Long Not a poem Poems
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This is not a poem, this is a message for those who only come at my page to see flaws in my poem and in me, so they can make foul verbal comments. I'm not referring to my fellow poets here. I'm referring to my ill- minded compatriots.
Some even comment that its not me who makes my poems. But you can't really know or comprehend what it takes to be a poet and to make a poem if you're not a poet yourself. As Bob Dylan said, "don't criticize what you can't understand." It makes me smile to hear nonsense comments, like those saying that I copied works from other people when the poem is all about me or my situation, even containing personal details about me, especially those who comment that I plagiarize everything, including a short prose or a simple poem. You cannot apply your level of thinking or situation to that of the poet.
As you can see, every poem we make here are copyrighted the moment we make it, and many if not most of them are made for a specific competition under specific criteria set by the judges, so there's no way we just take poems from somewhere and place them here, especially if our intention is to place in the competition.
One thing that you should understand is that every poem is unique, because the condition under which it was written cannot be exactly duplicated in another time and another place. This means that except for competitions with open themes that may accept poems that were already written, poets write based on their feelings, emotion, state of body and mind, prevailing inspiration and other surrounding circumstances the time they write, which make them the only person who can explain the exact meaning of their poems. When one plagiarizes a work, he only copies the lyrics but not the essence of the work as when it was made by the writer, and definitely, the skill behind the making of the work cannot be plagiarized. That sets the difference between the person pretending and the real maker of the work. So there's no point in copying works from other people because there is no essence of self fulfilment in it.
Every poem here is open for everyone to see. If we'd be putting plagiarized works here everyday, we'd be slapped with countless charges. Besides, the admins of this site do not allow plagiarized works to be placed here. This is a site for lovers of poetry and not for haters.
December 23, 2023, PST, SPC
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
There I was just chillen with all my homeies in the big zip block bag. We were all talking about the latest ozome spray, and we were wondering if it would work on us, since our scents were pretty potent. We all just were hanging out when suddenly we felt the dresser draw open. Sock after sock were moved until the tuber ware container we lived in was found. The sound of the struggle they made to open the tuber ware scared us, but then we heard the popping sound and knew it was open. “Who would it be?” we all thought impatiently. There was just so many varieties of us to choose from, it was crazy. Afghan, Afghani, Alaskan Thunder**** ,Black Widow ,Blue Dream, Blueberry , Buddha, Cali Dream, Cali Gold, Caribbean Dream, or me Hash. We all were anxious to see who it would be today. We never knew, the big hand would come in and just choose so many of us at different times that we never knew what to expect. He went to the left, than he went to the right, and then he went to the center; and looked dead in at me. Everyone turned around and stared at me. I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know what to say. Dead silent, it was pure dead silence when I looked to my left, to make a run for it, whoosh their I go! Up in the air, taken by the big hand! Never to see friends or loved ones again, never being able to tell them what happens up here with the big hand out from the dresser. The big hand was holding me, than there was some weird exchange with another hand and something green looking, than I was gone from that room forever. The next day, I was taken out by this new big hand. He put me in some big contraption, it said it was made of steel. He tossed me in there and, Ow! Oh the pain I cannot describe! Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh so miserable. I am in pieces, literally. I am in pieces, and some dark chamber I have never seen before. All a sudden, it opens. I am banged thumb, thumb, thumb, out onto the table. I am placed in some cylinder looking object, and thrown back together with all my pieces. While sitting there, thinking and wondering about what is going to happen to me, it suddenly gets hot. So sudden, in fact, that you ought to think somebody lit a match or something… and then… Ow! Ow! Oooh! Fire! It burns! My life! It has gone up in flames and smoke, and now I am gone! Oh how do I miss the dra-… Death, something undeniable to every human, animal, and mind.
A Solution to Telemarketers That Actually Works
By Elton Camp
Those of you who are regular readers will find this different from anything I’ve published before. It’s not a poem and not a prose article that I have attempted to make interesting and to polish. It’s about those irritating telemarketers who make our lives miserable. I have finally hit up on a way that apparently is going to largely solve the problem as far as it relates to landlines. It won’t work for cellular phones.
