Best Person To Person Poems
Acknowledgement from me to you,
Of all the things you say and do,
With every poem you compose too,
Comments I give heartfelt and true!
Our work is our pride and joy,
Express in happiness or sadness,
From every youthful girl and boy,
Regardless of our creative madness.
Sometimes our poems taken out of
context,
It differ from person to person,
All in different visions and versions.
Most are from personal experience,
Others are just inspirational
influence!
That's what makes each and every
poem special,
In PoetSoup our universe.
From me to all of poets i say thank
you!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
FRANK H.
Contest
COMPLIMENTS
I associate being complete with falling in love.
Does that mean that as a child I didn't get
enough hugs?
I fear loneliness like elephants fear mice
and I go from person to person
trying to get it right.
But something is missing
something has been missing for a while
and I don't want to appear weak
I just want some one to make me smile
Is it so bad that I associate love with being whole
I know what your supposed to be told
that you must love thyself before anyone else will
but I just want someone to hold
I want someone not to go
when I need them the most.
Coronavirus COVID-19
Coronavirus! What is it?
Is a virus or is it a bit
Of China using your sinus
To infect the COVID-19 virus
As biological weapon
To teach us a lesson.
Not to kill,
But to give a cold chill;
Cripple the enemy
From now to eternity.
Masses of humanity
Driven to insanity.
Skirmishing over
Water, toilet paper
Cleaning supplies
And hand sanitizers.
Schools, church masses, entertainment centers,
And all criminal and civil trials court dates
Canceled. A fear and trepidation
Of exposure at large gatherings; in every nation.
No cure for the coronavirus exist
And it could take a year or more to find one; they predict.
3/14/2020
"Works Cited"
Quote: World Health Organization director-general Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus assured people on Twitter last week that “actually it’s not airborne.” He went on to clarify that “[i]t spreads from person to person through small droplets from the nose or mouth which are spread when a person with #COVID19 coughs or exhales.” According to this way of thinking, the blobs of viral particles that get expelled from coughs and exhales are too big to float around; so they mainly cause infection by landing onto someone close, or by dropping on a surface from which they’re later transferred to someone’s body via touch.
https://www.wired.com/story/they-say-coronavirus-isnt-airborne-but-its-definitely-borne-by-air/
You've seen them. Those little trays on the store counter with pennies in them and often a sign saying “Take a penny, leave a penny”. On occasion, I have dropped pennies in them, but until just recently, I never had occasion to need one. Falling two cents short of my purchase price, I reached for another dollar, when the clerk said “I've got it” and added the two cents from the tray.
It got me to thinking, which always gets me in trouble, how much those pennies are like poems, lying there for the taking, waiting for someone to want them. Most people will not pick one up. But when they want one, it is nice to know there is one they can have.
Some say pennies aren't worth much, but I beg to differ. Their value varies from person to person. Poems are like that. Their value is generally greatest to the person that offers it. It is given for the most part to please someone else. However, those that read them place their own value upon them. Some they are very thankful for, while others, well, not so much.
The bottom line, to me at least, is a penny is always a penny and a poem is always a poem. It is what we do with it that makes the difference. I know much that I write does not necessarily speak to the reader. But to me, it's value does not decrease. By the same token, I read some things and say “OK” and move on, while others I keep. It doesn't make any difference to me. The author thinks it's great, and so do some readers. That's as good as it gets. If you don't care for it, like the penny, leave it there. But if it fills a need, pick it up and use it.
Central Nervous System
The drugs they give
What these drugs do
You have no idea
Dark Syndrome
Weird Feeling
Nervous breakdown
Micro Poisoning
Inner Reaction
Unconscious Mind
Brain Halt
Blurred Vision
Body Jamming
Silent Death.
Note.Suicidal tendency,paraplegia and shocks.
Lesson.Symptoms may vary from person to person.
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***
It is always nostalgic to think of past,
Especially our school days granting from first.
When I look back at those days,
A smile automatically comes to my face.
As far as my classes are concerned,
I am not among the brightest student turned.
But the teachers never differentiate among the student,
Rather they encourage weaker student's.
But, I can certainly tell you that,
I see myself in a cowboy hat.
As no one in this world is completely happy,
But intensity of happiness from person to person may vary.
