|Poems, Stories, and Sprites|
The First Snow
Winter morning in late November,
Outdoors it is slowly getting light.
With a particular presentiment
I quickly jump out of the bed.
Amazed, I look out of the window,
There has happened something overnight.
The whole world has been changed
By winter's white magnificence.
Little flakes are dancing slowly
In front of the window, to and fro.
For hours I could watch them.
Oh, I love that so much.
Winter overcoat, scarf and cap
I pick out immediately.
Und then, full of joy, I run out
Into the snow-covered fields.
Silent, I walk all alone
Through the white winter wood.
Everything is so tranquil and peaceful,
And I am even not cold.
Slowly, I go always farther,
Feel that the world comes now to rest.
Fear and sorrow are falling from me,
And all is covered by the snow.
Mayday, MaydayThe journey you take after the first hitMayday, Mayday by ~PoetBoi
in the mouth and out the nose
the smoke finding a far-down pit
sucked down your throat like a vacuum hose.
That journey you take when you realize
you ain't fond of smoking
and this high isn't like you idealized
and it hurts a lot more than toking.
You cough and struggle with the smoke
even as you gulp down the pills
listening as your inner-voice spoke
"you know smoking kills."
And the journey takes you far away
out of your body and into your mind
so that now you can go and pave the way
to that which you want to find.
But instead you find yourself in dire straits
and the smoke is drowning your lungs
it's too late to intermediate
and you lose hold of the rungs.
Ernest Hemingway - The Best To Ever Live "There are events which are so great that if a writer has participated in them his obligation is to write truly rather than to assume the presumption of altering them with invention. The good parts of a book may be only something a writer is lucky enough to overhear or it may be the wreck of his whole damn life — and one is as good as the other. There is no writer since my time to have done these things without some form of fantasy; a crutch on which to lean. It is safely assumed that I am the best writer to have emerged from the twentieth century, and remain so for the twenty-first, despite what critics may say.Ernest Hemingway - The Best To Ever Live by ~PoetBoi
I don't like to write like God. It is only because I never do it, though, that the critics think I can't do it. Oh, many had the potential to write like I had, but they never continued, were always dropping into the background. It's enough for you to do it once for a few men to remember you. But if you do it year after year, then
The FatesThe fates spin a web of mythical intrigueThe Fates by ~PoetBoi
Never feeling tired, shrugging off fatigue
They weave and spin stories for every man born
It is these same fates who with history adorn-
They wear it like a cloak, for it is their own
The grandest stories all have ever known
All weaved by the fates, and so they take pride,
Watching over every man until he should die.
WarThe ravens grow hoarse in their calling,War by ~PoetBoi
telling us of the dead and dying,
drawing attention to murders appalling,
and the families of the victims crying.
So many gone and so many fallen,
this war has claimed but the best of men;
I tell you now in tones so solemn
so that this may never happen again.
|Poems, Stories, and Sprites|
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