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On Writing And Words Nostalgia Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Nostalgia

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Details | Couplet | |

The Mightiest of Poet's Still

Hark! The mighty sage’s quill,
Leaves remnants of genius, still.
Reminding me of richer days,
Where wines could really come to age;
And gods among the people dwelled,
In works of master poet’s felled.
Where aerie tales and thoughts of fancy,
Awaken something everlasting.
The faded thoughts of vestments tore,
Through mournful tales of days of yore.
I bore inquisitive insight,
To mouth a masterpiece delight;
Reciting thoughts from Edgar Poe,
In poetry and foul-like prose.
And as I muttered, “Nevermore”,
I pondered on his lost Lenore;
A femme who captivated thought,
His inspiration to the plot.
And in his wording wizardry,
So haunted by his imagery,
Moves me to expound wanton lyrics
To every soul who dares to hear it.
And with immense humility --
No pen shall cite as good as he.




Details | Free verse | |

A Crush of Glitter

                                                                                 * 
It happened in a moment, during my 7th grade English class   *
As we studied classic literature; “Evangeline”,  the poem
A substitute teacher, wearing shoes of polished coal             *
His soft style, hair neatly combed, engrossed in reading poetry…
Pubescence slumped around me, nodding off, slowly being lulled…

With glittering eyes, he read each verse                 *    *
The soft, eager voice, that stroked each word…
He would wait, on occasion, to look around the room  *
With wistful hope, I think it was, to reach one heart, and stir

At the start of the class, I had been watching the clock
But, as I sat more enraptured, time just seemed to stop…
I turned the pages, one by one …and slowly fell in love

The beauty of old words, drifted through the stuffy air
Like the gathering of dust motes, glittered, hanging in suspension
Filtered in the angled light, of the afternoon’s warm detention
Sun filtered through window glass,…while voice of bliss droned on…. 

My heartbeat sped, with growing passion
I restrained my hands from reaching,… grabbing                 *
To catch each word, and keep them captive…
Dust motes, and words, were spinning around                             *
I was head over heels…for my substitute teacher…
I was head over heels for an old man named Longfellow….
Thirteen years old, I loved two older men….

And in love with the magic,....
                                    the glitter of words




……………………………………….
Inspired by Nette Onclaud’s Contest…”Glow of Glitter”


Details | Verse | |

A Coffee Bar with Orange Paint

A coffee bar with orange paint --
   Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
   A neon sign hangs by the door.

I come here sometimes just to write.
   A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
   I do not see it as a taint.

Tonight an artist's work is hung
   Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
   Allows her dreams to have their say.

I like the color in these walls --
   A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
   A coffee bar with orange paint.


Details | Light Poetry | |

' Patricia Adams - An Alaskan Light ... '

She, Of The Cosmic Essence
Aware Of A Power
Aware Of A Presence
And Aware Of The Need For Our
Desire To Rise Higher
… and Higher
To Our Optimum Height
Patricia … You Are Like The Alaskan Lights
Those Northern Flares and Colors In Cold Night 
Floating Dreams, So Mesmerizing
Patricia, Brings It To Her Poetic Themes
Such Are The Verses She Shares To View
And Reading Them, She's Showing You
Her Cosmic Essence Insight
Oh Patricia, You’re An Alaskan Light …
So, Keep Reaching, Keep Speaking … and Write !


For The Girl, Who Shared A Comfy, Snug Book Read
On One Of Her Snowy Days … (Via Her Poem- ‘Autumn’s Passing’ 
Also - Your Poem ‘Journey’ is One)
See … It Brought Back Some Wonderful Memories To Me …

                   Your Poet-Friend,
         
                           The  MoonBee


Details | Free verse | |

Nevermore


O impetuous Muse surround me
with ashes of moody youth
Recall silken moments,
 uncertain, where 
marbled words wrote
an elaborate history.

Nectar thoughts,
 not moments, dappled drab
where ruined feathers in darkness dwelt.
Ornate  years of passion, spilling fire
allusive to all consuming ire.
	
When summer spoke,
when spring day-dreamed
and Autumn kissed me with
gaudy leaves.

Swift and sweet, how memories rise
diamond- strung in a room of silver
Slick and sleek from a stormy world,
 solid tree trunks on a bell- clear morning.
 
Blithe, dramatic, reckless dreams
 flowing with precocious,
 peculiar streams
 Luxurious with sadness,
 time’s cruel wheel
  rolls vast recollections 
 that slowly  yield
 cold, closed canyons of
endless  truths,
touched with the starry
  kiss of  youth.

Suzanne Delaney


for Harry















Details | Blank verse | |

Love Song

Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.


Details | Narrative | |

BEFORE SPRING CAME

Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    



Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...



After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
 


Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  


My theme is: Happiness In Childhood


Details | Free verse | |

In the Shallows

           I bent over to touch my toes
               and the ground tore open like a backbone.

I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe 
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars, 
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.

Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees, 
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]

The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.  
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.

   I dared to taste oblivion,
       and the sky swallowed me. 

My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming, 
but inside out.

            I bent over to touch my toes,
              and my spine tore open;
            the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
          like the tines of forks.
            I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
              but I only found where I end.


Details | Light Poetry | |

' Where Are The Words ? ... '

Where Are The Words …
I Am Looking For Words …
… That Will Give Meaning
To Meeting You, This Evening

And What Can I Say ? …
What I Long To Say …
Instead of, Good To See You Friend
And Oh, How Have You Been ?

… Such Polite Conversation
Is Safe Presentation
Nothing More … So Much Less
I Need Hunger- Honestness

Packed With A Passion
Full-Out Conflagration
Instead of A Shy, Dulcet Tone
I Wanna Torch-Talk You, To The Bone !

Use Words, To Sear You To Your Soul
Singe, Deep Inside Your Soul
Soft and Husky In Confessions
Words, That Demand Actions

Emotive, Elusive, Essential
Elocution of The Quintessential
Romanticism Expressed …
The Pleasure Of Your Face, Eagerness

In Bold Explorations, Evolved
From Virgin-Feelings of First Love
That Make It Seem … Like Last Night
Invoking Future Visions, So Bright !

Oh, Where Are The Words ? …
I Am At A Loss For Words …
So Many Things, I Want To Let You Know …
Instead of Just Saying … ‘ Hello ’…


              For:  Ismael Nieves 
Who Has Such A Passionate Style To His Poems
(and Also, The Little Joke of Big Words Between Us …
Hope You Enjoy This One Kiddo - Smile)


Details | Verse | |

Ding Dong The Wicked Witch is Dead

Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Thatcher’s dead.

Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Thatcher’s dead.

Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Thatcher’s dead.

Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Thatcher’s dead.


Details | Free verse | |

Generic Minds

generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them


Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Procrastination!


Details | Light Poetry | |

' My 300 Spartans ... ' ( or My Scheherazade )


To Commemorate My 300th Poem Here On The Soup

300 Solomons
300 Beacons
300 Spartans
300 Martyrs

300 Tales Done
300 Threads Spun
300 Heartsongs
300 Touchstones

300 Scheherazade
Only 700 More, GOD
and Wherever YOU Beam Me
10,000 More, Gleam Me

 - - - - - - - - - -

… I Have Lost 200 Poems
But Here Are 300
Because I Open My Arms
To Inspiration Undaunted …

“ Pancakes, Preserves, Poached-Egg & Pork
Maple-Syrup, Milk and Sun-Motes In The Morn
Calling My Name, Just Like Flapjacks To A Fork
Psyche Is Picking Up Poems, Like Babies Just Born “

- - - - - - - - - -

A Childhood Poem Remembered …

           I See The Moon
      and The Moon Sees Me
       GOD Bless The Moon
         and GOD Bless Me

… and Long Live, The Love Of Poetry …

                                 The  MoonBee


Details | Idyll (Idyl) | |

Beethoven Opus 133---poetically

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION


Details | Free verse | |

Child's Dawn

As the darkness yields to the dawn to deliver the heart from any storm Of the blackness of the night so long Where my fears and sorrows do belong The new morn is a sigh of a brilliant song The child awakens with the light Ready to believe in the day’s warming sight To live and love with open arms And have no fear of any harms There is hope and charity in the new day Dreams and innocence are here to stay Sun sweet sun Come on, have some fun Chase the night away so the child can learn to play!


Details | Ghazal | |

How to love

My roots are trembling
through clay orgasm,
tumbling the landslide
that speaks every shake or so.
Leo roars and I await life,
Generic roving rumbles
reminding me of the world around,
but I never remember
how to cling to the ground.


Details | Light Poetry | |

Butterfly

I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is 
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not  done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am 
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing 
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the 
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside 
 a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...


Written By: Christina A McCullouch 
04/09/2013


Details | Classicism | |

nostalgia

After working day long, was relaxing mind and soul
With a beautiful song.it  took away all the  troubles
Out of me.
As I was gazing around,my eyes caught the  glimpse
Of a bright colored book.
 Ah!! After a long hiatus,I saw the book.
it filled me up with nostalgia.
          It was my diary ,a vault of my wonderful memories
          Of good and bad.
Opened the book ,saw all the poems
Written  when I was young.
        Sweet music  was being played in the heart,
Read all those poems .
There was one unfinished poem looking 
         Sadly at me,saying ,give me a beautiful ending.
Ran my fingers over the pages,
Which was my savior from unrest .
                   This busy life made me forget the treasure
Trove of poems and passion.
       The poem got me time travel and 
I watched and enjoyed those bygone moments.
A poem about feelings which are unsaid
But still hold so strong in the heart.
              The poem got its beautiful end,
               it taught me that feelings are to be expressed
and they still linger in the heart,the 
person goes away from us.
           Its not that feelings are dead and
           Heart had dried up,they blossom like
            A flower every time whenever the 
Cross our minds and make us
Relish  those wonderful moments.
Tears rolled down my cheeks 
Of content and happiness.


