A Place to Post Poems

Exactly what it sounds like


Here is a poem I made about imagination. I hope you guys like it.
Imagination.pdf (27.7 KB)


Hey, @Nettil, the poem looks great! However, some folks have issues accessing attachments. Would you be able to just post the text of the poem on the forum instead of a download link? It’s generally just easier for the rest of the forum!


Sure thing.



Is a truly amazing thing,

It is a source of constant inspiration ,

With which great change we may bring

It fuels the flames of our desire,

It leads us to innovation and creation,

And brings us ever higher.




It creations can give one happiness

Or give them fear

Give one sadness

Or ease their tears

In these wondrous, ever changing, rearranging lands

Comprised of your imagination

You hold all the power in your metaphorical hands

For you are sole master of this never ending nation

Fearlessly Create.

Always Believe.

Infinitely Dream.

Here you can do anything

In this world you take the Helm

You can be

A superhero.

An adventurer.

A warrior.

Or even a King

Nothing is impossible in this invisible realm

As long as you believe

In this intangible space of infinite possibility,

There is almost no limit to what you can achieve.

So remember to fearlessly Create,

Make something totally you

For only we can shape our Fate

And always Believe,

We can make our own choices

So make something new

So advocate, raise your voices

Cause we are not machine


For our imagination exists

As a place deep within our minds,

Where our creativity always persists

A incredible place never truly seen.

The origin of creativity,

A place where life experiences,fiction, every thought combines,

To create a brand new reality

In which all our hopes and dreams reside

And with the power of imagination

Destiny is yours to decide


A Rhyme to find lost things in no time

This is quite a simple rhyme,
To recover things lost in quick time,
Recite what is written four times twice
And to discover the missing device,
Just follow the line of shifting light,
To uncover that which is hidden from sight,
By Fire​:fire:, Water :droplet:, Earth​:earth_americas:, and Wind :wind_face:,
May Magiq guide me from within,
To help reveal from deep inside my mind,
The unseen object I cannot yet find.


Have you ever watched a marble being made
It’s amazing how much work some people put into them
Each its own little universe, delicately crafted and polished
Something to be cherished for a lifetime

Have you ever watched a memory being made


The Monarch Papers: A Closed Case

I am connected to a case that’s closed;
it’s sown its seeds so deeply into my
imagination: memory, transposed.

My memory, quite often, is foreclosed.
But even still, I feel the need to try:
I am connected to a case that’s closed.

Though we might feel we’ve lost what’s decomposed,
through fragments and remainders we supply
imagination: memory, transposed.

Since art is revolution when composed,
creators, we (of course) all know just why
I am connected to a case that’s closed.

As years go by and show how we’re enclosed,
futility tests what we’re granted by
imagination: memory, transposed.

Such existential dread is fierce opposed
by wonder, beauty, grace, before we die.
I am connected to a case that’s closed;
Imagination. Memory, transposed.


I don’t know if I agree with this poem anymore but it’s one of my early ones and at least at one time I was happy with it.


a room

reeking of smoke

alcohol bottles litter the room

and people relaxing about

a bar?


this is my mom’s apartment,

Where I smell like an ashtray when I leave

my brother complains endlessly

but does not see her tears.

she cries and he see’s nothing

he only raves about the “ashtray” he stays in

if only he would open his eyes

and sift through the ashes

to find our mother waiting for him to understand

that this is her hiding place

her place to be herself

and hopefully not be judged by those she loves

it is

our moms home.


Just have to say this is an amazing thread.
Here’s one I wrote quite a few years ago.

The flight of the soul:

The blackest night

Begins from the brightest day

I know I have my heart to thank

That my mind cant think of the words to say

Oh what a shame

There will be some price to pay

From the deepest depths and the highest heights

Should you learn that I died that night

Let my soul take flight

If only to find that I should fight

With loves great might

In brightest day and blackest night

Just to keep you in sight


I just found this amazing poem and thought this would be a good place to share it


I love all the beautiful pieces here!
I just stumbled across a 5-minute poem I wrote last year for my Uni’s newspaper when they needed more content for an article about the campus’ squirrel population :chipmunk:

“With beady eyes and fluffy tails they climb among the oaks
Tree rat, squirrel, sciuridae, they throw their nuts at folks
As students pass from class to home, the squirrels are always there
While cute they seem, their aim is true, so of acorns beware”


That’s awesome. I love the semi comedic semi horror vibe from it!


