The Poetry Corner: What Library

Post your favorite poems, or create one of your own.
Here's one to start it off...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveller,
Long I stood.
And looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in undergrowth.

Then took the other, just as fair,
and having perhaps, the better claim,
because it was grassy and wanted wear.
Though as for that, the passings there
had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day.
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
somewhere ages and ages hence.
Two roads diverged in a wood. And I?
I took the road less travelled by
and that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost.

I think the title is The Road not Taken.

Its been awhile though.
I welcome corrections.

Peace

(edited to change "poem" to "poems")

I don't have a singular favourite poem. I have a lot of poems that I enjoy. ;)

:ninja:

I don't really have any singular favorites either, though I love many. I've always loved the lines;

I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee: - no way but this,
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

~Othello


and


Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden


I'll think of some other great ones. Excited to see what gets posted here.

The Robert Frost poem is entitled "The road less travelled". can't choose a favourite poem so I'll pick a short one.

THIS BE THE VERSE.

They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
They may not mean to but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn.
By fools in old-style hats and coats.
Who half the time were soppy stern
And half at one and others' throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a costal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin

I have two:

I don't know who wrote this one, but I absolutely love it:

And then, a sense of law and beauty
A face turned from the cloth
Some call it evolution
Others call it god


The other one is written by Herman De Coninck, a Belgian poet (who died way too early). Unfortunately, I only know some parts by heart and I can't find it on the internet.
The poem is called '35' or 'vijfendertig'. I'll look it up and post it then, or if someone else can find it he/she can send it to me....or post it here...

Quote:

---

Originally posted by chalice@14 May 2003 - 07:26
The Robert Frost poem is entitled "The road less travelled". can't choose a favourite poem so I'll pick a short one.

THIS BE THE VERSE.

They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
They may not mean to but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn.
By fools in old-style hats and coats.
Who half the time were soppy stern
And half at one and others' throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a costal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin

---

Thanks for the title.

I love the poem you posted. :)

Very funny and very true.

Here's one I wrote a few years ago:

Weep not for me,
nor for those who have gone before.
We must live and we must die.
We must ever wonder why.
We must never cease to try
to open wide the mystic door.

Weep not for those
who found comfort in the lie.
Who believed but did not know
if they had a place to go
when their life-light ceased to glow
and their soul set free to fly.

Weep not for man
who fulfills a greater need.
As a worm can till the soil,
as a leech can heal a boil,
as a dead tree gives us oil
with no knowlege of the deed.

Very nice indeed!! I don't know if you're still writing but if you are it might be worth your while registering at this site. For someone of your talents it'll certainly offer copious feedback on your work. If you don't, I encourage you to keep writing anyway. Here's a sonnet.

You can't jail me, I know what existentialism means.
I'm too aware of transience, I have too many dreams.
I can't ignore misgivings, a cell is far too small
For respite against those living with the dying of it all.
I'm just like you, Your Honour. A criminal I'm not.
Too toilet-trained in excellence for pissing in a pot.
A rationed rationality has brought me to this place.
I was high-jacked by the alcohol, I'm sober now, Your Grace.
I'm afraid I'm just too timid. My nature's too reserved
For a primate for a cellmate with six more years to serve.
I recognise my failings, I share all your distaste.
But does it warrant wading out in all this human waste?
I'll stoop and stutter endlessly, I'll lose my savoir-faire.
My dashing looks and poetry books will deepen my despair.

ChaliceOfWeeWee

Well, here's three. They aren't in any particular order, though. Just how I've got it all organized on my harddrive.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

- Chidiock Tichborne

Ode

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;-
World-losers and world forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample a kingdom down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;
A wondrous thing of our dreaming
Unearthly, impossible seeming-
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man’s soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man’s heart.

And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day’s late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! it must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry-
How, in spite of your human scorning,
Once more God’s future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the comers
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song’s new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

-Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

To Lucasta, Going To the Wars

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

-Richard Lovelace

:ninja:

I forgot about this one: it's about the transitority of beauty and youth. How cruel nature is and how we all should enjoy our youth. A wise man he was...

