Poem | |
If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my 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
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
Poem | |
I had waited for you seemingly forever
So long did it take before you were to come into my life
But in so many ways you had always been there
Your hair so white more than once people
Said that you glowed
Your eyes blue gray
Soft but piercing.
In the spring we’d plant flowers and you quite the digger
Would never tire of ‘replanting’ oh the control God blessed
Me with that summer
On the porch we would swing and sing until my throat would be sore
And still Id manage one more
Lavender Blue, You Are My Sunshine, Red River Valley
I can still hear the wee small voice
In the summer under the big maple the front walk
Would flood and we’d run back and forth barefooted and splashing
Your face, pure joy, your eyes animated, your smile so wide
And those cheeks I could tweak them right now
Is there any better sound than giggles and splashes
Autumn we would take long walks and picnics down in the woods
And sit on a fallen tree. We’d find ants and worms and spiders and rescue the most
Precious of treasures. Feathers, milkweed fuzz, acorns, so much
Bounty for the taking. We’d bring them home and glue them
On paper or cardboard or make touch books
Winter oh please let’s have snow for winter. Snowmen
And snow forts, snow balls and mmmm snow cream.
I remember the look on your face at your first bite as
If you had just made magic.
We read books by the fire, books and more books
Then you would touch my lips and ask me to
Read one with my mouth, which meant to make
Up one just for you.
You have been blessed with intelligence
You have an uncanny ability to fix things
You’ve never seen before
Your sense of humor can put me away
Until I beg you to stop
You have a sense of logic beyond your years
You will sit on the floor for hours and build block towers for babies
Most importantly my son
You have been blessed for an unquenchable thirst for God’s own heart
At eighteen our time together will be changing but sitting here
I remember the words from a book we used to sing to each other
“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be"
Poem | |
From between pages
the forgotten petal falls
on an empty shelf
settled dust is today's mud
where the priest smells a smudged rose
Inspired by Chris'tanka contest ~Now, for the contest :)
Poem | |
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters; turning
Amid my spindrift Soul wherein loves tumult rages....
Crashing through this pulsing heart that knowingly craves her ~
Aneath these turquoise tides, which tear burnt pages?!
Washed upon the shore to feed the pyramids pyre
Torn from destined books carving ancient time....
Spirits chanting dreams while dancing in the fire
Captured by the flames of oranges burning; loves sublime ~
Sunrise, now gathering blue horizons to kiss the wrested nights
Waning heavens waving a million reflections left, glittering deep inside....
Astringent embers touching tranquility while as floating through the rougish sky
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters still, only to subside!?
Torn from destined books carving ancient time; this
My own Aphrodite....
...."My, Beautiful *Star Light" ~
Poem | |
There's nothing better than words
So infatuated I'm Dylan insane
Watching movies is getting wet
Reading books is feeling rain
A thesaurus was my first love
Same girl, but how she could dress
You had a word for every feeling
Stole my heart I must confess
Money can get you to places
But it can't take you back in time
But with words I can time travel
Have memories that aren't even mine
Words are the pure picture
From the soul they're conceived
They're a mirror to the inside
Unless their kidnapped to deceive
Words can work their magic
Prayed for some and dropped a knee
She responded with a single one
Thanks to words she married me
I've truly lived a sweet life
Never fretted over the little things
As long as I've got love and lyrics
This world of words.. How she sings
Oh, how she sings!
Contest: Pendleton's "For The Love Of Words"
Poem | |
Does the past really matter?
Does it set you free?
I’m absorbed in the sin,
That is surrounding him and me.
Lost in the curiosity,
Cold to the touch.
Drenched in the poison,
With my dignity in his clutch.
Feeling like I was cheated;
I chose the evil instead of light.
I traded in the sunshine,
For what lurks in the night.
I disobeyed his orders,
I gave up security to be unsure.
I went against the warnings,
Gave into darkness instead of remaining pure.
Once my bed was made of soft grass,
But now it is made of stone.
Was plump from all of the luscious fruit,
Now I’m starving to the bone.
My curse is one of circumstance.
The punishment a crime,
I’m stuck inside this dampened cave,
For the rest of time.
My world came crashing down,
The grief has not subsided.
My heart broke completely,
When my sons collided.
My misery a token,
From the abandonment I earned.
