Long On writing and wordswrite Poems
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Freedom is an alter ego like a mask
Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies.
Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly
The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ...
You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I
Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea.
I sometimes see me in the mirror of words
And cannot recognize who I am
How many points of light forms my face alone
Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense
Are these suppose to be revelations
For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn
The stillness of that eternity frightens me
Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent
So many symbols, and everyone alienating
Why can't we tell truth in Images
Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence
And through all the purposes of each motion
Phases of a common solution?
Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing
Let culture preserve what it will
My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be
For I must preserve truly if only preserve me
And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I
That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie
Broken mirrors make distinctions
A thousand shards point their image at a single eye
But feel, when you cannot see
Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes
In the solvents of our meaning
You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging
I love the breaking of isolation
The conversation dissolving us again
Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain
Our life is fragment of everything now
Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith
Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates
The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here
To haunts us till we make it right
I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear
And long to break the mirror too
And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness.
Wait for me, brother. I am coming too
Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew.
Measured in unmeasured meter
Defying our partition into syllables of spoon
Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon
Everything in this solution is never abstraction
Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions
I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation
And the water shall turn to wine.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE – IT MAY BE TRUE
It is a myth that people can be objective in their opinions.
People focus on qualities in others that they themselves have.
A kind person sees only kindness in others,
A mean person sees the meanness in others,
A kind person does not focus on the meanness of others.
This holds true for poetry fans, like me, like you:
Some SOUPER who talks about “the gritty, sharp, philosophical feel that you create”
Or who uses an expression like “ slitting the poetic wrists of a word weaver”
Is indeed such a person, such a poet.
When a speaker assesses another as “an architect of words”
Who can have you “reeling with sumptuous dialogue…applause!”
Then it seems to me that the speaker is in reality such a person.
Some guy can say “this may be brushed with light tones
But the sentiment is friggingly deep...”
And some gal may offer “bewitched am I with this exquisite expo on a bloom”,
And in both cases they are the true poet; and moreover,
If someone is kind enough to like a piece of verse and to say so,
It is an act of highly personal significance for the poet who writes,
For poets almost always write from the heart about their inner world,
Entered only by invitation to special people. The poem is the invitation:
Written so that only those who understand will respond.
Poetry is a foreign language to most people,
To whom reading it is like playing Beethoven* with mittens on,
Or drinking French wine* with a coca-cola chaser:
The true inner effect is completely absent.
Write to other poets often, for when we tell another of our admiration,
It reveals our own self in plain words.
……………………………………………………
NOTES
*Beethoven = deaf old guy who wrote tunes.
He and I have much in common, except I don’t write tunes.
*French wine = the finest in the world – as claimed by the French.
I’m not a poet
I’m not an author
I’m simply
A writer
This is my outlet
My way of venting
I write about what’s on my mind
What I’m feeling
I write the things I want to say
But don’t for one reason or another
Because
I’m a writer
The person you see everyday
The face you see
It’s a mask
Just another character of my imagination
It’s what is needed to maneuver through my day
In an attempt to realize my dream
I’m a writer
In my writings I get to be myself
Expressing myself in a way that I believe gives you a true and honest piece of me
In the rawest form possible
While at the same time
Recognizing that it doesn’t matter that I think I have something worth being heard
But that you think I have something worth hearing
All because
I’m a writer
My pen and my paper are my only true friends
Never faltering
Never judgmental
Never disappointing
They are there from the first word to the last
They support my thoughts and ideas
Even the bad ones
And they are always within reach
Waiting when I have something to say
Because they too know
I’m a writer
I read everything I get my hands on
Soaking up every iota of information it contains
From the random trivia to abstract literary technique
Absorbing it and allowing it to manifest itself through my words
Hoping that it is making me better at my craft
Because
I’m a writer
I put my heart and soul into my work
Adding a little piece of me in every line I write
Opening myself up to your criticisms and critiques
Of my thoughts
Of my ideas
Of me
And when the rejections hurt
I wear yet another mask
The one with the big smile
I turn to my friends; the pen and paper
And I write
Because it’s what I’m supposed to do
Because
I’m a writer
I have been challenged
To everyday
Just WRITE SOMETHING
You’d think that’d be a simple task
Since I call myself a writer
Just WRITE SOMETHING
Isn’t as easy as it seems.
