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On Writing And Words
Poem
Where Poetry Lives
His poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
hunting grounds
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
that inspire
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where poetry lives
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Would You Think Less of Me As A Poet
Would you think less of me if I told you their names…
I sat there for hours looking smashingly sophisticated
drinking expensive caffeinated drinks
My long chestnut eyelashes resting on my Foster Grants
Reading Nobel laureates and others poets blessed with Allen Ginsberg’s waxy seal of
approval
I read for hours ad nauseum
Nothing bled through
It was just god awful…
Their poetry was dead to me
I needed something alive!
There they were- poems of all shapes and sizes
and promises to enrich my gray intellectually
anthologies
&
morphologies
&
6 long centuries of prose
Embossed in gold and promised that they would live on forever
…oh, no!
I would rather ride home naked in the back of a police cruiser
or maybe wedge razor blades under my finger nails
I almost couldn’t take it any more
It was as though the red velvet sofa I was nestled upon was set afire
I wanted to click my heels three times and instantaneously be home reading the
beloved poems
of
my
friends
from
Poetry Soup
Many do not have their names on the spines of books at expensive book stores
or are available to download to a Nook
Rather they are the souls that have moved me
with their everyday poetry
and the friendship
from their quills
I took.
Written by Gwendolen Rix
1-13-12
Written for Carol Brown’s Contest~What I Love Most About Poetry Soup~
*friendship*
This poem is dedicated to Chris Aechtner
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Simple Words for Simple People
If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart
maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse
maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words
maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!
But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.
Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.
Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday
breathing softly in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.
Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.
Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse
but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society
would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole
and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.
Maybe a little child who understands only little words
would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned
rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries
and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh
Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream
and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet
or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers
And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and maybe I feel blessed.
Charma
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Exposure: Part II
(cont'd)
"Yes, then I am filled with hate," she replied.
"You need to let it go. I know....I used to be filled with cold hatred.
Let it go. People can violate your body,
but it doesn't mean your soul is also violated -
not always.
Your body is only on loan anyway.
The soul is truly yours."
We moved even further away from the music and lights,
until we eventually found ourselves outside.
The sleet had stopped falling,
and amongst a crowd of pigeons sitting on a wire,
a Raven was perched on a buzzing halogen lamp.
Clouds broke apart, exposing a crescent moon hanging from a winking star
like a Christmas ornament, or an earring of night herself.
Not fixed, but dangling,
always moving and changing.
-changing-
"Breathe in deeply. Focus in on the star,
pretend that you are casting your eyes up to the moon like a fishing line.
Begin reeling in your mind."
"Seems like a silly game to me."
"Please try it."
The Raven was watching us from its perch.
I breathed in and out deeply,
opening up my lungs and heart to the sky.
I turned to her and asked,
"Do you feel hate coming from the Raven perched over there?"
"No, not that I can tell."
"Remember. You can still become someone's Queen.
People can violate your body, but your soul can stay intact.
Even if you doubt it right now."
She pulled out some napkins from her purse,
handed them to me, and asked, "Will you write it down for me?"
-And so I did-
January 1st, 2012
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Duck and Cover
I place a hand grenade
into a box of words
and pull the pen out
I hold a pad in front of my my face
and call the resulting destruction
Poetry
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Open Sores
I am a coward with open sores.
I write and wonder who it bores.
I hear my heart and mind argue repeatedly.
I see others carrying out my dreams;
that’s what’s defeated me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I pretend open doors are closed, and walk the other way.
I touch base with the fear in my heart,
it tears me apart leaving me with nothing to say...
I worry the world will leave me.
I cry because no one believes in me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I understand nothing comes easy.
I say I’m happy, but even I don’t believe me.
I dream I am healed and brave.
I try to overcome my weaknesses before I’m in my grave.
I hope you hear me.
I’m on all fours.
I am a coward with open sores.
* 1st Place in Contest "MARCH MADNESS" Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire on 3/8/2011
* 1st PLACE in Contest "ONE OFF" Sponsored by Brian Strand on 5/11/2011 judged
6/17/2011
© 2011 ~JSLaM
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On Writing And Words
Poem
I Am But a Dreamer
I am but a dreamer
and in my dreams I play
where I live so happily
writing them my way
inside my illusions
where I know I belong
whistling a joyful tune
as I go along
Like a little spirit
I venture on the breeze
skipping in the gentle wind
doing what I please
with the rising sun I dance
wrapped inside his charms
across the golden morning sky
twirling in his arms
I can climb a mountain
or live among the trees
sail in a silver sailboat
on the seven seas
I can draw a moonlit night
ride on a bright moonbeam
and swim among the diamonds
in a velvet stream
I am but a dreamer
there's nothing in my way
living in the place I love
loving everyday
maybe it's a fairytale
but that's all right by me
I'm the master of my dreams
where I wander free
No one there can tell me
what is wrong or right
following what's in my heart
I live in the light
happy in my dream world
that's where I choose to stay
in the world where I belong
writing dreams my way
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Dear Young Poets
Wonderous words you do speak
Into your lives you give us a peek
You are so wise beyond your years
You have woken up my eyes and ears
I see and hear every word you say
I can hardly believe what I read today
I enjoy reading what comes from your heart
It's like into your lives I now share a spot
Please keep sharing all that you write
Your future in poetry is so bright
Older poets will not always be here
Your poetry then the world will cheer
You all have it in your hearts
That is where great poetry starts
Entry contest of ~SKAT~ One of the poem favorites of other poets
Carol Brown
10th Place Winner
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On Writing And Words
Poem
From My Treasure Trove
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine.
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.
My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.
Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.
Once, later on in my own life,
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . .
and found that even those less valuable could shine!
A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade,
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen!
The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.
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On Writing And Words
Poem
Poet
Poet—Your words,
Like garments of
Gold and silver thread,
Shimmering in sunlight
Or bathed by moonlit glow,
When shed—
Leave me breathless,
Caught up in their naked truth
And timeless flow—
And I become aware
Of nothing else.
© 2012 Connie Marcum Wong
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