Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.
And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.
I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.
I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave,
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.
"What does hate feel like?"
"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."
One’s poetry not always will unfold
beneath its author’s pen as some suppose.
And poetry one is to yet behold
might slowly bloom before one plucks that rose.
At times the lines come breech, the labor hard.
A trial of thought; a repositioning
of words emerging, offspring of the bard!
And then at last, the poet’s heart will sing.
The poet must write always, lest his mind
grow barren, for not always can he know
his muse will be there. She’s not always kind,
but oh, the joy, when verses want to flow!
1/8/13 For Russell Sivey's Poetry About Poetry Contest
Wipe that silly grin from your face, boy
I am a woman, but certainly not a wimp
Watch me roll with the punches, tough guy
It'll take more than your words my style to crimp
Hey, babe, your style really sucks
Call that art, I have seen kids write better
Have some heart, instill it in your writes
Feel the moment, feel those letters
My feelings are there, you just may not relate
If you can't grasp my intent, too bad for you
I write from my heart, not from a man's head
I know what I'm saying, you just haven't a clue
Oh, i see you have posted another piece
Let me read and determine my thoughts
Excellent shape and so true to form
This definitely has plusses, you must be man taught
Hold on, joker, no man has influenced me
Dickinson and Teasdale are among the finest
Your thoughts on my work I'll disregard
Your views on poetry reveal your blindness
The last write you wrote, has invited my see
It has clearly shown, your writing to be
Scope, shape and the form you have written
I have scrolled to your past, and I am sorrowful smitten
No more condescending from ye on the throne?
What was it that made you feel superior?
And, furthermore, what gave you the right
To make any poet feel inferior?
M y eyes see what your heart is feeling
Y our feelings you write out as poetry
P ain, love, joy, wonder, inspiration
O nly you can help me see, hear,and feel you
E ven though only words you have written they
T ouch my heart and mind deeply from within
R equiring me to write a poem so full of feeling as
Y ou become my poetry I write from my heart
S mile, laugh, cry, whisper, or shout
O pen your heart, mind, and soul
U tter your words on paper or screen
P oetry is where I see and feel your soul
Tons of comma fun!
contest of Russell Sivey
Written by: Carol Brown
3rd Place Winner
Trickling over my mind
Came scampering the question
This dilemma of a heart
Come running into my embrace
Stricken with fright
It asked me
Father, why do we write
And so I dipped my feather in the darkness of my mind
And brought forth my answer
I wrote of fear and the love that comes at a dreadful cost
Of meaning and of the fight for knowledge
I wrote for voices unheard
I cried for emotions long forgotten
And the answer came to me as the tears wrote their own tale
Painted in pain was the image of a long forgotten glory
Of emotions left unstirred
Come to see what these words have conspired
Come to see how these words have called them from their sleep
To ensue in them an undaunted hunger
Well my dear son
Here comes my answer to you
I write not for you
Nor for me
I write for what is within you
What has bubbled forth within me
I write to stir the masses
Willful subjects of our being
They huddle in wait
The towering limestones of their cave grow eon by eon
As they rot away, moment by moment
I write for them
We write for the grim
The unnoticed prestige
We write for what you have neglected to see
To bring it forth before your eyes
To fix your head with an iron collar
To make you a slave of our direction
We write to be your masters, when you need one most
We write to fix your gaze on what you have never lost
We write to drag forth from the depths of your inky heart
We are the harbingers of emotion
Be it hate or lust
The unseen veil of ignorance, or to shatter the blinding globe of pride
We are the harbingers of sight
With our binding collars, our guiding feathers, dripping the black sweat of our labored toil
You will come to see
What has not been seen before
Fathers of a relationship sown by words, sealed by the dawning of the sun, the dawning of
Your feathers, to your wings or to your ink
And feathers will flutter
Bearing you into the frigid embrace of the skies
And when the winds will them no more
We will descend upon the ground
And speak to the earth as we are reclaimed in its rough embrace
We will write to the trees, when we cannot write to the birds, the sun, and the sky
And through the trees we will see the stars
And to them we will write about the shade
© Samir Georges
Edited for Deb's Free Verse Contest on why we write.
He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says,
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out
“Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
“Everything is beautiful, baby…”
“But what is beautiful to you?”
Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows,
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything is beautiful.
“Just write about that then..”
"Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
live it out.."
"What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
"Mmm, I suppose."
"What's real poetry to you?"
"I don't understand."
I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…
"This, baby, This is real Poetry.."
Why do you write?
To give birth to beauty
To decorate a drab wall
To splash color on a canvass
To entertain and enthrall
Why do you write?
To become immortal
To capture fame
To heal a wound
To become sane
Why do you write?
To produce magic
To invade a heart
To be someone’s passion
To create a work of art
Why do you write?
