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.."
The cool wind blows through the trees on the darkest of nights. The bullfrog’s throaty call echoes across the still lake. The smell of the ferns and rich green pines. Old familiar voices and the crackling of the bonfire that was long ago extinguished. Here in this wilderness, roamed by bear and deer, mountain lion and a writer.
. ‘Violin’ was written on a soft dark velvet night,
As I drifted - in the dreams - of the flickering - candle light;
Ne’er pre-planned - nor pondered - nor was she - pre-conceived,
She came from deep within me, appearing on the screen,
As did my favorite poem - my darling ‘Cannon Lee’.
‘The Love of a Gentlemen’ - and ‘Where the Heart Resides,’
Came from treasured memories - I tried to keep alive;
With words - chosen carefully - to create solidity,
I brought them back to life - to live eternally,
In vivid hues - more beautiful - than all the autumn leaves.
Others - fell like drops of dew - from flying fingertips,
That raced across the keyboard - in hopes they wouldn’t miss,
The chance to share the beauty - my eyes now fell upon,
Through the kitchen window - across the river - and beyond,
Where fields of liquid diamonds - glistened in the early dawn.
Others came in metaphors - disguising secrets held;
To painful in reality - for me to ever tell.
‘The Rose and the Thorn’ - poured herself upon the page,
A sonnet of over-whelming grief - rising up from hidden rage,
Releasing me forever - from my gilded cage.
These poems I write - come day come night,
Come candle or come neon light,
Come wind, come rain, come joy, come pain,
They are the life - the Great Creator - breathed in me;
They are my breath!
They are my poetry!
Author: Elaine George
Written: January 13th, 2010
Inspired by: Deborah Guzzi's contest 'How Do You do It - How do you write your poems'?
Authors Note: This poem was written on route to Bath, North Carolina via Ferry
crossing. It was written on a note-pad from the' Hampton Inn' and transferred
to my lap-top after returning to Swansborro.
Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
to stop them
The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin
with the pure coldness that you bring.
like it's my first time in the snow.
the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.
The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here.
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
And again I fold.
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.
if he were to write me a love poem, would it breathe
like the quintessence of begin? would it live
as the moon to the sea – as precise as the art
of expanse along kismets journey, and all horizons linear?
would it wind-wash and rush my untouched
expanse, as a field soft and wild, exhaling through hair?
would you hear all of my hurt as it crashes to floors; crashing
through my glass floors, formed by years of perfected neglect;
(reverberating through centuries of cause and effect)
or would it die in my hands;
turn to dust
to read his undying words, such as my deepest imaginings
can conjure, would be as if the very sun had come to rest beneath
my bosom, shining exponentially forth every wish and dream i have
ever harbored within the safe haven of my yearnings, since long
before the birth of time itself!
o’, words given from the depths of my hearts deliberate daydreams,
from the vastness of your perpetual being,
would surely render my mind useless, striking my fluttering
body numb, and alive all at once!
if my love ever wrote me a love poem, i would answer
by way of warm lips on eyelids, (weary from longing
and unrequited need) gliding them
down his fair face, kissing years of spent tears into the oblivion that is
no more (the culmination of death and the sweet realization
of answered prayers), and yet
i would no sooner ask him to write me a love poem, then I would
expose my longing to receive one.
I am Reality’s angel
resting on the broad shoulders of discovery
the truth feeds darkness and engulfs its target
ideas and concepts in turn become meaningless to you
there is a creator of all things
He is just and patient
many still have fallen into the masses of shadow
wrapped in their own filthy idols of philosophy
I have seen grown men fall like rose petals
and weaklings rise into unjust leaders
forever the follower of furtive evil
dominating only to remain inferior
the most important answers lie in the unseen regions
where no sense can fully give assurance
the mind that so many unreasonably twist and turn
grows weary because of the distance it must take
and truth be told the distance is not what frustrates
it is knowing we are seeking something far
that could very possibly not exist,
that our minds can twist into theoretical, idealistic nonsense
it is knowing all we really think we know
and yes—even a lie
all that has been written thus far rests under my wings
under the warmth in which you refuse to feel
can you believe in me—
though I am completely unseen?
how much more difficult would it be to see
July 16, 2014- Inspiration for
"When No One Reads"
When no one reads, keep writing
right now just might not be the right time.