Upon the time spent in sorrow,
There was a lesson to be learned.
Have I found the moral?
Only in time we shall see,
For all I did was eat an apple-
From the Knowledge tree.
Poem | |
I tried balancing a bowl of hot oatmeal on my lap and reading his poems in my tired and
worn, green chair.
On the back cover of a collection, a reviewer wrote “Simic may end a poem with a kiss
or a bludgeon. “
The reader will never know.
Blackjack Fresno Johnny sent me a big box of books of Simic’s poems. The books were sent
in a cardboard box inside of another cardboard box, thoughtfully packed. The address label
To Tom Pitre, Poet.
It is my first affirmation as a poet.
I am always surprised when I read his work. Sometimes I think I have my finger on his
secrets, and then it slips away when I read another one. They are simple. He can write
about an earthworm in the mud, and you will be enchanted.
Poem | |
I saw a fly
land and lie
on a page
of my book.
Did he come
to picture look?
Or, read with me
from my book?
I turned the page
and off he flew.
Maybe when you
read your book,
he will come
and take a look.
Poem | |
In the land where children play.
A boy named Roy would sleep all day.
No matter what his friends all said.
The boy would not get out of bed.
For he was very bored with toys.
The ones for little girls and boys.
He said that they were all the same.
The cars and trucks and every game.
But then one day Roy got a book.
He figured he would take a look.
And when he opened up the cover.
Of books he soon became a lover.
He read the book from front to back.
He read about a boy named Jack.
And all about a silver train.
And then about a place called Spain.
He read about each moon and star.
And just how far away they are
He learned of ancient histories.
And many science mysteries.
Soon he had a big collection.
Of which the boy had great affection.
His favorite thing to do was read.
He learned to do it with great speed.
One afternoon a friend came by.
And asked if he could also try.
To read a book instead of play.
Immediately, Roy said, ‘You may.’
Soon his books were being read.
By Sue and John and little Ted.
That’s how the land of toys became.
The land of books instead of games.
For Francine Roberts' Children in Rhyme contest, by Samia Arroyo
Poem | |
You lifted me from the shelf
Looked at my cover
Made a judgment on what was inside
Decided to spend some time
You explored my thoughts
Flipped through my pages
Bent my corners
Underlined my words
Dampened my paper with your tears
Laughed along my lines
I felt loved
I heard you sigh
Oh how I enjoyed our time together
The smell of your coffee
The rhythmic sound of your breathing
The feel of your hand caressing my pages
You closed my protective cover
Placed me on your coffee table
Close at hand
I gladly wait
To spend more time
With you my friend.
I have always thought the books I have read have felt like friends.
I have a hard time discarding books, I am even more loyal with friends.
Being here at the soup has blessed me with many new friends, I thank
you all for removing me from the shelf and taking time to read my pages.
Poem | |
A spider traipsed onto my knee
While I was reading in the bath
Though most might jump and scream and flee,
I just gave a little laugh
A baby Daddy Long-Legs!
(Though really, 'twas just a son)
I shooed him back onto his web,
And continued reading on...
*title is a spin on "Strange Bedfellows" ;)
*Lessons in life are funny contest entry
Poem | |
Wisdom can’t be taught
I used to read the whole day long
I read so many book
My house was filled with literature
And everywhere you’d look
These books were there in mountains
That’s all I yearned to do
Fill my head with useless words
And all non-fiction too.
Mythology, I would read
I’d read the stuff by holy men
It seemed to fill a need
I filled my mind with so much stuff
And then one day I thought
What be the use of all of this
The truth it can’t be taught.
And so I gave my books away
And I learned to meditate
I learned to look within my self
I loved it, it was great
I learned the things I need to know
Without those ancient books
Cause in the end the truth will come
By taking just one look.
So now I have no need to read
I feel the peace in me
As I walk with nature each new day
And feel the harmony
And all the answers come to me
All questions be for naught
One only has to stop the mind
For wisdom can’t be taught.
Poem | |
Implausibly, I took a friend to Fanfare
Books then nudged him through its doorway.
This was strange, since he wasn't really there.
Still, he kept me company. Morning rays
blessed, old bricks then revered a worn wood
floor. My companion targeted photography
so I watched him hunt for what he could
'til art caught my eye, nearly blinded me.
Though I was alone, the moment was shared.