What am I supposed to write
When all I’m trying to do is
Just WRITE SOMETHING?
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About how I woke up feeling great, ready to take on the day
Until I turned on the news heard the snow storm hit earlier than expected
Making the commute to and from work a complete disaster
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About how for once
The CTA was running on time
And I actually made it to work early
As opposed to my standard 5 – 10 minutes late
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About how long my workday seems to drag when I’m in the office
And how fast times flies when I’m not
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About how I’m grateful that I have a job
But really feel like I’m just spinning my wheels coming here everyday
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About the homeless woman I saw during lunch
And how I wondered where she’d go tonight when the ‘deep freeze’ hits
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About never finding the time to myself to write
Instead settling on jotting lines down
On whatever piece of paper is handy
Whenever something comes to mind
Maybe I should WRITE SOMETHING
About how at the end of the day
I look in my notebook and all I see written is
I WISH I COULD’VE THOUGHT
OF SOMETHING TO WRITE
Take pen in hand and make your stand
Tell the world who you are
Be not afraid of prices that are paid
Have faith you are a star
To all of you my feelings so true
I hold you in my heart
Will never be a day that I go away
For here is where I start
Times a moment or two is all I can do
I love the words we share
Without a doubt they help me out
Foundation of my prayer
Beginning to end you are my friends
Poets sharing my soul
That is a bond that is so far beyond
Anything else I know
I love the flow and I love to grow
Planting a tiny seed
No need to shout I just write it out
Hoping to fill some need
If it does or not I gave it a shot
Simply because I care
Anything I can do ask and its true
I’ll give all I can spare
I sink my hooks and write my books
That is this poet’s plight
For when your blue what I hope to do
Offer a little light
We can turn it around or upside down
Find what’s hidden inside
It’s a good thing the poems we sing
Each its own special ride
I love to teach but hate to preach
That just isn’t my place
I’m a lamb be blessed or be damned
I hold you in my grace
We make it right by sharing our sight
The knowledge that we know
Sisters, brothers, fathers and mothers
All just trying to grow
Grow into what, you can like it or not
Alliance is our group
That’s why in the sky angels do fly
Above Poetry Soup
I think that I’ll try to write one of those poems that doesn’t rhyme,
The poems that I like to write tend to rhyme all the time.
Oops, not a very good start.
Be creative. Be descriptive.
Use flower scented words that escape from the reader’s strawberry stained lips like soft
snowflakes on a still winter morn and hang in the air like a single feathery sword from the
deliciously soft down pillow on grandmother’s feather bed after a playful tussle with my
angelic son.
Oh yeah, that works … Not.
A subject. I need a subject.
Think, think, think.
Something that would be interesting to read. Or something that is witty and funny – laughter
is always good. Or something that makes people think and ponder and put their finger to
their chin and go, “Mmmmm”.
I usually read these kind of poems and can’t figure them out,
I am left wondering what the heck I just read about.
Hey, that rhyme was a mistake – it happened on its own.
Oh, who am I kidding, I can’t write this kind of poem!
It’s hard being old-fashioned. But, hey, that’s who I am. Besides, no one ever reads my
poems anyway. I’ll bet you are not even reading it now.
So much for the witty humor – bet you didn’t even notice it.
Oh well, think I’ll go write a poem – one that rhymes.
I love a lot about who I am....
A Mistress who has come into her own
A sister that LOVES her sisters no matter what
A friend who will fight to the end for loved ones
A hard worker that does what needs to be done
A mother who REALLY misses her cubs
A lover...enough said there
An ex wife who would love to be mean
A moderator who has to be fair
A college student wanting a new career
And I am a poet....
