I personally over the years have fallen in love with writing, and I know the old thread Rhyme O' Times was a big hit for awhile, though in recent times I had posted and no one else was contributing. I expect more from here on out.
So here's the thread to put your epics or your ditties, your poems and raps, your haiku's and your verses, your limericks and your rhymes.
I'll start it with an old one of mine...
Ghosts
The wall, now cracked and old,
Crumbling day to day,
Standing not so bold,
As with the entire town’s decay.
The porch, worn, rotting and tattered,
Wrapping around the abode,
The windows gone, shattered,
All seen from a winding dirt road.
A road scarcely traveled,
A town rarely seen,
With so many secrets to be unraveled.
Forgotten, old, rotting, unclean… but more goes unseen
The whispers in the rotten walls,
The tip-toes on the broken steps,
A creak as each footstep falls,
A stain for every tear a child wept.
The knock on every hinge-less door,
The laughter as the swing out front sways,
A child having fun, but wanting even more
A call from his mom that ends the fun today
The cooling breeze, walking to his mom,
The distraction of a great and towering tree,
A call from it is strong but calm,
As he walks to the swaying branches in his glee
But now the tree is dead and gloomy,
What happened to this town,
In all its simplistic beauty,
Now just old, torn walls to be found.
The brown haired mutt lying on the porch,
A glimmer in its eyes,
Raising its head,
Straining to hear the old man’s sighs
The man rocking gently in his chair,
His sighs are snores,
Waking to feel the breeze stiffen through his thinning hair,
As he pats his dog, rain begins to pour
The man stands up and goes inside,
He opens the screen, the door,
To show where the dog and he reside,
A humble home needing nothing more.
Now an empty shack,
No longer glowing with warmth and love,
Now cold and grey, except the coal so black,
The crows as black replacing fluttering doves.
The whispers in the walls not seen,
As the stains on the steps aren’t heard,
As the homes have lost their people, thus their gleam,
But those forgotten still find a way to speak their words,
Spoken is the abandonment,
And in a soft reply, nature works its course each day,
To fulfill their sentiment,
In a separate way.