Best Stationery Poems
Love notes
Wordings from the heart
That I’m trying to use
To cover this scented stationery
With my ball point scribbler, I’m proud
To match the sensual scent
Of your lovely and fiery lips
With crimson thoughts, but as I finally come
To end my writings, after so many pages
Hooked thrown into a silent bin
I begin to wonder if it’s better to recite
My love notes to you in person
For this way you would feel
Much, much better…
The bubbling rhythm
Of my heart
In an Indian home, at break of day,
It is a tender scene, in a timeless way.
A mother's love, a daughter's quest,
In this morning light, they're truly blessed.
On the floor, their space is shared,
With books and notes, they're both prepared.
The young girl's eyes, so full of grace,
Locked onto her mother's wise embrace.
A quiet room, the sun's soft kiss,
Illuminating this scene of bliss.
A mother's touch, her gaze so warm,
Nurturing dreams in every form.
In cotton sarees, simple and neat,
They sit together, love's heartbeat.
With homemade books and stationery,
They craft their educational journey.
With every word and lesson shared,
The mother's wisdom, tenderness, and care.
In this modest abode, they find their way,
Learning and growing, day by day.
A snapshot of a time, now past,
A mother's love, forever to last.
In rural India's tranquil embrace,
She becomes her daughter's first embrace.
Through the window, sunlight streams,
A symbol of hope, of shared dreams.
A mother's role, both profound and true,
Guiding her child, helping her through.
In humble means, they find their way,
With love and learning, come what may.
This mother's lesson, from her heart,
This is where a child's education truly starts.
As time moves on and years go by,
The bond they share will touch the sky.
In this Indian home, a story unfolds,
A mother's love, forever told.
From basics to values, life's every part,
Taught by her mother, with all her heart.
A daughter's future, set aglow,
By a mother's passion, love, and flow.
So, let us cherish this sacred role,
A mother's teaching, her lifelong goal.
For in her lap, a world takes flight,
Where a mother's love ignites the light.
With pen in hand I sat, clearly I could visualize
the graphic scene I intended my readers to see.
Each detail was so vivid when I closed my eyes;
a child, happily singing beneath a dogwood tree.
Trying to write the words, my breath was shallow.
How could I describe the curled edges of a leaf.
or the color of soil in the field beyond, left fallow?
How was I to aptly convey Spring in poetic motif?
My pulse quickened as I filled my pen with ink
Images were copied from my mind to stationery.
Blue skies came alive; leaves were fringed in pink
Verses flowed freely; I dared not dawdle or tarry.
There was nothing ambiguous in what I had penned
Expressed realistically, the child's voice could be heard.
Through imagery, a poet has the ability to transcend
readers into each verse when the imagination is spurred.
Here is Newton’s law one
Object with no force upon
If stationery will
Remain perfectly still
If moving will continue on
It’s easy to learn Newton’s Laws
All 3 are famous of course
For the second we say
F=ma
Acceleration times mass equals force
Here is Newton’s law three
For every action there’ll be
A reaction we say,
In the opposite way,
Which equals the action we see
HELL
Well this is hell isn't it?
Tolerating a throbbing screen and pounding a stationery keyboard
blazes at the screen and says,
"Jesus Wept there's got to be more to life than this, surely".
Writers Block.
Flosses teeth.
Gazes in the mirror and says,
"What are you looking at now?"
"What's behind me", she answers the reflection, peering at the mirror.
Turns away, walks out of the room.
(Lovejoy-Burton/December 2017)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-uwLho9n34
OCTOBER TOWN
Trees
The tall, old trees
All must start with the senior thrust of old trees
that glorify October Town
Well, they are wonderful many and are shapely full
From Ellison’s Point one can, except for Baptist
spire, barely see October Town for the Midas
wealth
And when the cruel October light deadly caresses
each leaf,
Old Solomon’s mines never saw such crust, such
rust, such gold
Leaves! – spread band stand steps, glorify Town
Square, whole town in Persian carpet
Yet, still enough
Ned Peacher walked down to Edd’s drug store for
a fountain coke
Same store, all round, his gang visited in 44
Walmart nor other chain store had forced Edd’s
out
Brill’s Hardware
Murray Stationery
General Store still there, all freshly painted each year
“Change,” whispers the autumn air, but blows quite
round October Town
Seasons come, people live with quiet dignity
The frost, snow and ice all to be greeted with
calm, confident love
In October Town
Dave Austin
I put money in the stock market, knives were cut sharply
diapers remained unchanged and paper was stationery
toilet paper touched a new bottom, switches were off
feathers were down. the pigs are feeding at the trough
Maurice Yvonne
September 8 2014
Chastuska Me - Poetry Contest
Dr. Ram Mehta
ROAD CARNAGE
It was on early Monday, when a car ran into a truck,
It ran into a stationery truck, and they had no luck,
It was a ghastly accident, the four died on spot,
“They all died drunk,” said the report.
