Yes, I am a poet
A metaphor to the universe
A moment of spirit
Out of flesh, the first converse
Of reality ... the prophet
Struggling in the net
Of a butterflies vanity.
I make webs too
Using pen for pipe and mouth
So ancient ... I struggle to be new.
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
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
the less i have of
the additional use of
the more it breaks down
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
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.)
I dreamt myself as poet-frog
And good Fancy` Fairy
Would stoop to pick my verse…
But she didn`t come.
I do not know?
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.
Click clack; Sole on soul.
Swaying shoes to the rhythms
The beat makes you whole.
Firm and hard in your hand;
swift movement like a fairy and her wand.
Gentle but bold as the tip rubs the surface,
each stroke is a new reason to be amazed.
An honor, a pleasure if you have it.
Many would crave for because it lit
up the sparks in your eyes and heart
to be able to use it for simple, pure art.
It's the birth place of ecstatic ideas.
Although the first step - many might fear
because it hurts, sometimes it bled
but after the opening it's pleasure's fed.
There are many ways to use
this fantastical item - a mind's muse:
either lay it down flat and nothing comes out
or move it upright and see the seedlings sprout.
Black on paper, white on the page.
It's the key to your imagination's cage;
it's everyone's true start to then land they planned;
it's this pencil, this pencil in my hand.
Pop may be catchy
But not lyrically deep
Case in point: Chris Brown.
(N.B. Poem written after hearing "Don't Wake Me Up")
I was your never ending composer
We spent many a nights, and many an hour together
But now you’re lost inside
And I can’t find my way, again.
( chorus )
Cause I can’t say it without you
It hurts to be without the feeling
Never knowing when it will return
But I know that you would stay with me
If you came back, again some day
But till then I’ll wait till you appear.
I really miss the way you make me feel
People said we were meant to be together
Why’d you leave me so unexpectedly
I hope you come back soon.
( Chorus )
It’s been two months since I’ve written you
All I’ve got to show is crumpled bits of paper
The passion and creativity is now gone
So come back home so I can work it out.
Metaphors are poetry's loaded guns
I held the metaphor against her head and pulled
Some time later she
Felt the pain
As cliche's spent shells
Rolled off down the pavement
I challenge you whoever you are
Your 50 cliches to my single metaphor
Heaven or hell
Or simply different points on the same continuim
Word out at the coral ok?
If written by God,
Why lost rhyme, measure?
Water licks your feet
Far cry from the beating sun
Desert sand to sea
Andre Gide, "Therefore" is a word the poet must ideally not know
Bob Dylan, it’s not easy to define poetry – nothing over which to crow
Carl Sandburg, poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance
David Carradine, if you cannot be a poet, be the poem and prance
Edgar Allan Poe, poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words
Franz Grillparzer, prose talks and poetry sings, all in different chords
Gilbert K. Chesterton, all slang is metaphor; all metaphor is poetry – tinkers!
Honore de Balzac, poems don’t survive, those written by water drinkers
Ian Hamilton Finlay, concrete poetry was a particular way of using language
John Ruskin, to see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion all in one usage
Khalil Gibran, poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder and a lexicon
Lord Byron, Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! Shine on!
Muriel Rukeyser, poetry sources are in the spirit seeking completeness
Novalis, poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason – a bleakness
Oscar Wilde, all bad poetry springs from genuine feeling (that opinion reeks!)
Plutarch, painting is silent poetry and poetry is painting that speaks
Quintilian, we must form our minds by reading deep rather than wide
Robert Frost, poetry without rules is like a tennis match with a net aside
Samuel Johnson, poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, the root
T. S. Eliot, genuine, heartfelt poetry can communicate before it is understood
Ulloor, one of the triumvirate poets of Kerala, South India; championing history
Voltaire, one merit of poetry: it says more and in fewer words than any story
William Hazlitt, poetry is all that is worth remembering in life and its forebodes
Xenophon, the sweetest of all sounds is praise and poetry sings the odes
Yevgeny Yevtushenko, poetry is like a bird, it ignores all manmade frontiers
Zona Gale, I don't know a better preparation for life than a love of poetry (no airs)
NOT FOR THE CONTEST ~ Su
my dear friend
my friend is always open to listen
always open to hear
my friend has always been there for me
my friend is always near
from as far as I can remember
in my childish years
my friend has always been clear
my friend has showed me which way to turn
many lessons from my friend I have learned.
my friend is one like no other
always honest & true
my friend will never lie
for my friend is none other than you.
the pen i hold in my hand
the paper sitting on my nightstand
the paints and paintbrushes
tell stories of who I am
they speak as no one can
the words in my poetry
are but an image
of my secret reality.
