Forums » Forum Games » Waxing Poetic

A place to wax poetic about any topic.

Like the "Short Story Fun" Topic in this Forum is a place to put short stories you have no other place for, this is a place to wax poetic about anything you'd like.

Impressed by the way the wind blows restlessly right before a thunderstorm and feel like you want to write a little blurb about it?

Thought of an amazing metaphor for life on earth that went over the pizza delivery guy's head?

Facebook friends not appreciative enough of your page-long diatribe about the incomprehensibility of the Universe?

Here ya go. You're welcome.

*BTW -- Waxing poetic about something ridiculously basic, like a pencil sharpener, is also welcome! That canbe the "game" part. See how overly poetic you can make a description of common, everyday items! (Example: "Ode to a Sock"). Have fun!

WAXING POETIC About Artists

Artists are my people
They see with eyes like me
They see the details others miss
And miss what others see

Artists are my people
Disbursed around the world
Hidden among extroverts
Reclaiming "Geek" and "Nerd"

Artists are my people
Just look inside their hearts
You won't see actuarials
You might see Viking Burials

Artists are my people
Just look inside their hearts
You won't see piles of worldy worth
You'll see the hills of Middle Earth

Artists are my people
For others may decide
The who, the what, the when, the where,
But artists know the "why"

---

Waxing Poetic About Writing

I like writing because writing eases lonliness.
Even if there was only one person left on an island alone, and they one book, written by someone else, they would be less lonley for having that book. Even if it's a book by an author that is long dead.
It's almost like the energy we give to one another when we communicate is stored up in books, and can ne released anytime when a reader picks one up. It's not the same as having a friend. But it's also not the same as being alone.

Books are something in between. They store up some of that emotional energy that we all need to survive. I think the emotional energy could simply be called love or care. An author writes a book to an audience with care for that audience and so some of the care is stored up in the book, and conveyed to the reader. For example, when an only child with no friends is locked in a room in the middle of summer waiting for his or her favorite show to come on, then finds it was canceled due to the game running long, there's a lonliness that's hits him or her that suffocates the soul. That child looks out beyond the hour they were looking forward to, out into the future, and they see days, and weeks, and months of time to fill, and nothing to fill it with. The next time their show will be on is next Saturday. That's an impossible amount of time away. 6 days and 6 nights stretch out before their eyes will no purpose, no light, and this stiffling blanket of lonliness covers their soul and slowly starts to kill it. And strangely enough, in lieu of a person, sometimes a book can save it. I believe love is like an energy -- a metaphysical energy -- that passes between two people, and it's like fuel for our souls. One person fuels up another, and they can keep going. That person fuels up yet another, and so on.

Writing has that love, packaged in it, in bewteen the letters and sentences, in between the ink and the paper. It holds that light and love that someone else poured into it when they were writing something that they hoped somone else would understand. Their light and love is in that book, waiting to be released, and when someone reads it, they recieve that stored up light and love.

So writing had the power to take that lonley child who has nothing to look forward to, and who's soul is dying for lack of love, and connect with them, and give them that love, that love, an entire world. They are communicating, suddenly, with the greatest minds around, and, for a while, it's not so lonely anymore. It's like an IV drip...not as much love as you need, but it's enough love to keep you alive, until you get to the next stage in your life where you can choose where to go and what to do in our everlasting quest for love and light. And you can give love and light to generations in the future and people around the world simply by wielding a pen with love, which is powerful beyond another power to communicate. That's why I like writing.

---

Waxing Poetic About Artists...

The Soul of an Artist

Artists are different. They're the ones that have to create. Not just analyze, not just utilize, but create. There's a formless energy inside of us constantly churns like a restless ocean, throwing all kinds of dreams and ideas to the surface. Elsewhere, those churning tidal wives must be suppressed, tamed, redirected, put off for later. Art is where they come out, as pure and wild and raw as the soul that created them. Art is where the meaning is found in the midst of chaos.

Artists are different. Artists do beautiful things just because they're beautiful. Not because they're useful. Not because they're profitable. Not because they're necessary. Just because they're beautiful. They value beauty for beauty's sake. Some people value nothing that doesn't have a utilitarian purpose. But artists know that beauty gives all the nuts and bolts of this life meaning.

Artists are different. Architects take care of our shelters, Engineers take care of our machines, Accountants take care of our money, Farmers take care of our food, Doctor take care of our bodies, Teachers take care of our mind, but what do Artists do? Artist take care of our hearts. Hearts are often neglected.

