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On Writing And Words Name Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Name

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Details | Ballad | |

What's in a Name .

Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
 NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
 You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such  a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me  GAY ??...

Copyright © Sean Kelly

Details | Free verse | |

POET - STAND - Your name is your seal

                                                    Poet, stand up! 
                                             Your name is your seal!
                                     Your works let their story reveal.
                              Though you be enamored by great poets,
                                   don’t shy away or get disheartened.
                           Rid your heart of nervous anticipation and forget
                                            about word-perfect dictation.
                     Through your internal debates and bouts of indecisiveness
                                      Find a style that’s uniquely you. 
                                        Make your stance stronger.

                                                      Poet, stand!

                                     Stand aside when it comes to gossip.
                                       Stay away from petty jealousies.
                                Too much connectivity hampers creativity.
                                                     Stay focused!
                            But by all means know when to pick up a fight.
                           Stand back, ponder, and align your ammunition.
                                        Then be ready to stand up for
              what you believe in and make a passionate defense for what is right.

                    Accept correction – it is the heart of positive retention and
                  the means to sharpen your abilities and enable your work to
                                              stand up to 
                                                criticism.                                                 
                   Smile at genuine curiosity but never tolerate ignorance.
              Or how will you stand up to bullies intent on creating havoc and those
                                    quick to impose their sense of ‘correctness’?

                          Build yourself up but desist from putting others down.
                     Identify talent and stand over a budding poet, gently giving
                   them directions but be careful to let them choose their path.
                               And when the time comes when your light dims
                    and all you can do is ruminate mentally on things already past –
                                                 Poet, stand down!

                                          Yours is a life truly well lived!

Copyright © Vicky Tsiluma

Details | I do not know? | |

Poetry by any other name

Poetry is poetry....
It's anyones point of view
From classical to the abstract
It's just a point of view....

Love lost and found..
Beauty so everlasting...
The soul lives forever...
In sonnets so perfect....

Is that what you want to hear?

Or maybe something dark
Her death was my life ended...
Like a candle put out...
Half burned....

Or maybe just for fun....

We laughed and sang silly songs
Together...on the beach
In the moon light...
I gave myself to you....

In reality....I am who I am...
A man...just trying
To express a feeling or two
That I know you might like....

It's just as simple as that....

Copyright © Randall Smith

Details | Free verse | |

This Poem Stinks So Badly it Doesn't Deserve a Name

This poem stinks.

It doesn't rhyme 
It doesn't do anything 
It has a little alliteration

well...

it will have some

because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate 
and if it didn't have any poetic elements 
it would not be a poem 
but would be prose with 
randomly 
inserted 
carriage returns...

(are carriage returns extinct?)

and that would be dishonest. 

This is not a lying poem. 
That would be oxymoronic. 
It's a stinky poem.

And when I finish writing it 
I'm gonna print it out 
and tear it up 
into little bitty 
teensy weensy pieces 
(if I have enough patience to get that small) 
and flush it down the commode 
so it can join all the other 
excrementally effluential essences

(note the alliteration)

of all the other stuff that stinks 
almost as badly as 
this poem.

Copyright © Nancy Jones

Details | Free verse | |

Another Name

Tears
Such a soft, gentle word
For an experience
With the power to
Shake the soul
Wrack the body
And flood the hollow spaces
Of the heart
The hot, hard tears
Of anger and frustration
The constant clinging tears
Of grief and loss
The uncontrollable tears
Of irrational despair

Someone should invent 
Another name
For the relentless pain
And shrouded darkness
Called “crying”
And free the word “tears”
To mean only the iridescent
Tears of pure joy.

Copyright © Ginna Wilkerson

Details | Free verse | |

Poa-tetry Soup (The Name Inspired)

Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.

You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.

My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.

Copyright © Chris McCartney

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.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

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

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Rhyme | |

My Book of Poems

A book of poems
with my name on it
is my ambition, someday.
A book of poems
with my name on it,
with something, inside, to say.
Not a big book, not thick, not mushy --
not that kind of book for me.
My book must be lean, must be spare --
though pithy and strong --
and stand free.
A small book of poems
with my name on it:
all that I need
to leave here of me.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Bio | |

I Am Poetry

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.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Free verse | |

Thy Name is Poet

Some poets write with a rapier blade,
meaning to cut a thing down
to its bare-boned ism.