The shape of me
New forms expressed
The curves of me angled
See the inner me
I do not wish to hide
this is where my soul resides
Yes there are flaws
Exposed by the light
Yet within the complexity
There is more to see
I am a reflection of you
Expressed in colors true
The shape is changing
Help me feel
Changing along with all of you
Pockets of diamonds
Multi colored with hints of blue
father time in my chest
keeper of its own pace
just skin and bone depth
influences time and space
what are we but drifters
in an unknown
see truth in a literal
belief before my face
stars with no funeral
light will win the race
here i am, not for long
death starts at home
where is this leading?
which story could it be?
despite all my reading
writings the cup of tea
i dont need to know it all
as long as im not alone
That feeling you get,
When it rains & you
that feeling you feel,
when you want to write
but you want to give up
cuz nothing at all
is good enough not at
to be put on that sheet
That feeling you get,
when no word in your
Brings about a
staying up late,
like you got late
for a date,
and its too late,
to go back and not be
so you stay up late,
like trying to fix a
it's impossible like you cant
its impossible it's past
its gone it is past.
staying up late
for the sake of paper
for the sake of poetry,
just to write and feel it,
that sense of
that you are a poet too,
Like those great poets
you read of.
Staying up late,
for the sake of Poetry.
What is mind thought determination?
It is the sophisticated thoughts of a individual wit self-taught mental sophistications.
It is the chemical mind thought process brain inspirational enhanced created word creations.
It is the one thought that keeps your hopes from being eliminated by your own weak minded self-doubt double eliminations.
It is the the thought that can turn your own pains into pleasure of our own sensified sensations.
It is the thought that can turn you into a leader of tis lost generation to inspire my reservation and maybe even in others parts of this nation to get your own redemptive vindication of those who took away your aspirations.
THIS WORLD IS YOURS FOR THE TAKNG.
Mind thought determination is for your embracing not to be forsaken,
you are your own movie in the making, let not your hope in the mind be shaken.
MIND THOUGHT POWER over all tis senseless hating, we got to stop all our senseless
chasing, you are forever a leader in this free world racing.
If you locked up it don't matter how much time that you facing.
INCARCERATION IS JUST A MIND THOUGHT METAPHOR FOR SELF-INFLICTED IMPOSED LIMITATIONS.
It is the thought to use what is against you and turn your hateration into inspiration.
IMPRISONMENT or EMPOWERMENT the choice is yours REINCARNATION over REHABILITATION.
My mind has but one destination of all mankinds fascinations .....and that is to finally use my MIND THOUGHT DETERMINATION.........
thanks for the tea, heres something about me
nothing beats poetry, sitting underneath a tree
thankin' my family for a strong identity
people watching cause its free, beauty in the scene
has me staring with a cheese, a smile at what i see
possibly a dream, caught up mentally
imagining a few things, with this human being
who has the sweetest energy, soulfood like collard greens
all fools falling means I'm really dumber than I seem
being intelligent isn't just from memory
its handling impermanence light and sensibly
and lady I'm feeling your sultry melodies
we'd be crowded if its three, sit and be my company
must be a chemistry major cause the reactions meant to be
the love we can achieve, is safe from any thieves
hold em from my queen, hearts tucked into my sleeve
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'
All that chess-
Recall for a moment
That idle chit-chat,
That verbal bric-a-brac,
such flamboyant suppositional consciousness,
Let it noodle around the edges-
Blow this metaphor off.
Ratings challenge lies.
The deep magenta shadows,
The haze of grass smoke
'My face is my own, I thought'.
We need to remember,
Weaving around caftans
with a duodecimal swivel-
I think of Ben Johnson
And 'Shards of God',
Who is Hanibal?
Collapsing the elements,
My question is a part of the point of these lines,
A faked head,
A form of women,
I can do nothing.
Other discourses speak on it's behalf,
There is a cost to the silent critique,
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'.
Unfinished words I now retrace
Are drifting now like petals in the wind
Blown long ago, from some old hidden place
This is the night that calls me to that place
From deep within my vase of memory
I fell in love with words, but knew that love was fleet
My words recall, and help to write a poem
As if it were a thing to touch and feel
That time and years would take to make complete
I write again on petals now retrieved!
And still, somehow, sweet fragrance lingers near
When thoughts were flowers falling at my feet
I’ll pick them up, and dust them fresh and clear
Tonight I bare my folly to the moon
O’ moon, you saw the ways the devil woos
How roses swoon to songs so out of tune
But hearts refuse to see the naked truth
A bloom that sought the sun to feel the glow
For gentle touch and whispers from the breeze
Instead of sonnets sung with warming breath
Each petal has had his chance, and left with ease
I trace the choices made…each withered shard
Words strove to use me up, and follow scorn
I stand alone, stripped bare of self regard
As petals fell away, stripped down to thorns
My words now steal my breath, against my will
Made captive by a heart who seeks it still
Sometimes my pen cuts as a scalpel in the surgeons hands
It releases my thoughts, it creates my plans
I can build them up, I can tear them down
Will I make them happy or will I make them frown
My words are filled with passion, they have the power of life and death
I can give you hope or make you feel there's nothing left
People follow the stanzas to the end of every page
Some titles express joyfulness while others breathe rage
Will my words take you to the skies, will they bury you in the sand
This poet is more than words, I am a still hurting man
So with each poem complete a part of my soul is released
When you take the journey, will you awaken or tame the beast
Creating is what I do, turning my flows into light
I will take you on a trip with every thought I write
So in essence this poet is the surgeon, the scalpel is my pen
I can take what was birthed in sadness and make you feel alive in the end
Last week I was shopping for ideas on the corner of metaphor and allegory,
Rummaging through a pile of discount words to help me tell a story.
A shelf of very expensive words caught my eye because they were so flirty,
Then a drawer of words that must have fallen down because they were so dirty.
There were several words in a mark down bin and they were really cheap,
And even though they didn’t quite fit I decided that I would keep…. them.
I could bend them down and twist them around until the sentence was a maze,
With just a little bit of reworking I found that I could shape them into a phrase.
I’d have to wrestle with a word sometimes until my huffing face turned purple,
Then I‘d have to resort to telling lies like, an aglet is also called a nerple.
Remember when you’re shopping for words that orange creates angst,
And that a poem is never really done until the subject is properly thanksed.
The word store sent me a coupon in the mail showing the fifty percent off it gives,
It says that this is the greatest sale of all time so I went looking for superlatives.
But when I got there I found out that the sale had several misrepresentations.
It seems the promised discount was only good on words with abbreviations.
Sometimes when words escape
They leak back into the echosphere
Like a lost soul with a task unfinished.
Their absence haunts us, those words we thought
And let slip through our fingers before articulation.
They want to be spoken: need to be spoken into existence,
But never were given the chance to mature
Beyond the simple state of being an idea.
When they eventually return from their metaphysical journeys
It'll be too late to make a difference or prove their point.
The timing will be wrong, the context unnatural.
It makes me wonder if the world might have been better off
If those pesky words would have stayed lost,
And not come back to remind me
That it's rude to stand with one's jaw dropped
When a beautiful women is speaking to you.
With Vocabular Extraordinar their words do
To know which meaning or their intent
would be nice.
The key to their intoxicating verbal
woo and slice.
is contained in this detailed
but sound advice.
With flick of tongue or scribble of pen
on this you can depend.
They can make you feel praised, loved,
scorned or diced.
So if you are smart, of tangling with the learned
you'll think twice.
If not schooled in vocabulary of the learned
do be wary.
What may seem a compliment may be quite
to the contrary.
When said to be ludicrously loquacious it
is anything but gracious.
They are just trying to be mean and oh so
For the meaning of this is a silly repetitive
When you have studied and you think you have
out foxed the fox,
and for a dictionary you seldom have to run.
Out of left field comes the elude, the
nuance, metaphor and pun.
Now once again holding their sides they have you
back on the run.
If you think this is enough and that you are
Oh no my friend this list has only just begun.
I have given you a start with what I know and
what I say is from the heart.
If with the learned a conversation you wish
Then in vocabulary you need to school and
had better get a fast start.
For to them this is not just an art.
IT"S A GAME !!!
You lay in the surf waiting for me
Although Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr we could not be.
Trying at love with the incoming tide
Kelp and seaweed stuck to my side.
"Great gods", thought I, as I wrote the rhyme
Use "Adonis" and "Poseidon" from another time.
I'll let love be the center of the poem I write
And show all who read it, my emotional insight.
The pounding of the waters blue
Will be my metaphor of a love so true.
And I'll have to sex it up a bit
For passion plays a big part in it.
I will use "penetration" and words like "breech"
To add to that image of us on the beach.
With the romantic beginning I have said
And to the altar of love that I've been led.
Because I finish with our pledge on the shore
The reader will always want to have more.
So, the green eyed girls will be my poetic night
And close the verse, so crisp and tight.
Note: It took sum lookin' fer me to find,
Which of yer verses to redo in kind.
I be such a nut on rime y'see...
This'n be the one fer me.
Not only be the words of it I do,
But "Glad Tidings" title caught me good eye, too!
'Cause it be 'ard fer me to act on yer quirk,
Me spleen to trash one o' yer better werks.
As I be not 'fraid of a few typed words,
Trashin' me stuff as if'n they be turds.
So, 'ere y'ar matey, me own attempt whilst I be sprawl,
To change them words that ye did scrawl.
Me words 're somwhat boggin'
'Cause me be thinkin' what was in 'er noggin'.
And if'n ye take offense at me 'ritin' a bit,
"RRRRRRRRRRR emember that ye asked fer it!
And did you really know before
What on earth is a meta for?
It makes you understand, I think
What changes when you have a drink
Another example might well be
What changes when you carve a tree
And as for metabolic rate
That’s why your fat me dear old mate
Whereas a metaphor If sought
Might just give you some food for thought