Details | Imagism | |

The Red Symphony

A self-written poem begun in Christmas Time,
While it tasting the soup and looking for rhyme.
In the kitchen, neighbor with the quiet tomato paste,
The sorcerer's apprentice, a poet pretty well placed
Near Soups (ciorbe) with characteristic sour taste
With luminous face and much grace added the rest:
As he was sipping and tasting from raw and cooked.
His group had a passionate look at what was booked
For the dinner: These might be meat and vegetable soups.

They had to choose till the coming of the helping troops
For the pig`s sacrifice rite, old mixture of joy and grief
Under the hot and long debrief of the pleasant smell-thief 
Tripe soup (ciorba de burta) hard prepared from beef,
And calf foot soup (ciorba de vitel), with green-gold leaf 
Pickled soup (supa de moare) with pork and big rice;
But use the dice to decide between spice and allspice.

From the slaughtered pig the village` families prepare: 
Carnati - sausages  kept in special aromatic smoke 
Of wet fir and oak burned at small fire as enjoyed by folk;
Caltabos - sausages made with liver sprinkled with beers;
Toba and piftie - dishes using pig's feet, head and ears 
Suspended in aspic like a frozen symphony in red
After cups of plum brandy and before going the bed
Tochitura - pan-fried pork to bid it a farewell, twice
Served with mamaliga - palesta , and red wine with ice,
Or boiled wine with pepper and cinnamon against frost; 
So that the pork can swim and the verse were glossed;
Piftie - inferior parts of the bashful pig, mainly the tail, 
Feet and ears, kind of meal like taken from a fairytale
In which all are cooked and served in a form of gelatin
In this naturalist field, all the poets smile like Mr.Bean;
                                                                              
Jumari - small pieces of pig meat are fried and tumbled 
Through various spices if after all, you are a little troubled 
 And may falter some poetical from the famous songs
Like "So, good people drink…" couples of diphthongs
Since Saturday to Thursday and make colorful the gray.

This poem was written in the Night of Tuesday to Friday.
 
( And later we`d find that the housewife had covered with it  the pickles cucumbers jar.)


Details | Rhyme | |

Forgotten Words

Heartbreaking, the empty library, dust and cobwebs cover books, I turn the page of a book of age, the frayed chairs in cozy little nooks. Heartbreaking, all the forgotten works, old amber lamps light the way, of a book of age, I turn the page, maintained with love, once upon a day. Heartbreaking, are all the books I pass, words of forgotten writers, I turn the page of a book of age, like falling into deep, cool water. Zanila Rhyme January 8, 2013 For the Zanila Rhyme Contest


Details | I do not know? | |

My Wishes are Simple





My Wishes are Simple


My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.



My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.



My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.





Details | Concrete | |

Play On Bukowski--,for Linda King's Buk sculpture

   -                                                         you dirt dog                                You dirt dog
                                                    grimy as they get
                                                   Heiny in each hand
                                                  one from the ice box
                                                 other from the brothel
                                                    Slouching slurring
                                                    so clear you speak
                                         filtered through the old typewriter
                                        your "Baldwin" or your "Steinway"
                                           Love really is a dog from hell
                                         Play it again "Chopin Bukowski"
                                          Your poetic piano masterpiece!
 

   

   : a tribute to Charles Bukowski                  HERE'S a Link to the BUK Sculpture:
     and Linda Kings Sculpture of 
     this great American poet                                         http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.bukowski-gesellschaft.de/pix/art71linda-1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://bukowski.net/forum/index.php%3Fthreads/bukowski-bust.45/&usg=__5cQH_14jh2_Tyw5KpTdQJdvq7x0=&h=540&w=744&sz=76&hl=en&start=32&zoom=1&tbnid=ebDaiH5RBcXZrM:&tbnh=154&tbnw=201&ei=M7m4TeqlHc7b4wb1ttDfDw&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dlinda%2Bking%2Bbukowski%2Bsculpture%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26hs%3Dfwa%26sa%3DX%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1120%26bih%3D518%26tbm%3Disch0%2C6930%2C693&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=820&vpy=215&dur=481&hovh=191&hovw=264&tx=188&ty=92&page=3&ndsp=11&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:32&biw=1120&bih=518


Details | Couplet | |

Writer's Block

You know what I hate about writer’s block,
How my creativity is hidden behind a lock;

Time ticks away as I stare at my screen,
My heart beating faster from the strain of caffeine;

The cursor flashing lulls me to doze,
Til a fly lands smack on the tip of my nose;

I swing at the fly and glance at the clock,
How did 10 AM turn into 5 O’clock;

I stand and I stretch and then walk away,
And say goodbye to another wasted day;

Maybe tomorrow will inspire my brain,
Or I could be slowly going insane…


Details | Clerihew | |

We can swim beyond the storms

Unknown friend immerses 
In my fullerene verses,   
And finds four allotropes forms… 
We can swim beyond the storms.


Details | Acrostic | |

Unexpected Peers (An acrostic ode to Poetry Soup and it's members)

Unexpected Peers (An acrostic ode to Poetry Soup and it's members)	
(9.7.10)

Passion
Overwhelmed
Elementary
Thoughts.
Roaming
Youth
Saw
Out,
Under
Pen.

Prolific
Obsession
Engrossed
Time.
Rhythm
Yielded
Structure;
Observation
Unleashed
Power.

Pride
Offered
Extroversion.
Trajectory
Rose,
Yet
Self-doubt
Occurred.
Undercurrent
Pulled.

Pushed
On;
Expanded
Tools;
Read.
Yesterday
Stopped
Overstaying-
Usurping
Present.

Posted
Online.
Enjoy
The
Rhymes
You 
Share
Openly,
Unexpected
Peers.


            I haven't been on this site long, but many of you have already made me feel
welcome, and, moreover, like I belong.  I'm finding myself as inspired as I have ever been
to keep writing, and to keep growing as a writer, thanks to your support, your contests,
and your own original posts.  This is, truly, a special community.  
            Thanks for allowing me to become a part of it.


Details | Haiku | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part VI

Water licks your feet
Far cry from the beating sun
Desert sand to sea


Details | Cinqku | |

feignites

timeout
was no part
of games,instead,
crossed fingers,and this  shout
..feignites


Details | ABC | |

Treasure Trove

After working day long, was relaxing mind and soul With a beautiful song.

 gazing around,my eyes caught the  glimpse Of a bright colored book.

It was my diary ,a vault of wonderful memories Of good and bad.

 Sweet music  was being played in the heart,when i saw  one unfinished poem looking 

Sadly at me,saying ,give me a beautiful ending.
      
A poem,which is treasure trove  of unsaid feelings ,but still hold so strong in the heart.

 The poem got its beautiful end,and feelings still linger in the heart,even when the 
person goes away from us.

Its not that feelings are dead and Heart had dried up,they blossom like a flower

every time whenever they Cross our minds and make us relish  those wonderful moments.

Tears rolled down my cheeks Of content and happiness.



Details | Light Poetry | |

What's Wrong With Words

The process must work naturally,
Can't expect niceties when collared
brought kicking and screaming 
to the printed page.
Even the lowest parts of speech
Deserve and expect respect
Some words fit together, snuggle
Seem quite comfortable with the arrangement.
When contented become a happy brood,
A Brady bunch expressing their satisfaction
Reading smoothly, cleanly and rhythmically.
Twins or maybe kissing cousins,
Words that hold hands, play, share.
Words that have a peculiar panache.
Aligned alliterations properly placed,
Artfully spoken by a Prince of Denmark.
Poor boy, death marked, mother poisoned,
Father murdered, done in by words.
Verbalizations live, giving breath
To dark secrets struggles of creation,
Expressing triumphs and tragedies.
For words are the crux and cry of life.


Details | Couplet | |

Hieroglyphs unknown by Champollion

Kids are playing with strange blue graffiti
So, they wrote several times: ”Neffertiti” …

And drew the most beautiful queen`s head.
The whole history of Egypt written in red, 

With sacred hieroglyphs unknown by Champollion:
The Pharaons` destiny dandles a dewy dandelion…


Details | Rhyme | |

When Love Hurts

When love hurts, God heals
When love hurts, God feels
Your pain too as you do now
Pray and He'll show you how
When love so hurts, how to deal
The deep pain is oh so very real
God'll cry too for your tears and
It's true about footprints in sand
Reach out and He holds your hand
In kind your mind will feel His love
Hurting'll subside from God's glove 
I know of true hurting, how it feels
Accepting a hand of cards He deals
Painful nights crying, I've had many
But God's blessings, I've had plenty
That I will have better days ahead, I
Know and no longer have need to cry
When life itself hurt I questioned why
But I survived and my faith didn't die
For yesteryear's hurts, it will subside
The tears still come once in a while
But the love memories, I can smile
For God's so in His glorious Kingdom
For Kingdom come, thy will be done
And done will the pain be, away it'll
Go, like wood off a creative whittle
Beautiful to see, as days coming be
God cures all hurt, just wait and see
My mother, dad, brother, baby too
And for me, cried like baby boo hoo
But I wiped away the tears and have
Been blessed like a cow and her calf
Help do words of praying and writing
More than once, had vision - sighting
Not just in dreams, but for really real
I was in such pain, it was just surreal
Once it was Mother/Son, Mary/Jesus?
Through Him I pray for me, bejezzus


Details | Bio | |

SOURCES

Open
channels
from childhood-
people,sounds and
smells.


Details | Senryu | |

' Lord Alfred Tennyson ...' (Classical-Tribute) 62nd Senryu

‘ Lord Alfred Tennyson … ’ (Classical-Tribute)  62nd  Senryu



       Tennyson Thundered
‘ The Charge Of The Light Brigade ’
      Salutes … Six-Hundred


Details | Senryu | |

' Alfred Noyles ... ' (Classical-Tribute) 63rd Senryu

‘Alfred Noyles … ’ (Classical-Tribute)  63rd   Senryu



   Alfred Noyles’ Poem Rings
‘The Highwayman’, Came Riding
   … Still Gets Me Crying …


Details | Light Poetry | |

' The Pied Piper Poem ... '

… Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
Where Did He Take
The Children ?