Artists are different. People who are artists see the difference between two shades where others see one, or the difference between two words when others thing they mean the same thing. We see look around us everywhere and see something to say. That boy at the bustop has something to say, that sunset has something to say, that house fire has something to say, those everglades have something to say, that piece of unformed clay has something to say, that civilization that died out 1000 years ago has something to say, that blade of grass has something to say, that piece of music has something to say, and my body's movement has something to say. Sometimes it seems like no matter what the type of art (visual, musical, writing, sculpting, acting, dancing, graphic), we all speak the same language. Some kind of language of the heart that knows beauty when it sees it. Therefore when you get around a group of artists for the first time in our life, you probably feel a fraternity that you've never felt before in another other area of life, and it's quite validating.


The thing inside...that wants to come out. That's one thing I think any artist would understand. It's like there's a need to create art inside of you. And you're the only one who can do it. I like this quote, because it explains that feeling, at least it's similar to what I feel sometimes when I MUST write:


(Excerpt from: Richard Bach, Running From Safety, p. 129-131):

“Of course I’m somebody special,” I said. “Everybody’s somebody special...We may be kids, but inside we’re already finished and we’re not just . . . nothing!”

"How do you know you’re somebody special?”

"Mornings," I told him. "Sometimes mornings I wake up and go outside and the air is so...green, do you understand? The air is saying Something’s going to happen today! Something powerful is going to happen! And it never quite happens, as far as I can tell, but there’s that feeling in the air. It doesn’t happen, but it happens. You don’t know what I’m saying, do you?”

“Maybe you’re just wishing something would happen.”

“I don’t make this up, Budge! I swear I don’t make it up. There’s something out there and it’s like...it’s sort of calling to me. You hear it too, don’t you? I don’t mean hear, but you feel it sometimes, don’t you?

He looked me straight in the eyes. “It’s a light inside me,” he said, “like I swallowed a star.”

“YES! And cut somebody open you’re never going to find that star, you’re never going to find it with a microscope big as a house!”

My friend lay against his bike and watched twilight through the trees. “You can’t see stars in the daytime. You have to close your eyes, kind of adjust to the dark and you see this faint light way far away. Is that what you see, Dick?”

Only friends dare talk like this, I thought. “The light’s a silver chain, like an anchor-chain in my mind, going out of sight down into deep water.

“Deep water!” he said. “Right-O! And we’re divers, gliding down, and way way deep the chain leads to this sunken star. That’s our anchor...”

I was a dolphin burst high into the air from a prison-tank, come down in the open sea to find a mirror friend alongside. I wasn’t the only one knew Something was tugging on us from beyond words!

“You know it, Budge! And anchor of light! I swim down there, and no matter how bad anything is, everything’s okay. I’m way deep underwater, my boat’s out of sight on the surface, but that anchor’s brighter than flashbulbs ever were and it’s inside me!”

“Yeah.” He sighed, smile gone wistful. It’s there, all right.”

(End of Richard Bach quote from Running From Safety)

"“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”"

Was thinking about this today, and I credit Frank Herbert for using bits of this in an RP. It rings true what he says. If you don't conquer your fear, it consumes you. We won' always conquer all our fears, but we can learn to avoid those we can't conquer.

Yay, another human actually posted on this weird game/not game thread I created? That's awesome.

And you're right that is very poetic. And what you said is very poetic as well. I know what he means about only us remaining after fear has passed...after we have conquered it. To me, it's like when you pass through something the fear is replaced with confidence...a confidence you never would have had if you had not first been afraid of the thing you conquered.

Or, it's like a fire. A fire consumes everything, but if get through it you're left standing, and all the other less important parts are gone, and you're left standing, and you're stronger than before. Like tempered by the fire. It depends on what fears we're talking about, of course. There was one thing I went through, and once I came out on the other side of it, and realized that what I had been afraid of was a phantom, it wasn't real, and I came out on the other side of it and was healed from that, I was like a completely different person. So anyway... that quote is beautiful and contains a lot of wisdom I think. Thanks for waking poetic!

Life is like a journey in a ship. We're out there in the middle of the ocean, and we're very small. The ocean is overwhelming, and can swallow us whole, or break our ship up into a million pieces.

When there are blue skies and calm winds, it's great. It's beautiful. But when a storm comes, and the wind starts blowing, and the sky grows dark, it's terrifying. The whistle of the wind deafens you, and tears holes in your sails, and you batten down the hatches. The waves violently crash against your hull, and your ship slowly starts coming apart.

There's no beauty in the storm. There's no beauty in the dark clouds that surround you. There's no beauty in the fact that, below deck, your ship might be coming apart, piece by piece.