The Monday incident, was still fresh in our minds,
When on Tuesday noon, a new one got into our minds,
There was a collision, eight injured, six died on spot,
“The driver was overtaking on a bend,” said the report.
The Tuesday incident, was not yet forgotten,
When on Wednesday evening, another one claimed ten,
It had lost control, downhill it rolled, and all died on spot,
“ It was over -speeding,” said the report.
It was a black Thursday, one to be remembered,
The kids were relaxed, who knew they were endangered?
The truck ran into their van, twelve innocent souls lost on spot!
“The truck’s breaking system had failed,” said the report.
Friday came in, and left not without a soul,
A pedestrian lost his soul,
He had looked left and right, then met his death on spot,
“Why had he avoided the fly over?” Questioned the report.
Saturday was here, it had rained heavily,
Bridges were swept away, and others wrecked badly,
A lorry was carried away, and three lost on spot,
“He was driving across the flooded road,” said the report.
It was Sunday afternoon, when a car hit an electric pole,
All wondered,” he just drove into a stationery pole!”
Two broke their spinal cord, one died on spot,
“A cell-phone was in the driver’s hand,” said the report.
Every moment of each day, a life is lost,
Before we recover, another soul is lost,
Not due to the state of our poor roads,
But due to the poor state of our heads.
Was I projected when you inversed my motion?
Like gravity you pulled me down to earth
I became relative to your perspective
Prevented denial of my proportional thoughts
Internally bleeding directly from the source
Proportion of blood to water I was saturated
Procrastination decreased my functionality
Proportional to thee
Thy remained stationery like Newton the first
I repelled electrostatic forces
living in denial like Inertia
As generators,the rotation is alternating
The relationship reversed like AC current
The direct proportionality is somehow altered
Anti nor cyclonic the Coriolis forces deflects
Proportionally direct will reach the destination
For bipedalism sapiens composition
Mass reduces motion
I’ve lost it. I’m exhausted.
I can’t handle another day of these
Auditory hallucinations. Doors creaking
Open Voices carrying around basins.
These days with no sleep
are starting to
Become costly,
to my overall health.
Wait, do I need help?
Hold up!
Grab a wrench!
grab your tool belt!
We’ve got to get this girl back to
Stellar mental health !
Wait, I’m not a machine?
I said to myself
They said it’s okay ma’am
We’re trained in these sorts
Of matters better than anybody else
Feeling stressed you say, take a shot
Of vodka while we take a look at you
Right away
A little elbow grease and your brain
Won’t be on its knees anymore
You’ll be back on your feet in no time
Miss, we can’t miss with our new
And improved stationery kits.
Just relax and you’ll improve
It’s not like you’re the only one
Going through this.
Tim was nineteen years old, getting ready to go to university,
His parents had organised his accommodation
A house for students, roomy, very near to outskirts of city,
His friends shared all costs, ready for their future education.
Tim went through his things at home very carefully,
Took his favourite clothes, guitar, and some trinkets,
Excitedly, finished his packing, when almost voluntarily,
A yellowish old small paper fell into his homemade biscuits.
It was an old receipt from a cobbler dated years ago, February
1959 Eloff Street Johannesburg, close to the University,
Tim threw it into his case, keen to keep this, for it was history,
The signature was his grandfathers who died last year, Fre Hitty.
But Tim and his friends for now, only thinking of girls and party times,
Tim decided to go into the city, had to buy books and stationery,
The bottle store first, beers, a party this Saturday, amongst the vines.
However, next to the store Tim saw a shop which looked rather eyrie.
There was a sign, Cobbler, arrows pointing up a dark passage and stairs,
‘Cobbler’s Place’, written at top of receipt that he pulled out of his pocket,
Yes, goodness me, this place does still exist, an old man holding two pairs
Of shoes appeared, easily almost ninety, Tim handed him the docket.
The old man took it, slowly walked to the back through a narrow door,
After a good half an hour he returned with a smile on his weathered face,
Well, if you pop in tomorrow at the same time, your shoes will be ready,
Cost of living has gone up since my youth, you must now pay more than a penny.
No problem Sir replied Tim, but amazing is that the shoes are not ready,
All the way back from 1959, seeing that your shop and your work still exist,
Yet i still have to collect them tomorrow, may i have my grandfathers Freddy's
Shoes back please, no but the old man began to say, Sir Tim said, I do insist.
Apologies to all but i left out my last four most precious meaningful lines, i have now attached them.
My soul is dark
Blackened by my misery-self pity
I feel depressed
What does that mean?