With Gaiety
He Played !
What Childhood
Dreams-Displayed ?

In Each
Cherry-Cheeked Head …
That Followed
Unafraid

… Only Poor Little
Crippled Tom
Sadly, Got Left Behind
At Home

Whose Honest Parents
Were Only Ones Nice
To Pied Piper
And Willing To Pay Price

… and So, Kindly He
Left Their Son
But Took All
 The Other Ones …

Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
They Should Have Paid
 At First, When …

… But Pied Piper Played
His Payback Tune
And Danced Hamlin’s Hearts
…and Raw-Deal To Doom


Details | Couplet | |

Balderdash

Balderdash
I will not listen to iris eyes,
those lids for covers; frightened lies.
And cannot hear the nostril's fear
that calls you to me over here.

Balderdash 
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way

Balderdash
I will not listen to faint of heart.
Half a story; a lie apart.
And cannot wait for one more pause.
A lie; your drama; without a cause.

Balderdash 
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way

Balderdash
I will not listen to yellow bellies
who's waves break lies to coward's deli's.
And will not watch a brow fall down
without it's fear; without it's crown.

Balderdash 
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way

Balderdash
I will not listen to crooked smiles
who's heart beats twice in self denial.
And will not watch the gizzard sink
to form a gully's fear of shrink.

Balderdash 
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way

Balderdash
I will not listen to jointed nose
that prays for healing, as one knows.
And will not notice the patient smile
that lies back to you a waiting while.

Balderdash 
is all I'll say.
And keep my distance
and my way

Balderdash
is all I say.
Balderdash.
Going my way.


Details | I do not know? | |

Chapters

Our lives are like stories 
Like the ones found in books
We all play our part in the plot
But you were a bit more than just a character
Babe, you were a chapter

Chapters begin and end so quickly
So fleeting, like the way we would flirt
A heart-pounding beginning with a dry, cold close

I'm saying good bye 
This is for every time I could have cried
This is for every night that you forgot I exist
But I haven't shed a tear on you and, boy, I'm not gonna try
This is for every single mean thing you say
This is me deciding not to pretend I'm looking the other way
This is something I'm doing for me
So good bye, cause no longer will I be the girl who is blind

The chapter has sealed itself shut
So sit in your room and play some mean songs about me
I don't care, I know somebody with nicer hair

As a kid you must have been the bully on the playground
I'm done being the girl you give affection to and push down 
And I'm tired of standing on the sidelines while you try to run the show
I'm gonna move on with my life 
Prove there are things you will never know
There are things that books can't tell you 
Things only the heart can understand
You don't have one of those
So, pardon me, if I don't consider you a man

The chapter has ended but I won't shed a tear
The future's too bright for me to look back to darkness










Details | Couplet | |

Comic Book

Fractured little comic book
cracked along the spine.
Must and mold exhaust you.
Dullness shows the time.

Turn a page for reading
fuzzy art in blocks.
Squares with tiny bubbles
or just a place to talk.

Staples down the middle.
Two through every fold.
Half the book is over
and several stories told.

Flipped upon your back
where ads take all the space.
Toys for boys and girls
and all the dreams we'll chase.

Fractured little comic book.
Thank you for your grace.


Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Baggage Claim

Drained to my very heart by our slow-paced arrival, 
          I wander through tasteless decor to the metal arches 
                                                Beyond which a future is unfurled.
My bag’s innards are spilled like blood in the Bible
          Before the cold gaze of the armed man who marches;
                                                He holds the key to this new world.

The mechanistic arch stands and takes quasi-sentience 
          Beside passport control, piercing my finely popped 
                                                Eardrums with sonic solemnity.
I am refused by technology but stagger forward hence 
          Into baggage claim where a suitcase pile is propped 
                                                Up like a holiday Tetris calamity.

My suitcase is soul black and with difficulty is found,
          In its lucid eagerness to fasten itself a faux family;
			   Airports are filled with pretences.
Now we are away again, small trolley safe and sound,
          On the road from snow, heat is where I plan to be.
                                                Our intrepid journey commences...


Details | Free verse | |

Sent

Biding peace laid for some pariah, 
spinning all mind's lie.
Vision gliding ever higher, 
	soaring ecstasy; exquisite sapphire sky

Yet wing Wired,  we catch earthbound, 
	nothing but shifting twilight sight.
cutting thy hand short. 
	Records wake, flash bright white.

Formed half here, half there.
Lost by laughter and fear, 
	A stolen shadow's
		 path to nowhere.

Within this vista of pure visual;
	,  ghostly green shine. 
		lit from MOON'S far dream.
The soothe sayer of dazed worry, 
		forgetting past fright of 
yet another scene.

Igniting matters .. all grey 
		coloured shock. 
 slumbering his career
spent, clinging by the scraps
		 scraping slow dawn 
drawing ever near

to mislead by a prized pun .. if not ... REMember. 
	gathering with a shaded kind,
left now, dust, dry light. slipping as a fade out mind

dashed on mourning 
	stealing yet another oblique view.
Aimless day-walker disjointed from the world; 
		so bland and blue.
As
Joy bursts from chest when ever pen hits
nothing compares to thy writing; 
			Alls elated fits.


Details | I do not know? | |

'the twitch'

This is the story of ‘the twitch’.  
We have all had it:  
   That bit of movement before we sleep.  
We have been awakened by it when we were younger. . . it threw our arm out to catch us 
before we fell out of bed.
   It was even younger than that for us.  
   It was sometimes confused with a kick --  from our mothers’ tummies  to the swaddle of 
blanket.  
   As we grew, the arm no longer flew. . . and thus. . . ‘the twitch’.
   It is thought that we started with 
a parting of the energy that mathematicians make Einsteins 
of, or, 
sounds of the aria that Mozart’d 
into our echoes of the day --  a marriage of concept and conceptual.  
   It took us through the outreach of awkward doubt. . . brought us ‘round the curve 
of nerve 
for monkey bars toward the first dance; drew blood in our mouths before we got the first 
punch – given/taken.
The part of ‘the twitch’ 
that is worthy of noting now is that 
   it has never wanted to be caught:  
   It wanted more than nothing to be left alone – perhaps; conceived that 
   it would be an occasion for cause. . . effect – the drive our parents tried to delay 
with Dr. Seuss and Disney books.  A teenage indifference took us away from 
   it.
We all fall asleep. . . as we’ve always done.  
The story of ‘the twitch’ begins at the thumb; carries on. . . for the course of fingers
   it touched.
Brings  us a little closer to the edge of our beds.


Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) | |

Do you like my raven eyes

As I walked down the street 
this morning 
I tried to be polite and inconspicuous 
You stare into my eyes; 
My brown eyes speak louder than my 
Husky voice ever will 

What are you looking for? 
Do you liked what you see 
Pain, shame or a sense of connection 
Love, nowhere to be found 
It ruthless, it vanishes, it disappoint 
By now us all know the stories 
Of lost-love, 

It begin with a smile 
A kiss, a warm embrace, 
Then tear and fears 
Do you love the raven in my eyes 
Sorry stranger! 
I paid my tithes, 

However, 

I lost my loves 
Caw, caw, caw! 
Do you love the raven in my eyes


Details | Haiku | |

Three

------------------------

cracks reminding us 
a calender hangs silence 
by all irony.

---------------------------

Practice for the blind 
circulation shutting down
shall twist towards plot

-------------------------

Running for their skin,
civilised sugar paper , 
for response alone.

------------------------------


Details | Free verse | |

hopscotch

knobby-knee’d, toes that stop 
bend and pick up 
penny, marble, rock 
outside chalk 
on concrete, begging, for me to turn around 
for one more try 


Details | Senryu | |

etched on a tree stump

etched on a tree stump.
the carved memories of us
lasting through the years


Details | Quintain (English) | |

BESIDES FAMILY

During the years that I had lived
many friends I have had;
some nice, some good, some bad...
ah! being friendless is very sad!

Beside family...who else
will remember what I've achieved,
perhaps a stranger reading
my works too lucid and intense?

I have honored many unnotorious folks like humble mother,
and the ones who have touched me in ways nobody has...
having been an innovator, not much of a shaker,
readers will uncover the true meaning of my writings.


Besides family...who will take time to read them twice?
Have I moved, inspired and changed them in several minutes?
That could be so true by the interest they have shown in the poems
I've written and my wish is that they have found that voice!


I seek no praises or laurels for my creations with words so intuitive,
and if an ode were dedicated to me....so very honored I wouldl be!
It's not being naive...not to have realized it and be crowned with victory;
and in any respectable way they wish to remember me, it's their prerogative.


Details | Verse | |

INANIMATE WHEN ABANDONED

Diary vs poetry.
Conscientious, I turn the pages
Of the riots spilled, emotions stalked
And confessions redefined. 
Words of the same caricature
Sometimes misplaced, sometimes misinterpreted
But all speaking the same..

When Diary is my best friend,
Poetry, my lover
Passion instills my heart both ways,
I can’t live without either.

Betrayal, will be the occasion
When my desires are personified,
So,
I retire from humanity,
The world of words:
Calls me every night,
Either in rhymes, or in plain verses
I surrender my sins, divine curses,
The one who had been my confidante,
Had been an incomplete revelation:
My most beautiful work, 
But he never saw it.
Concealed in my heart,
It will remain forever,
Till I find inspiration again.


Details | Rhyme | |

I hate MRS Oleson

I hate Harriet Oleson because she was a bitch.
Somebody should've had that awful woman lynched.
She makes me so mad that the veins in my forehead start to throb.
That woman was greedy, mean and she was the world's biggest snob.