But I think...maybe...there is beauty in the fact that you're not alone. There is beauty in the fact that there are other people on that ship with you. And I think...maybe...there is beauty in the fact that when you reach out your hand blindly in the torrent of rain that's flying in your face, making it impossible to see more than two feet in front of you, and you find someone else's hand reaching back, and you grasp it, and you face the wind and the rain and the darkness and the clouds and the waves together, you come out on the other side, into the calm seas and the sunny skies, still holding hands, with a bond that won't easily be broken.

There's no beauty in the storm, but there's beauty in the fact that we're weathering the storm together.

Once the skies clear, and the seas are still, all that will be left of the storm is the love that we showed to one another during the storm, and that endures. Once the storm passes, we remain. And we remain not separate, as before, but we remain...together.

A few poems

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
**not the entire poem

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THIS BRIDGE
Shel Silverstein
This bridge will only take you halfway there
To those mysterious lands you long to see:
Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs
And moonlit woods where unicorns run free.
So come and walk awhile with me and share
The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I’ve known.
But this bridge will only take you halfway there–
The last few steps you’ll have to take alone.

They're both beautiful...in different ways too. I love Shel Silverstein's poems. He has a book called "Where the sidewalk ends" or something like that I love every single poem in that book.

A Psalm of Life (by Henry W. Longfellow) (only the best two verses):

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing over life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

---

The Man in the Arena
Theodore Roosevelt

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

-Theodore Roosevelt (emphasis mine. I got a little happy with the "bold" button, sorry. Those parts in bold are the parts I like the most or that I think mean the most.)

---

---

Easily Given
By: Unknown


It was only a sunny smile,
And little it cost in the giving;
But it scattered the night,
Like morning light,
And made the day worth living.

Through life's dull warp a woof it wove
In shining colors of hope and love;
And the angels smiled as they watched above,
Yet little it cost in the giving.

It was only a kindly word,
A word that was lightly spoken;
Yet not in vain,
For it stilled the pain
Of a heart that was nearly broken.

It strengthened a faith beset by fears
And groping blindly through mists of tears
For light to brighten the coming years,
Although it was lightly spoken.

It was only a helping hand,
And it seemed of little availing;
But its clasp was warm
And it saved from harm
A brother whose strength was failing.

Its touch was tender as angel wings,
But it rolled the stone from the hidden springs,
And pointed the way to higher things,
Though it seemed of little availing.

∞



Be strengthened.

Have you ever gotten so tired of eating french fries that you start eating them with chicken nugget sauce and pepper?

Have you ever dipped french fries into soft serve ice cream, on purpose?

Have you ever written a story for someone or indirectly about someone that you didn't know in real life, and you try to make the character look physically completely different from them so they won't identify with the main character too too much, because the character is going through some hard stuff. Then, after you write half that story, you find out that the physical description for the character, which you chose at random, happens to be EXACTLY what the person looks like, because you originally were guessing wrong about their appearance? So then it's like.. do I change the way the character looks or leave it looking like them? Ever happened to you? No? Yeah, me neither. *looks around to see if people believe me*

Being on RpR is like being on a mental rollercoaster, speeding through space at the speed of thought. Even though you're not moving, your mind is moving, exploring untold vistas, creating new worlds, affecting people ocean basins away. Then, when you get off of that rollercoaster, everything slows down. Everything is quiet. Everything starts moving at a snail's pace again. Instead of things moving at the speed of thought, they move at the speed of matter again. And you get away for a couple of hours, or a couple of minutes, or a couple of seconds, but before you know it, you reach out to your phone just to get one...more...fix. While the physical world around you threatens to crumble.


((I was just adding hyperbole with that last sentence, everything is fine lol))

**I gave a bunch of people I RP with nicknames, check my profile if you RP with me a lot and wanna see what I came up with. Thanks **

Have you ever sung with someone? Done the high part, while they did the low part. Or done the low part while they did the high part? Done the part of the background singer while they sustained the long notes, perfectly in synch, perfectly in time? Have you done that? Because there's no feeling quite like that. It's the feeling of flow that artists get. You all get it, when you're writing, I'll bet. When feelings just come from somewhere beyond, or some part of yourself deep inside, and they seem to approach perfection. Dancers get it, when everyone's in synch. Maybe even athletes get it. Anyone who brings what they do up to the level of art. To a level beyond themselves somehow, where they're one star in a starry sky, one dancer in a line, one marcher in a marching band that's sliding around to make the shape of a football out of human bodies who are also playing "the eye of the tiger," and they pull it off flawlessly.


Flow.


I crave that. I crave my voice melting into someone else's voice who knows how to stay two notes above the note I'm singing, our minds surfing the sound waves together. I crave it like I crave touch. And I crave touch all the time. It's like a hunger.


