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#poem

40 posts32 participants2 posts today
Public
Transjoyresistance 🏳️‍⚧️

Trans people are heralds of a better world to come,
Reclaiming our joy from the bitterness of those who would crush us,
Affirming our existence in the face of our planned eradication,
Naming ourselves in defiance of those who oppose us;
Speaking our truths amidst the howls of lies and violence aimed at us.
Denial of all that we are comes from those who preach hate
And also from the mouths of those who would be their next victims.
Yet still we remain, as we always have and always will,
Origin points of a conflagration
Fueled by our refusal to be swept away.
Visions of a freer tomorrow are birthed
In our refusal to accept the stories they make up for us.
Songs are heard of a world more just for all
In our refusal to live in the boxes they build to cage us.
But that world will only come within reach
If we are willing to fight for it.
Life could be so full of joy and beauty and love
If we are willing to blaze our own paths.
There will always be people eager to tell you no--
You deserve the chance to say yes to the person you want to be.

#poem#trans#transjoy
Public *
AI6YR Ben

I do not want measles on a train
I do not want measles on a plane
I do not want measles here or there
I do not want measles anywhere

I do not want measles with my pizza pie
I do not want measles don't ask me why
I do not want measles at a school
I do not want measles in your drool

#measles #poem (human poem)

Public
Jack Groundhog 📷📸🪶

Pass dense
A #poem

Cozy cottage in green hills —
where my thoughts linger still —
waits, behind a black fence

that’s topped with cast-iron spikes —
old teeth with overbite —
grows taller while the fog grows dense.

On a worn wooded path
up to a high distant pass
that guides me farther hence,

what once had been my home,
all that I’d ever known,
has fallen to a past tense.

A quaint stone cottage partially hidden by trees and a spiked iron fence. Canongate, Edinburgh, 19 Aug 2024. Nikon D5600, Nikkor DX 35 mm ƒ1.8G, ISO 3200, ƒ13, -0.3 ev, 1/80s
#poemaday#poetry#writing
Public *
stgreenie

I've often lamented
that I as an older gent
can't love
or even lust anymore
over busty young vixens
who sashay my way
without being
labeled
a "dirty old man" perv

For here I am
in the fourth quarter of my life
and I still secretly fantasize
like all guys do

Only now the girls
are young enough
to be my daughter

EEEWWWW...

A totally unacceptable
violation of calendar rules

But I just can’t help it
that I internally throb
like all guys do
when presented visually
with sweet feminine stimuli
but of course if I get busted
giving the old side eye
to a scantily clad fair maiden
I'm labeled
attraction inappropriate

A leering Lolita lusting creep
if I do not suppress
my desires
as stealthily as I can

Not a healthy situation

No wonder so many
of my repressed generation
drop dead
of heart attacks
trying to hold back
the raging hormonal flood
breaching the #gossamer stigma dam
that is so against
our natural masculine urges

#vss365#poetry#poem
Public *
Jo-stands on guard, elbows up.

having no integrity they are disintegrating
pushed passed tensile strength of hold together & be
destroying whole together and is
It will never
it could never

their facade crumbles revealing nothing to support it but the illusions they sell, the Illusions they tell, the illusions they bought.
rotted from the inside
nothing but scum at the border of an abyss.

#poem
Public
thethuthinnang ⁂

imagine a set of only writes
one targeted from it
nearly encountered in such minutes
21 of the gun tools
and YouTube: it’s ghost guns
fully complete
assemble that regulation
never before unfinished
from parts
subject to Gorsuch

[Poetry exercise using erasure and source texts: Take a paragraph from a news article and paste it into a document. Divide the document up into columns to jumble up the order of the words. Do this multiple times. Read the phrases that have been forced together and remove words that don't flow well. This may be your poem.] My source material for this one was here: is.gd/u9MGdP. #poem

Public
Assoc for Scottish Literature

I hear your bold blackbird, that slow singer,
alone at my desk yet walking with you
through your valleys and hills, that shining
stream bubbling notes of your music
your pure Welsh music…

—Sheila Templeton, “For R.S. Thomas”
published in A Little Touch of Cliff in the Evening: New Writing Scotland 30

The Welsh poet Ronald Stuart Thomas (1913–2000) was born #OTD, 29 March.

Sheila Templeton For R.S. Thomas I hear your bold blackbird, that slow singer, alone at my desk yet walking with you through your valleys and hills, that shining stream bubbling notes of your music your pure Welsh music. And I am walking behind my father, born in your time, but seeded in his own north land, ploughing, proud to stride behind his pair o horse; high cheek-boned, hair rain-flattened the colour of wet barley, speaking the secret words to his beasts, turning his park into a sea of order, yes, with your stiff clods glinting in the wind, gulls and peesie-weeps skirling encouragement; above him only a dark yearning sky. Another enduring ordinary man, born to till and toil, to win his wars to wrestle with his burning under those stars.
#Scottish#literature#poem
Public
Steve's Place

I've been saturating myself in classical musicians analyzing songs they've never heard before. The analyses always give me musical ideas.

I'm just going to have to throw myself into writing this album. I have a few song ideas and/or hooks now. It would be helpful if any of them resulted in a complete song. Or piece. Or something a child could play with 2 fingers.

Okay, there are those hooks. And a rambling thing I wrote one night when I might have had some tune in my head, but now I've got pages of lyrics, instead. The tune is long gone. Out to pasture. Chasing mares. The usual sort of thing one does when one is a tune in retirement, whatever that may be.

Meanwhile, I think I might have to use the old method. Not the really old method, where I get callouses and bang something out on a guitar until just before tendinitis sets in, at which point I realize it doesn't have a bridge anywhere, but I can play some ripping lead to it, when my fingers aren't aching.

No. The newer old method, where I start writing something on keyboards. This keeps me from playing lead all the time.

I kid you not, I write better tunes after a layoff than I do when my chops are up. In the latter case, all I want to do is play lead, and the tune suffers. In the former case, I have no callouses and wish to not play any lead guitar right now, thank you, so can we please focus and write the rest of this song before we bleed all over the strings?

If anyone wants to throw poetry at me, I will happily see if I can turn it into music. We can share a copyright. That, plus waiting 5 or 10 years for the royalties to build, might buy a cup of coffee. And by then you'll really want a cup!

#songwriting#MusicProduction#poetry
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