She had a spoiled brat for a daughter who was named Nellie.
But when Laura Ingalls threw hay on her, she became smelly.
If I had been MR. Oleson, I would've gotten a divorce.
His wife was so ugly, she had the face of a horse.

If I could've gotten my hands on MRS. Oleson, I would've gave her a good shake.
Every time she looked in mirrors, they were bound to break.
The Ingalls were very good people and they were also very nice.
But I wish MRS. Oleson would've had to shave her head because of lice.


Details | Free verse | |

Why I can't Write

I have carved seventeen years into this notebook
Dragging Mondays across the paper
Saturdays exploding from the nib

It is not enough now
To take a hair from his head and rest it on a page
Sacrificing my heart to the wind
Praying she might not take it from me

It is not enough now
To take a reflection of his smile and scatter it across these sordid lines
In the hope that they might trap it for me
And not keep it for themselves

I want to pen myself into him
Carve myself deep into his skin
Curl into myself
And live there
In the space between his heart and lungs.


Details | Free verse | |

and we are gone

... And be one eye , one soul 
as the world recedes , gone ,
away far climbs. Vanished like a 
driven cloud.
		He is merely flesh and blood Reality ;
slaughterhouse stumbling through script
	typed in selfless pursuit.
Wanting only quickened wit & Pupil's Needs.

Mortal simian image, which we , the living 
only feel and bear and tremble and 
are gone. 
Upon my Darling's beaming eyes The summit 
of everest slurs into a bog or quagmire , deep 
and dank.
	So gazing with the boldness which prevails
love, and peace and gracious mirth.
	with a voice less loud though its 
joys and fears show wool in dissembled 
colours shine.
	
	As the passers by near us drew 
the Need to know from our stares, going further...
	" O Merciless Lady & Vulture Poet
when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall
I will turn my bewildered eyes out 
of soil and darkness , to run through 
every alternate scene 
Where I  used to play on the green
in goodly colours gloriously arrayed.

And a voice less loud brought me 
breathless to Aphrodite , throned in 
flowers beyond this pale picture ; 
be the dream. Roaing with laughter 
as a fallow deer is clear cut through 
the sun seen peering out the skull.
Alls 
vast lilliputin language cannot describe
an Echo of the Time, after the rainbow.
Then , as if some strange mystery aware
that you should remember & be sad.
Now memory feels itself grow weak , I can 
not endure,
	I am merely flesh and blood "
"it will be found once more , I say to
thee with furtive flagons , white and red.
Now get back retreat, depart."
	She of the tribunal did command
great at sea, and the Heaven. From some 
touch of pity which may still restrain 
she let him pass.

A leaf fallling softly at my feet,
but I saw it was not as thought , 
only inked. Falling in Heaven's crescendo.
Climax always brushing distance out 
of reach.
As to long panoramas of Visions, of 
my faith , I'd give whole to see the architect
of my dreams once more. I am 
waiting here for thee, flesh and blood , merely.

	Ne'er to be found again. I am 
like a flag unfurled in space. Oh ! Lost 
to Her and all thy race to wit
 faces of scorn , stuttering ends 
this morn ; O Weak Heart. I long 
to rise. Never being a Poet of God's making ,
laughter to thy lips, wandering to sigh 
among mortal men dust ; shall return to 
dust. As the storm cries everynight 
and those that know me confirm that it is thus.
Easing a new epilogue , tremble 
and we are gone...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Seventh Fable

 The Seventh Fable 
The Seventh Fable 
 
Charlaxes Fables 
 
Mental Prefabrications 
 


People have preconceived ideas from Religion and Television 

combine these two ideas and no wonder everyone is mental. 

The Eye is just now thankful that the computer was not mine at age 14. The TV 
was enough to ruin me for life. It is no wonder that eye still don't have a life. 
Falling into cracks made just for me. Living in the NEW AGE causes so much 
uncertainty and problems we avoided in our past come back as daily necessities 
of the mass of useless protoplasmic mice eye once saw a man on the highway 
with a sign he was begging for more money to get some more useless wine so 
the people went zigging past avoiding him until he fell down on the ground it 
seemed to me he was passed out perhaps he died and no one buried him 
sounds like an episode of Twilight Zone. There was episodes eye will never 
forget the NOSE throbbing on the stairs inside the house the girl tried to leave the 
shelter of the fence once out she turned to dust the man with the wires in his arm 
seeing the oven where he was born the little airforce people in the GIANT 
woman's kitchen getting swept. 

It just occurred to me the ins and outs of celebrity imagine all the casting calls to 
make the episodes. AND the fact that Charlax was never chosen for even one of 
them seems sort of some kind of twisted justice the actors used were just the 
best of all the crème de le crème of all the hollywooded jest. Webseries Pilot 
casting call: 
The Charlax would be excellent at this OH wait look at that ethnic face. Male, 
open ethnicity, early to mid 30's - JG. Federal Agency Detective.  Good at his job, 
but fresh enough to still want to make a difference. Oh if eye were only Twenty 
Years different. A Twilight Zoned Detecative with the name Rick Roll selected and 
elected to be the actor of the myllineum. 
   


Details | Ode | |

as quiet as he ever was

tightrope typography; 
the arbitrary doyens of 
fallacious complexion… 
perpetually soaked 
in gin perked rum… 
inelegantly smeared 
across glass bled eyes… 
purely out of interest… 

the bluish flaccid
moonlit regatta;
whistled and sold…
whistled and cleansed…
privy to atonal acronyms 
and consummated progress…
as quiet as he ever was…
purely out of interest… 
 


Details | Rhyme | |

That Angel Smells Like Lotus Flowers

I know not her name, 
But I can trace her by scent, 
She has driven me into a smell-at-them game, 
And am attracted to her a hundred percent, 

Stronger than my very own Chase, 
But am unable to keep the pace, 
The scent, be it expensive, I'll buy on higher purchase, 
I just want a glimpse of her face, 

Is she a material girl in a material world? 
Who taught her to smell so sweet? 
Whatever the case I'll buy her the world, 
And place it beneath her feet, 

I spoke with the wind to reverse her scent, 
And I followed it to a mansion so beautiful, 
It is here that I'll pitch my tent, 
Till I see this angel that converted me to a beauty fool, 

Alas! A master piece, 
If she isn't a runaway angel from heaven, 
Then God must have really been at peace, 
And created her in days more that seven, 

Introduce myself I shall, 
Even if its only for a while, 
Am Leonardo da vinci, please Monalisa smile, 
But she disappears behind that great wall, 


Details | Free verse | |

Another Suffering Poet

When I feel bitter discontentment
I take out my poision pen to immortalize
The ones who have crushed
Me with their 
Gigantic, concrete boulders
Like many before me
Who cried tears
Of overwhelming sadness
Lingering depression 
And infinite lonliness
I have become one with them
For we all possess
The same quality
The need to be set free
Through the expression of 
The thoughts that haunt our minds
We release our agony through our poetic prose
Our words are few
But, they speak volumes
About what lies inside us
For my creativity 
Stems from the intensity
That roams within me
My open wounds
Exposed for all to view
When I compose
A melodic rhyme
It speaks of my angst
Through mystery
Making my reader
Look beyond the face value
Of my syntax
And search for the true meaning
Of which I was attempting to convey
My poetic talents 
Can only bring miniscule relief
From what has been
Creeping up on me
Following me 
My entire life
I hear the clock ticking
The hand is about to strike midnight
The fairytale is over
Time is running out
Like sand passing through the hourglass
I wait for the day
I muster up the courage
To turn on the gas stove
Sticking my head in 
Sylvia Plath style
So I can take my last breath
Ending my melancholic existence forever
For I couldn't escape the curse
Of my literary collegues
That preceded me
Whose lives were filled 
With despair and doom
Who spent their life tormented
By the demons inside their soul
Because I, like them
Couldn't stop feeling the torture
Of my past
When I laid down my pen
And closed my eyes
For I am just another suffering poet
In my grave
Decaying away
After a life wasted


Details | Rhyme | |

Freedom

We are sullenly mourning
For security from the demoralizing night
I am despairingly probing
For mercy to carry us back to our divine flight

We are all wishing for infinite freedom
We are all seeking for an abundant kingdom

If we are living in pure happiness, why are we so emotional inside and out?
Why are we painstakingly tracking down a getaway away from this mystifying dilemma? What is all this venturing about?
If we are swaying in the rhythm of faultless jolliness, why are we vexing about the departure of our best friend?
It isn’t in our control…so get a grip or we'll fall!
If we build up our friendship, we'll have wounds to mend
So stop your blaming and cursing or we'll be in appall 

If we are all leaders, why are we panicking?

We are all leaders…we aren’t senseless pleaders!
So face your phobias and get out of the deserted state!
We are all leaders…we will not give in, vile deceivers!
Saunter out of sight, so we won’t meet our unsettling fate!

You meddled with our cries
So don't point fingers, you insidious devil
And forced us to believe your jaded lies
SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I don't want to consider your excuses, for our truth stands still

If we are living in pure happiness, why are we not meant to be?
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we battered and bent?
If I am living in pure happiness, why am I not free?
Could we ever discard this horrifying dilemma that pounds on us like cement?


We must act like a leader—tough and vigilant
Striving to survive!
We must mimic like a leader—buff and independent
Struggling to stay alive!

Disregard the mourning state;
Drive out the defiant enemies and make them face their damnations
So we can joyfully integrate and negotiate
You’d do me a favor to cease your supplications!  


