Are you a good poet?

Question

Are you a good poet? Could you write me a deep poem? If you can please do... If not I want to know if you're good...

I will not steal your poem...I'm great at poetry myself...then again you don't have to post your poem...its your choice!

Answer 1

Hi Shonski, 06-30-06

I wrote you an answer earlier. I don't know if you received it, or if it was eaten by the poetry monster that lurks inside these nefarious programs.

I am knew at this stuff, cutting and pasting and copying... I do all these wonderful moves and, just when I get to the last step, something horrible happens to what I managed to copy to this message. Oops! Frustrating.

To answer your question, I am a poet. I have been writing since 1977, and I enjoy the art of creating, something from nothing, very much. I write mostly war poetry, and what I do manage to get written down is from the perspective of a combat veteran. Read my bio.

Here are three from a while ago, and a couple I've just penned recently. I hope you enjoy them.

Slick Blades
18 October 1992
A
poem
By
Hank Feral

Up, up, up, then forward over the trees,
Taking me to death,
Who’s I don’t know,
But if it’s mine,
At last I’ll be free,
Of my country’s and theirs,
Inhumane crimes--maybe.

* Slick blades: Helicopter rotors.




Pegasus and Me or HE?
18 October, 1992
A
Poem
By
Hank Feral

I ride an iron horse,
His wings beating the air,
Instilling dread to those,
Hiding in lairs,
They fear my horse,
Never knowing for sure,
If it delivers me or HE.
If it is me--they have a fighting chance,
If it is HE--no doubt a pounding they get.

*HE -- High Explosive ammunition.
















The Never Glorified Terrors of War
A Poem
By
Hank Feral
18 October, 1992

I came across a dead man once,
The stench led me to his corpse,
At first--it was comical,
To look at the pile of meat and bones,
I suppose that’s the only way my mind,
Could comprehend what my eyes saw was there,
His body was flaccid in it’s semi-decomposed state,
Left arm reaching forward, to pull him one more time,
Fingers shining white (stained the color of iron),
Clawing the earth in a futile effort to survive,
Here he made his final grasp at life,
That must have seemed a universe away.
His legs, rotting, poised, one knee-bent,
With the other one straight,
Ready to heave him to safety maybe one bush away,
His head lay with his left ear to the ground,
And the right facing up where it had caught rain,
Maggots living where air should have made sound,
I looked on in morbid fascination as the maggots,
Squirmed where THEY should not be,
I began to feel weak in the stomach,
Suddenly I retched and retched until I cramped,
I felt a loosening of my bowels,
And death brushed me--the finality of it all,
So I turned and ran it seemed to the end of his universe,

Epilogue: At times I wonder about that ghastly sight,
How could I look upon him, at first, as maybe a scene,
From a badly written novel,
I finally figured it out,
I was used to the ugliness of war,
And knew what killing was all about,
I just never realized flies could, or would, breed in a human ear.


Iraq
A Poem
by
Hank Feral
For Aunt Hannah
28 May, 2006

My son the memory.

That’s all I have.
He’s gone now.

A victim of history.
His life for ours,
He gave gladly.

I was sent my son’s effects,
All that he had left.
But they too turned to memories,
Quickly, without him there.

I cried and, I cried and, then, I cried some more.
I miss my son deeply.
I miss seeing him grow.
His smile, his strong shoulders,
All about him I miss.

So, I try to keep my memories strong.
They’re all of my son I have left.
He’s gone now.
Never to smile again.
And as much as I would die for to happen,
I cannot change what has happened,

I don’t want to let him go,
I loved him so much.
God, I miss him so.
My little boy, lying in his grave,
By himself all alone.
Seems more than any mom,
Should have to carry by her lone.

I remember his broken leg.
His first big person’s tooth.
The time he broke a window.
Scared to death to tell me.
But, with lips shaking,
Tears in his little eyes,
He stammered,
“Mom, I broke a window,


Playing ball next door.”
And even though his voice quavered,
It was a symphony to my ears.
That’s the thing about memories,
How they can seem so real.
Yet, in the flash of a moment, can become so ephemeral.
Moms keep your sons home,
So you don’t have to endure,
My pain and others caused by death too soon.

Death, the cold, hard fact of time,
Is--now, my son is gone.
I don’t want to let him go.
No more, “Mom, I’m home.”
No more, “May I have more pie, Mom?”
My son will never smile again.
But I can’t change what’s happened,
As much as I would die for to happen.
I loved him so much.
God, I miss him so.

Jesus, I don’t want to let him go.
Alas, my son is gone.

Iwo, Deleted, Jima
A Poem
By
Hank Feral
29 May, 2006

We hit the beach, Feb 19th 1945.
The fire was scathing, the shrapnel Hell.
I made the black, sand beach,
On a dead out run.
Metal shrieking round my head.
Singing its shrill, deadly dirge.
I hear a ka-wumph behind me.
Turn to look, then see,
A second mortar hit a boat,
Full of wounded G.I.s in their L.S.T.,
Bound for their hope afloat.
Men crying out their fate.
In Death major, they sang the doleful cacophony.
Accompanying the shrieking shrapnel,
Together, a Major movement,
The Concerto to Life’s End.

I run in the water and get two men to shore.
I go for the third, grabbing his hand,
But death had already prepared,
A watery tomb for his trauma’s end.
His fate was not on land.
For his charge was to the deep.
And as he slipped into oblivion,
I saw his face unique.
I remember to this day,
The dimpled chin, his blue eyes, the dark and bushy brows.
None of it escapes me; Perdition requires me to live it all.