Ode à Cassandre

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avait déclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au votre pareil.

Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautés laissé choir !
Ô vraiment marâtre Nature,
Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !

Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que votre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez votre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir votre beauté.

Pierre de Ronsard

Quote:

---

Originally posted by Skweeky@15 May 2003 - 16:55
I forgot about this one: it's about the transitority of beauty and youth. How cruel nature is and how we all should enjoy our youth. A wise man he was...

Ode à Cassandre

Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avait déclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au votre pareil.

Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautés laissé choir !
Ô vraiment marâtre Nature,
Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !

Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que votre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez votre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir votre beauté.

Pierre de Ronsard

---

Would that I spoke French, but alas, I am of a single tongue.

To Magic,

Now I know where Willie Wonka got that quote, "We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams". :)

To Chalice,

Thanks for the complement and the link. I'll have to check it out this weekend.

And of your poem, I loved it!

I was trying to imagine someone going before a judge and saying those things.

Peace

Hey,

Does anyone know of a poem that was written about an historical figure that some believe may have been a true psychic but at the time was burned as a witch?

I believe her name was Cassandra, (Skweeky's poem title made me think of it), and in the poem, it has her reciting events moments before they happen as they led her on a horse down main street to the stake where she was to die.

Cassandra was the daughter of King Priam..Apollo granted her the gift of prophecy, but because she spurned his amorous attempts, he cursed her so that she would never be believed. I think she eventually got locked up in some dungeon before Clytemnestra and Aegisthus killed her.

:ninja:

dont realy like poams much something a bout the rethum in most of them distracts me but i did strugle thru the raven by eger alen poa . so id have to say that was my fav poam

Thanks Zardoz.

Two from Robert Graves, who, in my opinion, was the greatest linguist and historian (not to mention poet) of the twentieth century, surpassing even Yeats at times in occult romance.

IN BROKEN IMAGES.

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question their fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves.

THE NAKED AND THE NUDE.

For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.

Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the godess when
She mounts her lion among men.

The nude are bold, the nude are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock religious grin
Of scorn for those of naked skin.

The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime nude!

Robert Graves.

There's no money in poetry but then there's no poetry in money.

hey, I really like that Robert Graves guy. Great stuff.
Unfortunately, my favourite poems are all in Dutch or French. I love De Conick, 't Hooft, Van De Vondel, De Ronsard, Beaudelaire, etc...
Wish I could share it with you guys.... :)

Just a little something from Milton's Paradise Lost (one of the books that put my feeble knowledge of english to the test but gave me such pleasure):

Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor - one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he,
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence;
Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.


I've read it quite a long time ago, so don't try to start a discussion on this! Until I've read it again, that is...


Skweeky, il ya des francophones ici, si tu veux nous faire profiter de tes poèmes préferés, ne te gêne pas!

pour ceux qui le comprennent.....

Le dormeur du val


C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert ou la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouge au côté droit.



Arthur Rimbaud.


Relativity......
Still makes me feel sad, this poem

Quote:

---

Originally posted by Skweeky@16 May 2003 - 18:52

pour ceux qui le comprennent.....

Le dormeur du val


C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert ou la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouge au côté droit.



Arthur Rimbaud.


Relativity......
Still makes me feel sad, this poem

---

Well, I think I saw something about a river and a mountain on fire

I speak no French at all...Well...I can say 'Toilet'.

But I also realize many similarities between different languages.


I'm not trying to be funny here but I expect my attempt to translate will be so anyway.

After I'm done, can you please let me know what the poem really says?:)

Oh, the fertile, graceful river
surrounded by an abundance of blue flowers.
The sun reflecting, small rays of light dancing down the mountain.

something about the same scene at night beneath the pale moonlight?
Maybe?

Sadness at an child's death from some ilness.
Nature is a force to be feared and respected.

The smell of morning awakens two young lovers to the rising sun.