To take a word picture
To weave a poetic tapestry
To build imagination’s castle
To write your own history
Why do you write?
You write because
You’ve been abused
You write because
You’ve been shortchanged
You’ve been neglected
You’ve been enraged
You write because
You have a need
You crave passion
You want a creed
You write because
You are in pain
You carry baggage
You have tasted rain
You write because
Like every poet
That has come and gone
Of will ever be
You write because
You are searching for
The rhythm and rhyme
Of your life.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Write me a smile with your magic word
And write it nice and wide
Write me a whisper, that's never been heard
To show what you're feeling inside
Write me a tear, as it runs down your cheek
Each time that you need to cry
Write me strength, when you're feeling weak
Or love that will make me sigh
Write me the anger, when it doesn't go your way
Or contentment, each time that it does
Write me tomorrow, instead of today
Or maybe the way that it was
Write me your heartache, with all of your pain
When your heart's been broken in two
Then write me the pieces of you that remain
For I need to feel them too
Write me the morning and evening skies
Or maybe even noon or night
Whatever emotion your lonely heart cries
Like only a poet can write
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.
I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel
into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal
from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within
the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins.
I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word
or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard
to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined
unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine.
I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony
between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me
I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while
to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile.
I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all
with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls
pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion
washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion.
I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse
expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use
composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy,
I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.
I don't like nasty limericks.
I don't like vulgar words.
I'd rather write of better things,
like maybe watching birds.
So many poets feel the need
to write such graphic things.
The art of poetry to me
is making words that sing.
It's easy to be nasty.
It takes no brain at all.
But I can't keep from wondering
where you get the gall.
My poems may not be 'genius'.
I'm sure they don't compare
to many other writer's work
but mine, I like to share.
No matter if you're ninety
or if you're only nine
you needn't feel ashamed to click
on poetry that's mine.
To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did one thousand yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky…
Mark, until it breaks through mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.
images pour erratically
falling on eyelashes
tears fueling my pen
always the sadness
finds me waiting
twisting my heart
in a vice grip
can't stop the images
from driving me insane
raped and murdered eyes
pleading for children
it's the emptiness
that I write
I don't write love
for it lies
can't find happiness
to send to my pen
for it lays behind
a tired whore
spent and overused
with too much hype
can't even pen security
never found that either
under blankets or kisses
not even in hardened urges
that deflate just as quickly
conveying only want and need
no I write of sadness
I return there
a drunk to cheap wine
guzzling my addiction
it holds me safe
for it is familiar
I live it
I see it
it knows my name
and I know its
we are intimate
sadness and I
in some grotesque
culiminating in orgasm
with my depressed pen
Writing is my challenge each day
But it's not the words or what to say.
It is the connection with other writers here
Because I feel I'm not worthy or equal I fear.
The talent expressed by so many others
Often makes me want to hide under the covers.
The gems that are written and ones that I read
Are so inspired, personal, and give me a need.
That's why I come here every time
To see what others have put in their rhyme.
Carolyn always has a message for me to ponder
And others write things that make me wonder.
I often race to the "New Poems" just to see
If by some chance there's one by which P.D has destroyed me.
And Carol, Bob, Nick, Emily, Wilma, and "the Sweetheart"
Write things that sometimes I just can't pull apart.
The Doc has written so many things
I am amazed sometimes at the thoughts he brings.
Others are here who write so well
Their words do me so oft compel.
For like unto them I want to be
Writing words that have meaning for others to see.
Will they be worthy I say when I'm done
Or will they be read by others, as I've intentioned.
You know I feel so many emotions just now
Because of all these writers, I just don't know how.
For they are a driving force for me
And part of my challenge each day is to make them see.
That because of them I have to write
Sometimes into the wee hours of the night.
To pick a favorite writer is...well a difficult choice
So I pick them all, because they shout with one voice.
"Write, you fool, then write some more"
Words I hear and cannot ignore.
So I choose them all...all here in this group
The ones who have made me hungry for Soup.
There, I've said it...and you know that's not in haste
The Soupers that are here are the best of all to taste.
I will not be late to work today
I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of
Strewn against a wooden
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase
I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert
Ready to begin my lesson
I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Where there is no abandonment
What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles
I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
I will not write poetry
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving
I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic
It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything
This poem is over
the work day begins
I do not know?
Out of all the questions I have been asked in life
None of them stump me more like this:
Why do I write?
It does not stump me because it’s tricky
It stumps me because it’s a stupid question to ask
Why do I write?
Because there’s nothing more relaxing than it.