This, the paradox of poets, this odd bond.
We crave solitude, yet solitude wears
on the very thing that lets words compile.
We met up in poetry. He dogged some Wilde
while I bagged a thin volume of Baudelaire.
* For my Friend, Caleb.
Poem | |
Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers
and chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.
*For David, a wonderful man, a devoted husband,
a loving and dedicated father. We know him here
as a poet who encourages, shares of himself freely,
and gives such solid advice.
He is a poet who does not waste words,
nor mince them. but he does send them out,
like lifeboats, when he spots chums in need.
Think the world of you, David.
I kidnapped David with a time machine.
The Word on the Street is a bookfair which
was held in Victoria park but is now held
downtown. SIGH. It was much nicer in the park,
early September. The squirrels would natter
from the trees, geese would fly by, low, aiming
for the pond
BLOG TO FOLLOW SOON
Poem | |
If words can contain my thoughts,
Then I will write thousands of words
If books can hold my thoughts,
Then I will by now have a room full of books
If speech-talks can depict my thoughts,
Then I will have to ask for expansion of my brain
For I don’t think my words are enough
I don’t think my books are sufficient enough
I don’t think my speech-talks are enough
I doubt my words, books, speech and talks
Can really show how I feel about you
If I could make the Heavens come down
Just to explicitly express my gratitude
If I could make the Sun stand still_
Just to tell you how special and a prima you are
If Mountains could be turned upside down
So that I can reveal to you
The hidden and deep feelings of the explicit luv
You have graced my feet with_
My fantasies are just fantasies
But I promise to always have you at heart
You will forever be special in my lame eyes
Poem | |
Every hour , every minute , every second of the day, my heart's filled with pain,
I need to know when you'll be back, tomorrow ? today?
It's like there's a dark cloud following be around soaking me with rain,
All I can do right now is pray.
The distance between us is driving me insane,
There's a puzzle of questions forming in my brain,
Missing the moments we were together,
I should've known , somehow , you'd run away.
Fake smile on the outside,
Fire burning on the inside,
chaos going on in my head,
Can't sleep , can't go to bed.
Whenever a soul mentions your name,
my heart skips a beat,
My mouth shut , not able to speak,
depression taking over me,
wishing you're right here.
I miss you , at the thought of you I shed a tear,
I need you , to make me feel safe and forget my fears.
You might be taken away,
but the next time I see you, I'll make sure you'll stay,
Maybe not today or tomorrow , One day.
Poem | |
When the exams comes,
The mats copy turns into sums.
We have to leave everything,
Also our little dear chums.
There are terrible nights that vary,
only books & books are everywhere.
All the books are alive,
Shouting, you don't have any spare time.
In the examination hall,
the question paper is very tall.
But the time is not enough,
to write answer of all.
And when the exams are all over at last,
I want to reach home a little bit fast.
To enjoy and enjoy a lot,
forgetting all the painful days of the past.
I thought I would play & only play,
and to open the books no one say.
And when I reached home,
My mother presented biscuits decorating a tray.
The next two days I did enjoy,
But then my mother said.
don't you have to study you lazy boy!!
Always playing with one or another toy.
That day I knew that days of enjoyment are very few ,
And between enjoyment study always grows !!