Did I get any of it right at all?:)

I love the French language.

Please translate so I'll know what it means.:)

Peace

I am fluent in French!

The poem basically says, "the smellers' the fellow." :blink: :blink: :blink:

or something like that.

No, wait! It means:

"If the van is a rockin' don't come a knockin'!"

The poem describes a beatiful valley. Very nice, peaceful. There's a little rivers, flowers, soft grass and there is someone lying next to the river. He seems to be happy, looks undisturbed. The you take a closer look. The person is a soldier lying, there, dead, with three shotwounds in his chest....

The first three strophes describe the state of the valley and the way we see the soldier. The last strophe says (roughly translated)
'The perfumes do not make his nose tremble
He sleeps in the sun, his hands on his chest
Calm.He has three red holes in his right side'

Quote:

---

Originally posted by Skweeky@17 May 2003 - 07:33
The poem describes a beatiful valley. Very nice, peaceful. There's a little rivers, flowers, soft grass and there is someone lying next to the river. He seems to be happy, looks undisturbed. The you take a closer look. The person is a soldier lying, there, dead, with three shotwounds in his chest....

The first three strophes describe the state of the valley and the way we see the soldier. The last strophe says (roughly translated)
'The perfumes do not make his nose tremble
He sleeps in the sun, his hands on his chest
Calm.He has three red holes in his right side'

---

Thanks,

It makes me wish I had learned French in school, to be able to read it in the language it was written, with understanding.

Peace

e.e. cummings has always had a special place in my life

when god decided to invent
everything he took one
breath bigger than a circustent
and everything began

when man determined to destroy
himself he picked the was
of shall and finding only why
smashed it into because

i also wrote a lot of stuff of my own...but havent written anything for some years now...maybe will post some of my older stuff later

botts

TOERISME

We zagen de spraakwatervallen van Speed,
hangende tuinen, verre sterrebeelden
die toch nabijer dan medereizigers waren.

In een bus vol naasten bezochten we
en werden bezocht door nachtmerries,
visioenen van heiligen en engelen
zongen ons doof en we ontwaakten
in hotel Harmonie.

Twee spiegels, tegenover elkaar geplaatst
boden ons een oneindig perspectief.

En toch, dacht ik, er moet méér zijn.


Jotie 't Hooft

I'll try to translate it a bit:

We saw the waterfalls of speech of Speed,
hanging gardens, distant constellations
that were closer than our fellow travelers

In a bus full of fellow men, we visited
and were visited by nightmares
visions of saints and angels
made us deaf by singing and we woke up
in hotel Harmony

Two mirrors, put towards each other
offered us an endless perspective

And yet, I thought, there must be more...



Jotie 't Hooft is a Dutch poet, he died when he was 21 because of an overdose of heroin or cocain...

I don't know how accurate the translation is, but it works for me.

Heroin? Very possible. That seems to give those types of visions.

Remember Poe?

Slightly different to what you guys are talking about but heres a meaninful poem. So true....

50 Years From Now

There once was a place called Salem
Where girls lived deep in fear
Of being accused of witches brews
Then knowing death was near.

Another time in Georgia
When black men had no rights
They were beaten up and degraded
With so many sleepless nights.

And most recently it's the gay men
Who have proudly proclaimed "it's time!"
That love from man to man
Be simply not a crime.

There was a place called Auschewitz
Where Polish and Jews were gassed
It's a very sad reminder
Of how very cruel our past.

And can you believe that women
Were not allowed to read?
They could not vote or think freely
They existed merely to please.

And now the time we live in
It's just the same you see
Animals are the slaves and women
Longing to be free!

There is but just one difference
For animals have no voice.
They cannot band together
They simply have no choice!

They must follow all our orders
Die for many meals
They give their lives for research
And have no courts from which to appeal.

They are stuck inside the evil trap
of peoples compassionless views.
Animal lovers are their only hope
Of spreading this vital news....

Animals do have feelings!
The feel loneliness and pain!
We must love and respect them!
We'll all have much to gain!