Thanks, having acorns hit you on the head after a 20-30 foot fall is definitely equal parts funny and horrifying so it seemed apt!


Know Thy Selves

There are more things in Heaven
And in Earth, than Horatio can dream.

There are more things in Horatio
Than Heaven and Earth can know.

There are masks, infinite like mirrors
Face to face, forever reflecting the self
We see in others, reaching for the ones
Who are also shaped as God.

Every person we meet
Meets a different one of us
A different facet of the Divine
Shines from every light that falls

To Thine Own Self Be True
States the wisest Bard

But Truth comes of Knowing
And Knowledge comes of Truth

To know any creation on this earth
Is a journey of a lifetime’s length
Take council then, good travelers,
If wisdom it is you truly seek

Embrace the plurality of nature
The singular they within every human’s skin

Know that you are Legion,
And go forth to know thy selves.


Words Like Water

I speak with words like water
A babble-brook of sound
Rivers may roar and so I
Cry with white rapid speech

I speak with words like water
Damned and dammed behind
The lock of lips tied by anger
A dike sealed by fable fingers

I speak with words like water
Rusty tap ekes out a measure
Falling on parched hearts
Too little, too late to start

I speak with words like water
A geyser, a fount, a great cascade
The diluvian torrent of ideas
Wrenched free by ageless pressures

I speak with words like water
Seeking the path of least resistance
Seeping through imperfect foundations
Changing through stubborn flow


The Existential Catumpillar
Outside my school,
Smokes lollipops and
Eats candy buttons,
And big thoughts,
He asks us
Deep fun questions
As we pass

“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck were given the basic respect due a living being?”

Sometimes, we
Will try to answer
And we’re usually
Completely wrong,
But he wants us
To try anyway.

“Is it nobler to be, or not to be, or to be a busy little bee, or to be-bop?”

Sometimes, we
Laugh at the
Silly Catumpillar.
He says
That’s okay.
Laughter is good.

“What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if no-one can hear the bears pooping?”

Sometimes, we
Learn the things
The teachers can’t
Teach us, and
we didn’t know
we didn’t know.

“Imagine if gender were a strict binary, only two options, no other choices or chance to change your mind.”

“But it is,” says one boy.

“Good job on that imagination,” says the Catumpillar.

We all know
The Catumpillar
And we all know
That he is wise and good.
We need him
For comfort and joy

“What would you do, if you couldn’t fail and you couldn’t succeed, and mediocrity was socially acceptable?”

His legs folded
Two spoons in a bowl.
His butt firmly resting
A yard and five inches
Off the ground.

At night, I hum
And know he hears
My answers to his
Ice-Cream Koans

“Do woodchucks actually want to chuck wood? I mean, have we ever asked them?”

“It is noblest to put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop. Then someone’s baby can fall in love with them.”

“I’d assume it’s the same as the sound of one idiot shutting up, since I’ve never heard either.”

I don’t always
Have answers
For the Catumpillar.
I think that’s okay



ah i didn’t know we had a place like this! I wrote a lil warm-up blurb this morning that I like! :smile:

"As she brushes past the curtains
With an abnormal practiced grace,

Her frigid breath and outstretched arms
Creep closer to my face.

With a voice of liquid silver
She urges me to come;

Takes my hand, pulls me to stand
As we begin to run

Up through the open window,
Past the rusted garden gate,

Side by side, hands entwined
Through empty streets we race."


I attended a conference about a year ago, where Andrea Hejlskov said “Storytelling is battle magic”. Her words stayed with me and I think people here will understand why. When I wrote this months ago, I’d never heard of the AG books. Maybe I’ll write a stanza for them someday. When the time is right, the words shall be. Until then, in gratitude for the world CJB lets us participate in…

Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for hope
from a Princess who grew up to be a General
transformed defeat into persistence
and led the Rebellion.

Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for determination
from a pair of hobbits who went never wanted the burden
transformed despair into one more step onward
and defeated a great evil.

Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for friendship
from a trio of children who fought against the Dark Lord
transformed loss into courage
and together, they won.

Storytelling is battle magic.
Whomever you are, whatever you fight
may the magic of Inspiration lead you
transform hardship into wisdom
and rise.


I have written way too much poetry for my own good, here’s some of what I consider highlights. (Reverse chronological order, so the first is the most recent of the 6)

The Maid's Sonnet

Though pleasing in her face, the mistress reeks,
Of fabric, and perfume, and devoured sweets.
From her shoe bound toes to her blush streaked cheeks,
Damasked in paisley, walking bright lit streets.

Her husband is similar, cleanshaven,
Composed, in slim black, suits buttoned tightly.
His shoes shine polished to rival heaven,
Though his love? True, as he tells her nightly.

Though an echo of that love, she is not.
Husband belied with kisses, her love,
It is for another, one whom she’s besot.
A gent called the gardener, hands in glove.

A secret kept as I tread round the house,
Dusting furniture, washing her day blouse.

Untitled #1

I lay upon the dirt,
The gentle earth beneath my shattered back.
A bed of moss around me,
In a quiet embrace.
As I lied there,
For moments,
Then weeks.
My lungs filled with rainwater,
My heart with moss,
My skin bloomed with flowers,
My eyes lifted by delicate stalks.
The slugs traced my wrinkles,
And the bees traced my meaning.
As I lied there,
In finality,
I became more alive,
Than I ever was.

Untitled #2

In the wake of all that we knew,
The moon split,
A gentle,
Silent crack,
Which could not reverb through the soft void.
She shattered,
Into rocks,
And memories.
And we shattered,
On the quiet earth,
Staring into that dark sky,
Peppered with her brightness,
We dreamed.
We dreamed of all that was,
And will be,
And wasn’t,
And will never be.
With that final act,
We finally broke.


In my essence,
I am the spiral.
A fractal,
Ever folding,
Ever falling.
Deeper than the eye can see.
I am of the web,
Yet the ever twisting tangles me.
I do not understand.
I cannot understand.
It is only in my foolishness,
My desire for clarity,
That I am lost.
I surrender to the spiral,
The unknowable tangle,
The divine radiance that is understanding that you know none more than less that which is held on the edge of a broken wing.
I can feel my weave tighten as I understand its meaning,
I can remember that the pattern is a silent master.
But I cannot pretend that I am not mad for it,
That it does not feel like unending changes and twisting and quiet breaks in a string too taught.
The spiral is within me.


A promise?
I made a promise?
To whom?
For what?
I cannot remember.
And so it never came to be.

A promise is alive.
A mewling creature,
Of blood, breath, and sin.
Tied in ropes of sinew.
I fed no such thing.
I offered no blood of the covenant.
And yet,
Rigid I remain,
Bound by lifeless,
Breathless promises.

Promises which were not born,
But etched into my being.
Carved into my flesh and my fiber.
Stamped onto my soul.
Promises fed my breath,
Long before I knew it was life.
And so I sit,
As I imagine a world where I am unblemished,
By the promises of my birth.

Cold Digits

I’ve got icicles in my teeth tonight,
A frosty smile.
Shivers down my spine and snowflakes in my fingers.
My teeth chatter,
Clacking shards of crystal wonder.
My Body shudders,
Pain and pleasure written in a filigree of ice.
My skin dances as my stomach leaps.
My heart pounds to a beat so amusing it makes laughter erupt from somewhere unfrozen.
I cry crystal tears.
I want to be beaten,
I want to be battered.
I want bruises to blossom against my skin.
I feel this chill,
And I crave more.


I took a poetry class last semester and learned that I really enjoy it so here is my favorite one…

Years Later (Inspired by Barry Moser’s “The Preacher”)

He was
A grave man. Somber
Manners. Thinning
Hair and frail.
That great Bible he threw
Around was his only weight.
Leaning this way or
That, it directed
His path. In the light
Of old streetlamps
He became.