Poets are currently considered
lowest of low, scum of slums
but that doesn't mean things will always be this way.
Be patient growing your poet trees
doing it for the right reasons
dredge that sludge of truth stuck deep within your gut.
Get it out, get words down
just don't try so hard
and please pay no attention to those lacking appreciation for your goddamned art.
When no one reads
writing a poem isnt that hard
just write what you feel straight from your heart
all you have to do is sit back and think for a minute
dig around inspiration and grab whats in it
remember the thoughts that swim in your head
and intricately weave them on paper like thread
and with each thought that you write down
remember that feeling is key when emotion is bound
the flow from a poem is like the flow from your heart
conveying emotions and thoughts like a painting in art
if it wills you to do so use instinct instead
let your senses be your guide for the thoughts in your head
you can even reach deeper into your subconscious mind
and write about dreams and visions in time
poetry is a gift that only man can convey
and no other species can express it this way
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
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.
I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.
Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.
Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.
Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?
I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.
It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.
But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.
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
It was on a Christmas Eve
early in the morn
into a world so often cold
a little girl was born.
Her parents, they did love her,
the way that it should be
but her father, who's a good man,
had been raised with cruelty.
When he doled out punishment
for all her childish ways
the lessons that he taught her
would stay with her all her days.
Growing up was never easy
and she grew up so confused.
Other kids did more than tease her
and at home she was abused.
But she grew up all the same
then came to that time of life
when she thought she was ready
became a mother and a wife.
They faced a lot of hardships
but tried to love anyway
and her husband, who does love her,
has been so mean along the way.
Yes, life is hard for everyone
this woman surely knows.
Hate and misunderstanding
seems to follow where she goes
with so many quick to tell her
that she is always wrong
so many times she has been shown
that she just don't belong.
She tries so hard to understand
the reasons for her tears
and is punished for her feelings
as she has been all her years.
She knows that there is more to life
than what always seems to be.
All she wants is to be loved
without the cruelty.
Note: My dear friends, this is not an easy write for me but a necessary one. I was at a very
low point in my life and I prayed for God for direction or to let it end. I wrote the poem I Am
then joined PoetrySoup. I know God led me to this wonderful site for a reason. I may still
have a long way to go but I am starting to move forward. I want to thank you all for your
encouragement and kindness. Being able to write again is helping me and as fellow writers,
I know you understand. Thank you for sharing with me and teaching to become a better
writer. God bless you all and Happy Holidays! Love, Robin.
If I could write about,
I'd have to write about,
If I could write about,
I'd have to write about,
If I could write about,
I'd have to write about,
If I could write about,
I' have to write about,
If I could write about,
I'd have to write about,
If I could write about,
I'd have to write about,
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.
One after another they arrive
Steeping my eyes in the world
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.
My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?
My love of poetry started when I was still a five- year old child
When my parents asked me to memorize verses and rhymes
With all my feelings and actions, I recited my poems in front of a crowd
Innocently receiving adulations but not a handful of dime
The first piece I memorized was entitled, “Cradle Hymn”
I was a small girl sent in a poem competition, so naïve
When I’ve grown up , I realized it’s a song lyric with Christmas theme
So, I sang it and started to develop my good voice quite a bit
When I was a teenager, I memorized speech and declamation pieces
My teacher sent me in a poem contest for a campaign against drug addiction
I tried to deliver my piece like a candidate for a star award actress
Acting like a drug addict teenage girl longing for parents’ love and attention
As years went by, I turned out to be quite a flirty lady
With puppy love and sweet crushes to some guys around me
When one of them got me, so happy until I forgot all about reciting poetry
Relationship went long but when we broke up, it created another life’s story
All my heart brokenness has turned me out to be a poem writer
I also wrote few poems for my family, dreams and for close friends’ requests
My passion of poetry blazed and turned out to be greater
When I found a writing spot, motivated and inspired by my friends-the great poets
Feb. 6, 2013
Contest: Who What Where
Sponsor: Poet Carol Sunshine Brown
Why Poets Write
Why do poets write?,
Why does the moon shine at night?.
