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The Poetry Game


ThetaOrionis01

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Some of you may remember with nostalgia the halcyon days of the Morrowind Chronicles Forums, when days were sunny, snowballs were lethal, and unwashed socks were kept out of harm's way....and fewer still may perhaps, have shed a tear for that outpouring of creativity which was the poetry thread.

 

A few remarks in IRC seemed to indicate that there is, indeed, a need for a place where posters may show off their poetic side. Alas, when I mentioned to Dark0ne that a poetry/arts forum on Morrowind Source would go a long way towards counteracting the popular perception of the computer gamer as an uncultured pizza-guzzling nerd with a distinct lack of social graces, his reply was 'mmm....pizza' :rolleyes:

 

So unless someone wishes to bribe the almighty admin with a giant pizza (I would do it, but my ninja-pizza death-stars with extra-sharp anchovies frequently have a lethal side-effect :lol: ), the Off-Topic section must remain our haunt.

 

 

So let me throw down the gauntlet, and challenge you to participate in the poetry game. The rules are simple - a few words are given, and the task is to incorporate them into a poem. Whether it rhymes or not is up to you, whether you choose to use the given words in an epic of Homerian proportions or a Haiku is up to you. However, since, as was pointed out to me, the only good limerick is a dirty limerick (correct me if I'm misquoting you here, Caveatar :lol: ) you will have to try very hard to remain within the ToS should you choose that particular format.

 

And to start with:

 

golden, sky, fear, soft

 

 

 

The challenge is set

By whom will it be met?

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It was no misquote. :D

 

The only limerick I ever heard and liked which

was NOT dirty was......

 

 

Faster Than Light Travel

 

 

There was a young lady from Bright

Who could travel much faster than light

She departed one day

in a relative way

and returned on the previous night.

-------------------------------

 

 

Thy challenge dost myself embolden

though the verse may not be golden

nor bring a tear of joy to the eye

nor yet lift spirits to the sky

 

When love of the game casts out fear

we shall then see what shall appear

whether we write words harsh or soft

Plunge to the depths or soar aloft

-----------------

as short as I can compress it

 

 

 

Golden sun in a Sky bright blue and clear

Soft clouds and soft sunlight cast out fear

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I'm assuming you can use forms of the words....

 

Here goes #1 -

 

Throughout the golden years of one’s age,

Where mortality, heavy as all the sky, crushes down upon you.

Fears come. Fears of death, growing stronger as the light fades,

Yet there is always the soft, inner voice giving hope in the dark.

 

Softly, softly it calls to you, from where you cannot tell.

It assuages the fears, chases them back, and the darkness fades away.

The sky lifts, the weight abates, and youth to the veins returns,

And the golden years become golden once again.

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All Hallows

 

 

On soft silent feet creeps the year

Towards its autumnal death

A dark night, a shiver of fear,

Mist rising from your breath

The golden light turns to red

Shadows deepen as the hours unfold

Ethereal light dances overhead

In a sky glittering and cold.

The day of the dead is near

The old year fades away

To a dawn, crisp and clear

New life for those who must stay

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Lummy, cripes and heck you must have poetry dripping from fingers to post so fast. Well here goes.

 

ON GROWING OLD

 

Golden days

Olden days

Love was young

Death a haze

Eternity away.

No more.

 

Sullen sky

Kisses die

Youth is past.

 

Fear's reply

Envies God.

Ask for...?

Reality is harsh and cold not soft

 

Senseless to seek redress from one aloft

Open your mind to being what you are

Find hope in friendship, not false dreams from far.

Thus alone will you find joy in age.

 

If you wonder about the spacing look at the initial letters of each 'verse'.

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--- golden, sky, fear, soft ---

 

Soft whispers floating on the wind,

golden thoughts in blackened rind,

inchoate from life and death,

part not of my my tortured breath,

the sky they wander away from me,

I fear solution I will not see.

 

Yet I sense them and yet I don't,

them to lose from writing won't,

I grasp the meaning but lose the words,

flying above me like playful birds,

so onwards my words the whispers gird,

enticing the mind but the paper skirt.

 

There is no word for the disappointment,

this horrid feeling for which there is no ointment,

the knowledge of 'maybe' which I cannot clasp,

the existance of ascension that alludes my grasp,

to have the power to catch what I need,

the words in the whispers I want to read,

the words in the whispers I want to read.

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Take 2:

 

I weep to the sky for the dead of the war.

It answers me not. Just sits there silent and distant.

Though as if they could speak there’s a constant dull roar

Of lamentations of many lives that were so poorly spent.

 

“Why?” I cry out, and the echo returns “Why?”

“Why do the young pay the tabs of the old?”

I ask, as the winds hush my words to soft cries

Of the meek, instead of the boasts of the bold.

 

Yet to my amazement as I’m standing there,

An answer comes, in morning’s first soft golden rays.

The hope that it brings, the lessening of care,

With the fears of the nights replaced by the courage of days.

 

The battlefield visible now in the light,

With soldiers now scattered oe’r far away fields.

The soft morning’s rays uncovering the plight

Of the friends of those for whom church bells will peal.

 

A straggler comes to me, eyes wild and ablaze

Yet to him, I go slowly as if magically drawn

His fear is evident in his thousand yard gaze

As if he knows that he’s been used as a pawn

 

“I came here to fight” he says holding back tears,

“For goodness, and god’s given ‘Aye’.”

“But here I discovered wisdom well beyond years,”

“To live, you must know how to die.”

 

I looked at this man as he continued along

I watched as he disappeared o’er the hills

And I thought to myself, thoughts way too strong,

Is it that man is not man ‘til he kills?

 

Yet deep in my heart a golden song flows

And rises up to my sanity’s defense

The killing urge beat down and the peace – how it grows!

The only way out is in sense.

 

So let’s hope the troubles of codgey old men

Who bluster and fluster their way and their wives

Can come up with a way, a different regimen

Than to argue using younger men’s lives.

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