Plums' Poetry Orchard

Wonderful poem there, Ploo-Hems. It's also very true.

People need a lot of merriment in their life.

Unfortunately, a lot people take their life for granted and don't take time to enjoy the merriment.

Anyway, keep it up the good work. :)

 

Faith
​

He says the plane will hit
In New York City.

My head spins with the
twin
questions of “What†and “Whyâ€.

“Why is this happening?â€
is the question they all ask.

Yet, my questions lie elsewhere:
Why is religion the basis of
terror?

How is it that people fight
even though their God is one in the same?

 

Muy bueno!

The poem reminds me of the Right 'Round and You Spin My Head 'Round songs.

It's very original, as always, and has that special Ploo touch.

My favorite part was the ending because of how it kind of ends with a mystery.

 

So I just wrote this. It's a Pantoum, which follows a specific format of:

• unlimited number of quatrains
• the first line of the poem has to be the last line of the poem
• the second line in the stanza must be used as the first line in the next stanza

Based off a song from the Puella Magi OST
~click here to listen while reading if you want~

_ _ _ _ _
​

Iustitiae Veneficae
(Witch of Justice)
​

Her descent was etched by destiny.
She was a snowflake
dancing
to the soft hum of the muses' love tune.

She was a snowflake
believing in justice
her goals as pure as
her icy, fragile body.
​

Believing in justice,
she bargained with the sky,
her wish for companionship
with the broken hands of the earth.

She bargained with the sky,
beneath its never-ending smile.
It's celestial eyes
pressing down on her soul.

Beneath its never-ending smile
her perfect pattern faded to black,
matching the darkening sky
over the horizon.

Her perfect pattern faded to black,
the snowflake melting into a mere puddle of despair.
She fell short of the hands of the ground.
Her descent was etched by destiny.​

 

Wow . . . that was something I have never seen. I like the way it was laid out and the story behind it. You have a very unique talent for poetry and you show it ^_^ Can't wait to read your next piece.

EDIT: Pantoum . . . I never knew . . . -_- . . . but now I do ^_^

 

You already know I love this poem for obvious reasons. I think you capture the essence of Sayaka very well.

And well, a Patoum seems more playful than other fixed forms, or even freestyle.

 

Inferno

I can hear their cries.
It’s a burning sound
in my ears.

We are only five minutes away
from the concrete jungle where those
twin dreams
will be shattered.

I can only feel the
vibrations of the shaking air.
Three minutes away.

The cries behind the door
faded away as the plane
made a “WOOSH†sound.
I can see the Towers clearly.

I can only think of
my daughter
as my body combusts.

 

It's been a while since I have seen anything relating to that incident . . . You portrayed the feelings of the narrator excellently and you did it without even stating what you were talking about. (Though it should be clear) As far as poetry goes this is a high ranking piece, as far as brilliance goes well . . . brilliance never ceases (at least to amaze me) And with that I end with this. You are an excellent poet, I hope you know it, don't forget it, twas I who said it ^_^

 

After
​

Death is
warm.

Like jumping in
a rubble
of feathers.

I.hear nothing.
Touch nothing.
Taste nothing.

Yet, I can feel
this warm sensation.

And I can see
the lone crow
before me.


I ask him one question,
a question only he
can answer:

Are you sure your god told you to do this,
or he that claimed to be Him?






After

Death is something
One cannot describe.

It encompasses all,
yet encompasses
nothing.

I see one of the plane passengers.
He asks me the question
My daughter asked not even a day ago:

Are you sure your god told you to do this,
or he that claimed to be Him?

I sigh,
looking at him in the eyes.
My mouth phrases the words:

I followed a blind man.
He acted as though he were close to Allah,
but I know now,
I’m closer than he could ever be.​

_ _ _
​

Chronology


The Day Before: Yusef leaves his daughter to board a plane heading to NYC.
Joseph is sitting in the terminal.

6:35 am: Yusef and Joseph (no acquaintance) board the flight.

7:30 am: Yusef hijacks the plane; Joseph ponders why someone would do this.

8:46 am: Robert crashes the plane into the Twin Towers. Everyone aboard is killed.

After Death: Joseph confronts Yusef about his motives for participating in the attack.

 

Thank you for this wonderful piece . . . it is a true commemoration to the 9/11 tragedy. There is a lot of controversy on the matter but I am glad someone can look past it and just remember to morn for the poor souls that were lost that day. You are one of the better people I have ever had the chance to meet, and I am glad I met you. The way you expressed the power of the situation in your poetry was . . . excellent doesn't begin to describe it. You were able to make it clear to everyone what was happening and then kindly explained the story behind the poem after all was said and done. Most writers wouldn't take the time to do that . . . then again you aren't most writers. To say I am happy for reading this would be a lie, to say I am happy you wrote it would be a lie . . . to say I am glad someone took the time to commemorate what happened that day . . . that is the truth.

 

Reflect[Refract

Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over - Pablo Neruda

Over the dreams of the present,
rustling leaves purr as the sky
yawns.

You sit as a doll
crouched over in a tangential frown.
I’ve thought of taking a string and needle
once
and fixing the doll maker’s mistake.

You remind me of a shadow,
melting beneath the embrace of sunlight.
You were whole and consuming in the night,
as if some folded quilt, tossed
and forgotten in a corner.

I peered into your eyes,
pristine pools of loss,
fear, self-doubt glazed
with only the smallest bit of water.

I remember staring into the mirror.
All I could see was this ghost
stare back at me.

 

ITT: You have little over 60 hours to help me revise these poems

Chiming

I assure you will not matter either to you or me.
Your hands move with a steady beat along
a levitating
ellipse.

I would have thought my stares
would puncture through you,
send ripples and disrupt the beat.
Yet you spin with a constant
tock.

Tick.
The hourly rhythm seems to shake the world,
vibrations flowing out of the lines from an otherworldly
gong.

Tock.
I stare at you again, waiting,
impatient, hoping for whatever may be to come.
You seem to stare back at me,
the dichotomy of your hands
laughing.

Logophobia

Coming home from the usual day of school,
I often find my mother
standing at the dishes.

The small soapy bubbles bobbed
like dandelion seeds through the air,
unspoken wishes wading to the future.

She would pick up a bowl,
a thin layer of grease from early breakfast
smiling back at us both.

The sponge danced over the grease,
its sudsy center performing a show.
At this point she would ask about my day
pushing the bowl beneath the faucet.

I would stare at it for a moment,
my thoughts fragmented
like the bubbles beneath the water.

Memories threatened to wash over me.
School and home were like grease and
water in my mind;
never allowed to mix
biologically incapable.

I looked up from the bowl,
flashing a smile.
"Nothing"
I would say, watching as she placed the bowl back
on the rack.

In the center, I could see the faint
shine of grease and water,
staring back at me.
A field of unspoken words.

​