Just this once I don't want to be held
To let go and not have to comprehend,
not have to comprehend the words my heart spill,
that my mind has lost will to read.
I'm going to put my feet in the sand,
And watch them vanish under the grain.
If only life were like a well,
long and narrow, unknown in depth,
would it be easier to follow direction?
Just this once I'd like to jump
To feel my body give in to gravity,
and listen to the wind rasping loudly
Perhaps I'll put my hand on this chest,
to the beat that will thump loudly in fear
People can stare for all I care,
They are welcome to join if they dare.
Just this once I'm going to write,
Allow these fingers to flow as I go,
To see letters get better and form words of their own,
that may not be put in any genre
So this is that poem that speaks about nothing,
That I still hope will meet your callibre.
I have been told by some that this poem is very angry and a slap in the face. Please understand that is the point. It is meant to be from another persons point of view. Words that are indeed harsh but still saying, life throws harshness at us, but you must carry on. Keep that in mind when reading this poem, thank you all for reading my work.
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Like frostbitten limbs lay bare to the ice cold breeze of a winter’s day
- Cold and without feeling are your words.
As the burnt orange autumn leaves that lay half decayed upon the ground
- So too your words fall flat.
Without neither substance nor imagery; these words that my naked eye follow across
the page.
.....Now lick your wounds and learn from this.
ABC
A poem that I myself must writ
Because the contest calls for it
Cautiously I grab my pen
Deciding words from end to end
Extracting words from who knows where
Feeling right, I put them there
Gosh I hope this wins for me
Happiness or perhaps top three
Ignoring all my failed poems past
Jonsing for a win at last
Kindly place this near the top
Loosing contests has to stop
ACROSTIC
Look I’m tired of loosing
On this you have my word
Objectively I write poems
So my words are heard
I’ve got to stop this loosing
No ifs or ands or buts
Give my poem a placement before I go plum nuts
ALLITERATION
Pretty Pathetic Pleading for Poetry Placement Perse
Loosing Leaves Libido Lethargic no Leeway
Mdailey 7/11/11 for Debbie Guzzi’s contest – Aye, Aye, and a Mistress
Lord of things literary, please bring me
another dictionary
with unused words for novel weave.
The old clichés I’d bury.
Musicians and artists use the tools
of those who have gone before.
The poet’s words are his alone
to be avoided evermore.
Poetry Soup made up a list
of old worn out cliché’s.
If I should read these dread naysays,
they’ll stick in my head always.
My devious brain will take them
and turn them all around
and present them as fresh ideas
that my clever muse has found.
So many poets have gone before
I fear there is nothing to say
that hasn’t been said and said and said
in every conceivable way.
.
SPARE THE RARE (DEDICATED TO A HUMAN SMILE)
A wistful woman’s wondrously woven words
Brief
Yet drenched in belief
A lady
A poet who bends and shapes verbiage sparingly
Yet profoundly
Her words scribed with confidence revealed
The lady’s words are like a lavender and lily laden field
A poet’s particular sense of that which makes sense
And that field, for sure, cannot be corralled by any gate nor fence
A guru, a mentor with a method and a teacher of philosophy filled with fantasy........
A wistful woman’s wondrously woven words
And “N” knows this is for her written by a lesser poet
© 2011.…Phreepoetry ~free cee!~
Poetry is my release
I create when I feel blue dynamic lines
that intertwine sharing feelings so true blue.
Poetry is my reward
I fashion words on papers phrases from my heart.
I like to impart treasures of my own special capers.
Poetry is my gift
I am blessed with my pen pain and sorrow,
joy for tomorrow, poems grow in my green garden zen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poetry is my escape from the world outside my door.
Writing down the thoughts that drift around my mind.
Hopefully I can touch another soul this time.
Poetry is more than just words on paper;
it’s a window to another world of wonder.
Where your imagination has no limitations
and your words are held forever.
Poetry is a precious gem
that is seen when you jump in.
Take a chance grab a pen
and expand your poetry wings.
