Poetry slam (or close enough)

[J a c k]

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Sorry, but I decided to give this thread one last go.

Why? Because it's late, andd the misses has already gone to bed and I'm bored.

Nothing on youtube. Nothing I tell you.

Anyway... I already posted the poem itself on this forum, but you'll find it below too. Because I think I need some work on my pronunciation. Also I kind of had to keep my voice down because I get the urge to do this kind of thing at the most ridiculous point in time.






Perfect Storm

The ocean clashes in rhythm against bedrock of stone
in a game of push and pull underneath the full moon.
The smell of salt water penetrates the winds which moan
into the sails of our vessel set to sink all too soon.

Onward into the darkest depths beneath the dancing tides
where we might lose ourselves to drown in fluid bliss!
Together with you, it matters not whereto the storm rides
so long as we come where waters explode into the abyss.

Hold onto the mast now the heavens above rip asunder
and our ship suffers the wrath of Thor’s heavy blow.
I’ll keep you in my arms when warm waves drag us under;
extinguishing the blazing flames roaring in our bow.

And should we wake tomorrow on white, raw sand;
alive and aglow with the sun rising beyond world’s edge
we shall build another raft to leave that lonely island
en voyage to the perfect storm to sink said fiery ketch.

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Beautiful accent... I mean... poem. Beautiful poem  

But really, I like it. Post more!

[Mr.Obvious]

---

Sorry, but I decided to give this thread one last go.

Why? Because it's late, andd the misses has already gone to bed and I'm bored.

Nothing on youtube. Nothing I tell you.

Anyway... I already posted the poem itself on this forum, but you'll find it below too. Because I think I need some work on my pronunciation. Also I kind of had to keep my voice down because I get the urge to do this kind of thing at the most ridiculous point in time.






Perfect Storm

The ocean clashes in rhythm against bedrock of stone
in a game of push and pull underneath the full moon.
The smell of salt water penetrates the winds which moan
into the sails of our vessel set to sink all too soon.

Onward into the darkest depths beneath the dancing tides
where we might lose ourselves to drown in fluid bliss!
Together with you, it matters not whereto the storm rides
so long as we come where waters explode into the abyss.

Hold onto the mast now the heavens above rip asunder
and our ship suffers the wrath of Thor’s heavy blow.
I’ll keep you in my arms when warm waves drag us under;
extinguishing the blazing flames roaring in our bow.

And should we wake tomorrow on white, raw sand;
alive and aglow with the sun rising beyond world’s edge
we shall build another raft to leave that lonely island
en voyage to the perfect storm to sink said fiery ketch.

---

Beautiful accent... I mean... poem. Beautiful poem  

But really, I like it. Post more!

I truly admire yours. I'm not sure if it's the words you chose, or the way you brought it. Probably both!. Together it works: There's a flow to your rhyme and construction that complements the theme of curves quite well.

[Mr.Obvious]

I don't think I'm really capable of leaving my comfort zone just yet, unlike Jack.

So here's this






A long hard look


Beyond the stalls whereto he ran, the faded mirror told his fate;
he sees only a nine dollar man stuck on his fourteen dollar date.
Entranced by the man reflected, he is unable to leave this place.
For gone is the charm once respected and the grin plastered on that face.
Lines carved into the registrar dealing in truth found late at night.
The jukebox mocks from afar, knowing it's spite can't be denied.
And he feels the needle scratch, for the record playing is his own:
with past mistakes made to match with a song of sinister undertone.
A chanted path that lead him here; face to face with his barren husk
filled with grease and stale beer and drenched in this diner's musk.
There is no real history to be seen, no single rise to have lead to a fall.
It's all been dreary and in between; mirrored mediocrity, the worst of all.
Ain't no rest-room for the wicked, no refuge in numbers on wood,
when you judge yourself convicted of not turning out how you should.

[Dr H]

The first time I heard the term "poetry slam", I pictured a guy standing on stage in a dimly lit coffeehouse, reciting his lines, while dodging flying tomatoes and being mercilessly heckled by the audience:


"You suck!"

"Transparently contrived dithyrambism!"

"Inept enjambment!"

"Derivative!"

"Iambic pentameter went out with Stevens!"

"Keep your day job!"




Sometimes, I still picture them that way.  

[Mr.Obvious]

I'll be sure to keep my day job, doc

[SteelCurtain]

This is a talent I am jealous of.

[J a c k]

Sorry I hadn’t gotten to it, Obvi. Here’s one of mine.  

[Mr.Obvious]

Sorry I hadn’t gotten to it, Obvi. Here’s one of mine.  

I absolutely love it.