Details | Free verse | |

my favourite path

i see it before me 
i have not stepped towards, nor walked along its direction 
it is clearly there for me to do so 
the decision 
can stray left or right of the way I go 
and all I know 
is that it starts 
before me


Details | Dramatic monologue | |

No Blessed Slumber Given

Thou Death! To me no subtle thing
But of common visage, known,
Unto my days so well betrothed!
Yet in its clutches not Mercy's scythe
But cursed quill
Which no surcease permits-
And granting not that blessed peace
Does letless rage and torment, sting and prod
'Til e'en poor Tantalus would hold his lot
And not mine, for it, dare barter;
For Hades very countenance more fair a thing beheld
Than promised Dawns deferred,
Each alighting hope but a moment's sigh
By Hell's cruel breath consumed
'Til naught but cinders adorns my path
And Love, sweet corpse, its darksong warbles...


Details | I do not know? | |

reminisciences.

Once upon a time, I wrote about love.
It was based on no poem, sung by none
drawn from the deepest through
of a soul that its flame didst burn.

Once upon a time, I wrote about hope;
each passing day, i got more hopeful 
that people would at last began to cope
with the situations they are, if careful

Once upon a time, I wrote about the morning.
every now and then, I remember the frown 
I had, when I discovered that the last wordings 
were longer than the first, like they were drawn.

Once upon a time, I wrote about time
that waits for no man, always in a hurry;
if you keep to it, you'll do just fine
but to the lazy ones, it flies past: fast and blurry.


Details | Rhyme | |

Complete Man

Prolog:   This poem is about how much you need to struggle to ‘survive’ as an accountable and matured man. Child demands what he desires and the man sacrifices his desire, to fulfill the child’s.  It’s funny how you would be made a king for a day, and then a ‘somebody’, or even a ‘nobody’? Moreover, as you grow up, linearly, the problems breed exponentially like bacteria. Yes, it is true that the assimilative power to bear the offsets increase as you grow up too and how we breathe with the mere hope that one’s integrity pays back at some point in life. These verses symbolize the seldom hidden pain as adolescents in antithesis to the trouble-free life of a kid. Being a four year old playing with crayons, it’s all about you and your own little world!  
 
The journey is tough, the journey is loathed,
The journey is necessary, the journey is promising
 
From learning to put on the bow-tie,
To responsibly having the handkerchief in your pocket,
From experiencing the toughest times
And still standing upright like a ship in a storm
Like never before,
Manhood, here comes, like a raging warrior,
Resilient in form, stronger than its former,
And kills your innocence; darkens your heart.
 
The journey is tough, the journey is loathed,
The journey is necessary, the journey is promising
 
Life slips by ‘unlived’ and under cut-throat competition
Little merry-time, patchy hangovers and a far-fetched ambition
In trying to enrich and reclassify his social status
Life is yet adventurous, travelling rough miles
Reshaping himself, constantly adopting new lifestyles,
Every so often, he needs a little time, damn-it
In the end, faith grows numb in breaking the habit
It’s flabbergasting dad, how you stood up on your feet
Such burden of liability on the shoulders, how can one keep?
 
Politics was detested, conspiracy unheard of.
But now only has become an essential strategy for survival
Pain only makes him stronger,
Thanks Kelly Clarkson; that makes our belief finer
And brings a hope of fresh revival
How true Darwin sayeth!
Fittest subsists, and the rest are extinct species.
However, gratitude to such reformation
The inception of adulthood, cognizance!
Teaches him to be & believe himself; thus push his limits farther
Only critical moments, binds his relationships sturdier
 
The journey is tough, the journey is loathed,
The journey is necessary, the journey is promising.
 
 
Inspired by : friends, fam, eminem, linkin park, my fellow poets, my world


Details | Bio | |

Felled

I walk  in the pathetic pages of a used tired book
Crushed by the heavy leaves that lied to me
The older I become, the angrier I see
orange, red, yellow peeling 
Panting, painting, pelting poems
against a soggy canvas and sagging
lines like tired feet held together with
sad gray shoes

We're the oldest ones here
The doctor is so young
The lawyer is a child
The children are all grown
My grandbaby is going to college

Still when I brushed my hair today
and sashayed by you
a lilt to my tongue and a 
swagger in my lips
I curved a kiss to you and 
blew an ocean of windtossed
leaves

I scooted under them
like a silly child
Smelling the earth
Rooting like a piglet

When did Tubman push her
passengers along
Putting nails in trees to indicate
the turn in the fog
the fork in the road

If she could work into 
the autumn and beyond
Why kant I rite the lanterns 
of my life?

And in autumn
You don't need permission
To fall and land in earthy
grandeur

Staggering, solemn, orange
Reborn like a felled tree


Details | Dramatic monologue | |

VOWS

I SEE THE WAY I FEEL INSIDE,
LOCKED AWAY BEHIND ALL MY LIES.
I HEAR THE WORDS BEHIND MY 
BACK, TRUTHFULLY IT'S ACOUSTICALLY
SAD.
WHEN THE CHORDS ARE PLAYED,
THERE'S A MELODIC HAUNTING IN MY MIND!
LOST INSIDE; THE ENDEAVOR IS BLIND.
STAR-GAZING BRINGS THE TUNES TO A 
HIGH, PEOPLE WATCHING TAKES ME TO A 
LOW.
BOXED IN THE WAY I FEEL;
MY PANIC BECOMES MANIC, I JUST
NEED A WAY TO DEAL.
STRAWBERRY GASHES IN PEACH-COLORED
FIELDS, HELPS TO DEFINE HOW IT IS 
AND WHAT I TRULY FEEL.
FORGIVENESS SOUNDS GOUND, BUT 
I KNOW I WON'T FORGET. JUST
LIKE A GREAT POEM OR SONNET THESE
SCARS ARE MY COMMITTMENT.
SO AS I SHALL FADE TO NOTHINGNESS 
NOW; I GIVE YOU THESE WORDS TO
CHERISH - DEATH BECOMES MY WEDDING VOW.


Details | Free verse | |

TUMI OR NOT TUMI!?

No, It was not my time
to jaunt & jump about 
the Morld with You, to
glowering-green-glows
of Ischia, the privileges
of Mackinac, "...our Paris, Ilsa!"...

Ornamented ataud &
calefacted incinerators are
merely better-funded!, to a last-
notice of proteaned hoar, the
dearth of silk...

So, it was to be
Goa, or Delhi "curry-in-a-hurry" not,
and the touts & shouts 
as We passed...
You in those shoes,
toeing-up with heel asway
like a silent, ticking-pendulum,
Me, watching...

Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few
to my inti-mated Life,
why there was You insinuate...
E'er Yours-sporadic, tho'
an extravagance of Soul!, like
incipient Sinatra, or 
the piano of Jarrett!  But,

No, it was not your time
to jump & jaunt-about
with Me, but for You, 
like a junkie afeared of needles,
to be going, & mine  
to Write... of It, plecking-off 
the pilpuls from 
My blanket, & You to
replacing contoured batteries
and
for Now... perhaps as recent
as tomorrows' accident.

                        H.e.m.
                        c.5.10.MMvii.



Details | Free verse | |

Teal

"and don't forget the pretention"

###########
everyone nodded along as 
the first line Hit 
 cut w-/ Posh .. chugging 
stars , throats end to end slit.

	Schemes o'er everything 
I realise now that you need 
these 'things' , 
imaginary or other wise.	Anything 
to keep the Belief that 
Life is worth living.
	By their ridiculous Forgery 
to emphasise insubstantial shapes , mutilated 
text , colour & breathing connecting Heart 
to Pen under strict obligation 
to remain Nonsense
	Above seperate Action.

I just want to be Honest
	o'er the vicious Cycles of Trend
inspiring by reflection 
	We replace real life as we all 
like Motion Pictures 
	Lost within Code 
he might be you or me Beating 
the walls as we try 
	out these twillight eyes switching o'er
to Terra's Remote viewing 
	zoom ignites thy Bone's hollow Fractures 
happening, pure & simple , we errode
	in a sudden glass moment ...excuse me 
& my obvious slander .. Keeping it real may soon dismay 
at a pulse of Cheekbones ; Paper artic traces flickering on 
nervescreens before our pristine chords reciting
	"Nobody's story" revolving round 
nothing really ... simple words.

Oh Lord its so clear
	All Places & All Times 
		its just us 
trying to make faces in the sky....
		and scream no more dropping 
for
	your daily optic reset calibrating 
BRAND NEW 
	Our CCTV standard view 
	declining to smash utterly as Minute 
Splinters 
	prevent such ink immediate 
between Mind & Matter ,
	Powdered Charcol , meaning the whole 
Legal Judgement satisfied 
		Logic there in  
Personal reasoning & Multi - simplicity
	Leftscreaming up the curb 
as if 
	you were just walking by... Society's Needs 
cackling inhuman . Adverts scattering   w-/ only One 
Purpose 	rocking aby sentence.
		Cast Calm to Create.


Details | Free verse | |

To the beginning and over but Never Out

Oh please, I plead
Listen to my beseech
I raise my hands out to you
take them please

In this dark void I walk through
there is no comfort
no warmth
no joy

slowly it leaches out all that I hold
when will I ever reach the end?
Do you know where the end is?
Is the end where the end of the end is?

Lost, dazed, confused
Did God pluck me out
and strand me here?

three doors, three paths, three choices
one Mundane

ransom me out
an open cage, such as this atramentous nightmare
no end
no path

Is there hope? 
Hope is where light is
is the light at the end where darkness is not?
is the light where the light always materializes from?

                                                                                where
                              is
                                                                                                     it?


Details | Rhyme | |

Peggy Anderson

Peggy Anderson, what can I do
I've tried all evening to get through to you.
I loved your poem about your friends 
And the Iron Bed is like the one I once had.

Keep up the good work 
And thanks for your nice words
On my poems My Guardian Angel
And Stubborn or Gifted.

Keep up the good work
And I'll try again 
To let you know I enjoyed 
The poems you put in.