Music is touch. Think about it. Music is touch, because those sound waves are vibrating the air molecules that are vibrating the little bones in the inside of the listeners ear which triggers a signal to their brain. When you're singing to someone, you're touching them. When you're taking to someone, you're touching them.

But there's something about music, I'll tell you what. It's like the difference between haphazardly bumping into someone, and intentionally reaching out and stroking their hand. It's a controlled motion. Your voice maintains control of itself as does theirs, and your voices travel together, on a journey, sometimes vibrating at the same frequency and sometimes diverging into beautiful and complex patterns. I can't stand it! I want to harmonize with somebody RIGHT NOW!

Ok..ok...I'm cool lol.

I just....I got to sing the other night with folks during a night out. And I miss it. I miss it bad. It's just like all the other things I crave. Or maybe it's almost the same thing. Closeness. Harmony. Attention. Emotional intimacy. Being seen, being heard, being felt, being known. If you listen to my music, you know me. If you read what I write, you know me. If you write with me, you've been on a journey inside of my mind and heart and soul and you hold a sacred place there...or is that overdoing it? It's not everyday people create worlds together. It's special to me.

It's an honor to be known, and it's an honor that anyone on me would want to know me. I am honored. I just honored, all the time. I can't get over it. That people could share these things, with each other, open their minds and hearts to each other, I don't hardly know what to make of it. Its like an oasis. Where people can create art together. It's like...what is this? What is this place? Could this be real? Is someone going to burst the bubble and illusion disappear? How could this be real? People that are so honest and so forthcoming about themselves? When are people going to suddenly clam up and start talking about the weather? How long am I going to have this privilege? How long will this magic last? How is being sustained; how can I make sure I never break it?

For anything good, I imagine I can break it. Any group of people, chatting, having a good time, I imagine I can scatter the whole lot of them, sending them back to their respective homes, with an uncomfortably long soapbox on religion or politics, an uncomfortably long pause between subjects, an endless stream of mind-numbing stream filler that I shoot out of my mouth like a fire hose shoots out water in an effort to fill the silence...and it destroys any meaningful conversations. It sends people running for the hills, if probably only to get rid of me and regroup later. That's how I feel. That's what happens to me. In real life. Sometimes.

I am not a person of groups. I have no clue what to do in a group. I know what to do with one person. I know how to let one person know they're valued. Where there are 10 or 3 or 7, I don't know how to make those people feel valued. I don't how to shut up. I don't know how to wait my turn. I don't know how to relax. I don't know how to breathe. I don't know how to wait. I don't know how to listen. I don't know how to just. Let it Be. I don't know what to do. It's best for me to avoid groups of people that are not strangers. So what is this, a group of people who like me...who are not put off by me? Really? It makes no sense. How long...how long before I screw it up, I wonder? How can there be this many understanding people in one place? Is it an writer thing?

Who are you people, and why are you nice to me? Who are you people, and why do you open your lives to me? Who are you people, and why are you so special? Why are you so beautiful? Why are you so free?

Who are you people, and why do you want to know me? Why do you hold me in high regard? What have I stumbled into when I stumbled into you.

Why do you think I'm worth something? Instead of an awkward oaf who blunders through sentences, rambles through social gatherings, hides out in cars and bathtubs under many guise to avoid too much social stimulation, even from the people that are closest to me? Who is late for everything, and interrupts everyone, who can't control a classroom, who can't not be awkward, who renigs on their responsibilities, who is barely hanging on but always makes the car payment and rent payment, who knows what to do but half the time but can't do it, who doesn't know how to move forward? You treat me like somebody. Why?

But I know why. Don't tell me why; I know my good qualities. I don't need a boost, I just need to explain. I need to explain what mystifies me about this place. Why I'm constantly standing in the middle of RpR's plains, doing 360 degree turns, looking around like I've suddenly found myself in the Land of Oz. Why I'm always giving everyone compliments.

Who are you people, and why do you treat me like somebody important? Why do I feel, every day, like I'm talking to the next Einstein, or the next Leonardo, or the next Picasso? Why do I always feel like I'm in the presence of genuis? What's happening here? Why are you all so good?

I feel known. I feel seen. I feel heard. I feel understood. I feel like I am in Bizarro World.

That's why. If you're wondering why, that's why. This is like water to a thirsty person. Like food to a staving person. Does it make more sense now? Does it make sense why I like you all so much? Why I seem like the Orphan Annie singing "the sun will come out tomorrow" in the middle of the Great Depression? It's not because I'm so wonderful and great. It's because I'm not. And, yet, you treat me like I am. And that mystifies me. And I appreciate it. And that appreciation overflows, like a river, and floods the plains. That's what you're seeing. A reject being treated like a worthy individual, and the gratitude that that engenders.