Poem | |
A dark room with a small wooden desk, no lamp
A thick pad of paper and a typewriter, never used
Like a museum exhibit, though they aren’t allowed to gather dust
And dead flies and moths, a pack of playing cards
I never learnt to play, but still they’ve turned yellow with age
The shelves full of books, thumbed and read a million times
The pages fall out sometimes onto the slanted shelf, broken
The cascade of over-used books falling into each other
A literary car crash
The carpet burnt by years of clumsiness, dark and worn
The ceiling stained by years of nicotine, the cigarette smoker
Looking on at a world frozen, the books are the only living things
Read a million times and thumbed to death, the dirty pages blending into each other
The faces and the timeless, frozen authors and poets, trapped here forever
In the corner, a lonely television set, never used and not even plugged in
The lonesome keyboard, beaten a million times, my voice recorded
The German tongue, screamed above piano murder, the manslaughter of my violin
A cultural car crash
The curtains, white to ivory to ashen, unopened in an age
Time to let the world come in through the never-before-seen window
I sit upon the bed and watch the silhouettes gather, their vagabond army
Creeping over everything with their tired and dirty little hands
The books I’ve read to death, the literary suicide, gathering in a spot of light
Like flocking birds fleeing for the winter, their matted feathers and scabbed legs
They can’t fly anywhere, trapped here, my favourite victims, dead within the covers,
Like broken pigeons trapped within damning cages. I close the door and leave
The untouched car crash
Poem | |
In the country of my forefathers,
Economy is friendless and upset,
Politics are sleeping with labour,
Justice is seducing foreign crime,
Poetry is turned on, but it fears,
Traditions keeps history hostage,
Religions are attempting suicide,
Nature is busy biting its tongues,
Fruits are swearing at their trees,
Education shows God axis finger,
Seas gets shallow, graves deepen,
Life confront its first nightmares,
Death is satisfying its final desire,
Future is stinking nothing but lies,
June 13, 2003
By Mohlouoa Ntsasa
Poem | |
My knees were the things that
kept me up and my skin is my
cutting board my eyes are the
rain clouds to the fire running
down my arms and my heart is
the fire place that keeps me
burning so calm
Poem | |
To be in a young America ~
visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July
thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen
films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain
exciting new visions of creating new concepts
before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see
The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood
American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom
How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?
When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles
Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream
leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time
Cereal being a cheap snack for after school
school supplies costing twenty dollars
Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty
before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~
2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp
Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question
The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice
Never forgetting our Motor city
Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye
What happened to us ? Where did America Go ?
Poem | |
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch some pails of water
Jack climbed some trees while Jill was picking some pretty flowers
After some hours Jack realized that he was wasting time
So he called Jill to hurry up before ‘tis half past nine
So off they went to continue their very long journey
‘Till they passed by an old beggar and gave him some money
When they both reached the well Jack and Jill filled up their buckets
Near the well were some berries which they put in their pockets
When they reached home their momma and papa were so happy
For dinner they had meatballs and soup and chicken curry
And five bags of bananas which a rich neighbor gave them
The good that you do to others will always be returned
Poem | |
you see you can be
put this underneat
to walk sucessbeat
and feel free
IS THE KEY
Poem | |
Seeing yourself through
A full-length mirror
Through the endless deed
To day a mere reflection
Of yesterday dreams'
Yet to be opened
Dark Oh! so misty
Reality is only a myth
From the times'
Draped by the promises'
Of people we adore'
Knowing that freedom awaits'
Just beyond thy
From: "The Cross"
Xlibris book # 106627
Poem | |
Contemporary and vast in imagination is the girl lost in her own world.
Concealed between the paragraphs and ink typed pages of the book.
Remain cross-legged, as if in meditation, toes tickled by grass.
Here the battle of yin and yang, good and evil, is not waged but in balance.
Falling from the tree to rest in her lap is the red apple.
Just like the plot of a book; within and eating it's way to the outside is the worm.
Weaving in and out of the core, consuming the plot, is the worm.
Pulling the reader through the red shiny skin into its world.
Hours could fly by hidden and protected by the apple.
The letters purge into a blur and no longer seen is the book.
Hero, villain, and romance achieve their balance.
Feet sprout roots into the grass.
Becoming immobile with the soft cushion; short bladed grass.
Breaking through one skin and into another goes the worm.
Coursing through the bloodstream, distorting balance.
Eyelids fall as if to be curtains closing out the remaining world.
The key to the gates lay open; the book.
Perched on left knee baring one hole; the apple.
Slipping through the tendrils of a dream riding aboard an apple.
Wings flapping on either side, improvised as grass.
The landing pad looms in front; an open book.
Waving a light for a signal and a hand for hello the worm.
Created solely by the subconscious is this world.
Hitting the pages stumbling from the stem with lost balance.
Skin melting red spilling into the pages; colorless becomes the apple.
Brandishing a pencil, he begins to build a new world.
Kneeling in the grass,
Coloring in the apple purple is the worm.
Dancing in circles around and upon the open book.
When finished, he nods slowly and closes the book.
The scales return to their balance.
Burrowing deep into the apple goes the worm.
Once purple and now red again is the apple.
The roots from feet recede from the grass.
Opening eyes back into the already created world.
Reaching complacency within the world of a book.
The grass, a support for balance.
Leaving the door ajar of the purple apple, waving a sad goodbye to the worm.