Silky Sky By: Tristan Mertik (Me) As I Lye beneath this silky sky, I see the stars begain to fly. Their beauty unmatched, Their light so soft and calming. Why do I see them this Way, So fragile and elegent, A beautiful blanket to warm the earth, A beautful blanket to warm my heart. Its Like they were made for me, Just for me, Always for me, To warm my heart and make me wonder, Why do I lye beneath this silky sky. ............................................................ Can you see? Can you believe? By: Tristan Mertik (Me) Can you see it? Our mother is crying. What happened to our victory gardens? Why did our hearts harden? Can you believe war? Why do we help mother? Only because people are dying and we are bored? Why do we even bother? Mother is dying. Why aren't you trying? ........................................................... Feel free to post any questions you would like. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
I like 'em, Tristen. They have a totally random sense of orientation inside themselves that make them totally unique. In other words, you have a great sense of honesty and noncomformity in your poetry. Ok, here's some improv poetry I'll write right now. (It's been awhile...) I. COLD SPINSTER IN UTERO Nither, hindering upon a self, of sorts, rushing to a sonic fate, of sorts, rushing onto the wind and in any nature, and qualm, I find my way. Not knowing, inside every ball of knowing and somehow collapsing into one, solid grasp of fearing. Cast upon, given up to the palm of my hand thrust through the old Earth of seasons in my head casting upon the dirt in quite a brilliant neverland upon the door heatherland up over my moor and I sleep II. AFFIRMING DOUBLE QUANDRY I touched them the silly grapefruit in front, of me, in a bowl. Now the phone is ringing, I told it, stop. I'm just in here, in the kitchen so I said. But it was never onto my head many times. This is how I liquidate this will be my fate. given all denominations of wealth, tokens of surprise, I'll still be there, and sadly does it breech. Once sprang two ideas, one into my head and one into the forest. With the head, up form the mouth, the redstone warmth 'sous mes chasaurres' So, with a brush of wind, a palm of indelicacy my sheep are slaughtered. On the other side of the mountain, and I don't care. I think these have the same idea as yours-neither free verse or structured yet with a definate solidity. Golly, I like poetry too much.
