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Some of the oldest poems I could find in electronic format...
June 1, 2013
9:28 pm
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Yarn and Lies

 

A ball of yarn

Handed from person

To person

Everyday making

The line longer

Lies that connect

Each person

Making it grow

Until you stand

Holding the end

Of it all                                                                       

7-2-86

 

Friends

 

Petals in the wind

Flowers in the breeze

Whisper friend to friend

Smiling at the trees

 

Playing with the sky

Dancing with the sun

Floating ‘til they fly

Laughing, having fun

 

Silently bound

Tightly holding hands

Passing love around

To many unknown lands

 

Words caress the air

Touching all above

Shadowing with care

Hopelessly in love

 

May 2, 1986

 

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
June 2, 2013
2:57 pm
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                      The difference in your feelings from May to July in 86 tendered a complete reversal. Almost a disconnect of sorts. Though I enjoyed both poems, as with the last blast from your past posted, I find myself fascinated with the changes in your writing. I would think the first poem was handed your mind via an injustice served you verbally by someone you trusted. The second given of good feeling. Though they both show the tiniest reflection of your present poetry, there is a single mindedness of sorts in both poems that you don't show in your present writes. It's really quite interesting to see a writer's evolution in reverse. Imagine the opportunity to view something Hemingway wrote as a young man circa WW1.......................Or even Forgewright mid eighties.............

                  Your posting of old poetry had me searching my own junk box. My first poems were dark and nightmarish stemming from situtions and atrocities. Thanks for posting these.............

Semper Fi,

KE

Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
June 2, 2013
6:15 pm
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Yes, life as a teenager was a bit of an emotional roller coaster ride :) . I tried from time to time to write something more happy, since most of my writing was dark as well. That said, I was VERY young in 1986, only 14. That's right around when I started writing pretty actively... insomnia, hormones, boys, etc. kept my mind and my pen pretty lively. Maybe at some point I'll put together a string of pieces, one or two from each year since... might be interesting to see how they change.

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
June 2, 2013
7:03 pm
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So... this is what I meant by dark... 1986 must have been a fabulous year... NOT

 

Don’t Crowd Me

 

Don’t crowd me.

I hate feeling as if

I take up too much room.

I know I am small enough

To fit in this world.

My only question is where?

 

Buildings are falling down

And smashing telephone booths.

The painted eyes of dolls

Are wearing away.

The rain falls

And each drop turns to mud.

When I see the corroded towers

Of steel and stone

No one knows how tiny I feel.

And yet, I feel so crowded.

 

Soon I’m going to die.

They’ll bury me in the cold earth.

Crowding me in with the fat,

Pink earthworms.

The end will come,

And I will laugh,

So small and all alone

In my grave.

 

11-27-86

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Killerelite
Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
June 2, 2013
11:13 pm
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 This is an unseen dimension of the @tlhopkinson poetry machine that has been hidden until now. Fatal, final ending to the question of where you fit in the world. Sooooooo dark and out of character TLhopkinson. To read your writing now one would never know that you had such foreboding thoughts to pen.............Very interesting delving into your poetic past.

Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
June 3, 2013
12:00 am
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Written 10/25/83 while on my way to Beirut after our base was bombed. I was nineteen years old. I had to make few changes in order to make it politically correct, but the just of my sullen mood remains. This was somewhat the beginning of my writing.

 

 

An angry lot of walking dead,

in the land of the white hot sand,

have finally acted out your evil plan.

You have taken my brethren ,

two twenty all told, 

by means of cowardly detonation.

Now I come for you.

With heavy heart I’m on way,

to seek atonement paid in blood.

For the river you seek,

upon your passing is where you’ll drown,

it is not the honey you expect.

So rejoice angry man,

till I walk above you,

for the Devil dons a cloak of green.

I am he until the debt be paid,

and all that walk before me,

shall will swiftly be taken.

In the name of honor,

my brothers,

and the blood ran red of my purple heart,

till I have no more.

Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
June 3, 2013
12:18 am
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Wow, that's pretty amazing... I was pretty into reading veteran journals and such when I was a teen. I don't remember details of who I read, mostly collections and such that I could find at the local library, and mostly Vietnam stuff, but I remember why now... there's just nothing closer to life and to death than the experiences of a soldier. You should pull together these, fix them up a bit, and publish a collection. It would be well received.

 

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
June 5, 2013
10:12 pm
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I love how different your earlier pieces are.... definitely shows the teenage roller-coaster! Fortunately, I think I bought my last ticket awhile ago and can leave the teen-rides. Both poems seem very honest and emotional even if the messages are somewhat different... 

 

And lovely piece, you too, Killer! :)

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tlhopkinson
My identity can be found in my writing

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