The first thing to do is to register all your numbers (including cellular) with the donotcall.gov site. Within a month this will greatly reduce the number of nuisance calls. BUT there are some who deliberately defy the registry and call repeatedly and refuse to remove you from the calling list even if you ask nicely. They just hang up. Example: “This is Rachel with ……” Millions hate her. Yet, donotcall.gov seems powerless or unwilling to do anything about these major violations.
After a month passes, buy a landline phone that has the Call Block feature. Look for that specific thing on the box. I bought at Best Buy and selected a Panasonic. There may be others, but I am sticking to what I know about. Call Block from AT&T will not block calls out of your immediate area, yet other states is where almost all telemarketer calls originate. I got three phones for about $100 which is money well spent in my opinion. I could have gotten two for about ten dollars less, but actually can use three.
The instructions for setup are terribly complex, but I am 72 years old and made it through. So can you. Just follow them step at a time and ignore what doesn’t apply to your case. I can now block up to 30 numbers from any place. I wish it could be more, but I think that will be adequate since it is the same few who keep calling us.
It would be easy to ask why I should have to spend money to block telemarketers, but I decided to deal with reality and do what is needed to stop them.
I hope this helps others with the same problem. Please realize that I am not an “expert” in this area by any means, but think this will work. Best wishes.
Pablo Naranjo Golborne / Pablo Golborne / Pablo Naranjo Nordau Neruda
Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), This poet was alive during the World Wars One and
Two. In 1943, Neruda returned to Chile, and in 1945 he was elected senator of
the Republic, also joining the Communist Party of Chile. Due to his protests
against President González Videla's repressive policy against striking miners in
1947, he had to live underground in his own country for two years until he
managed to leave in 1949. After living in different European countries he returned
home in 1952. A great deal of what he published during that period bears the
stamp of his political activities; one example is Las Uvas y el Viento (1954),
which can be regarded as the diary of Neruda's exile. In Odas elementales
(1954- 1959) his message is expanded into a more extensive description of the
world, where the objects of the hymns - things, events and relations - are duly
presented in alphabetic form. There is a disclaimer on the SSS card that says
this is NOT for identification purposes please keep your card in a safe place and
signed. Conflicting thoughts the police back home always asked me for mine
when on the road they ran it like an ID the numbers was instant on the radio. The
Students at this University take the Cat Card and swipe the strip into the slotted
door it makes it seem to me just like the Mark of the beast has come perhaps
early to some. Charles Robert Hice 429-04-1680. Deceased on May 13, 2004.
Alive and living for the return of Heaven door. Jesus oph please come back
before they institute the Mark on mee. To the purists of the poets no apology of
me this is a fabel not a poem not a rhyme intended but a short short story just to
past the thyme. My State Id Card has a PICTURE of me but no number at least
not the Dreaded Social Security Number and it does have the DOB but not
needed until called upon to produce it. Not yet on head forehand or forehead
or hand Most people will be proud to salute a nonexistent leader at the door to
every supermarket in the world the name and number of the beast becomes the
god.
Aloha Spirit
Sol, with his golden crown, greets me each morning
within divine rays extending out over emerald hills
and valleys that absorb his warmth of abiding light.
View misty alabaster clouds turn from twilight's purple
into softest rose just before golden regal rays emerge
calling forth fowl to take flight into spacious azure skies
winging their way from tree to pole to wherever their
heart’s desire on their quest for food for fledglings with
hungry mouths agape, loudly peeping in their nests.
The sea coruscates in shades of jade illuminations
luring early risers with surfboards to ride the surf.
Share the scents of floral fair that lingers in the tropic air
carried by the trade winds whimsy, enthralling all.
Not a poem to 86 but one of lucky number 7 doubled 77!
Kahunas sing sacred chants with drums that echo still.