                            Cile Beer


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The broken road to heaven

The broken road to heaven 


The broken road in need of maintenance  
through which we have traveled, mute and solemn 
to our delight
was alight with millions of glow bugs;
evening was another leaf fallen
when I whisper to my friend Richard,
“Is it heaven? Have we arrived at last?” 
he smiled,  “we are yet to reach my home.”
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar 


Details | Verse | |

Buttered Toast And Trains

His dreams of buttered toast and trains became
  Beleaguered by town-planners and architectural sharks
Who erected on his green and pleasant visions
  The blight of sunless tower blocks and concrete parks.
Once bicycles and potting sheds held blissful sway
  In country lanes and gardens swarmed with bloom,
Replaced by streams of motorised invaders,
  In place of lawns - hot tubs and decking loom.

His chronicles of defiance ring like warning bells from
  Small quaint churches in his rhyming pages,
Across the village greens and through the cobbled streets
  Down the passages of post colonial ages.
The words of such gentility and slowly dying culture,
  Sandwiches of cucumber and egg and cress for tea,
Earl Grey poured from china pots, sugar lumps in silver bowls,
  Croquet hoops and endless sun and sweet austerity.

That world, though semi-fabled, seems ever more unreal,
  And images he drew upon are all that now remains,
To teach us of a man who lived and then outlived his time
  With his marvelled dreams of buttered toast and trains.


Details | Rhyme | |

A PEN AND A COMPOSITION BOOK

Perhaps it was the most unappreciative gift:
a pen and a composition book wrapped in red paper
imprinted with Santa image riding his sleight...
I expected toys I could play with after school or later.


My sisters received many gifts from leather shoes to wool hats,
and as I held that gift with perplexity, Mother asked me,
" Son, don't you like it? " " I like it, Ma " I replied disappointingly...
" One day they will make you great! She attested with eloquence.


" A teen like me was going to be great 
with a pen and a composition book?
 How could an ordinary mother have predicted the future so precisely? '
Only an astrologer, or medium could have guessed what was awaiting me! 


A few years later, a revelation came to light:
a pen and composition book appeared in my sight,
there in a brown shoe box with old photographs they laid... 
waiting for a hand to give them life without any magic wand.


Details | Narrative | |

Vignette-CHARLES DICKEN'S CLASSICS

There was a great English novelist I truly admired since my vibrant youth,
and his name was Charles Dickens; and his classics I read and revered.
He wrote many memorable novels, and one of them, filled with truth,  
was: "A CHRISTMAS CAROL", which he splendidly narrated...
as those London's bells tolled above a foggy, busy Avenue. 


Entered in Brian Strand's contest A Literary Love Affair                             

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci


Details | Quintain (English) | |

Pentastich-PABLO'S IMMORTALITY

He died as all humans die, 
and yet his thoughts have never ceased...
to declare a mortal an immortal:
expressing himself with works 
full of sensitivity and awareness. 


He lived and breathed that Chilean air,
sent from the mixed breezes of the Andes;
and sitting down on a warm rock,  
he contemplated the white peaks of those mountains...
gleaming from distance, to instill more tenacious memories.


Pablo glorified the human spirit
with its unflinching fortitude, 
to describe the joy or sadness of a certain age;
and absorbed in profound thought,
he continued writing until death stopped his breath.



Details | Light Poetry | |

' Love Of Poets ... '

Oh, I Love Poets …
Here is Why:  Explore-It …

I Love The Way We Speak
I Love The Way We Think
And Seek and Link and When On The Brink
Of The Flow of Life … The Way We Drink …

I Love The Way We Pour-It
On … and Oh, I So Love Poets

Oh, I Love Poets …
Here is Some More-of-It …

The Way We Exercise Freedom of Speech
Sometimes, We May Actually Even Teach
All Times … We Are Truly Trying To Reach
at least One, if not Each … (while We Preach) …

but, They’ll Overlook or Get-Over-It 
Oh, I Do So Love Poets

I Love Poets …
Simply, Can Not Ignore-It …

We Are Determined to Make Talk, Très Chic’
All Topics, from Looney-Tunes to Tolstoy-Tragic
Deep Thoughts and Themes and Tags-Unique
“for A Rose by Any Other Name, Would Smell As Sweet”

… but It Would Not Sound So Fantastic !
If It Were Not Said, So Poetic …

So, I Do Love Poets
And What They Do, I Do Adore It
New or Classics and How They Wrote It
Oh, How I Do Indeed, Love Poets …


Details | Light Poetry | |

JorgeSouthKorea

This is the man that I am

No need for a detective because I have few mysteries

Whatever you don’t find its trapped somewhere inside my mind

I put my life into words for the whole world to read

I hope you enjoy what you see

A South Korean English teacher by night

An avid writer by day

A helpless romantic somewhere in between

The smile and joy from my students is priceless

Seeing someone enjoy my writings is pretty rewarding as well

I feel that everything in my life is finally going well

From my writings you may find that hard to tell

Sorry I don’t write more fantasies or fables

To convey happy emotions and attract more followers

You are getting my life through my eyes

I don’t have a sweet tooth so I don’t sugarcoat things

I write what I have seen and how it has effected me

My adventures and journeys have been vast

Come with me on this ride

Together we can both be pleasantly surprised

With what I will write

This is the the man that I am



Find more of my writings and poems at jorgesouthkorea.com


Details | Rhyme | |

Endangered Species

The bell denotes my presence and I breathe in all the must,
The old man sits amidst his books himself covered in dust.
I glance around -
	Without a sound -
		What will my hunting eyes expound?

My favourite place to visit full of wonders and old writing,
Such stories do they tell to me, before you even crack the binding.
A missing page -
	Gold words engraved -
		Intriguing, so I must engage.

I find the little hidey hole, past modern paperbacks,
An antique chair to sit and stare at what today’s world lacks.
A sense of style -
	In rustic guile -
		Enchants even the smallest child.

I run my hand along the row of books with golden lettering,
Experiencing all their worth, regretting what we’re forgetting.
They are our last -
	Ancestral past -
		They speak to us in volumes, vast.

They call to us from history and they ask us to remember,
Before they too become extinct, they are a dying ember.
Our legacy -
	Technology -
		Where knowledge waits on scratched CDs.


Details | Quatrain | |

AN EXTRAORDINARY DREAMER

Since childhood my vivid and alluring aspirations
painted my rainbows with different colors,
not the ones I was after and truly adored...
who has ever heard of a teenager being bored?



Anytime I saw a train leave the station with its smooth rhythm,
I wanted to be that conductor who could never fall asleep,
and at every stop he would look carefully before closing the doors...
then, laid-back, watch the changing landscape and whistle his tunes!



If imagination had not been there to tackle my reflective tendencies
that were, indeed, rooted in all aspects of the present wilderness,
I wouldn't have cultivated this passion and turn it into a realistic dream...
which allowed inspiration to enter the subconsciousness of this thinker's realm!    



The fast-paced postman delivering mail to mailboxes seldom locked, thrilled me;
he looked so sharp and handsome greeting folks, and it would have been an honor
to chat with them, listening to their suggestions and helping them thoroughly...
I visualized myself as such, and even practiced it daily in front of large mirror!



If tons of ideas hadn't fed the urge to jot down details with ebullient imagery,
unless I wasn't aware of their poignant meaning and powerful message,
I wouldn't have let fantasy create an extraordinary dreamer out of someone so ordinary...
to adorn dullness with my cheerfulness and change winter to spring!
 


Details | Ballad | |

well past tea time

' tis been sa long since y 've been gone
Too long indeed my love
This tether feels sa limp 'n loose
An' stretched sa far above

Come down and rest y' weary wings
Come sit w' me a spell
I'll tell y' poetry that sings
Of love an life an' all those things
We've come t' ken sa well

I'll waft a cyber kiss or two
in empty space sa full
"n tell y' y' been missed 'tis true
'n more each day na bull

Sa come on down 'n tell us then
Where ha 'e y' been what  d' y' ken
That was na then before y' there
Rest from the whirl y' lovely girl 
And share y' life o' love and care


Details | Quatrain | |

DIURNAL DIVERSITY

The warm spring rain still falls on the cherry trees,
pelting on the sodden and drooping *lavender lilies...
forming a small lake, where playful robins
bathe and fend off the thrusting, thirsty shrikes.


Soon children will come out and act dippy...
chased by wild puppies and mousy kitties
fighting over their stuffed, torn bears;
oh, there goes my peace and *tranquility!  


The *fragrant lilacs are in dire need of growth and color,
lately they haven't soaked up enough sun and raindrops:
tingeing them, allowing them to revel in their *splendor;
never denying lovers the *dulcet tones of their voices.


The tranquil skies conjure up a past *bliss,
can a poet's unrhymed words, emitted in a *whisper, go on *lilting?
He will delightfully inhale the strong perfume of the breeze *wafting!
And will he create verses with *eloquence?


Entered in Andrea Dietrich's contest,
Word Warrior Challenge: Beautiful Words


Details | Rhyme | |

TRAITS OF A GORGEOUS CHILD

I had the traits of a gorgeous child,
different in looks and behavior,
only mother understood his tremor...
when night fell and he ran inside.


An adorable child expressing curiosity,
touching everything in his path,
and those hands seemed full of creativity...
when visions lured his interest.


I hold this photograph to reminisce the grace
of that tiny toddler beginning his first, memorable race... 
while his mom stretched her protective and loving arms, 
ready to hug him and reward him with tons of smiles. 


I had the traits of a gorgeous child,
obsorbing the vivid images and colors of the seasonal scenes...
I'd describe in my writings, to feel the essence of unreal dreams;
Oh, was I aware of my final stride?


Details | Free verse | |

Lollygagging

Just the whiff of pink rose
growing outside my front door
brings my heart to my throat, stirs a desire
to don frayed cut-offs and white tee-shirt
and climb into the womb of my childhood fort,
to dream, to write, to lollygag to my heart’s content.