Others write of fanciful affairs with a voice
as silk is,
to a fair maiden’s slip.

Some write from the void (the out world expanse)
of truth and secret gatherings
of white wind warriors!

Some write of the gut wrenching horrors
of abuse, pain, and mutilated soul;
where every word written is a cathartic expulsion 
of venom from veins -
a bleeding of the darkness within, meant 
for the healing of self and others.

Yet, others write of the red beating pulse of love!
with the force of eternal motion,
in one long unstoppable exhaled breath (the fall of time 
standing still);
of holding ones breath in 
either tortuous blue-faced death, or the splendor 
of knowing the everlasting meaning 
of one.

Other poets write their fingertips;
a caress felt with a lead tipped touch,
(for they are the ones whose minds
                             have stolen heart –
replacing it with the numb of page)
their only place of refuge,
for pages do not scorn, nor look in places 
where they aught not look (where love dies).

Some write simply what comes:
from the breath of a new day on their lips,
to the touch of a kindred spirit’s words
upon their heart - to make sense of a memory,
or share something discovered –
an epiphany 
                       yearning to spread.

No.

Parchment just wishes to be stroked,
no judgments made unto its scribe –
only love, only love…

Some poets paint their words –
A union both exact and beautiful –
where visions blossom within the mind
instead of on a canvass.
These inner pictures rise from the garden
of each poet’s depths;
each beheld a little differently, than the next 
soul to read, the poets eyes.

There is no other form of art that can bring souls together,
from any age, life, reckoning or century,
like the written word.
We write each others lives,
for we are of our maker’s words.
One breath upon first parchment, wrote
one word within the stars –

Poet.

For, we here are all bringer’s of truth;
spreaders of seeds (for good or otherwise)
we are all extensions of the whole –
the will of God, Gods, Earth and all that is,
reaching out with verbal arms
into souls that wish to be SEEN!
To be understood! To be heard!

And so we write.
Thank the heavens above,

we write.





© Kristin Reynolds 2008

Copyright © Kristin Reynolds

Details | Free verse | |

Phobia's

     Phobias
	A Bluto is not that Disney dog
	It was when a mewling 
	that I would scream 
	Should they wet my body
	And then apply cream
	
	Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
	
	Achluo the demon that lurks
	In darkened corners
	The long toothed life suckers realm
	I am scared as the sun dims
	It seems to bare my soul
	
	Achluophobia – fear of darkness
	Acro what did they do 
	They called me acrobat 
	This will not do
	I get giddy standing on a matchbox
	Please get a net to see me through
	Acrophobia – fear of heights

	
	Agora just shut that door 
	I am staying here forever more
	Bring me food put it on the floor
	The letter box is just for you
	Don’t, Don’t,  try to get through
	
	Agoraphobia,  Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a                    safe place
	Agrap stole my feelings 
	He caught me unaware
	I am now afraid of sex 
	don’t ask me anymore
	It frightens me that’s for sure
	
	Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse

	Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
	Wild as hell was kept in a cell
	As all his kind, even a timid Hind
	They scare the crap out of me
	Please let them run free

	Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals

	A gyro is just what I need
	I will fit it to my trusty stead
	He will fly straight across that band
	A tarmac nasty throughout the land
	I cannot face the walk you see
	Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road

	Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
	They killed him with a pointed knife
	It will come for me just you see
	I cannot even mend his cloth
	Won’t  touch a needle at any cost
	
	Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)
	

	Ailuro he lived next door 
	The bastard sits on the fence
	To me he snarls not a purr
	A Persian he is supposed to be
	Frightens the *****out of me
	
	Ailurophobia – fear of cats
	
	Algo, Away, I am pain free
	This morphine is the best
	First day of pain free rest
	Been told that it will return
	Got some gas, peace I yearn
	
	
	Algophobia - fear of pain

	Andro I’d rather be               (android)
	I am metal and plastic you see
	Electric person not man or woman
	That would be so sad
	If just a man I would go mad

	Androphobia – fear of men

	Antho the pologist got the plan
	He put concrete throughout the land.
	Not one shrub or flower seen
	Not one blade of grass green
	A flower would make me scream

	Anthophobia – fear of flowers


	Anthropo was a lonely man
	Wouldn’t mix with others so
	He lived in a cave, well just a hole
	You would see his eyes peeping out
	A shaking frame if people were about
	
	Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.

	Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
	Is enough to drive me mad
	I stay in when there is rain
	Just wait for the sun to shine again
	A damp tissue that’s quite enough

	Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies

	Arach no, and know the score
	Those creepy creatures on the wall
	Send shivers up and down my spine
	Six legs and venom to drive you mad
	I am running already it is sad.

	Arachnophobia – fear of spiders


	Astra my name you would think of the stars
	My gaze goes up but not that far
	To the first cloud there in the sky
	If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly 
	Fear grips me and I don’t know why
	
	Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
	Atychi that was about the size of me
	The others would just make fun
	I was no good to anyone
	A failure of the first degree
	Nothing my goal, was all I could see
	
	Atychiphobia – fear of failure

	Auto matic I will seek people out
	To touch to play as long as they are near
	Don’t leave me in this place alone 
        A singularity is my biggest fear
	I will hold anyone you see I care

	Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
	
	Automat o no it’s not true how could you
	An advert that’s telling just lies
	Don’t all the others realize
	What you say is not true, put it right 
	It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
	
	Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being

	Aviat o if you think I am going in that
	No I am not a scared ***** cat
	If we were meant to go fly
	Wings we would have from him on high
	Fold your machine and put it just so.
	
	Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
	
	
	
	
	Chaeto he was a Greek of old
	Bald as a badger so the story is told
	But why you say is there no cure 
	For him to grow some lovely hair
	For him it would give such a scare

	Chaetophobia – fear of hair

	Chemo therapy keep away from me
	Chemicals scare me I know they are free
	But to have them coursing through my veins
	No matter how good they are, and that jar
	The fear of everything for what they are 

	Chemophobia – fear of chemicals

	Chirop to or not too so I am told
	They stick in your hair best to be bald
	Now I find that my nails are made of hair
	Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
	Just shave my head and cut my nails dear

	
	Chiroptophobia – fear of bats

	Chromo shines bright in my eyes
	The fear of all colours  I realise
	Now I am safe from a troubled day
	Into my dark room, I have found my way
	Knock when that sun has met its demise

	Chromophobia - fear of bright colors

Copyright © Ian Howard

Details | Light Poetry | |

A Shoulder Above Its Neck And Fame Above Its Name

whence place thy sight up above thine shoulders, as it tarries to see no one but thee alone, even when thy path seemeth crooked, and goest astray like a lost wondering sheep, ye durst wax in the Barn of thine selfishness. Thy ego seem so high to accept rebuke and chastisement, at war with thy virtues. Been sober, thy countenance speaketh not, submitting only to thy will and thy will alone. Always wanting to so'er up high, but impatient to beget wings. Ye only bequeath Love for thy honour and thy appreciation, dost for thy increase. Art thou worthy of thine brag? Nay! But thy acclaim, betwixt fame and glory. Loudest in the proclamation of thy victories, like a conqueror from whence sing of his battles and a Merchant, fullsome and majestic. Thy Robe, when touched or felt by she below, light up fire from the fuel of thy Anger. Henceforth, beseech not thy friends, for their company art thou ruthlessly bargained with the proceedings of thy wanton folly. Verily, verily this cancer-worm soweth deeply, like the root of a deciduous Tree and just before its leaves wither away, the path to destruction befalls thee and behold! the time to take heed hath by-passed thee. Thy redemption, more difficult than building Rome because the cup of thy transgression hath gone full.

Copyright © Funom Makama

Details | Free verse | |

Her Name is Lust

Everybody knows her,
yet she comes in all sizes and 
shapes.
She takes the form of desire -
Gold, diamonds, pearls – 
sapphire
 
Blue and clear stones on fire!
Rainbow colored eyes,
fleshly admired.

Seduction is her game plan,
she begins kind and tender.
Obsession is unisex – She will 
devour both genders

She seems wise,
giving counsel and tips.
Toxic and poison is coming out 
of her deceiving lips.

Her feet goes down to the 
grave,
and her ways are a highway to 
death.
Addiction to her aroma -  
is like a single dose of Meth – 
amphetamine.
Bitterness is the honey's 
enemy.

She is hot and fervent,
She is smooth and cunning like 
a serpent.
With a single kiss she swallows 
you,
and into the pit you fall to 
become a servant -
with no point of return!!
one more victim to the harlot..
in fire they all burn.

Run while you can!!
Run away from her.

It is said that  the fruit don’t 
fall far from the tree.
But a truth I tell you, CHRIST 
CAME TO SET THE CAPTIVE 
FREE.