At 30 years of age, I have learnt so much
Yet,accomplished nothing
My life is stationery, maybe regressing
But no forward movement
Progress?
Achievement?
Goals?
Words I so carelessly abuse
But never apply
I, my own worst instrument of destruction
I am fearful of what I can become
Turmoiled by what I know but so often lack
I, so ambitious, contribute so little
To my life, my dreams, my existence
I, who give so much and expect even more
From those who give even less
I am surrounded by negative souls
Bodies that hold me back from reality
Boredom rules and empty promises govern
I am What? Who?
Where am I going?
What is my plan?
I am alone, so alone
Lost....
Again, I feel depressed.
With pen in hand I sat, clearly I could visualize
the graphic scene I intended my readers to see.
Each detail was so vivid when I closed my eyes;
a child, happily singing beneath a dogwood tree.
Trying to write the words, my breath was shallow.
How could I describe the curled edges of a leaf.
or the color of soil in the field beyond, left fallow?
How was I to aptly convey Spring in poetic motif?
My pulse quickened as I filled my pen with ink
Images were copied from my mind to stationery.
Gray skies came alive; leaves were fringed in pink
Verses flowed freely; I dared not dawdle or tarry.
There was nothing ambiguous in what I had penned
Expressed realistically, the child's voice could be heard.
Through imagery, a poet has the ability to transcend
readers into each verse when the imagination is spurred.
THE STATIONERY BOY
His little dark street
Is at home in the silky cobweb;
His little dark street
Is only loud in the missionaries’ prayers,
It elicits a gaze in very few people,
It is but an uninvited guest to life.
The stationery boy hands out his beautiful fliers,
Like a messenger of his little dark street.
In his big clear eyes a tear is born,
Not as an accusation,
But as wonderful love,
His heart is young and full of hopes
That someday his big silent tear
Shall drop onto someone’s palm.
A new day is born in his wonderful spirit,
Perhaps somewhat cold and strange,
But a new day, still.
Oh powerful destiny, listen to your unloved son,
Wake up the sleeping star;
Wake up the sleeping sun;
Wake up the sleeping hearts of men,
So that the new day may be a friend to your unloved son.
In the inaudible shadows, he has his faithful listeners,
In death he has a faithful visitor,
His young beautiful eyes are more familiar with death than life.
When so many happy children gather around the city’s Christmas tree,
His dear young heart is loudly beating into the deaf nights,
Like a silver bell,
So that his small, dark home would be alight with a gaze.
When the wonderful northern wind brings
Happy children’s voices from afar,
Like a modest Christmas gift,
The stationery boy is building his little kingdom of happiness
In his vivid imagination,
His days and nights may be cold and dark,
But his imagination is bright and completely wonderful,
It shines in the darkness like an angel.
His silver bell is ringing beyond the heavenly dome.
If you want to show a real angel to your kid,
Hurry towards that little dark street,
And you might be lucky enough to see the stationery boy
Before he gets his silver wings.
©Walter William Safar
(On the morning of February 25, 1983, the great dramatist
Tennessee Williams was found dead in a New York hotel suite.
He had choked on the plastic cap of his eyedrops bottle, which
he habitually held in his mouth when applying the eyedrops.
The alcohol and pills he'd consumed suppressed his gag response.
This poem is (we are asked to imagine) the last thing he wrote,
a flurry of notes scribbled on hotel stationery.)
Why don’t I just go out and meet some bum?
for I confound hell in Elysium.
Romantic anonymity, just like
you’re lost out in the rain, Ciudad Juarez …
No human thing disgusts me, if it’s not
unkind, or violent.
I feel good, now.
I’m jacked up, and I’ve got my Seconal wind.
Where are you, Merlo? I’ve spent too much time
alone. We make decisions - is it will?
Well, character is fate. (Those eye drops. Damn,
where are they?) Walking out on Mom and Rose
was something which, although it had to be,
required a holy selfishness of me
that was spectacular.
The Rose Tattoo.
The only thing I wanted was to love –
was that too much to ask? Somebody’s Stella –
Stella for star. We muse too much on cruelty.
The pain’s no bane, so long as there is love.
Who cares what people say, after you’re gone?
I just wish I’d been lighter, funnier.
Camino, Orpheus, Sweet Bird of Youth:
they’re all so miserable – I’m not like that.
I think I’ll do a comedy named “Playwrights Dead”.
They always seem to go in silly ways!
There’s Hasek, Aeschylus and Ottoway,
and Orton, too. And Marlowe, most of all.
I need an epigraph that’s frivolous,
ironic, ludicrous, nonsensical.
(Ah, found my drops.)
In spite of all life’s dangers
If “proud”’s allowed, two things above the crowd
still clamor loud. I love the Texas Rangers,
and casual kindness, meted out by strangers.