Details | Lyric | |

Young Enough

These words come out of my pen
and I remember when
I was young enough to believe
that the world just might
stop turning
the stars just might
start falling
if I could just capture this feeling
on this cold, white page.
When I was young enough to believe
that I could make a happy ending
to this tale
if I wrote about it
the right number of times
that everyone was interested in
a young girl's
heartsick rhymes
when I was young enough to believe
that magic really existed
and that life was more than some
sick rat's maze
without any cheese at the end.
These words come out of my pen
and I try to comprehend
just how I got this grown-up
how I ever got to meet my pals
cynicism and jaded laughter.
For that young girl of hardly more
than one year's worth
of long ago
doesn't live here anymore
I've lost those bright-colored gel pens
she used to write those
hopeful dreamings
she'll make an appearance with
sunscreen and hot dogs
but more often than not
I can remember when
and I can try to comprehend
but these words that come out of my pen
aren't even a residual echo of
when I was young enough to believe
that my words really mattered.


Details | Iambic Pentameter | |

Selfish employment

Once I was an alien
because of family ties
Once I was a sailor man
Told recruitment lies
Now I am a veteran
with socialized security
A part time postal carrier
With attitude and purity
I subsidize my poverty
By working for myself
In sickness and in health
I am earthbound as an autumn leaf
Blazing colors oh so brief
Twisting madly in the sun
Looking back at what's begun
listing badly misting sadly
hit a reef and come to grief
Closed up again
Just lost a friend


Details | Free verse | |

Writers Envy

I get jealous 
over prose 
who possess the room through her lips 
phonetic, 
white lightening, 
kissing the air with their intonations, 
evoking 
my frontal lobe 
with alliteration and rhythm 
the shoes 
upon which to stomp 
my feet, my feet, my feet 
aloft 
this stomping ground 
in my head 
where I hunt the mush valleys 
for 
a single 
lotus blossom 
of inspiration. 

If  I could covet 
this poet's thoughts 
her words, her tone, her imagery, 
my poetry beast 
would awaken 
and shake his mane 
roaring. 

Instead 
I sit spellbound, 
listening to her vowels and consonants 
fall on the roof 
of this auditorium like rain pings 
on aluminum, 
wondering 
when her thoughts end 
and mine begin. 


Details | I do not know? | |

Fever

Aspirations pierced,
blade of sun tears through
panting air. Sound, captured
in the t-bone lungs of a song-bird.
 
Shadows dance behind glades
casting doubt
as they spray their breath
between roses.
 
Stirring up pollen, speckled atoms,
Travelers free of charge on the back
of oxygen. As the garden breathes
a sigh of relief
 
the nation's lungs
contract as velvet flesh.


Details | I do not know? | |

creativity lost

where went you my creativity?
the search for you seems almost endless,
and my small feeble hands stay idle.

Isnt it you who should refresh me?
take away my time and replace it with great achievements,
take away my pains and replace them with overflowing calmness,
where went you, my creativity?

Isnt it you who should keep me busy?
and carry away my idleness,
make me not the devils workshop,
and now you are not here.

Isnt it you who should reassure me?
reassure me that im relevant to society,
and make me proud with overflowing achievements,
and now you have deserted me?

Doesnt these say you have failed?
you were wrong when you should have been right,
all the same please come back cos without you i cannot acomplish anything.


Details | I do not know? | |

Writer's Wishes

Wish I wrote every thought I ever had.
Wish I wrote a detailed diary of my entire childhood.
Wish I wrote all my progressive personal thoughts down.
Wish I wrote those stories out as soon as I had ideas.
Wish I wrote a letter to myself to later read in my present. 
Wish I wrote every single feeling out and down on paper.
Wish I wrote more often, long ago. 


Details | Ode | |

BAIANO

In the lovely Campanian countryside, amid
verdant hills and mountains...where Virgil
stopped to rest,while jeourneying to visit Cybele's temple, 
lie a fertile valley where chestnut and walnut trees
abound...there is hidden the bustling town of my birth!
Narrow streets overlooked by bell towers,
and whenever the sturdy bronze bells ring 
in the fragrant air of early spring:
young and old from windows and balconies, 
in the twelfth hour, engage
in the sweet thanksgiving prayer...
while the tricolor flags sway in the warmest breeze!   

The town's friendly people will welcome you with song,
untill you feel wonderful and touched by all;  
this town has seen invasion, pestilences and a dire year... 
an almost fatal hurricane that prevented a fierce battle
from being fought during World War II;
was Divine Intervention a factor to be acknowledged?
It spared this town being bombarded by air,
and it saved my mother's life to tell this truth!

God blessed this unknown place,
and sent Mary with the infant  Jesus,
four days after He was born,
on a long jeourney through that valley
filled with peace and beauty:
to find a revered and holy mountain...
much closer to Heaven!
And She shed many tears
to give all the dull flowers
a brilliance of their own!

Deep in the hills there was a very special place I choose,
where I would rever the magnificence of the valley...
revealing a superb panorama with the Vesuvius in sight,
was there another creation as magnificent as that ?
And that owesome view perked up my inspiration inside,
teaching my  tiny fingers to write with a human heart!
O Baiano, don't strip this name from your walls and stones:
I am a forgotten native who will return before he'll die!





Details | Free verse | |

' Lost Poems '

Only A Poet Would Understand
Only A Writer Will Know…
Why I Would Feel This Disheartened and
Why I Can’t Shake Writer’s Woe… 

… I Lost 200 Poems or More
Tho’ The Exact Count Doesn’t Matter
Most of What I’d Written Before
… is  no  longer  gathered

A Circumstantial Mishap
My Family Didn’t Realize
That Case… That Mildewed, was a Map
Of My Flight thru Vision-Skies!

Eclectic, Romantic, maybe Eccentric
… also of Favorite Things and Fantasy
… Kinetic, Static or Copacetic
And Sojourns into Soliloquy

… Only A Poet Would Understand
Only A Writer Will Know
Those Exact, Precise – Phrases, won’t come again
… I can only end-up where they go…

Lost Type-of-Line, Pencil-Points of Lead
Lost Sonnets, Songs and Secrets Said
Now, Instead of Ink-Blots, My Tear-Stains Spread
Those Lost Words… Ripped My Throat to Shreds !

… Lost Track … Lost The Time …
Lost Treasure – Can’t Find Rhyme
Lost That Paper-Trail… of Where I’d Been
Lost Paper-Peace –that was Marked:  Amen

and I’d Rather Have Lost My Money
‘Cause I Can Always Earn A Dime…
Instead of My Increased Memory
that Remembers This Literary Crime ! 

… Lost Documentation of Determination
Documentation of Dreams
… My Certificates of Celebrations
… My Tickets To My Park-Themes:

… of Snowflakes to Raindrops
From Heartaches to Heartthrobs
From Whispers to Declarations
Of Best Friends, and Far-Vacations

200 Trains of Thought – Wrecked
200 Expose’ Sheets – Axed
200 Treatises, Throwed Away, Gone…
… on Tragedies, Joys, Jokes and Moans

… Yet, I Rely On God, to Resurrect The Dead:
My Older-Sister, Brother, Grandma, Mom And Dad
and … if its not too silly, vain or bad…
Resurrect Those Words, I Wrote and I Meant to be Read…

Until then… 

Only A Poet Would Understand
And Only A Writer Would Suppose …
If I Do Not Write Again
What Lost Poems You’ll Never Know…


Details | I do not know? | |

Childhood Becomes Impressionism

Remember the games we used to play?
On rainy days under the gray?
In the trees and through the stars,
around the bends and up to Mars.
Over rainbows and in witches' den
oh, the things we could see then.

On paths that only we could take
we flew and galloped in grass we'd make.
With annoying companions in our hand
snuck into places hid'n in the land.
In a world none but we can unlock
full of magic we'd weave with talk, 
colors, solutions; the things we'd devise
predicaments and love seen through our eyes.

To see again what most cannot dream
is simple for those who once have seen.
And such as we've done can be woven again
much samely through words can beasts be slain,
and grottoes built up from the ground.
Here our golden grove IS found.
For what once was can be again
in the world of words and key and pen.


Details | Rhyme | |

I,alone

I alone
long ago friends have already went home
Just a quiet poet,you see
typing away as youth lets me be
Selfish desire put out the burning fire
Once I was a boy but now who easily tires

I at night
choosing the words that might
earn me a living
who feverishly need
just a roof over my hair
without expensive tastes in greed

You could go on
enjoying what you have
the same old MONEY FOR NOTHING song
Savoring the luxury of choice
as for myself
I have not a choice
However
Poetry is what I am solely about
Using it for voice
Instead of trying to rock or shout

Being quiet and so 
in my unique way
As the poem is read from your eyes
Think about what it has to say
The next time a poet
brings down a poem from his(or her)skies


Details | Rhyme | |

When I Grow Up

when I grow Up
I want to teach the world
how to salute to a flag thats unfurled

when I grow up
I want to take my brothers hand
and march across this beautiful land

when I grow up
I want to find a girl
that makes my heart just swirl

when I grow up
I want to find a job
and not have to beg steal or rob

when I grow up
I want to learn about God
and miracles created through bowing nods

when I grow up
I want alot of friends
who will hold my hand as my time ends

so when I grow up
I hope this fun never ends
of pretending and playing this game once again




Tribute To Childhood
This was seen through a little boy's perspective lol


Details | Free verse | |

What Did You Find

with muse in hand 
and wire tapping in brain
I begin this endless journey 
to explore the depths
of my imagination 
to surpass this longevity
called boredom 
I willingly shall
come up with a great story
for others to enjoy when its
bounty is found



Note
Inspired by a 
photo from 
a sister site


Photo showed a blank piece of paper 
and a pencil in a hand    lol


Details | ABC | |

BLACKENED CROZIER

Let it remain
ovarian pure. After strangulating
the truth,
for hypoxic euphoria.

