended.
Though our bodies may have died Our memories live on. They will live for centuries When many more have gone.
In many lands we took our breaths In Germany our last. Our tale is part of hist'ry, child. Do not forget the past.
I suppose I have deviated from the strictly parochial - although I am a European girl at heart no matter which part of it I am in. I fit in with the Poles as well as with the Catalonians.
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Post by Al Truest on Aug 12, 2011 21:47:24 GMT
Your work has become so enlightened. Thank you for sharing it...
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Post by Neo Stella on Aug 13, 2011 7:35:04 GMT
I agree with Al, such a deep feeling evoked from these beautiful pieces..
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on Aug 13, 2011 12:28:07 GMT
Thank you both. I have forced my muse out of hibernation.
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Adena
Moving
This time around we dance - we're chosen ones
Posts: 611
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Post by Adena on May 9, 2012 13:52:32 GMT
Homeland
I knew you in my heart Where I longed for open fields And the joy of simple life
For frozen winters For the green of endless hills and for the slow passage of time
I am the child of the war. I remember the years Where there was life in every day
But time has caught up with me now. In my closed room I sit old, and longing for my place.
That is my daughter up there. She grew up in peacetime. A life I have never known.
My body is tired I am left with my language I will never go home.
(The poem references the ex-USSR colonies. One of my mother's ancestors fled Russia at the age of seven at the end of a conflict period, I believe WWI. The rest of the story is sadly lost, as her English was barely passable and nobody in our family spoke sufficient Russian to communicate with her)
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