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Solomon's poetry thread

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Modern Love Poem



My dearest darling with long dark hair and eyes azure,

My love for you is eternal, tried, and sure.

I stare into the infinite depths of your eyes,

But I often find my gaze directed at your thighs.


Everyone appreciates your unsurpassed beauty and grace,

Your perfect supple form and enchanting face.

Some say beauty is fleeting, and boy do I agree.

Your personality sucks, so when you're 40, with you I will not be.


My sweet, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

One...uh...one...hmm...number one...gimme a chance... how about the

way your body sways?


Let me once more restate my love for you.

65% of the time, to you I'm true.

There is no other woman with whom I lay,

At least, not at this particular time of day.


My dear, you're absolutely the best.

How 'bout accompanying me to the next Centralfest?

(That is, unless I don't have another date)

The events that brought us together must have been fate.


I love you, I love you, I love you.

You're the greatest, Jenny, I mean Cherry, I mean Sue.



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i like this poem because it is irreverent :)


(the opinion of the poet expressed herein, does not necessarily state or reflect that of sol)

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My Love Is Like A Red Red Rose


Oh, my love is like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June

Oh, my love is like a melody

That's sweetly played in tune

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till all the seas gang dry.

Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,

Till all the seas gang dry

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till all the seas gang dry.

'Til all the seas gang dry my, my dear

And the rocks melt with the sun

And I will love thee still, my dear

While the sands of life shall run

But faretheewell, my only love

Oh, faretheewell a while

And I will come again, my love

Tho' 't were ten thousand mile

Tho' 't were ten thousand mile, my love

Tho' 't were ten thousand mile

And I will come again, my love

Tho' 't were ten thousand mile.



Robert Burns

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i like this poem, because it contrasts nicely with the previous - the first about lust, the second about love :love:

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Faith" is a fine invention, when gentlemen can see

But microscopes are prudent, in an emergency.


-- Emily Dickinson, "Faith" (ca. 1860), quoted from James A Haught, ed, 2000 Years of Disbelief

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by Simon Rae


The thing I missed was the smell of it.

Pushed, I suppose I'd have to admit

I found it wasn't a bit

Like **** at all, more browny rocks

standing as tall as grandfather clocks,

odd shaped imports down on the docks.


Totem poles, obelisks, ethnic tat.

Difficult grasping someone shat

things as straight and tall as that.


So this is the stuff, we're told, that forges

the new-while tickling bourgeois gorges.

(But which were Gilbert's, which were George's?)


A critic says, it's beyond absurd,

and I suppose we have to take his worl.

It takes a critic to pass a turd.


Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining,

let's roll back our potty training,

and enjoy the process as we're straining.


Cherish each plop and savour each fart,

bodily functions play their part.

I take my Y-fronts off to Art!

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I was almost persuaded to be a Christian. I thought I never again could be thoughtless and worldly. But I soon forgot my morning prayer or else it was irksome to me. One by one my old habits returned and I cared less for religion than ever.


-- Emily Dickinson, at age 15, shortly after a Christian revival in her home town of Amherst, Massachusetts, in a letter to her friend Abiah Root, quoted from Gary Sloan, "Emily Dickinson: Pagan Sphinx," Positive Atheism (June, 2001)

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by glennlogan


No god I know is still alive -

all five thousand and seven

appear to have died.


The great god Huitzilopochtli

led the Aztecs' divine pack -

but He departed awhile back.


Zeus was fun, and had His run,

but while disguised as a swan,

they say, His neck got wrung.


Pluto - God of the Underworld,

offended the ladies of Hades,

and got buried in his own Hell.


Thor, I'm told, was big and bold,

but going out without a cloak,

they say, He died of the cold.


And ghosts of dead Indian gods

can't even haunt a decent tepee,

and many die on late night T.V.


No prisoners tremble on the altar

when their beating hearts are torn

to join Tezcatlipoca in the sky.


And no children scream as they

are loaded onto the simple machine

that feeds them to Moloch's fire.