Flies in your face
the dirt,
the denial, the terracota
of superposition of speech
hiding self-interest.

Blackened crozier
for wrinkeled crotch
drops the ashes of love
on unopened buds.

Weeping willow sways
in warm winds of prayers.
Strawberry in holes
nothing like bruise.


 
SATISH VERMA


Details | ABC | |

CLAUSES

Children of stink, cannot smell the rose.
Lithium in their blood
fathers were happy.

Power over the fire of groins,
was a music to ears.
Everything else was secondary.

The wishes squealed
on the mattresses.
Grief was served in the bed.

Big tears flowing
on the cheeks of ice.
Antarctica was crying.

Sexed up vendetta
did not kill a fly.
Bee was hovering over the heads.

I will expand till infinity.
Life will take care
of ferocious clauses.


SATISH VERMA


Details | Free verse | |

Even Stephan

 Even Stephan     
 
 
Author Message 
Admin
Admin



Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 676

 Subject: Even Stephan   Today at 18:47      

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Even Stephan 

Even Stephan 

even-steven 

SYLLABICATION: e•ven-ste•ven 
PRONUNCIATION: 
v n-st v n 

ADJECTIVE: Informal 1. Having nothing due or owed on either side: an even-
steven transaction. 2. Having an equal score, as in a game or contest. 
ETYMOLOGY: even1 + the personal name Steven, used as rhyming slang. 

It is Even Steven ewe the gentile reader ewe knoe it to be true it is never even 
Maude or even Terry or even Sue. Even Steven means a lot of things let's see 
how people use it. To settle debts they make a way to call a liability no more an 
outstanding sufferance becomes the limited influenced disability please let me 
explain it this time in English. John owes the lady some and she decides to let it 
go as she will never see the dough and so she sidles up to John and she 
smiles as big as people do as she says John its Even Steven even in the rain 
come true and John is very happy now the debt is paid. A boy took his sister's 
purse open and a bill she does not say to him Oh Even William Even Tim. Even 
Steven says the sister of the happy little man and they can both play again 
forgiven them. Even Steven says this CharlaX unto his blessed ewe we are Even 
Steven on everything ewe dew. 
 
           
 
 
 Even Stephan 
 


Details | Free verse | |

Rilke's Letters

When letters were written by fire light
and sealed up with charred red wax
containing the breath and the Indian ink
from a hand penned in burning romance
the world hung on every word there within
When letters like these were broke open to breathe
even the birds stole the song from their voice
and the sky held the skirt of the burning breeze
while the breeze blew in tears like it had a choice
and the reader read on in earnest.
When letters contained inspiring quotes
to be spoken in whispers in velvet halls
the writer grew famous in circles and such
for the decadent living which broke down walls
and rebuilt them in modern white plaster
When letters were written in the hush of the night
by a hand yearning touch from it's one true mate
sealed up with a burning, reproachable script
which only would fluster and cruel complicate
the reader would sure fall in love
and respond, there in kind, with a letter...


Details | Couplet | |

The Mixed-Rhymer


Tyburn and Diamante, the smarty and the glow, are now here
and they’re ready, perfectly ready, to be read by you my dear!

The wintry weather have mantled their innocent forms all day, 
and by the window they’re leaning on my last hope, their hooray.

I watch li’l Haiku, flowing, with orange flame in the evening wind, 
whilst the mystical orb lingers at the blue mountain---the fairies’ inn.

Dinner-fume is not floating-up yet, perhaps not today, from your kitchen,
so I, the mixed-rhymer, will do them the reading with pizzas in our hands.


Details | Rhyme | |

Text Me A Poem (Mixed Rhyme)

It’s an old saying: no news, good news
I want you to know I love your muse
But, I do have little time to use
To peruse… and to give you my views
This is not alibi or excuse

Oh, yes dear, you are my lovely muse
Yesterday, today and tomorrow
To the whole world, I am proud to show
How happy I am that you’re my muse

Thou, I wake-up when you sleep
I read and write when you stop
Still, we are on the same map
We’re bind by love, not by clip

We are being united as one…
Many voices, different races, lots of fun
One passion, one aim, let the pen flow
For our beloved family to grow and glow

You will not see me everyday
Work causes me to stay away
I beg with a contrite heart
O, Almighty Father in heaven
Let me share the gifts you’ve given
Help me, not to fall apart

For I, under the eye of the General
Can’t do nothing, but feel like I’m on trial
When and if his, not in a bi-lateral

Poetry is uplifting…
That’s why I won’t stop writing

Just like you I want to be
A giver is all I see

Yes, clouds have silver lining
For life has its true meaning

Still, I am lonely, for I’ve only my phone

Can you text me a poem, to ease my pain? 





Details | Free verse | |

Penguin Poet

 Penguin Poet 
Penguin Poet 
 
The Batman was standing to the side of the bumbershooter looking askance at 
the penguins' aide so intent was the man in the plastic wrapper that he failed to 
see Robin coming up behind them and lost his nanner in a Robin manner he 
was soon tied up like a handcuff furrowing into the background noises of the 
Penguin lair the hair of the penguin was slick jetted black ebon nighttime fright 
and he launched a bird kick almost getting Batman in the jaw Robin came 
unglued and he is rally very strong he launched another bird kick in the belly of 
the thug. 
 
 WHAM Whack Thwack POW SOCK WHAM the fight was soon over and the 
Penguin land in jail. 
 



Details | Free verse | |

ROBOT ICI

ROBOT ICI 
Robot ici 
There is a robot sitting ici on this computer 
He has a name and number but no freedom of religion 
He is soon taken from his places that he goes 
Big frog hopping in a little jargon pond 
Working on his nothing to complete  his daytime job 
Of standing on his pocket leaning overbearing moment of decay and death 
somewhere forgotten to be kept 
How many people am eye how many people must eye be 
Everyone is crazy in this new millineum of time 
Am eye the robot baseball player the batter up and pitcher 
Am eye still the cop the undercover thriller 
Am eye only the dishwasher in my white apron getting so wet and dirty 
Am eye the papermill employee scooping big heaping shovels of decay 
Am eye the dairy man giving all the milk away in bottles full of cow 
This robot was once human once full of life 


Details | Bio | |

Fool With A...

Lived my whole life
In a black neighborhood,
Got no problem with that,
Matter of fact, was quite good

Rarely a problem, or for
at least a long time,
The memories of that town,
I cherish as mine...

Way back in the sixties,
Just around the block
Was John's Tavern...
It was culture shock...

At 16 or so,
We'd be sipping a beer
Shooting some pool
And home was so near

$2 would keep 
you amused for a night,
And never therein,
Did I witness a fight...

One feisty black man,
I can hear his voice now...
When winning at pool...
How he would 
So proudly create
quite a row...

"Fool With A Stick!"
This he would bray
I can hear it inside,
Till this very day...

But now I've gone,
Around once too long,
And if he was alive,
This would be his song;

"Fool With A Bic!"
"Fool writting words
"Fool with a Bic
"Fool for the Nerds!"


Details | Free verse | |

The Chicken

The Chicken Or The Egg? 
The Chicken Came First 
Which came first the chicken or the egg was a question of preponderance. A 
question of the ages. I have ascertained all the answers to his quest. I have 
never seen an egg magically appear or a chicken materialize from the thin air. I 
have seen an egg and from the place it comes from it is not a task for the faint of 
hearted person. The GOOD Lord has made all his living things to breed and it 
takes two things a male and then a female please to make most anything that 
breathes. The Chicken is not no exception no it breeds and then the egg is such 
a marvelous machine and layered in love it seems to me to be a miracle of birth 
to be a most very loving thing. Please have sense enough to have a chicken in 
the yard to have a rooster too too have them both if ewe want eggs if ewe want 
love to blossom forth. 



Details | I do not know? | |

Ruby's Memories

Thanks, Ruby.  the value of our memories only increases with time.  Have a great 
night.  Tom
Anyone with special memories, please add on....
And our "Ruby" is, for us, one priceless jewel...


Details | I do not know? | |

Midnight Thoughts

Sometimes, in my journals, I'd just clear my mind and write whatever came to 
mind, sublime to ridiculous.  One sentence without relation to the other.  No 
sense of right, wrong, impropriety, or concern if it made sense or not.  Once in 
awhile you get strange results.  Don't know if this will work, it's chancy, but, what 
the hell, I'll give it a try...

Wonder why some moments etched into memory for no apparent reason?  As a 
kid, a rush to be the first to wake up, so we could get on the swings my father 
built before anyone else stole the only two seats.  fear of nuclear war ever 
pervasive... first kiss, first love,  first girl... she'll forever be the first, and never 
forgotten...enjoying smoking cigarettes...lookin', feelin' so mature...rememorable 
New York parks...murder before me 436 madison ave...so easy for one to make 
a fool of
themselves...I'm a pro!....being a young "greaser"...childhood baseball...the joys 
of candy... climbing sturdy huge elms in front of house. lilacs,
lilies of the valley...swamps ...later...


Details | Bio | |

THE BOOKWORM

Begins with Rupert Bear,
Until that was found too square;
The Just William came on the scene,
But soon became a childish has-been.

Youth-filled reading,a melanged mix,
Biggles & squadron,sixty-six;
The hero,Algy & Ginger against the hun,
Adventures that made him number one.

Onto Enid's Famous Five,
Long before PC, could deprive;
Julian,Anne George & Rick
In books,fast moving and slick.

Growing into mid-teens,
And weekly,Hollywood magazines;
Adolescence & steamy Jansen,
As puberty surfaced,so sudden.

The adult library then opened wide,
Answering questions,none could hide;
So many books read,good,poor & rotten,
MInd-blowing but ,so cosmopolitan.