Written by Linda Marie ( first verse)
Cory long (second verse)
My hands are either blessed or possessed
I feel as if I don't write
But that my spirit pours prophetic words onto the page
The more I grow and age
The less I have control over these urges
Much less a hobby, these are emotional splurges
I write the words in my heart that my lips don't speak
Words so deep that they have their own melodies
My heart sometimes denies these motions
Because I guard my emotions
My hand keeps my heart up to speed
I'm a minister, I administer this literature
These sonnets, these verses
All you're getting is a miniature
Sample of my vocabulary
Because if I pour my soul all the way, I'll feel naked
Some things should be kept secret
Until I let go of my defenses and can take it
Meanwhile, I let these angels use my physical being
To compose these words that you are seeing
To release me spiritually and give me the vision my eyes don't see
I don't write these words
These words write me
His muse had suddenly went missing
His words now unemployed
The capitol letters complaining
The lower case letters annoyed
He couldn't write without his muse
No matter how hard he tried
His inspiration had ran away
And took the tears he cried
Heartache was now another word
That his quill refused to write
The paper was almost blinding
Without words to cover the white
The poet now sits in silence
Awaiting his muses return
The letters now talk of arsony
For his paper they say must burn
The poet's muse was here all the time
And things were never amiss
For if his muse were truly missing
I couldn't have written this
It was amazing,
Words came gushing from his head,
Clamouring for the paper instead.
It was captivating,
Lots of words played to form a rhyme,
And on paper, they stood the test of time.
It was enchanting,
With his words, I felt the sun's glow,
With his words, I saw pure waters flow.
It was overpowering,
His words made me see stars,
And cured my hidden scars.
It was astonishing,
In his words, I saw his past, his present,
And what to him, the future meant.
It was perfect,
In his words, I saw elegance, saw charm,
And I knew, I held dynamite in my palm.
And it's true,
That though, there's power in the sword of a samurai,
There's more in the words of a writer.
Words of Choice
Wondering while thoroughly
occupying one’s time to use a poet’s tool to help
rectify his most efficient
decision on what words to use
shrewdly seeking words that will speak volumes to their readers
opening new ventures by illuminating
forms of expression through observant experimentation
constructively criticizing oneself to
habitually master the literary arts by being
overwhelmingly passionate for the pleasures that are
illustrated with the beautification of the art of words
compiling thoughts and experiences together to assist his voice
evaluating the chosen words by making sure that they all fit harmoniously as one.
When poets die, their words live on
You see them everywhere
They're written in the moon and stars
Or maybe a humble prayer
They're written in the morning sun
As the sunshine brings us light
You can find them in the sunsets
That usher in the night
They're written in the summer breeze
That tempt the leaves to dance
They're written in the beautiful flowers
That brings the spring romance
They're written in the winter snows
As snowflakes start to fall
They're written in the autumn leaves
In trees both big and small
When poets die, their words live on
Waiting for someone to use
Their words will never pass away
For the world is the poet's muse
THOUGHTS LOST
I am I and I wish I wasn’t
I’d much rather be real
Not a thought from time to time
Or a feeling one conceals
From a world that is
But isn’t
Hope is just a phase of the moon
Setting all night long
Its shadows keep the scars that sleep
This lamenting lullaby, sisyphus’ song
A rising rock
Falls down too soon
Is the secret in clarity
Or in being subdued
Is it chasing the sun
Or being pursued???
Sentences are made of words
And the separating spaces
It’s all scale
Phone calls or faces
Messages or mail
But language fills the gaps regardless
Sentences are made of words and the separating spaces
If words are the spaces between us
How hollow are we?
You dislike poetry
because you think
you do not speak it,
never listening,
because you cannot see it down in ink.
You’ve not heard your honeyed words glistening,
but I have heard you
speak in meter sweet
and metaphor and simile sublime.
To walk in verse,
you needn’t count your feet,
nor is it necessary all lines rhyme.
You disown your words
and deny your tongue
to say you have no interest in verse,
ignorant of the images you’ve sung
and of your own soul’s music
(which is worse).
Poetry’s no academic notion;
its function is to express emotion.
The words I write are best defined
As tiny pieces of soul
Trapped within my troubled mind
An ache I can't console
The memories and the heartaches
Dripping through my pen
Tell the stories of my mistakes
And regret I feel within
They will tell you who I am today
And what I used to be
They'll tell you all I have to say
If you'll look carefully
The words I write are lifetime earned
Through joy, strife and pain
Memories of the things I've learned
Are now my paper's stain
Held captive by her agony
Her quill, the hero's sword
She writes like a damsel in distress
With freedom as her reward
Her knights in shining armor
Are the words that set her free
They surround her pain in one accord
To slay her misery
This dragon known as "Heartache"
Has left the poet maim
The words she writes will heal her soul
And extinguish the dragon's flame
The sword once more in the poet's hand
Gathers together her knights
Each hero lands a lethal blow
Whenever the poet writes
The poet lays her weapon down
Rescued from all her pain
The damsel closes her eyes to sleep
Her dragon finally slain
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