6/20/20
Poem name: Island Spirit
Views: 8677
Poetry form: Rhyme
Date of Publication: 01/17/2015
Views For Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Funom Makama
*Kahuna (c. 1890) Kahuna is a Hawaiian word, defined as a respected person who has moral authority in society; a "priest, healer, sorcerer, magician, wizard, minister, expert in any profession (whether male or female) Shaman.
*86: We’ve all heard someone used the term 86 in reference to doing away with something. There are a few schools of thought behind where the saying came from. Some have more legs than others—such as those of the restaurant industry—but to this day, there is still no official etymology.
*The number 7: Throughout the ages the number 7 has defied the law of averages and confounded mathematicians. For many of the powerful and wealthy, the number 7 is a symbol of luck and good fortune. Carry the Lucky 7 with you and experience: A dramatic turnaround of events in your favor. Increased Lucky Streaks.
My thanks to the following links for these pictures:
https://www.journeyera.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/featuredpost-08183-1005x635.jpg
http://imagesofoldhawaii.com/wp-content/uploads/Kahuna-Physician-HerbKane-400.jpg
(This is not a poem but an exercise; I have posted it to show how I work on meter
and rhythm. It is easy A to Z and keep the same foot through each line. It is a
speed writing exercise and you do not have to make scene of the words just one
line at a time. Good luck!)
All around the kitchen table, with a look that's hard to label
Breath, a fast dieing fable, shallows wind and barely able
Cry a tear of lovers lost and not a thought, as to its cost.
Defy the one, which has betrayed and stand you ground unhandy played.
Everyone will feel the wrath of this woman's unruly path
For everyone must make a claim, to pull a piece of the blame.
Gone is love and inters fear, with the dropping of a tear.
Hear a sound of sign for parting, feel a tearing of heart starting.
In the winter in the striking, of a cold wind with it's riding.
Just before the fall of darkness, in an unforgiving sickness.
Kind O, kind maybe forgiveness, if it finds a little weakness.
Look into the eye of sorrow look into the dark tomorrow.
Mill the burning and the horror, of a love that's not to borrow.
Not to friendly of a greeting, with no way to stop the bleeding.
Open up the chamber door and spill the milk upon the floor,
Pasteurized or two percent matter not for milk is split.
Quickly move the tablecloth and slop the pigs as from a troth.
Rush into the grocery store, trip the door-man at the door
Slam you're cart into the beans, hear the stacker as he screams.
Tell the checker she must hurry, now's the time for you to worry.
Under gun as time is spent. With no way to pay the rent.
Vanished is the feel of rightness only be replace with kindness.
Work a finger to the bone and yet no one will even phone.
X- will mark the very spot where the end of day will drop
Your day is done so to your bed tomorrow yet rings in you head.
Zest for life you must muster for the days that lack luster.
Form:
Blessing
A blessing is more
Than some words on a page
Or to follow a sneeze
Or break a leg for the stage
It's more than just sentiment
It is conscious decision
To send love and kindness
With a purpose and vision
Not a throwaway niceness
It's so deep and profound
A blessing reclaims
So much more hallowed ground
Not a poem with boundary
No beginning or end
It is never constrained
It is more than just friend
It's the ripples of change
In the pool filled with love
Spilling out when we cast
A request-stone above
A blessing has value
Even more than a prayer
It loves, lingers, leads us
It's a heaven-ward stair
To invoke down a blessing
Is to open earth space
And flood it with goodness
Laced with Spirit and grace
Like an angelic whirlwind
Where the atmosphere alters..
It's the arm of a lover
When your step forward falters
It connects and restores
It has holiness prowess
Like it says on the tin;
It dispels all the darkness
So reach your hand high
And call down that blessing
It can only bring truth,
No fake-news second guessing
Draw the gift from a well
Never known for it's dryness
All the thirst to dispel
With a cup from his Highness
So..
May your life be renewed
May the darker days dwindle
May your eyes see new Hope
May your healing rekindle
May your voice find it's place.
May you outshine the shadows.