Sure sometimes it’s frustrating
Difficult, fundamentally challenging
But that’s part of the beauty of it
Letting you emotions spill out across the page
And knowing that people read it
That people expect who you are
When you live a life of not speaking up
Of being that quite person in the background
Expressing yourself is… magnificent
I’m not me when I write
Something takes over me, controls me
So much so that I don’t really know what I am writing consciously
But it works so well
I guess some people will never understand
The joy in it all
When you're my age and you develop some characteristic
That doesn’t suit the normal criteria you get picked on
It happens, you can’t stop it
But I feel sorry for them
Expressing yourself through writing is one of my greatest joys
And I’m not going to stop
at night, i close my eyes
and see your smile
as it erases the distance between us;
sometimes i feel like a poem
lost somewhere in a poet's mind,
waiting to be released
on paper sheets
i can almost hear them,
falling like leaves
in the silence of night
tossed about in autumn's air
as you write them out
i want to feel the warmth of your touch,
like a fingered-pen as you write me out
from the depths of your mind,
and be the breath that falls
from your lips to sheets,
a masterpiece being born
again and again.
sometimes i feel like the poet,
lost within my own words
breathless upon the stage
after a midnight reading,
yet, i want to read you
again and again.
i want to be the whisper
that falls under the moon,
a kiss beneath the stars,
a breath from my lips
be the silence of words
and the only thought
within your mind,
or all the thoughts
as you dream
on sheets of white
When poets bleed they fill their quills
And write their words in red
The letters scream each time they're made
In the hope of being read
The page becomes a sounding board
A mirror to the soul
A reflection meant to bring them peace
To comfort or console
They choose their words so carefully
Not wasting a drop of blood
Writing words that lift them up
As tears begin to flood
They'll write with true conviction
Each time they start to weep
They write sometimes to clear their minds
Before they get to sleep
When poets bleed a word is born
Trying to appease their need
Shining a light to the whole wide world
And all who want to read
Don’t give me technology
I loathe what we’ve become
give me parchment, give me ink
I’ll write in blood, I’ll write on sheets.
Bare walls suit me fine
I prefer pencils, and my wine
where have all my good friends gone
oft to sing their sing sing songs
We could share this apple cake
drink milk and whiskey and tell tales of take
of confession and penance and love be damned
oh if words could come in a can!
This tiresome fight
I can't begin to explain
selling our souls for gold or fame
does any one even hear our pain?
We prostitute our writings out
only to see our hearts torn now
its only real if written down
words have no meaning, unless typed down...
Come on artists
lets play a game
its all different to me and i want you to see how i am different
and let me shine as you sign up another way
as i prove to you my leadership of this new age wave
give them new meanings
like you never knew you could
and lets make the psychics pine through our words to figure out
what they are reading and believing
I wanna see your hearts and spades
dressed in tall grass or lemonaide
i wanna see your cups and wands
inbetween whispering winds and songs lead me there
i know you can come on
come on be strong
like a suit of clubs or diamonds
show me something
and then sprinkle your writings
and we'll make collectors out of all those we invite here
as they read and ponder the meanings of our literature
whats in your hand?
a royal flush a pair?
and as we deal the cards they stumble upon at this endless game
of cribbage or poker
or war who is winning and getting points?
what card means what to who and why
tell me artist as you write with your style on low and high
what makes what suit smile and fade shine and slide?
inside outside sphere of influence
be their collective the object of the psychics to crave?
blind leading the blind
and something they are after for days and days
a few cards your favorite cards play smart or dumb
shuffle the cards pick a game deal a hand
reveal what your playing and one day i'll tell you what we're playing what your
to someone one day when the stumble your way
the mystery of nothing speaks something
and we rebuild the puzzle of cartomancy better and better this way
once you know you can't
blind leadin gthe blind
so after you read this you can't
play along your uninvited
strike it off your list of things to do
round one is over now go find all who wrote
all who write all who have wriitten the masterpieces
of cards and see what they mean today and collect them for that is something no
one else can do
until round two....
