Best On Writing And Wordswrite Poems
Sometimes I've stopped and wondered
As I write from day to day
To spread ones wings and fly
And let the anew have their say
There are so many horizons
In the distance of our lives
To spread ones wings and fly
Where new writing newly strives
Audiences abound our globe
Where fresh learning's can be found
To spread ones wings and fly
Maybe there's a common ground
Topics to capture young thoughts
Like fantasy and the dark
To spread ones wings and fly
It would be churlish not to be a part
To write and grow with tomorrows kind
Is to enjoy the enriching road
To spread ones wings and fly
And settle into a new abode
Writers and poets so
Are to be read, and to aim for print
To spread ones wings and fly
And capture the readers glint
Sometimes I've stopped and wondered
More so, very recently
To spread ones wings and fly
And to find where ones writings to be
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/writing.php
I write what I can't say
sometimes there's no other way
I write so I don't forget
when it's gone I'm left with only regret
for things I lost
for tiny thoughts
for things I need
that are meerly seeds
seeds that grow
into the pages of my soul
I lay in my bed and glance on the floor...
There are letters and thoughts that lead
to my door...
The light shines on a few as my mind may
have a thought...
Could be a small Haiku on demons I fought...
Shall it be a write on love or a past pain?
Maybe a collaboration with a lady who
some days keeps me sane...
This is the beauty of Poetry, to spill out lives
from behind a keyboard...
To reach across the pond for a distant hug
when the notes don't meet the chords...
A wonderful place to play when a weeks worth
of ups and downs can be put on a screen...
Or how we can color our own pictures from
another poets dream...
So I continue to be dazzled from this beautiful
group...
Who knows my next write could be with that
"Mysterious Lady of Soup"
I wish I could write a poem perfectly
But, alas, the process escapes me;
Instead, I write what I think, see or hear
And, sometimes, my real feelings appear
If I could write a poem e’er so sweetly
I’d share it with the world completely
Perhaps, ‘tis best for someone to find it
After I‘m gone – then, a surprise behind it!
Oh! To be like the poets of yesteryear
“Golden daffodils” in “crowds” brought cheer;
Or as in, “From cocoon forth a butterfly”—
Flutter among those flowers would I
“The woods are dark, lovely and deep,” he wrote—
Mysterious beauty in the quote;
So, I’ll write with elegant simplicity
Lacking the format complexity
My thoughts shall flow in meters and rhyme
Until comes that metaphor in time
When a perfect poem I shall pen in ink—
At least, that will be what someone thinks!
-E. Pearl Anderson
Quotes: William Wordsworth, Daffodils, 1804
Emily Dickinson, Art II Nature, VII, 1924
Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, 1921
Some may tell of broken hearts
Others, a tale of love
Some describe the beauty of nature
Or even the heavens, up above
Sometimes we paint a picture
With a pen, instead of a brush
We can take them on a journey
That can cause their hearts to rush
We sometimes write of sadness
Using our tears, to make the ink
We've been known to ask the questions
That can cause our readers to think
We write of the happy endings
Or of someones tragic death
We tell of the way we'll say goodbye
As we draw our final breath
It's sometimes based on fiction
And others, it's based on fact
We write with our emotions
To keep our sanity intact
Sometimes we write to feel good
It can tell us who we are
We also write to ease the pain
Or maybe, to heal a scar
We sometimes write in anger
Or whenever we feel annoyed
But for whatever the reason the poet writes
It's meant to be enjoyed
I write to find my inner peace
A place the world can't see
It's inbetween the wrong and right
The deepest part of me
I write to to find a little relief
To write my pain away
Life's too hard to hold it in
There's things I need to say
I write to find compassion
To calm my inner being
I write of things important to me
The things that you're not seeing
I write to tell a story of hope
To all who's lost their way
I write to turn the darkest night
Into the brightest day
I write for many reasons
But to tell you honestly
The truest reason I write each day
I write because of me
Just before daybreak while lying in bed
A lovely poem was filling my head.
To my computer to write it all down,
In all its glory, each adverb and noun.
Abounding in beauty, a honeyed delight
I printed it there in clear black and white.
My sonnet was charming on the bright scrreen,
Not even a typo was there to be seen
This verse was 'magnum opus' without a doubt.
I reached for the key to print it all out.
To my dimay, the screen went quite bare.
I searched in my head, the poem was not there.
I hadn't saved it. How did it delete?
I went back to my bed, admitting defeat.
If my muse should find my creation again,
I'll write it this time, with safe ink and pen.
By Joyce
I’m supposed to write something really creative.
Class is tonight and my mind is vegetative.
Oh Lord will I be the only one,
who can’t think of anything crazy and fun?
Thinking, thinking, why won’t my mind go there?
Maybe I’ll write about the smells at the fair.
I got it! I know! How about the pretzels at the mall?
So many ideas but I can’t write about them all.
So instead I sit and stress,
Oh my mind is such a mess!
Popping popcorn at the movie theater, yes that’s it!
Now my stomach is hungry, thinking as I sit.
Oh why, oh why do I smell that cake baking?
I am really not good at decision making.
I know, I’ll just write about something other than food.
But maybe my heart is really not in the mood.
Nope, food, food, food is where it is.
Oh gosh this is harder than a surprise pop quiz.
O.k just let it go , that’s what I’ll do.
But why can’t I stop thinking about that cheese fondue?