And for ancient Greece's Dionysus,

no drums sound, no flute plays -

but, oh, weren't those the days!


The goddesses, too, we must include,

for all were dear to some, and lived

in our hearts until the time had come.


There was Athena , Gaia, and Kore,

Xochiquetzal, Minerva, and Astarte,

Ixtab, Kuan Yin, and Kali of course.


Five thousand gods and goddesses -

maybe ten or a hundred fifty thousand

or more, there might have been.


But the goddesses and gods have all

gone, one by one, until there are none

but those that are still willed alive.


- Gods and goddesses kept alive

by people still believing - still

trusting - in their own creations.


Pinocchio becomes god of the wood,

while Pygmalion falls on his knees

before his goddess of stone, Galatea.


We remember the Loving Mother

and the Father the All-Mighty

looming large in an infant's eyes.


For each girl-woman makes the God

she craves and needs - then kneels

before Him and says, "Oh, please!"


And each boy-man makes himself

a Goddess that he wishes,

giving a Mother's hugs and kisses.


And older men and women tend

to make our gods with

wrinkled brow and constant pout.


Still we always make our gods

to look a lot like me and you -

one head, one mouth, two eyes.


But the god of songbirds flies,

and the gods of all the fishes

must swim through ocean skies.


The god of cattle may be a bull,

or just maybe it's a cow -

I can't hope to settle that now.


But I am well informed by

one who ought to know:

the god of dogs is a bitch!


God laughs? Not on your life!

The joke's on us - but I'm told

She's heard this joke before!


This poem is from

"Prayers to a Dead God: 125 Poems,"

published in January of 2001 by North American

International, and available from online book sellers.

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by Michael Pain


Here I am,

doubting your existence, questioning your omnipotence.

To you they plead their case,

to all you refuse to show your face,

in the eyes of the believers, the congregation,

I am condemned to hell, deserved damnation.


Because I choose to think freely,

because I do not listen to the cries of the holy man

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One fine night, in the middle of the day,

two atheists knelt down to pray.

Hymn books opened upside-down,

in Top Hat n' Tails, and their dressing gown.


The in-verse lyrics from the page,

sung happily with joyous rage.

Two old friends, first meeting each other,

(both my Grandad’s grandson’s sister’s brother.)

With sufficient humility, to make them proud,

in perfect silence, they roared out loud.


“All things dim and dutiful,

all tree cures smate and groll.

All things dense and blunderfull,

what good is a square ball?”


Cursed by the blessing,

and accepted by rejection.

As welcoming as Ebenezer,

(when it’s time to pass the collection.)


Thanking God for their disbelief,

from their heads up to their toes.

And then with Pious reverence,

they did pick each other’s nose.


These two brave cowards stand as one

In truth they are my father’s son.



You students of genealogy,

must unsurely disagree.

For my Grandad’s grandson’s sister’s brother,

Can be none other than…..


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I do not believe in any religion. I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another." Lord Byron.

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Test o' Fires


by Michael Gibb


Placing Satan in their handbags

they go 'a knocking on doors

where they're least expected

to trade the here-and-now

for everlasting obscurity.


All for a Book filled with the

occult, murderous intentions, and twisted realities

where truth is falsehood and falsehood is gospel

and a simple question

merits the death penalty.


With the pitter-patter of tiny feet

they approach with learned stealth

caring for nothing

but the opium high of testifying.


Overjoyed by rejection

yet bewildered by disbelief

their prayer orgies strafe the ethers

in long arches of arrogance.


"We have the truth!" they proclaim boldly

as legion more proclaim a differing story.

I read their Book filled with

insanity, conflict, and unnumbered depravities

then look into their junkie eyes.


Nothing that I say can appease

the Beast lurking behind the message

with peace on the lips

and dripping evil on the tongue.


Quickly closing the door

on the message of death

disguised in goodness,

a sigh of relief passes my lips.


The wolves of the forest

have been kept at bay


,at least,

one more day.

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