A poet that writes MANY different ways
I write happy and sad
I write fantasy and haunted
I write about my past and my future
I write humor when I can
I write how I want and when I want
I write for me and for others as well
But MAKE NO MISTAKE...I will not
Change any of my work because it
Does not make sense to you...
You see some of what I write is not meant
To make sense in a logical way....but hey
If my work or that of any other is not to your
Taste...you do not have to read what I write.
I am a poet...a poet who will write what
I want any time and any place...that is what a
Poet does....we write poetry that is for us
And makes sense for us......
I will take the good comments as well as the bad
Just do not expect me to change for you.....
After all I am....A poet......
"Roses blossom during winter"
Though I've tried to write a thousand times
On the deepest, darkest feelings of mine
I couldn't..
Reality was my passionate friend then
We lived together, ate together, danced together
Slept together..
My shadows were no longer my companions
Even when lights fell on me;
I was blissful, gallant, happy and free...
Days passed on;
I grew up from my childhood
I saw and felt things that were inexplicable:
'Memories' was all that I had got then,
I could no longer reveal to my pen..
Yes, it was a disgrace
Disgrace for my insatiable soul!
That I just couldn't write anymore!
Incomplete verses
Here and there;
Tore my heart,
Gave me the scare..
Am I lost? Am I dead?
Can I no longer be the one who fed
On words, feelings, beauty and love?
Am I gone like the stars above?
Answer me,oh! God..is it true?
That I'm a dead creature in this green and blue!
"Help me, someone!"- I cried like a wimp:
"Oh! please someone spare me this guilt!"
No one answered, not a single soul,
I was lost, dead, barren, alone,
Dead were my dreams
Dead were my smiles
'Memories' that I had
Were forgotten rhymes...
~~Thank You for the reviews and comments~~
Lately folks been asking bout
This license that I got
That lets me wax poetic
And I do wax a lot
It’s given out to writers
Who write other than prose
Like limericks and Cherihews
And rhyming things like those
Who don’t care if a particle
Is dangling or not
Or if a subject follows verb
Or calls a pan a pot
This license allows us writers
A distortion of the facts
Or alteration of good grammar
Though some folks call us hacks
We write at our discretion
And hope you tolerate our view
We use it to fill in the gaps
Leave the meanings up to you
We add non-existing details
And exaggerate the truth
At times we write with tongue in cheek
And come across uncouth
This license lets us say things
We wouldn’t say out loud
Or maybe things we don’t believe
We are truly not highbrowed
It lets us be offensive
When offence makes you think
It lets us do most ANYTHING
Till we run out of ink
It’s the rhythm of the writing
Iambic pentameter
That separates the licensed
From the lowly amateur
But don’t go down to City Hall
This license is inbred
It comes when you just open up
The thoughts within your head
Mdailey
2nd place in contest
Mr. Frost I could have met you had I tried.
You were born in the same year as my dad,
With a decade yet of living when he died.
I could have sought you out and wish I had.
My father never wandered from the farm
As you did often, chasing after fame,
But he spoke to me of its worth and charm
As you expressed in poetry, the same.
I think you loved the world but knew its faults
And spoke obliquely of it in your lines.
You sprinkled them a bit with seasoning salts
Leaving it for us to puzzle your opines.
I love the way you use such simple words
To write of natural things I too have loved,
The sunsets, apple harvests and of birds
And in the reading of them, I am moved.
I've tried to write like you did Mr. Frost,
You who read for presidents and kings.
Your dreams pursued no matter what the cost.
You found such beauty in the simple things.
I wish that I'd talked with you, Mr. Frost.
But I had duties that I couldn’t shirk.
When I had the time at last, the chance was lost,
But thank you much for leaving us your work.
Written for Jared's contest