I get so frustrated with the voices in my head
They seem to tell stories when I'm ready for bed
They sound so amazing I should write this all down
But as soon as I locate a pen I don't hear a sound
Tell me the story repeat it again
I'll write it on paper and share with my friends
I try to remember but to no avail
Papers get crumbled because memory fails
Frustration seeps in I almost give up
The voices are asleep so I'm just out of luck
But then I remember just one little line
The rest I just wing it to make the poem rhyme
I'm just a kid, and life is a nightmare
I'm forced to be mature beyond my age
Using my writing as my therapy
Scrawling my thoughts across the page
Every couple days or so
a poem or two I write
I can't sleep while my thoughts process
So i scribble throughout the night
I give you all my thoughts and fears
this is the reason that i write
so that i can clear my head
giving me the strength i need to fight
In this book i write the things
that i cannot say to their face
but letting it all out on paper
helps me to keep my place
writing poems calms me down
and puts me back in control
I have been writing poems for a while no
since i was twelve years old
Writing puts things in perspective
shows me another point of view
it helps me work out what was done wrong
and shows me what i need to do
If you look closley at what I write
I think that you will find
That exposed on these many pages
is the darker side of my mind
Everything i feel, i write
my thoughts are a tangled mess
I write to clear my head and keep myself sane
thats why i'm a poetess
Poets are a most talented breed
They write of pain,sorrow and joy
They might write of their own lives
Or of a Spring sunrise
Or of a Pug Dog
Of perhaps grief
Perhaps the wind
Or of love gone bad
Maybe a growing love
For the love of their children
Or of a deep dark depression
Yes, Poets are a talented breed
I tried a new form for me and maybe a new form...This is a double reverse Nonet...I hope
you like it........... Taz
Here’s my plea: Let’s write a poem for the world to read;
And in it is a message that all can relate or heed;
Encourage others to pick a pen instead of a gun;
With this poem let people be taught to bond
all spirits, whether in distress or in joy with a smile;
This poem we write be a reminder that life is fragile;
That peace is at hand, only if we want to achieve;
People will learn to greet enemies and they shall be received;
All of us can write, whether you’re white, black, or brown;
Just believe in what you can do; and not to aspire the crown
Of hate, if you dare tomorrow comes without tears,
Nor will there be worries of living in fears;
With this poem, people will burst not
In paroxysm of rage, but, be inspired to share a lot
Such as love, hope, or maybe, just give a friendly kiss;
You know, it’s easy to write a poem, than writing peace.
All these words inside my head
drive me crazy while in bed.
They will dance inside my brain
and fall down like pouring rain
When I try to dress for work
down the hallway they will lurk.
When I leave and drive my car
on every signpost there they are.
What this soul now has to do
is write down these words for you.
Taking pen and pad in hand I'll
write down what they demand.
When it's over and all done and
these words have had there fun.
They will leave me then to rest
you know the rest,,,,,,,,,......
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Blind, I walk tap tap
to find my way, rap echo.
Sing song carry me
home to you, bring it home tap
straight to my heart so I hear.
When I see the beat
boomerang back rap to me
I know your sound space
I know the song of your sense
I hear the cry of your dream
The echoes build loud
Add fluid to the white space
Thoughts of listeners
Adding additional beat
Making new heart, soul, song, sound
One by one you come
One by one you come online
Choir adding rhythm rip
choir adding some filigree
add understanding to world
What the rap you make
What the taps you spell out loud
Becomes an image
Shared by all who listen, sing
Wonderful sound, our heartbeat.
I do not know?
There was once a man.
He’d always wanted to write,
But his biggest failing was
That he wasn’t very bright.
Whenever he started
On a story or a plot,
Before he could pen it
He simply forgot
What he had thought earlier
And he wasn’t very wise
So all he wanted was that
The end be a surprise.
And he made up plots and tales
Funny, sad and intense
But in the end he found that
None of them made any sense
For follow as he might all grammar
He could never be concise
And what is more, the ending
Was never a surprise.
Yet he cherished dreams
Of becoming famous and great
Of writing beautiful stories
Of defying his impending fate
But, for all his boldness
He could never roll the dice
And his stories never ended
In a nail-biting surprise.
He told his tales to children
He tried them on every friend
But they never gasped at
The crucial part, the end.
He sent them off to editors
Of magazines of acclaim
But they all sent the stories back
Saying the ending was all the same.
He tried to write a book too
But in the middle he got stuck
And he wasn’t very clever
So he simply cursed his luck
Then finally he gave up
And wallowed in self-despair
He felt life was being hard on him
He felt it wasn’t fair.
Then one of his friends suggested
That if he really had to write
He needn’t just write stories
To prove his wit and might.
He could simply write a cookbook
Or an instruction manual too
Or a traveller’s guide to touring
A place like Timbuktu
Now the man wasn’t very brilliant
But he could recognise good advice
When he saw it, so he took it
Though he wasn’t very wise
And he wrote a self-help book on
Coping with writer’s block
It became a national bestseller
Every bookstore ran out of stock.
And he made pots of money
Because it was reprinted thrice
And he was always very glad
He took his friend’s advice
So now if you ask his opinion
He looks very condescending
And smiles, and says, “to write a book
Who needs a surprise ending?”
Why can’t I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are simplistic at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal’s vapid test?
Behind a block of writer’s I’ve been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused
There’s elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this I belabor all my thoughts
Create an elegy for elegance in time
Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams
And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters in their stead
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
I promise it won’t be a trite conceit
You say my writing’s convoluted, so, I strive to simplify it
Then you call my writing sophomoric and cheap
Yet still my writing exists, remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do just exactly what it feels like
And it finds you and your editing, perverse
It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn’t want you to consider it profound
For if you did then it might accidentally be common
And make cool people like me put it down
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
At the very least try to be noncommittal