May you nurture that seed
So a mighty, strong oak grows
May your neighbours be friends.
May your generous spirit
Be a lighthouse of hope
For the boats harboured in it.
May your journey be fruitful.
May your harvest be plenty.
May your storehouse be shared
Where the hungry soul's empty.
May the places you walk
Find your presence refreshing
For we all have a choice
To bring heavenly blessing.
Jinjagoliath
8th May 2021
ce n'est pas un poème
For The Whimpering, Whining & Withering Lil’ Fools Amongst Us Who Quiver N’ Shiver Because When They Step Outside Their Door In The Dewy Early Morn Their Heads Come Close To Exploding When Confronted With Something That Just Doesn’t Quite compute. much. like. thelma. without. a. louise. they. must. strap. themselves. in. a. cruiser. alone. driving. as. fast. as. they. possibly. can. muster. towards. the. cliff. of. all. conclusions. finally. coming. to. terms. with. the. simple. fact. that. this. is. not. the. life. that. they. planned. No. when. They. were. In. Their. Early. twenties. Or. perhaps. Even. earlier. When. their. Puny. lil’. Teenhead. was. Dwindling. in. The. jelly. Of. western. Popular. culture. Probably. Trying. to. Decide. just. What. exactly. Their. favorite. Rock. star. Had. for. BREAKFAST-but-YOU-know-THAT-life-DOESN’t-always-DEAL-itself-SO-prettily-a-HAND-that-YOU-are-ABLE-to-SIT-down-AT-the-POKERTABLE-of-LIFE-AND-insist-THAT-the-hand-YOU-are-DEALT-isn’t-A-perfecto-ONE-then-SOMEWHERE-alONG-the-CRUising-pATH-oF-EXIstence-THe-BottOM-migHT-jusT-fALL-ThroUGH-whEN-yoU-fiNd-YoURSElf-StuCK-RIght-down. in. the. deepest. darkest. lil’. corner. of. the. world. with. your. hands. up. to. your. face. in. that. Home Alone. gesture. wherein. macaulay culkin. looks. as. if. he’d. been. studying. munch’s. painting. for. eons. being. whipped. in. the. basement. of. his. biz-career-pushing-parents. who. were. lowering. down. to. him. a. bucket. of. gruel. every. few. hours. telling. him. that if he. doesn’t. memorize. the. maniacal. memetics n’ mannerisms of ol’ munch’s work, he’ll most certainly GET the HOSE again.
Ring...Ring
me) That's a strange area code....Yello!
God) Hello
me) Hello, who is this?
God) It's me God, don't you recognize my voice?
me) No...
God) Hmmm...that's what I thought.
me) What do you mean by...never mind, I was just getting ready to call you!
God) Ah hello it's me....God?
me) Oh yea, I guess there's no fooling you there.
God) Not really but don't think that people don't try! Haven't seen you around in a while...
me) Well you know I'm always thinking about you...most of the time. And I listen to Christian music...some of the time. Oh and I try to read inspirational books...when I have time.
God) Isn't that nice...Hey, how are the knees holding out?
me) My knees?
God) Yes your knees or more to the point...your prayer life.
me) My prayer life? Didn't I mention I'm always thinking...
God) Yea I got that, it's just the way things have been going lately I know your worried.
me) Your not kidding there!
God) Well that's why I called, to remind you I'm still in control and everything is going to work out according to my will. You do believe that don't you?
me) Yes I believe that.
God) Then you might want to start acting like it. With all that's going on around you these days you seem to have left me out.
me) You know your right!
God) Duh...I'm God!
me) Oh yeah...
God) Hey here's a novel idea (please excuse the pun) instead of reading an inspiring book try reading THE inspired book...My Holy Word. Every thing you need in life is there.
me) That IS a novel idea! (did you say something about a pun) Thanks I'm feeling better. Hey I gotta go there's someone at the door. Can I call you later?
God) Of course...I'm always here.
I know this is not a poem...
What can I say...it's here
Form: