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Soul Expression

Discussion in 'It's All Fun and Games' started by Kitsune, Feb 8, 2016.

  1. Kitsune

    Kitsune Staff Member

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    Well Cali Girl 510 , thank you. Then you may just like this one. :laugh:

    The Hunter
    By Kitsune

    Well, gents, if I may try and explain,
    of the tall tail tale of the male,
    Mr. Foxy red fox with an auburn mane,
    and feet like socks, that are pale.

    Though I do consume my chick,
    She always stays quite whole
    The nibbles are light and quick,
    But pleasurable, I'm told .

    And my tale she does chase, it's true
    but it's quite easy to see
    She's after the fox the tail's attached to
    It seems my prey is hunting me.​
     
    Last edited: Feb 25, 2016
  2. Cali Girl 510

    Cali Girl 510 Well-Known Member

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  3. Kitsune

    Kitsune Staff Member

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    Ghost Fox
    By Kitsune

    This is written in memory,
    And also doubles as warning.
    The passing of this Fox,
    Brings both celebration and mourning.

    Foxy, foxy, foxy....
    A warm and gentle chap.
    Too stubborn for his own good,
    and the cause of his mishap.

    Always in search of mice,
    Amidst the ice and rubble
    Lept head first, and his face sank,
    Into feet of snow and trouble.

    He died a happy death,
    This we know too well.
    His body frozen in tribute,
    To the final Red Fox tail.

    They pulled him from the bank,
    the mouse still held in place.
    And behind the gripped tight teeth...
    Was a smile on his furry little face.

    On the coldest, quiet nights...
    If you put your ear to the snow....
    You can still hear the Ghostfox whisper...

    "Where did that damn mouse go...."

    2a883832ea26a9ba4596d784f683b6ea.jpg
     
  4. FossilHead

    FossilHead Staff Member

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    One Foot in Eden
    by Edwin Muir (1887-1959), Scottish poet


    One foot in Eden still, I stand
    And look across the other land.
    The world's great day is growing late,
    Yet strange these fields that we have planted
    So long with crops of love and hate.
    Time's handiworks by time are haunted,
    And nothing now can separate
    The corn and tares compactly grown.
    The armorial weed in stillness bound
    About the stalk; these are our own.
    Evil and good stand thick around
    In fields of charity and sin
    Where we shall lead our harvest in.

    Yet still from Eden springs the root
    As clean as on the starting day.
    Time takes the foliage and the fruit
    And burns the archetypal leaf
    To shapes of terror and of grief
    Scattered along the winter way.
    But famished field and blackened tree
    Bear flowers in Eden never known.
    Blossoms of grief and charity
    Bloom in these darkened fields alone.
    What had Eden ever to say
    Of hope and faith and pity and love
    Until was buried all its day
    And memory found its treasure trove?
    Strange blessings never in Paradise
    Fall from these beclouded skies.
     
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  5. Kitsune

    Kitsune Staff Member

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    Excellent!
     
  6. Corvid

    Corvid Active Member

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    Well Kitsune et al, some nice submissions.
    Here's one I was working on today. It's in an Irish context, so I'm not sure if everyone will get it.

    Condemned

    It's 7am and a frost came down overnight
    Helmet pinching around the eyes, sleep
    Is lazy in letting go and the day
    Has not yet taken hold

    Chain drive clicks, back wheel slips
    On ice, some backroad rising
    From the early morning blanket
    Of mist, lurch and list to the company yard.

    The gate is open, you've been going
    Since quarter past six
    And the mix of cold, tired,
    The ambitious eyes of others;
    Questioning, wondering what could be worth all this?

    Van and trailer loaded,
    Ducted heat on, breakfast struggling
    To rise, a dubious phoenix striving to fly,
    Or a fragment of soul escaping.

    We have arrived at the abyss
    Or Ballymun, as the sign says
    To plant shrubs and run
    Before the setting of the sun
    Summons forth the dead eyed ones.

    And when all's said and done
    Home at six thirty, five hundred and fifty euros in the bank
    For digging holes and planting trees
    And picking rubbish up on our knees
    In the shadow of two remaining towerblocks —
    Condemned: Just like all the women, children and the men.
     
    Last edited: Mar 2, 2016
  7. Kitsune

    Kitsune Staff Member

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    Nice poem!
    I admit, did have to look up Ballymun, then read it again. Ah, the green-thumbs with blackened hands.

    Never really had a knack for the descriptive, metaphorical picture painting poetry, but I do love reading it.
    Very good conveyed feeling in that one. :thumbsup: (y)
     
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  8. Corvid

    Corvid Active Member

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    Thanks kitsune, that one was a first draft, have re-worked a few of the phrases since. Ballymun was one of the worst places in dublin, lots of crime and junkies. :cautious:
     
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  9. FossilHead

    FossilHead Staff Member

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    Suppose we have only dreamed the thing we thought our life
    All our suffering simply a nightmare, all our successes only imagined?
    To awaken and learn that none of it was true, the wrong nor the right
    That our devastations were not, but that our heartsongs are ravaged.


    Suppose we use pen and paper to write what we recall
    The losses, the pain, the love, the pleasure
    And made a book of our dream, for all
    Our first edition a guaranteed bestseller


    Where every person reads and critiques
    All that we lived in our dream, and better
    That we are able to know every belief
    They have about our dream, shared together


    Although nothing could be changed in the dream
    That is gone, and though no way exists to relive it
    What might we take from remarks of poignance
    Or theme that would better allow us to move on?


    Would we learn that experiences of pain and joy
    Are two sides of the same coin which pay
    For the dream that was our life?
    And that we're truly the sum of all that we experienced each day?


    Or cry to learn that all pleasure for which we invested time in our dream
    And so enjoyed were for naught, and that the losses with which our life
    Was fraught were some angry joker’s scheme?
    And which of these two would cause us the most strife?


    Pleasures lost, losses regained, and the wear on our hearts
    Removed, along with the stains from all the times we fell
    And were hurt. Would we discover we feel well?
    And would the second edition of our book be better, or worse?
     
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