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Some of my Poetry I wanted to share

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Jamark8

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My Name is Buck

I live in the middle,
my name is Buck

Make a way for me,
maybe with luck

Beneath me is the basement
it is hidden away
Above is the attic
forbidden, a way.

Those Indians make a way
for me, my name is Buck

Hidden away in the basement
is Hell, there I was stuck

Forbidden, a way in the
attic there is,
and Heaven it was.

I live in the middle.
My name is Buck.
I was to choose when
the midnight hour struck.

Like Aunt Ruth said,
I was postponing the inevitable.

Buck was here.

 

__
 

Justice, or Revenge?

I ask myself
Is it just to think this?
To think the thinks I think?
To want to harm another
for the sake of teaching
when they have wronged
or crossed me?

I ask myself
Is it justice? Or Revenge?

And thus the question stands
Because I haven’t yet answered
Because Justice and Revenge
seem so similar to one person
who see them both as one color

Red

When the answer should be simple
but no one else to help me
comprehend
the question in order to
give the answer to myself
But I know that with deep thought
Fervent Meditation
Without self-medicating

I can find the answer I seek.

 

(When you find the answer
be an example.)

__

 

Golden Rules

I asked my Maker to take away
my pride,
and He said, “No”
that it was not for Him to remove
but for me to learn humility.

I asked my Maker to make me whole and anew,
but He said, “No”
that I was already
whole in the soul
and my body is a temporal being.

I asked my Maker
to give me temperance
and again, He said, “No”
but to prune out my impulses in great tribulations, He must allow it to run its course. It is not granted to one; it is learned.

I asked my Maker to
give me happiness
but He said, “No”
that He blesses me with all things needed, and it is up to me to have joy in His blessings.
(For happiness is temporal.)

I asked my Maker to spare me pain and suffering
and He said, “No”
that by suffering, it chips off my worldliness and cares of this world, and brings me closer to Him.

I asked my Maker
to give me great faith
but He said, “Nay!!”
That if I don’t know Him by now,
and the works and wonders He does therein, that I would never know Him.

I asked my Maker for everything I need to enjoy my life,
but He said, “No”
and that He gives me life so that I may enjoy the things I already have.

I told my Maker that I loved Him and I asked my Maker
if He loved me,
and He said,
“I love you.
Now, love others
the way I love you;
the way you love me.
If you love me,
you will do this.”


__
 

And The Children Followed

I.  Nowadays, ways have changed:
The Sun, the Moon and even the rain.
And under the heavens far above
play the children, small and tall
who we all love.

Now in these days so near the end
the significance of love should not
depend
on strangers (we know not that
they will do)
But a mother’s love,
the helping hand
and the father’s example
Stronger than written in sand.

Children, our precious futures
they hold
Yet the models they follow are
angers untold.
Why then, why then
repeat and rehearse
the dangers and perils that bring
back the curse?

Have we no backbone?
Have we no spine?
Have we no shame,
before grace divine?

Our streets are playgrounds,
the playgrounds are still
Our hatred abounds in their
hearts, filled
A cup that runneth over
the wrath in vain spilled.

So be not afraid
think not it strange
when strangers with speed
take hold of thy seeds.

There will come one quite sly
yet tender and shy
Decked motley and pied
whom the children will abide.

With a cloak hanging lowly
of red and of green
Cherries and canaries
A sight you’ve never seen.

Eyes of blue and the skies
Hair of burgundy night
With rays of sunshine
radiating as highlight.

They will call him “teacher”
and he will call them “pupils”
Their eyes will be mesmerized
with ears in a stupor.

His voice you will not hear
when the children he draws near,
With a song of unspeakable words
for you have been unteachable.

With children the future is
and now those children are his
You’ve made the last mistake
Your regret is housed in a lake.

Yet the children walk upon water
all your sons, and all your daughters
While they dance to sing songy teaching
Your trance-Will is freezing.

Eyes wide open, hearts wide shut
Your tears are ice, umbilical’s cut.

And NOW you weep . . .

While in your trance,
they’re entrance
to the lives they dream
is over the hills, through the streams
Past the pines and other trees.

For the Piper made way
to a life well deserved
Into the light you’ll never see
He sun his way in to the mountainside
Opened a door, a mystery to hide.

And the children followed.

 

II.  You’ve lost your children, this is so,
but they lost their parents long ago.
The love they need cannot be bought
Your care and attention is what they sought.

As known in nature, the commonality shared,
“If I don’t get it here, I’ll get it elsewhere”.
As ignorant children yourselves, you be,
you ignore the warnings, you never heed.

On the contrary, yet the same
the realm around us
cloaked to the naked eye,
will blend with ours, now
and will become one.
Then a child, and a child at heart
(formerly known as strangers to you)
will change their form while standing still.

But you, yourselves, will disappear.
As in the great magic charade
you will walk a highway never built for you
and all will be warped and cruel;
As North to South, and East to West.

Pipe the Pipe
Trump the Trumpet
and close the door,
as the children follow.

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Sorry about the different fonts; those were the ones I used in the books I wrote. I didn't see an option on here to change it.

Those are my poems from my books. I have another favorite, which was actually put on CD and read by someone, along with other people's poems. I have the recording of it. I want to share it but I don't want my name said.

And he reads the name of the person who wrote the poem.

I may eventually post it, the poem and audio version. Maybe. If anyone's interested, I might. There's two of them, actually. 🙂

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2 hours ago, Floor2017 said:

Awesome, I been wanting to write a book for years but I have not got around to it.

That's cool!

To me, it's more simple to write a book of poetry than to sit down and write a novel. I guess because the words and punctuation must be perfect for a novel.

I began writing when I was younger, it started out with journaling, then I began writing poems, making my mental pains creative. I guess I had more time than others to write because I had been sick a lot in my life and did not work as long. So it gave me more time, but gave me something to do that was worthwhile.

Lulu.com is the place I use to publish my books. For the size and type of book that I write, it's only around $3.00 per 100 pages in a book. I usually write 100-120 pages per book... but sometimes I make compilations and the page number gets into the 200's and 300's.

If you were to write a book, what would it be about, or would it be poetry?

 

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