So let us come together
And fight for this huge cause
For we are their last chance
To change our current laws.

Lets not waste our time on hunters
Or argue with the blind
Lets focus on the children
And educate their minds.

If we can teach compassion
as Liz C. Stanton did long ago
Then animals can have a future
And a culture of compassion can grow.

And so my friends, I leave you
With just one thought in mind
The suffering of the animals
Is caused by humankind.

Humans have a past of cruelty
As the slaves and women knew
But with time and education
Civility slowly grew.

And so I pray to heaven
That 50 years from now
Animal suffering will be nonexistent
And people will look back and think HOW?

:(

There were times when i needed you
and you were not there
There were times when i didn't need you
and you were there
But all that is overshadowed by the times
I needed you and you were there

Joven


BTW, why can i no longer find Joven's work anymore?

@ botts - Cummings is one of my favorites as well, and that's always been one of my faves of his - here's another...


in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me


-e. e. cummings

simon armitage

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things that I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.
Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you to marry me.

Anyone here had a go at themselves for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark at the back, listen hard. Those at the front in the know, those of us who have, hands up, let's show that inch of lacerated skin between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck. A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs. A likely story: you were lashed by brambles picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good, repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood' when those at the back rush forward to say how a little love goes a long long long way.

Hidden sorrow, you cannot understand.
The pain you deny me, you hold your own like a banner.
Is my pain less because it is not yours?

Love me as I am or not at all.
Love of the lie is not desireable.
I will not lie again.
Fear? Fear is nothing new to me.
No holding back.

Pieces of myself fall around me.
But they are not me...only what I project:
Pieces of the lie.

Of wandering forever, and the earth...
Who owns the earth, that we should wander on it.
Who needs the earth that we were never still, upon it.
Whoever needs the earth shall have the earth.
He shall be upon it.
He shall rest within a little place.
He shall dwell in one small room...
Forever.

Thomas Wolfe

once upon a forum
a great campaign began
to create a whole new world
for all those reading fans

The campaign began
The mods were harassed
the brave members campaigned
until the new World was passed

So bookworld was created
and I'm posting here now
to all these great campaigners
the rest of us bow!

:lol:

By Stacy W Mouse

Here's a poem I wrote during the 80's, (obvious by the subject).


He stood before the waiting crowd,
His foolish laughs, his feeble grins,
His lines forgot. (But mom is proud).
The search for Reagan's brain begins.

"Lets test our missles. Shoot them now!
and then when Russia tries to phone,
we'll make them all come back, somehow".
The search for Reagan's brain goes on.

"I'll not raise taxes. No-siree.
To end the Federal Deficit
I'll send more money overseas".
A Reagan's brain we've not found yet.

Just when we thought there was no hope,
"Eureka!" cried a scientist.
"The one thing no-one thought to scope.
This Reagan's brain does not exist!"

If Reagan truly has no mind
the end must lie beyond the door.
So savour every drop of time.
We search for Reagan's brain no more.

Quote:

---

Originally posted by ne1GotZardoz@27 May 2003 - 00:11
Here's a poem I wrote during the 80's, (obvious by the subject).


He stood before the waiting crowd,
His foolish laughs, his feeble grins,
His lines forgot. (But mom is proud).
The search for Reagan's brain begins.

"Lets test our missles. Shoot them now!
and then when Russia tries to phone,
we'll make them all come back, somehow".
The search for Reagan's brain goes on.

"I'll not raise taxes. No-siree.
To end the Federal Deficit
I'll send more money overseas".
A Reagan's brain we've not found yet.

Just when we thought there was no hope,
"Eureka!" cried a scientist.
"The one thing no-one thought to scope.
This Reagan's brain does not exist!"

If Reagan truly has no mind
the end must lie beyond the door.
So savour every drop of time.
We search for Reagan's brain no more.

---

Thats really good! Certainly impressed me :)

Careful...I may get full of myself and start thinking there's big money if I publish my poems!

Or maybe not.

Did someone say beer?

;)