But, I had to learn to cope with it, as much as possible, anyhow.
Finally, I managed to tuck the face away.
I know it sounds trite, but it works for me.
I assigned it to Memorial Day, giving him twenty-four hours for sure.
Then, only once a year, the man I could not save,
Plies me with his eyes, to pull him from his watery tomb.
Over and over it plays for the entire day.
Not a second escapes his time.
But, by midnight, his day,
The guilt begins to weaken again.
Like a finger I once broke.
A year later, I couldn’t remember the pain.
It’s like that with the face,
That comes to haunt me, Memorial Day.
That’s not my day,
For I sold it to the face.
When he died,
It sealed my memory fate.
Such as it is with “Survival Guilt.”


My Confession
or You Don’t Speak for Me
A Poem
by
Hank Feral
19 May, 2006

I have a confession to make.
I don’t like how our auxiliary militaries are abused.
So, when you crow your stance,
You shouldn’t include me.
Sir, you should own what you say.
What you say is travesty in guise of patriotcracy.
To say anything other,
Is wallowing in blind trust or lemmingidity.
You do your audience a disfavor.

Rolling thunder, rolling thunder,
Watch me rev, hear me roar.
I’m so loud in your ears.
I spread the spread with my euphemized, democracy knife.
Spread, slather, spread.
Hear me! Hear me! Hear me!
You can’t hear anything else.
Work, Work, Work,
I’m spreadin’ my democracy,
With my trusty blade.
What, you don’t like Manets?
Tough love, you have to,
It’s the taste of the day.
After all, “When things get dirty,
We get things done.”
Vroom, vroom, vroom,
Hear me loudly craw my crow.
Vroom, vroom, vroom.
Rolling thunder, rolling thunder,
Watch me rev, hear me roar.
I’m so loud in your ears.

Sir, you should own what you say.
What you say is travesty in guise of patriotcracy.
To say anything other,
Is wallowing in blind trust or lemmingidity.
So, don’t include me in your tesseracted house of lucidity.

My confession: I don’t like how our auxiliary militaries are being abused.

Excuse me, Father, for I have not sinned.



Success! I hope you enjoy these Shonski. It was a nightmare for me to get them inserted into this message to you. Hank Feral

Answer 2

I Die in the Night

I slip out into the dark,dank night.
A thought...need brings me forth.
Moonlight slipping and filling the dark sky,
an inner struggle for power,
conveys my journey into reality.

Do not mistake me for a fool,
or some misguided jackel,with no conscience.
For I am neither...
I know what I do,
what I seek,
the pain I shall cause.

Revel not,in what has to come,
battle for the clarity,reason...
the justification for the end.

Guided by the sounds...
of breath,laughter,
a twinkle of humanity...
harsh against the silence,the night presents.

Upon the park bench she sits...
young,fragile,innocence overflowing,
such intense fragrance.
A portrait in need of an artist to complete it.

My mind beats out the song,
my heart can no longer carry.
Longing,lust,anger,ache.
Longing,lust,anger,ache.
Cannot think,for the insistent beat,
carries me inevitably forward.

The soft,tender eyes blink,
as shadow of the night becomes form.
She smiles and I die once again,
from now until past memory.

Not the only,not the last.
Mourn for,grieve for,become part of...
to slay over,eternally within the mind.

A soft gesture,caress of the supple,soft skin.
Stealthy act,grasping and becoming shadows.
The murmur of the piercing...

Onward,toward heaven perhaps...
or so the smile upon her frozen,lifeless face says.
I retreat from the night,
to relive the moment,
again... and again.



-Lestat

This is one I wrote under another internet name,do you like?

Answer 3

you know this place
you know you been here before
tears running down
life been a nothing to you
but life has also brought you
people that mean everything to you
everything else
doesnt make sense anymore
with every step
you take
makes a way
without a tone
you hear my voice
step out of my past
leave me alone
with every step
it slowly grows
answer me at last
because its all going so fast

Answer 4

your dark hair is taking me to the end of the world
where gods and demons are Friends
so don't tell me you don't know the word
that changes the courses of the wends
it's on my lips, my mask, my sword
it's in your eyes writing my ends.

sorry English is not my mother language

Answer 5

Yes I try to be. I can't do that because how do I know that you won't steal my poem.

Answer 6

I am a good poet, I have lived and I have loved
To show a few chosen special people in my life
They are Sweet ..good.. and they know it..

Answer 7

!~ the only poem i know how to ryte is :
5 WAYS TO Be "NICE" to a teacher... [and this is the one part of it]

Once i caught my teacher smoking,
I said, "hey man i'm not joking,
If you don't crush out that tobacoo,
The Principle will have you Sack-0".

you see what i'm talking abt ~! (^_^) and i think you can ryte a dee poem.. you can do it ~! g0od luck!!

Answer 8

I am lost in time.
Have you lost the feeling of being divine?
Love and light
Lust and fury
I want to find it
Im in a hurry.

Bahahah Okey i busted that out for you!

Answer 9

Yeah, I've been writting for over 10 years.

Answer 10

Sure
I'm housebroken, affectionate, and only tear up the furniture when you really piss me off.
oh
that says poet
um
I can do that too
Try this on for size:
Amber locks shimmer gilded in the...Oh f*ck it

Answer 11

i'm good but ... english is a foreign language to me.
hm... let's try something... don't laugh of my eng

From all the stars i c above
ur star shines most, my love...

but i'm sure someone will come with a better one so best wishes!