Long On writing and wordswords Poems
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I'm supposed to write a poem thats funny,
If I could only write to make some money.
Should I write about something scary and gory,
Or should I portray a nice love story?
The ideas swimming in my head are like a boat,
which unfortunately now is no longer afloat.
The words of choice, no longer to be seen,
Thanks in part to my computer screen.
Rhyming can sometimes be a piece of cake,
But I've thought for too long and got a headache.
I've always loved to write poems that rhyme,
but I can't right now - its past my bedtime.
Maybe in the morning, I can think of something new.
After I fix a pitcher of ice tea to brew.
Then perhaps words and thoughts will be dancing around,
And I will make sure to write them down.
A rough draft will be sketched on paper and pad,
Because memory loss is a problem for this forty year old lad.
Well, I didn't write about any terrible stuff,
Just how writing a poem can be very tough.
Poetic rhyming to the mind is such a toy,
But one which I hope you did enjoy.
Soon my words will all be forgot,
So please let me know what you thought.
It seems as if my poem must come to an end,
But I want to thank you, my reader and friend.
Watch me, young man, more intently this time
I will teach you to write poetry with meter and rhyme
The way poems have been written for hundreds of years
With beauty and grace enough to bring you to tears
no disrespect meant old man
but throw that shtuff in the garbage can
i could duplicate byron if I wanted to
but I want to express a new attitude
some’n that’s free
come’n from me
not repeating crap from history
revolutionary
i wanta be bold
not simply do what i’m told
you’d understand if you weren’t so old
A poem should be written to express beauty and love
With words of wisdom inspired from our God above
When read aloud, the words from our lips should flow
And radiate our listener’s mind with an intellectual glow
that’s fine for you and your conservative crowd
but some things need to be expressed more loud
shouted from the street
not all pretty and neat
with a young man’s beat
don’t expect me to kiss your feet
i am not you
and you are not me
i don’t want you to change
actually, i accept you the way you are
why can’t you do the same
i think it’s a shame
my youth you blame
for wanting to express poetry in a different vain
Anger is not a healthy form of expression
Your poetry leads me deep into depression
you call it anger,
to me its just passion
i like your poems
but for me, they’re old fashion
I guess in the end, you are really just being my son
Following the path I taught you when all is said and done
I told you always to be true about whom you are
Go ahead son; use your own style to reach your star
i love you, dad
I love you, too, Son
(Inspired by, "The Controversy")
I wake up to pure chaos
The pure chaos of my mind
Struggling to get out
Struggling to be heard
A jumbled mass of characters
A mass of jumbled mass of words.
I struggle to make sense of them all
To put them in some sort of rhythm
To have them say something meaningful
Something with a purpose and a reason.
I must have something inside me to say
Or these words would not come to me at all
There must be a reason they come to me
Why they come to call.
I want to make some sense
Out of all these jumbled words
I want to be able to communicate with them
I want my inner voice to be heard.
And so I try to settle the chaos
The chaos of my mind
I try to find some solitude
Some veritable peace of mind.
I go to find my pencil
and some paper
and my empty chair
And I start to write the meaning
Of the words I wish to share.
These words are a gift from heaven
Sent to me from above
Flying in unheralded
Of the wings of a white dove.
All of these words might scare someone else
Anyone but me
But I know there is a reason
for why they were sent to me.
And so I sit and begin to write these words
To formulate my thoughts
To put them down on paper
To seek the meaning that I have sought
To tame my chaos and create a thought
And so I begin to try and write
These beautiful words.
(January 5, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
The night is dark, and stars are peeking
I wish for wings that I could fly
And take a magic carpet ride
To places deep where phrases hide
So rich with wisdom, and insights known
Above the moon, where stars are keeping
The secret words to write a poem
Instead, my muse is here at home
No need for magic, no need to roam
If closing eyes and knowing this
The wonder of poetic bliss
Are beneath my feet, beneath my stare
A poem resides most anywhere
The voice inside my head must share
My life, my friends, my family
Within my reach, are memories
Where lies a wealth, a poem or verse
To touch a few with heartfelt words
My poem unfolds like a tiny rose
It starts new life, so tightly closed
But given life, it opens wide
And takes me on a carpet ride
Where magic words no longer hide
Above the moon, beyond the stars
I pray my poem will warm a heart....