I sit and stare at empty page
my mind a big black hole
my pencil sharp and at the ready
as if I’ve no control
then words begin to form
my pencil flits and flies
and rhyming words, oh how
my mind is really tried
It kind of makes my head rush
I do not want to brag
but writing never seemed more fun
than in the days of “poetry tag”
When poets gathered in a room
a topic then was given
the poet pounded out a poem
like they were truely driven
I miss those days of poetry tag
inspiration came to me
on fairy wings and moon beams
hearts bared for all to see
Fot Matt's Write now contest
started at 7:22pm and finished at 7:33pm on August 20 2008
I write long hand.... :-)
by Ralph Taylor
Contest: Inspired
When I want to write and the urge is there,
there's one place I go, so I can prepare.
It's a spot I know
that makes the words flow
I just go sit, in my reclining chair.
I don't really know why, it happens that way.
Why it's easy to think, what I have to say.
To write something new,
all I have to do
is mount my recliner and write away!
To one who places pen to paper,
one may work the whims of Terpsichore
Those who write a witty Chastushka,
may be hearing the voice of Polyhymnia
Those who give thought to a Fibonacci,
could possibly have heard of Melpomene
Those who claim fame to stanzas Ottava Rima,
pen with the hand of the Goddess Urania
Those who sing Limericks so funny you know,
are guided by laughter, the breeze of Erato
One of my favorites, the five line Lanterne,
inspiration may be given, from dear old Enterpe
If one were to write a poem of music you see,
could be hearing the tune from Calliope
Three lines of ten,seven and six, Kimo
could be writing the lines from the heavenly Clio
The last style I'll speak is that of Choka,
I get my vibes form Celestial Thalia
Here are a few of the forms, a poet uses,
with the inspiration from the Nine Mythical Muses
I give voice to thoughts hidden from sight
expressing my inner self and soul.
Paper and pen do not judge what I write
though my secrets take their toll.
Expressing my inner self and soul
I write so I can hear my heart.
Though my secrets take their toll
an inward journey I did start.
I write so I can hear my heart
others can listen as they choose.
An inward journey I did start
myself to decipher I muse.
Others can listen as they choose
in inspirations shadow I write.
Myself to decipher I muse
learning to treasure what's brought to light.
In inspirations shadow I write
unlock my cage of hopes and dreams.
Learning to treasure what's brought to light
with my fears in full view it seems.
Unlock my cage of hopes and dreams.
Paper and pen do not judge what I write.
With my fears in full view it seems
I give voice to thoughts hidden from sight.
P.D's 'Anything Goes' Contest
9th place
Freedom is an alter ego like a mask
Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies.
Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly
The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ...
You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I
Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea.
I sometimes see me in the mirror of words
And cannot recognize who I am
How many points of light forms my face alone
Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense
Are these suppose to be revelations
For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn
The stillness of that eternity frightens me
Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent
So many symbols, and everyone alienating
Why can't we tell truth in Images
Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence
And through all the purposes of each motion
Phases of a common solution?
Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing
Let culture preserve what it will
My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be
For I must preserve truly if only preserve me
And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I
That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie
Broken mirrors make distinctions
A thousand shards point their image at a single eye
But feel, when you cannot see
Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes
In the solvents of our meaning
You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging
I love the breaking of isolation
The conversation dissolving us again
Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain
Our life is fragment of everything now
Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith
Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates
The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here
To haunts us till we make it right
I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear
And long to break the mirror too
And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness.
Wait for me, brother. I am coming too
Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew.
Measured in unmeasured meter
Defying our partition into syllables of spoon
Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon
Everything in this solution is never abstraction
Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions
I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation
And the water shall turn to wine.
I tried to write a poem,
A little while ago,
But I couldn't find the muse,
The words just wouldn't flow.
I started with the standard stuff,
A poem or some prose.
But inspiration left me dry,
The floodgates all were closed.
So next I tried my hand at rhyme,
The nursery kind for tykes.
But all that came was trite and lame,
The kind that no kid likes.
Then after that I tried to pen
A couple lines free-verse,
But that attempt completely failed;
Results were even worse.
Thus, at the frayed end of my rope
I tried just one last time,
A limerick, I thought, was in my grasp;
Alas, it did not rhyme.
So that's the end. I'll write no more.
My inspiration's flown.
I couldn't write to save my life.
My creative mind is blown.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE – IT MAY BE TRUE
It is a myth that people can be objective in their opinions.
People focus on qualities in others that they themselves have.
A kind person sees only kindness in others,
A mean person sees the meanness in others,
A kind person does not focus on the meanness of others.
This holds true for poetry fans, like me, like you:
Some SOUPER who talks about “the gritty, sharp, philosophical feel that you create”
Or who uses an expression like “ slitting the poetic wrists of a word weaver”
Is indeed such a person, such a poet.
When a speaker assesses another as “an architect of words”
Who can have you “reeling with sumptuous dialogue…applause!”
Then it seems to me that the speaker is in reality such a person.
Some guy can say “this may be brushed with light tones
But the sentiment is friggingly deep...”
And some gal may offer “bewitched am I with this exquisite expo on a bloom”,
And in both cases they are the true poet; and moreover,
If someone is kind enough to like a piece of verse and to say so,
It is an act of highly personal significance for the poet who writes,
For poets almost always write from the heart about their inner world,
Entered only by invitation to special people. The poem is the invitation:
Written so that only those who understand will respond.
Poetry is a foreign language to most people,
To whom reading it is like playing Beethoven* with mittens on,
Or drinking French wine* with a coca-cola chaser:
The true inner effect is completely absent.
Write to other poets often, for when we tell another of our admiration,
It reveals our own self in plain words.
……………………………………………………
NOTES
*Beethoven = deaf old guy who wrote tunes.
He and I have much in common, except I don’t write tunes.
*French wine = the finest in the world – as claimed by the French.