The phrase, "going to war", has always had ominous and forbidding qualities that can
reverberate to the very core of the soul. Experiencing such an ordeal has its own legacy. It
differs from person to person in varying degrees and the anticipation is usually far more
negative than the actual arrival into the area of conflict. Though each war has its own
realities with which to deal, it is not the war addressed by, "Going to War". The poem reveals
the war within when the psyche literally battles with the 'unknown' in its struggle to accept
the actuality of an event feared and imagined.
The eastern sky grew dark with night,
The west held light of day.
A lonesome plane in westward flight
Was taking us away.
When orders came for Viet Nam
And all the names were read,
They may as well have dropped a bomb,
Or shot us there instead.
Some few had been to fight before
But most of us had not;
Had never dealt with death or war,
Or fears of being shot.
Our words came scarce and laughter naught,
Concern was quick to grow.
The doubts and fears we all had brought
Seemed primed and set to blow.
A wave of silence dashed our youth
Against the rocks of war,
And in its wake, the naked truth;
We're little boys no more.
The time had come to set aside
The games of yesterday,
To give our step a longer stride,
To learn another way.
Now doubt looms dark and ominous,
A vulture from the blue,
That preys upon what peace remains,
From all the things we knew.
We pray to soothe our fears and dread,
For rest to ease our mind,
For guidance through the war ahead,
And mourn the 'world', behind;
And that one day we'll understand
Why people have to die...
Still, time grows near when we would land,
The miles were flying by.
The windows fog with quickened breath
In our descent to land.
We all are sure a brush with death
Is very close at hand.
We watch Siagon come into view
And wait to feel a blast;
Then hold our breath, as if on cue,
When wheels touch down, at last.
The war, for us, has just begun;
Our fates seem so unsure,
But we are warriors, every one,
Resolved we will endure.
©1971 by Jim Fish
The Evangelist
There comes a man, more cursed than not
Spiritually guided, or so he must be
To remind the children of things they forgot
Of the price of salvation and eternity
With the staff of moses he prods their coals
Embers of a fire that’s grown cold
A raging flame that had filled their souls
Like sheep scattered, gone from the fold
Through the dark with a light so bright
He seeks these lambs that lose their way
To his tented shelter, out of the night
They come together to kneel and pray
As some stand back, others draw near
With respect for the feeling about to come
To some it’s love, but to others it’s fear
For they all know where it’s from
Softly at first it starts to move
From person to person it begins to flow
With a shout or cry, tongues do prove
That a heavenly presence runs the show
As stiffened necks begin to bow
As stony hearts start to crumble
The spirit teaches, for it knows how
That when at first we learn to be humble
When the chains of pride are broken
And the yoke of bondage cast away
A comforting spirit of tongues is spoken
With unknown words you will say
For those that are standing near and about
For them that must have their sign
For those that are weak or of doubt
An unexcelled joy they will find
When on this narrow path they go
Hand in hand with the holy one
With the sword of truth to slay our foe
Power given through gods only son
These gifts of the spirit are very real
Tools from the carpenter that he gave
A mystery to most, but he does reveal
There every use for this world to save
So comes this man of no special breed
Chosen of god to spread his flame
A gift to his children to fill a need
For after the fire……nothings the same
Each of us is born with hidden gems...also known as talents or gifts.
The size...color...and shape of these gems differ from person to person.
If these gems are discovered and used properly, they can grow...shinning
more brilliant as you grow older. If not used...the shine begins to fade away...as cracks begin to form.
As we each stand at the edge of the pond of life...it is up to us to find courage
to throw our gems into the pond. Some may fall at the waters edge...
making just a small ripple...yet even a small ripple has an effect.
Some with similar gems may group together...combining their stones...
collectively tossing it in the pond...causing a much larger ripple effect.
Some will just sit...watching others toss their gems into life...never knowing
what effect their gem might have had...afraid to try...perhaps because they
were told their gems were worthless. That is not true. Each gem...no matter
how small or big...makes a ripple in life's pond. Take a chance!
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Peace in life
Blanketing life with mixing others
Search of freedom and joy of peace
Feels me a golden jail,
Rather, taking fresh breath
In the morning mild race would be fine
In grass crushing by feet
Maximum peace! I ever raised in heart
Was title given by smiles of others
I puzzle sometimes do they bear peace! Actually
So! freely to allocate me and others
Many unwanted kisses
In chick and neck by as if glutton piece
And hinges of boredom and chain of others
A classify of a moral tie only should be
In real life how there is peace!
So to say, grown up in such boundary
A matter of hardship to breathe free
Peace in life is then a matter of distant for me
Without digging, deeply, for nectar within heart
A vastness of purity, filtering through, inside for peace
Needs, grave deep involvement, and sink to find point,
where it is.
A case of research for person to person, differently
If one can find actual peace in life, Believe
Why all are in sorrows and still in confusions!
So,future is certain for them, only
Who digs path, in present, to see bright future
I will buy it investing millions, and will motivate others for it
I like, welcome persons enjoy and invest in benefit
Then peace in life and bliss in life will be search of equipment
All will live long gladly, happily and will rest heavenly
Continue.......
Actual peace and bliss are not free as human remain searching
Points:-
I think so, this is, this is
But to me and to them too
Who researched and identified with clarity
Follow them, that destination who perceived with honesty
Who they are! then a matter of question
To find and follow will be
Please search and research again and again
It is available in market easily
Perceive right shop and owner who could supply you
A piece of peace, a life piece for happiness and bliss.
Future is uncertain to them who says and lies lazily
See them who bought stars from the sky
In the market available everywhere
The beauty of future is only to them
Glitters and flashy fame are not real fame.
Real future is your present time
How you utilize as ants' retinue.
Waiting for a dear friend
to land.
Watching the minutes creep
slowly by.
Amused by the constant flow
of strangers,
yet, not so strange.
Each carries something of mine,
a walk, a shirt, a pin, a watch,
a rundown shoe, a beard,
a lazy eye, a slouch,
a limp, a tear, a hesitant glance,
a disappointed glare.
The hours pass and
all are repeated
over again,
and the same waitress
sold me coffee
three times over,
in three hours,
as if each was the first time.
I watched the tables being straightened
by the same somber lady,
every half hour,
working around me
as if I wasn't there,
and I was struck
by how we each perform our role,
me waiting,
she selling,
she straightening
the one that I wait for, coming,
and how all our moves are
duplicated,
in a thousand terminals,
and connected each to each,
in a gigantic dance,
reverberating all around
the world,
person to person,
person to animal,
and to insect,
and to countless beings,
seen and unseen,
a connected organism,
sometimes at war with itself,
but, more often, just
being,
and growing,
and changing,
and it breathes the air,
and clings to the earth,
and swims in the sea,
maybe is the sea,
and the earth,
and my passionate love,
seems very small,
indeed.
An outlook on life varies from person to person
Various aspects do count
Your ideology
Your experience
Your view
Your emotional quotient
Your intelligent quotient
Your conscience
Your confidence
Your perseverance
Your perception
And lastly maybe the influence of a religion
But there's no rights or wrongs
No perfection
No flawless guidelines
And so we lead a different life
With different consequences and endings
And so we're so eager to find
Any voices from heaven
Any signs from heaven
With our eyes,our hearts and our souls
Just a thought ...
What if our forefathers have failed us?
What if the gates are closed and we are
Damned,
Wondering on a date
That has come and gone.
We succeed
A collapsed empire
A widespread plague
A harsh Inquisition
Two world wars
Multiple genocides
All of which work
To depreciate our populace.
What if God's second incarnate
Lived in a padded cell
And beckoned to men with white coats,
Only able to forgive the insane
Or what if He came not
As one being, but in
Banded instances:
The writings of the scriptures -
Martin Luther’s 95 Theses -
St. Augustine’s city -
Every ethereal deed
Offered by our ancestors.
What if the devil incarnate
Has come, gone, and left
His marks of malice
Light enough to deflect our certainty
Toward his identity,
Yet deep enough to confuse
With his inflictions. His predictions
Form open minded
Addictions, dates, numbers,
Catastrophic visions
With enough clarity to let regret
Cloud our minds
And abolish our understanding
Of nature's rule.
The balance, upset with magic,
Flees from person to person.
If God may reincarnate at will,
While God is everywhere
And everything -
If we live in His image as one
And Christ was among our entity
Than are we not in part He?
And may pass from body to body
In spirit, repeating
Our short contributions
Until they give way to the consensus,
The overflowing pool of sole self consciousness
Where no one is truly sure of what they are
Fighting for.