Why does water fall with such grace?,
Why is a rainbow such a beautiful sight?
So, why do poets write?
Do they write because the moon shines so bright?
Do they write because water falls with such grace?
Or is it because of the majesty of a hawk, in flight?
Poets write because that’s what we do,
Whether it be a Sonnet, Etheree or Haiku,
We see things through our own prism,
And write about it in our creative point of view.
This is why I write,
I write because I see beauty in the moonlight,
I appreciate the splendor of a waterfall,
And the majesty of a hawk, in flight.
I write because it feeds my soul,
Writing the perfect poem is my ultimate goal,
I write, I do my best,
The rest is out of my control.
The perfect words, in the perfect order,
Follow the rules, no pressure,
Slowly see your creation come alive,
When it works, there’s nothing better.
Poets, generally, don’t write for the glory,
We heal people by proxy,
We are emotion peddlers,
And we do it all for free.
I can’t speak for everyone, nor would I try,
My urge to write is something I’d best not deny,
Or things go drastically wrong,
Like ice, in the middle of July.
So, regardless of why you write,
Keep your vision in sight,
Take criticism with a grain of salt,
Never get discouraged, never get uptight.
They are bound to the Earth like trees
Suffocating under the weight of an icy grave
Reaching to be free, but only their limbs are seen
Hoping that one day someone will see:
They can't escape with lacerated wings
The ocean surrounds me, covering everything
Nothing will be clearly seen; confusion overwhelming
No-one can save you, you're on your own, left to die
Manipulating every bleeding heart you can find
I can't escape with lacerated wings.
Swarms of nets, waves of screams
Entangle: your captive illusions and dreams
The mask has be seared - The truth now they see
The Liar - Vampiric Fiend; lowly thief
And now they know you can't escape with Lacerated Wings
There's reasons for your rejections:
Your Heavy heart's transferred oppression
The scars are too deep to pass the trials
But you can find peace in your cage of empty spirals
You Cannot Escape With Lacerated Wings
As God guided my hand to write this poem with black ink.
With love and favor He gave me words to write this in a wink.
I’ve learned that an empty heart has no compassion;
But an empty heart gets no satisfaction.
Some of us see no meaning or purpose in life.
I think because we stressed with problems and strife.
Most people appear happy and confident.
But many people still try to fill up their own void with achievement.
Faith in the life of a person is that the word must become a living force within the
soul of a man.
I put this in the poem hoping you can understand.
My mother always told me this, “that an empty heart doesn’t care,
“And definitely that a empty heart has no love to share.”
I’m not selfish but I'm doing this for me.
So I can be free and just let be.
See a part of me knows what to do.
But another piece of me has no clue.
In my life I'm making my own path.
I've sat around for days and done the math.
Having faith and believing is the only thing that keeps me going,
So I just keep positive people and things around me that is what keep me moving.
Romans 3:19-20 Now we know that whatever the law says it speaks to those who
are under the law, so that every mouth may be stopped, and the whole world may
be held accountable to God. For by works of the law no human being will be justified
in his sight, since through the law comes knowledge of sin.
Yet he lets bad things happen
How can he exist?
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
I want to show you the real me,
Not just what you think you see,
I like to dress in black, not pink,
My dark poems will make you think,
I can't always be happy like you,
For I am sad, and often blue,
My soul was dying to break free,
To be the person I wanted to be,
I have hid my true self for many years,
While deep inside, crying many tears,
But, now I am showing the real me,
And you are just starting to see,
I'm emerging in the dark poetry I write,
The difference is like day and night.
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.
The body: sacred
We’re all made in God’s image