J.I.I.L:
or, a sonnet of self gratification
there comes a time in all mens' lives
in which they find themselves alone,
bereft of women loved ones and wives
to seek a comfort zone
thus do they turn and toss abed
wild fantasies in mind
they lay their hands upon their head
and pray they don't go blind
these nightly trips she oft will make
visits made to all
she leaves white ribbons in her wake
for she never misses a call
this lady comes from the digits that we all posses
curving J, I, I, and L, most tender her caress.
The Paradox of Inspiration by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
The Paradox of Inspiration
I see her sitting there alone
High atop her hill
I wish to climb that highest height,
I know I never will
She often takes the breath from me
Though sadly we must part
Left only to my hopeless dreaming,
And my empty aching heart
The secret to good writing,
The best have often said
Is not to feel fulfilled at night,
But lie alone upon your bed.
For when you find fulfillment
And sunlight marks your days
Your anguish and your torment
Burn up within its rays.
So as I see her sitting
Alone atop her hill
I dare not go to meet her,
Rather, my thought will paper fill.
Angel in Amber Clad by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Angel in Amber Clad
An ode to Lady Liberty
The greatest symbol of democracy yet full of hypocrisy
This land of foreigners populated by corpses of cultures watched over by coroners
In robes of red-white-blue, narcissistic politicians without a clue
The race tension, dissention
Jacksonite detestation even of those who sold their souls
Who were colonized, Americanized
Turned from Pawnee, Cherokee, Shawnee, or Sioux
Into Billy, Michael, Rich and Betty-Lou
Who followed the white law to the letter, so far as to go one better
Turning blissfully to the highest secure independence, or
At least a justice of sorts
They were of course, as history cries, denied
Soliders of Metaphor by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Soliders of Metaphor
Empty paper lies before us like virgin snow
Pure, fresh lines to fill with words,
Lines on which we spit rhymes and craft art.
Art like philosophies of acts of evil
Death, Hope, Love, Pain, histories medieval
The paper is a battlefield, pens generals orders issue
Ink flows like blood from bullet wounds issued,
Poets are soldiers, the greats our heroes
Regimented to die at a Thermopylae of thoughts,
As battles turn so too do poets yearn to collect,
Connect scattered thoughts broken as Marc Antonys Legions.
Writers cry havoc and let slip words as dogs of war, whats more
Shameless aggression in this hollowed Colosse
The Tragedy of Sir Robert by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
The Tragedy of Sir Robert
Pray hark! To brave Sir Robert's tale
Who traveled far to mountain vale
To slay an ogre, fiend or drake
And meet the lady of the lake
Dismounting now, Sir Robert strode
Further still up mountain road
From nook and cranny hungry eyes,
Did stare in shock and mild surprise
And thus it was, that monster foul
Did step out and fearsome growl
Ill grind your bones to make my bread
The knight replied Ill have your head
Sir Robert charged, with warmace raised
His forward stroke the monster grazed
The beasts retort came crashing down
And caved in Sir Roberts noble crown
There came a grizzly
Art is an out flow,
A pressure gauge to keep the human soul in tact
A sympathetic empathy.
Art is life,
A physical manifestation of independent thought
Cast forth in colour on canvas, ink on paper, chisel on stone
Thrown from clay baked minds to enlighten ignorance.
While potters throw clay and sculpters scrape away flakes of marble
Poets spin words like spiders webs
And dreamers send out philosophies on life, the universe, and everything
As streamers of mulitcoloured light,
Brightening an eternal night
Of hopes and thoughts deadened by the harsh realities of
Starving masses, race hate and ethical depravity
But even as bla
Devotions of the few and Bless by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Devotions of the few and Bless
A long rumble of thunder adds itself
To the weight of the planet and the foam;
The groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
The star vibrates quickly in its corona
And the sea beats, dies and goes on beating
A cycle of life in the service and shadow of higher powers,
Whether by choice or not
Deities of righteousness and purity of purpose
Who guide and shape the lives of us here on Earth.