Copyright © Diogenes Zuniga

Details | Quatrain | |

What's in a Name

I need to remind myself why
As to why my name is required
Is it to look at the same old name
To become literally tired

Or do I read into an abyss
Where one needs a clue to be
I'm estranged as to why my name
Requires the reader to see

I can live for centuries
The desire to see, never compared
So why should I write my name
When I'm blank, my write is spared

Maybe I'm tired with age
Or common sense allows my right
I need to remind myself why
That who should know my writes






http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/writing.php

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Free verse | |

Dickhead

“Dickhead”

There is a saddened kind of shame
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans, 
elementary obscene
a child can not reach deep enough.

It started when I read above 
my third grade level reading group
and followed to my brownie troop
then fearful fighting, flight to home.

And in defense I’d use my gift
to make up names and write mean songs-
I’d teach the boys to sing along
and charge their chocolate milk money.

With my moustache a poor disguise, 
with puffy, rubbing, teary eyes
I made myself apologize
though only choking squeaks were heard. 

Nicoleslaw Dickhead was my name
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
slimy side-dish dung for brains-
a child can not reach deep enough.

Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper

Details | Bio | |

Ischchaduta II


******Note:******

This is a new word in the name of the Infamous Pinkee....I still say that it should be
added to the British and/or American Dictionary!  There is an ongoing campaign to 
implement this change fore it is detrimental to the survival of the total alphabet system.
This, I do in the name of the Pinkster....The only problem with this word is that it's spelling
seem's to change every time that it is used, according to the setence structure. I bet that 
Scholars' will fight over this for years.....


Ischchaduta (ish-chc-duta)

Ishchehaduta do what you want
I can ish-chu-data
The way that I feel
I can isch-cu-duta
When I finally need a break
Or climbing up a hill
      ------
That's that old isch-ca-dut-a
Some-time's it could kill
     ------
I can isch-chu-du-a
When I'm eating a steak
I can even isch-cu-duta
When it is all just a big mistake
That's the chance we take
      -------
I can ischcu-duat
When I say that I love you
When I am alone and feel blue
I truly isch-ca-duta-doo
Especially for you
      ------
I can isch-cu-duta
When I am talking on
        The phone
This is the making of
    Isch-chu-da
When I just want to play
           All alone
      ------
I do seem to isch-ul-ax
When I just want to relax
I isch-cc- to the max
When it is time to pay
The "ISR" their tax'
      -----
I ischu-duta-day
In such a seriou's way
As a fact of the matter
I wish that I could Is-cha-duta
         Again to day
Only this time that I ish-co-duta
It won't be for play

                 GF

Copyright © Gary Fields

Details | Free verse | |

a running chestnut- prosodic ha ha

By any other name what is in a name 															prosody Rosa Dee the sweet voices arise in                       													Consonance assonance resonance Renaissance															you see being reborn by the word frequency 															colorfully resurrected euphoric euphony 																your flowing down along the Dee an Irish sea														  without life the screams of cacophony  															  cantos of Muirghein the queens nightmare            														 winds of change blow upon the wordy mare      															but the word in question rhimes with prosody                       													so you see to alliterate the marrying sounds															 honest dissonance choosing rather to write it down														 nomadiclly poeticlly phonetically as Rosa Dee															 instead harboring to the odic glottis lotus                                                                              within hours hope to see a singing laughing flower

Copyright © John Beam

Details | Free verse | |

DIALECTIC POMPOSITY and other name calling

DIALECTIC POMPOSITY   and other name calling
    by V. Anderson-Throop

Dialectic Pomposity
Still chases me---
Elitist snob---
What is the precise
termonology
For an individual
Erudite
With droll wit
Who encounters
Ecstasy
With the
Conspicuous consumption
Of books?

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop

Details | I do not know? | |

Immortability

Please understand what I have to say,
for I would give all to be as Homer;
my writing become part of a great over-lay
for some Peisistratus to later recover.
Yes, in those imagined, far-future ages,
my name would have long-since been lost;
but, to think, my words amongst those pages;
my perceptions would have escaped Fate's cost!
My God, my observations being templated
amongst the gathered truths of our time,
even after my ashes have deteriorated,
they'll continue as part of an eternal rhyme.
I'm now willing to give it up and embrace it,
since my life's spent chasing my own doom,
I accept that, like no one, meager candle lit
can forever light the fullness of, even, one room;
no one, single poet's work can hope to truly
enlighten the beauty of any entire era.
I yearn my gift be set in the stars, a wedding tiara;
no longer desiring the twin role of mother and father
to my own impossibly virtuous daughter;
I'm made to think of Keats, and I remember,
his final wish was his name be writ in water.