Do you ever get the feeling, like you want everything to stop? Just...stop. Pause. Freeze-frame.

But then, everything does, and it's no good, because your mind keeps going. And you're agonizingly aware of each second going by. And suddenly, strangely, it's like...time itself is your tormentor. And ordinarily time passing by wouldn't be a problem, but when you notice it too much--it's torture.

And you start acting like a caged animal. You drum your fingers on the table. You overeat out of sheer boredom. You start doing reckless things. Just to get some kind of thrill. Like a caged animal banging its head up against the bars.

And the only solution is to lose yourself. Just...to not be in the middle of it. Because somehow, ego is the problem. Always was. Always will be. The only solution is to let go. To lose yourself in the stream of time flowing forward. To forget yourself. To not be.

And I wish I could. But sometimes I am just so acutely aware of my existence that it's painful. This need to be important, it's an illusion. It's like a sore thumb that demands to be noticed, regardless of all the other body parts. It can't just shut up. It can't just do it's job. It can't just let you forget about it. And, boy, does it ever stick out. To the annoyment of the whole body.

But outside the body, time doesn't pass. If you look at time from the outside, everything is just one whole. If you can be not you, but be nothing, then the whole just exists, and you don't have to feel it existing. You don't have to wonder your place in it. You don't have to try to speak up. You don't have try to be the right damn thing, at the right damn time. You don't have to try at all. You can just be. Because you will have forgotten yourself, so you can just be yourself. Like how a tree just grows. It just grows, because of what it is. It's just being itself. It grows because it does.

Pain and Pleasure
Why do they seem to go Together
Is there a Reason
Sometimes I feel Numb
I don't quite Understand
Nobody is holding my Hand
Independent or Alone
For Better or for Worse
Anxiety Bottled
Emotions Throttled
This Joy mingled Fear
Or is it Fear mingled Joy
I'm lost or I just can't See
The deepest parts of Me
Icy cold or fever Heat
Heart Frozen still or Hot and Pounding
Up and Down
Round and Round
Ready to hit the Floor
Exhaustion of Mind, Body and Soul
Where do I go
I'd like to Know

Beautiful.

Your heart baffles me in every way
When I'm with you I rarely know what to say.
You soul, so kind, and sweet as can be.
It makes me wonder why you bother talking to me.

I don't deserve your kindest word.
I keep believing you'll fly away like a bird,
Leaving my arms with a trail of feathers,
I'd wait for your return through the harshest of weather.

You've been hurt even though you did no wrong.
If I could I'd sing you every song,
Just to see your smile light up your face,
I'd hold you always in my embrace.

You do what people think you should.
And that path isn't always good.
Every word in this poem is true.
Including these five more:
I think I love you.

-Neo. Written for a special someone.

Awww that's so sweet!! Lucky girl!

A Woman's Touch

What is it about that moment?
That moment when relief flows over you, like water.
That moment when relief flows over you.
And you're theirs.

It's not just sexual,
It's maternal,
It's sororal,
It's even spiritual.
That touch.

The delicate fingers.
The soft hands,
The noticing and knowing eyes.
The nurturing instinct.
The reaching out.
The kindness.
What is it about that?

The love, that flows from her pores and into your back.
The love, extended at just the right time.
The timing, it's impeccable.
Just when you need it.
A rub of the back,
A touch of the hand,
A stroke of the hair,
A kiss on the cheek,
A caress of the face,
A kiss on the lips,
An embrace.

Arms interlocking.
Arms around your waist.
Arms around your neck.
Head on your shoulder,
Head on your chest,
Head on your stomach,
sprawling out.

Hands in your hair,
Pulling it back.
Braiding it, teasing it.
Taking it down.
Hands in your hair.
Combing it, curling it,
Stroking it, twirling it,
Brushing it out.

That moment when relief flows over you, like water.
That moment when relief flows over you.
And you're theirs.

Nothing else matters.
Except what they're doing to you.
Except where their hands are. Except their melodic voice, and how much longer you'll get to hear it.
Except their arms and whether or not they're around you.
Except their lips and how much you want to kiss them.
Except their eyes and whether or not there's love in them when they look at you.
Except their aura, because it's now your lifeblood and your sustenance.
Nothing else matters.

The problems in the world all fade away.
A walk to the corner store.
A trip to get toilet paper.
The mundane world fades away because you're with them.
Everything's magical.

It's just a touch.
What is it about that moment?

This is actually a song I started, but cannot configure a third verse yet. Hoping something comes to me so I can properly finish this. However....