It is you who gives these to me,
the poems of which I write.
It is You who makes me to see
the words which each come to light.
The sun is making it's long journey
again from the east unto the west.
And again, I'm feeling the yearning
to write each line distinct from the rest.
Sometimes I'm still quite overtaken
by the words which come forth unbidden.
And I know I'm not mistaken
as thoughts come forth that once were hidden.
You Lord, are the revealer of hearts
and mine is shown with each line that I write.
As each line ends, another one starts
till the whole poem is brought to the light.
Lord Spirit, you have brought forth in me
the desire to commit to line
all that pertains to you as the key
So Lord, use these writings of mine.
Throw yourself out there and yes, just write,
whatever it is your thoughts could be.
From heart to pen, let your words take flight
so that others your true thoughts will see.
The world is your invitation,
it has been and will yet always be.
To write in this, your life’s duration;
those words inside just long to come free.
It matters not, wherever you are
and you find that you reach for your pen,
for the more that you give in to this,
it will happen again and again.
Many will want to read what you write,
you do well to remember that fact.
It’s fulfilling to see your words take flight
as on the spur of the moment you act.
The words in my head are beautiful.
They are dancing cheek to cheek
with Southern legato or London staccato
with Chinese tunes and Xhosa clicks,
with native Dutch, straight from the heart.
The words in my head are reluctant
to stand in line. They like
to dance and play. They like
to echo inside the skull, infinite
Ping-Pong straight from the heart.
The words in my head come alive,
naked at the stroke of a key.
Ribbons of red and green show
who’s been good and who’s been bad.
Dots on the screen, straight from the heart.
The words in my head are ready
to face the world. I comb their hair
and clean their nose and wave goodbye
until they disappear around the bend.
One day they will be back, straight to the heart
Twenty-nine words to write my story
Twenty-nine words is all I’ve got
Twenty-nine words is my limit
Twenty-nine words, then I'm through
Twenty-nine words to write my poem
I’ve got to get started
Twenty-nine words is not too many
Many words have parted already
Twenty-nine words to write my rhyme
Twenty-nine words to write my verse
Twenty-nine words I’ve got to get started
Twenty-nine words – I’m out of luck
1. Twenty-nine
2. Words
3. To
4. Write
5. My
6. Story
7. Is
8. All
9. I’ve
10. Got
11. Limit
12. Then
13. I
14. Through
15. Poem
16. Get
17. Started
18. Not
19. Too
20. Many
21. Have
22. Already
23. Parted
24. Verse
25. Rhyme
26. I’m
27. Out
28. Of
29. Luck
Oh, how sad, oh how very glum,
Goodness gracious me prater comes.
Still writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Wallowing in morbid abode.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Feeling your life’s left no dower
Envy those not thus engaged.
Envy the prattle on the page.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Envy the prattle on the page.
At least the words are given stage.
Each one stroked, petted, tilled and hoed;
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Pondering heaven on life’s gallows.
Goodness gracious me, prater comes,
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Leave the box, flee the asylum!
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
joyfull tragic, quite disheveled
Wading through the endless nights;
Waiting, waiting for the light.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Waiting, waiting for the light,
Never living your gifted life.
Writing, writing, writing on,
Until the coming of the dawn.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Why do we do what we do?
Writing words day after day
Unsure if anyone will read them
If they will get the message we tried to say
A million words with many meanings
Thrown together in our language
How will we know the right ones?
They ones which say what we want to say
Just one word, one syllable, one letter
Out of the place where it should be
The meaning could be lost
We struggle through endless hours
Wondering and writing
Cutting and pasting words and lines
Then in a miraculous moment
It happens
The words are right
The syllables are right
Each and every letter is right
After all the pain and stress
Our child is born
We post in on-line
Publish it in a book
We send our child out into the world
And no one reads it