Best Philosophywords Poems
Education has never deluded me,
it is a rich mine from which my gemstones are extracted;
and all of them can adorn with its brilliance
a king's crown, but the glitter on my silver pendant...
with my natal sign, not with my image, outshines it
and displays it very elegantly.
As skilled hands relied on mental deftness,
I depended on mom's provincial practicality,
not on chances, but on her canonical guidance;
her words told no canards, only truthfulness:
an illunination of beatitude to encourage and fortify...
and that voice taught me acts of benevolence.
Guessing what was the mysterious name it bore,
would have been quite easy to identify with sharp eyes:
examining the deeds I did and the actions I still compromise,
to conclude with certainty
that it fitted me so perfectly...
I learned that art by listening to clever people with more ardor.
This is not a gift which is instilled
in the infant's brain at birth,
it is acquired by growing somewhat old...
who could have such a prodigious knowledge?
The Old Testament prophets for instance, or possibly
every learned man who studied philosophy.
Spend time with me, and observe how I peruse:
listen to the clear and incisive words spoken aloud,
riddling no mystery, or being derogatory...
proverbs might be included to give some clues;
and they were written in an inimitable way
to stimulate the minds of the unlearned.
Is intelligence inborn or learned by chance,
or even isometric to astuteness?
Many admit it stems from accruing knowledge,
to increase the capacity of the thinker or genius...
accumulating their ideas and earning praises,
while the uneducated struggle with rage.
Logical astutness is efficacious when it invigorates ability,
and exhorts a great deal of mental energy;
and will the proper words be used to that effect?
Happy New Year to all the wonderful Poetry Soup members!
Copyright 210 by Andrew Crisci
“This poem is not about what is written,
But what is not written…”
~Took for granted, I am torn
Two worlds, past and future
My present presence at a halt
As I try to find my significance,
The nature of the beast, that is,
…me…
~Like wandering butterflies
I drift…
Peacefully, graciously, but lonely
With only the wind and trees as my company
For no one could understand…
My emotion~
They shan’t be written for you to read
For I, myself do not know
~the words to write.
Thus, learn to read between the lines,
That is my best advice~
~ I could let go, and sail
The breeze could carry me away
Rely on the wind beneath my wings
I pray…
Keep me light, and let me soar.
Read between the lines…
…Unwritten words forever pour~
@2011/06/30-2011/07/01
~*Wandering*Butterfly*~
Miranda Lambert
2ND PLACE IN Constance La France ~ The Unwritten
Ah, Caligula!
To history known,
Germanicus, excessive extravagance in Rome.
Delation must fall as thou rise from thy throne,
the senate quakes amidst the undulation’s tow.
Ah, Caligula!
One should never be avid,
or accept the as-is, as in to be average.
-Thoust be what all there be ever that is,
and the ego is eyed as the drive toward the passage.
Ah, Caligula!
Wake the pomp, raise the flair,
Our life in all's but a starlight there.
Summer, which oft leaves to Fall leaves,
endures in the sunlight, and that is no folly.
Ah, Caligula!
The ages belong,
to they who remember and keepeth the song.
Stake these words not to a lascivious nature,
but to what he leaves Earth, and save words for later.
-----------------------------
A Rose by Another Name
-----------------------------
In prose, I suppose and even rhymes
words, mere words can cut at times.
Still I suppose, every word is a rose.
At times in rhymes and sometimes prose,
though torn by thorns, I still suppose,
every word can be a rose.
-------------------------
Flowers For the Dead
-------------------------
I felt the change within my heart
when changes ripped the world apart.
The times are strange, some say deranged.
Some say every rule has changed.
Some make a stage of hate and rage
and smash against their self-made cage.
Some lose or win by selling sin
and some without are trapped within.
Some creep in cracks and hide their tracks.
Some die in suicide attacks.
If there's a hell it's just as well
the dead might know but never tell.
Aww the changes a death can bring.
Perspective changes everything.
----------------------------
A Flower From The Blind
----------------------------
Beyond the curtains of this world,
beyond the final page;
do actors wait with bated breath?
Is all this world a stage?
Some say we all come back again
until we get it right.
I wish there was real proof for this
sweet comfort in the night.
Beyond the curtains would we see
an empty nothingness?
Or is it full of love and light?
All I can do is guess.
I'm finding now that mere words fail
in thinking of this night.
I'll try to let good cheer prevail
while walking in the light.
For one fleeting moment
I begin to understand.
The moment catches hold and leaves
a crumpled flower in my hand.
A few word spoken by one in faith, a mere gesture of what one will do…words that declare
ones honesty or conveys one intention of what one will do or a cryptic utterances of words,
said inside a secreted place were only a few are ever permitted to go. In a Synagogue or
place of worship and spoken by two…vows that proclaim honor and a commitment that will
be shared by two. Some leaders place their hands on the most holiest book in the land and
speak words of honesty, integrity and service to the people and as a testimony of what they
will do…Never let any words proceed out of your mouth that you know not to be true. No
words spoken in a promise are just mere words, but once proclaimed as an action become a
broken promise and lie’s once those words of the utterer fails to deliver on those words that
were spoken by them to be the truth.
Our minds, bodies, and souls are weak,
beat up and torn from awful words we speak.
Yet people take for granted what they say,
not caring that people feelings are at bay.
These words we speak are so powerful and strong,
why is it that we take advantage and use them wrong.
What will it take for us to see,
don't get me wrong this does include me,
that what you say to someone aren't just words said.
Exspecially when those words make folks not
want to leave their bed.
We all know how hurtful words can be...
I know, cause yesterdays words today still
hurt me.
All day out of sorts with self I fluttered like a leaf
Upon a monstrous limb of grief
There was nothing in psychology or even belief
I found to bring my soul relief
All day with smoke filled eyes I prismed light
But could not see beyond my tears
The invisible spectra of silent irresistible night.
A tree can take so much in its years:
The wind that shakes the soul is strong
That manhood cries, and cries so long.
I do not understand this thing at all, despite that I
Had worn myself with observations
That spans the larval fly to lakes of empereal sky
I had used words for consolations
Before, but not for me, the wrap around the heart
The soluble bandages of simple pain
For all its power comets still shred and fall apart
The beauty of the thing is truly vain.
And words likewise might store the years
But now means nothing to the salty tears.
No idle grief today I feel, no idle reason set me
Now, to drip and thaw in this gale
While root and soil upheave in caprice's glee
That this brittle life with life impale.
I have lost nor skin, nor gold, and yet the deluge
Without my flesh holds me enmesh
For mortality besieged, reduced, has no refuge
Where a storm stalked tree may thresh
I must believe in words from which I hide
There is a purpose for each tear I cried.
Should I here ...
Knowing full well ...
Whatever such phrase as this can mean ..
Yet I contemplate
That you may have no teeth for it
This in me a sudden swell
To tell and tell and tell
Without the telling of a tell
I can see you now
Trying to see me
More than I am
I shall not let you crucify my mind
Purging the bleat of the lamb
Yet here I am
Arranging sound upon a paper
Writing a nut without the shell
Making you think
What is he doing today
He is broken down
His words scattered like stones
From a former wall
And perhaps mad as hell
But to be polite
Just say insanity is our knell
I saw a poem today
The yolk of the egg not gold at noon
But white as nothing there
This blazing incandescence of air
And I did not write it
Could not write what had no words in it
Just images that could be tin foil
Cut and shape a certain way
But it was more than that
For congruent cells were in it
Bundled in the sensibility of my skin
And beneath them, way beneath them
The crows like a triumvirate of the sky
Circled the expectancy of death
Wating for either one
The planes to invited to tragedy
By the hubris of our genius
Or myself, precarious on time
Expired like a line
The punctuation forgotten without meaning
Where do we get all these words from
In which we wrap memory
Like things?
All these distinct borders of things
And their familiarity
Shadows of time, perhaps
When the planes are gone
Just gone, where I do not know
The buzzards remain
Twisting from light to light
Against the sky
Strand by strand weaving me
Upon their expectancy
Such a poem has not tense
No right
Except me, willing things be so
And yet none of us know
If all of life is ever so
Is ever so.
I COULD WRITE...
1 quote 4 that!
'Be Yourself'
I could write the many things i wish to say,
Here, now, just to enchant ur mind
And then, to delet all i wrote, in the next day,
Just to show you that was nothing written yesterday,
And u was blind...
I could write the many things i like to do,
In quick phrases, to satisfy ur curiousity, today,
But later, i will erase all the words i wrote you,
And all u'll see will be a clear background, grey...
I could write a lot of words, describing myself,
Just to show how interesting person i can be,
But right after that i won't say anything,
And i will leave and let u solve that mistery...
I could write u a collection of books with my life,
Just to show the beauty of Life,
But right after that, i will burn those books,
Cos the complex words are nothing to me,
But only the simplest ones,
Full of truth, cold as ice,
Will be those musical tones,
That i always wish to hear,
So, then, these ones are written but not deleted;
These truths, now, were stated.
@Th3Mirr0r
Today a man accused me of lying
While calling me soulless white devil
destroyer of the earth
Revealing all he ever said a to me
over years was deceit well o be fair
The burden of tolerance toward all white men
must be hard to carry
Descended of those who had Malcolm hurried
But here is the appifany
Nothing, not narcissism
Nor greed nothing breeds hate
Like religion started o believe by Catholicism
and Creator of aristocratic governing.
The true message of any religion
can only be heard by the unbiased One
For a message is learned only when
You quit applying your wisdom
To words held holy
You would not of books written
Based on others perception
To say and show righteousness
is allowed to Be seen via any line of wisdom.
Be strong and bold we all hold divinity
From birth don't let that go
But the paradox in all conformed
Judgemetal belief. Thinking there words are
transcends. All
I laugh at blind faith followed by narcissistic men
And why Not its a excuse to place yourself above
The majority of all men
Dude if you seer this by awkward chance
Know your words are meaningless
And should not be allowed to transcend
The lips attached to brainwashed head.
All who say they know and judge you
Use reason to silence stupidity
what some call insane, i call mental creativity
while some stay normal, i chose to plead insanity
to be normal is confinement of the mind
to be insane is true freedom of the mind
my insanity can be shown in many ways
by various actions or words on a page
my words alone can show you mental freedom
as i let u into my mind, the real insane asylum
my creativity goes beyond human sight
my words cut deeper than a thief in the night
my poetry leaves people sick in the brain
so most would call me poetically insane
My brother and sisters as we stand here today...to lie to rest the
poetry man in what will be his final resting place. Some say that he wrote of
pain, some say he wrote about death…some say that it was about a love he
never obtained...Some say he wrote about the birds and bees. I say that the
poetry man wrote about all these things...he spoke words that made a poem
come to life, not just mere words sputtered out of one’s mouth, but of words
that became art on one’s brain and embedded in the soul for a lifetime. As we
lay the poetry man down to his final resting place…in the cold and rain of a
October winters day. I will never forget what he would always say to me. ”
Poetry is a form of art, that when placed on loose sheets of paper becomes a
canvas on another man’s heart...Poetry is not just for those who are smart, but
for all those who can truly appreciate the works that become mind art." He
spent his whole life trying to paint a picture on the mind of people whom he
may never see or meet. He once said to me, "That a poem once read can only
cease to be…when the mind that read it can no longer breath… but if placed on
a piece paper it will be art for the whole world to read and would never cease to
be." I said to him, “I disagree… death of a poet, I say not...because your
mind became it's very own canvas, now it's a living and breathing piece of
art.
Words, my words specifically, are kind of like dancing.
Dancing is dramatic, vibrant and sad or happy, just like my words.
When you're dancing, you are never in the same area for long, you're always on the move.
Some forms of dancing are graceful and fluid while others may be more forthright and outgoing.
So when you think about it, my words, each and every one of them are dancing across every
page I have ever written or will write on.
This paper or page is my stage and the spot light is on me.
I perform not for others, but for myself, I don't see the crowd out before me. However I
would be a liar if I didn't say that one day I hope my dancing words will at some point
pull someone through the day or hold onto hope or even make you just hold on a little bit
longer to this fragile life we so delicately live.
The enfolded pain; the suppressed thoughts,
Want to tear out of my heart
They come to my mouth,
Willing to come out,
Urging to be granted with words
But ,
I feel; I am finished with my words
Loosing their ground ;
As, by them no words are found,
They travel back to the place they 're bound.
Unable to give them words
I share them with none else
But Allah.
Who needs no words
For He already knows each thought
That grows in my heart
The Prophet
By
Kahil Gibran
A very quiet revolution
Takes its place inside you heart
When your eyes are opened
By the words of someone else
Very quiet wisdom
As it whispers in your soul
Very gentle hammers
Come to dismantle your accepted world
The changes come so slowly
But indefatigable in their tread
They show you indoctrination
And the easy habits of your use
You are change within the landscapes
Of so many ill considered opinions
You are forced to take those assumptions
And give them another look
It’s in the power of their truth
In the entreating voice of his love
He takes away the blindfolds
Makes you more than you once were
It’s a very quiet rebellion
So quiet, but with a monumental shout
When your eyes are opened
By the words of someone else
written for Christopher Higgins competition "Get Your Rebel On"