Copyright © Ryan McCabe

Details | Free verse | |

Hellos

hello, my name is
Something you won't need to know
Good morning to you
Whereas you say the same to me
Hola, me llamo
Lo! It is a secret
Bonjour, je mappelle
Nothing, it is still a secret
Shalom, shalom
well, same to you
My name is a secret,
Something you won't need to know,
 So hello to you too.

Copyright © Jenny Lu

Details | Dramatic Verse | |

This Poem Stinks so Badly it doesn't Deserve a Name - Repost

This poem stinks.

It doesn't rhyme 
It doesn't do anything 
It has a little alliteration

well...

it will have some

because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate 
and if it didn't have any poetic elements 
it would not be a poem 
but would be prose with 
randomly 
inserted 
carriage returns...

(are carriage returns extinct?)

and that would be dishonest. 

This is not a lying poem. 
That would be oxymoronic. 
It's a stinky poem.

And when I finish writing it 
I'm gonna print it out 
and tear it up 
into little bitty 
teensy weensy pieces 
(if I have enough patience to get that small) 
and flush it down the commode 
so it can join all the other 
excrementally effluential essences

(note the alliteration)

of all the other stuff that stinks 
almost as badly as 
this poem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

was just diggin' through the archives and this one made me giggle and reminded me that I've places to go and people to see and mustn't procrastinate longer because the LAST MINUTE approacheth

Copyright © Nancy Jones

Details | Rhyme | |

My Name In Print

....so next time you see my name in print
Think of all the time I've spent
All the torn and crumpled sheets
Of witty prose incomplete
How I suffered with intrusions
That scattered thought into confusion
Seeing thoughts within my mind
To find out that my pen went blind
It's a long journey from brain to pen
And inbetween the words would spin
Into a different configuration
from intended. What consternation!
So next time you see my name in print
Remember how wrong it could have went 

Copyright © Paula Swanson

Details | Rhyme | |

My Name

My Name

My hands are magic wands with power innate to create empires never before acquired
Taking away my notebook and pen is like taking sweets from children
Only the latter I would rather recommend
Visions blur and dissolve as I hear my conscience call
Some crawl miniature along the mind’s walls yet I stall
Cause my imagination looms so tall
Almost too bright for the speed at which I write
All that seems right involves script under light
Regardless of fame ascribed to my paper or its stains
Worth equates just the same
Either way lines shall contain
My name.

Copyright © Christina Hobson

Details | I do not know? | |

Experiencing something without a name - experiencing without a name

Experiencing and being alive to tell about the experience is one thing
As you imagine those who died unable to explain their feelings about something
You thoughtfully - silently demand an answer trying
To find the right words to fill the blank spaces in your writing
What do I do? you start thinking
Putting yourself into a state of mental unrest fighting
Thinking deeply , researching and re-igniting
As these mental pictures, imaginations, situations, conditions and circumstances start
unfolding
Ideas, new secrets, unfurl to help you fill your blank spaces, you yell “Aha that’s what
might have happened, I think I’ve found it”
This word, that word, matches , perfect~!!!
Now you’re thinking saying “ I have helped a friend in need,
I have found a “word or name” to ease the pain
Of another who died experiencing something without a name”.

Copyright © Johnny Pyro

Details | I do not know? | |

Not a stud

(This is a fictional poem)

I have the IQ of Kelly Bundy and the looks of her brother Bud.
When women and I go in the bedroom, they always call me a dud.
I'm such a lousy lover that I make Mickey Rooney look like Fabio.
When I ask the ladies if I can see them again, they tell me where I can go.
I've come to realize that I am not a stud.
My name is Randy but to women my name is mud.

Copyright © randy johnson

Details | Free verse | |

my name

my name
a beautiful name
a gift from my parents
an identity
when i say it
its like a peice of soft silk
traveling out of my mouth
rolling over my tongue
gracing my teeth
and kissing my lips
its unique and different
one of a kind
never met a person 
with a name quite like mine

Copyright © chamonique knowles