But escaping mention is a she daemon, both alluring and terrible
One whose temples touch the sky,
Plunge the void, those black, airless depths
Of cold so deep that time loses meaning,
And freezes kaleidoscopes of ice to glass walls.
Devotions of the few and Bless by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Devotions of the few and Bless
A long rumble of thunder adds itself
To the weight of the planet and the foam;
The groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
The star vibrates quickly in its corona
And the sea beats, dies and goes on beating
A cycle of life in the service and shadow of higher powers,
Whether by choice or not
Deities of righteousness and purity of purpose
Who guide and shape the lives of us here on Earth.
But escaping mention is a she daemon, both alluring and terrible
One whose temples touch the sky,
Plunge the void, those black, airless depths
Of cold so deep that time loses meaning,
And freezes kaleidoscopes of ice to glass walls.
Art is an out flow,
A pressure gauge to keep the human soul in tact
A sympathetic empathy.
Art is life,
A physical manifestation of independent thought
Cast forth in colour on canvas, ink on paper, chisel on stone
Thrown from clay baked minds to enlighten ignorance.
While potters throw clay and sculpters scrape away flakes of marble
Poets spin words like spiders webs
And dreamers send out philosophies on life, the universe, and everything
As streamers of mulitcoloured light,
Brightening an eternal night
Of hopes and thoughts deadened by the harsh realities of
Starving masses, race hate and ethical depravity
But even as bla
The Tragedy of Sir Robert by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
The Tragedy of Sir Robert
Pray hark! To brave Sir Robert's tale
Who traveled far to mountain vale
To slay an ogre, fiend or drake
And meet the lady of the lake
Dismounting now, Sir Robert strode
Further still up mountain road
From nook and cranny hungry eyes,
Did stare in shock and mild surprise
And thus it was, that monster foul
Did step out and fearsome growl
Ill grind your bones to make my bread
The knight replied Ill have your head
Sir Robert charged, with warmace raised
His forward stroke the monster grazed
The beasts retort came crashing down
And caved in Sir Roberts noble crown
There came a grizzly
Soliders of Metaphor by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Soliders of Metaphor
Empty paper lies before us like virgin snow
Pure, fresh lines to fill with words,
Lines on which we spit rhymes and craft art.
Art like philosophies of acts of evil
Death, Hope, Love, Pain, histories medieval
The paper is a battlefield, pens generals orders issue
Ink flows like blood from bullet wounds issued,
Poets are soldiers, the greats our heroes
Regimented to die at a Thermopylae of thoughts,
As battles turn so too do poets yearn to collect,
Connect scattered thoughts broken as Marc Antonys Legions.
Writers cry havoc and let slip words as dogs of war, whats more
Shameless aggression in this hollowed Colosse
Angel in Amber Clad by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
Angel in Amber Clad
An ode to Lady Liberty
The greatest symbol of democracy yet full of hypocrisy
This land of foreigners populated by corpses of cultures watched over by coroners
In robes of red-white-blue, narcissistic politicians without a clue
The race tension, dissention
Jacksonite detestation even of those who sold their souls
Who were colonized, Americanized
Turned from Pawnee, Cherokee, Shawnee, or Sioux
Into Billy, Michael, Rich and Betty-Lou
Who followed the white law to the letter, so far as to go one better
Turning blissfully to the highest secure independence, or
At least a justice of sorts
They were of course, as history cries, denied
The Paradox of Inspiration by screamingeagles101, literature
Literature
The Paradox of Inspiration
I see her sitting there alone
High atop her hill
I wish to climb that highest height,
I know I never will
She often takes the breath from me
Though sadly we must part
Left only to my hopeless dreaming,
And my empty aching heart
The secret to good writing,
The best have often said
Is not to feel fulfilled at night,
But lie alone upon your bed.
For when you find fulfillment
And sunlight marks your days
Your anguish and your torment
Burn up within its rays.
So as I see her sitting
Alone atop her hill
I dare not go to meet her,
Rather, my thought will paper fill.