I used to get heartfelt thanks
I used to get honest words.
Maybe sometimes I'm too frank
and I apologize for everytime I curse.
Where did all the people go?
All the people who felt my words in their bones.
Where did all the people go?
Maybe you think I write just for me.
Maybe you think I type it all up just to see
my own words on my own computer screen.
I guess I thought you related to me.
Imagined I wrote your feelings for you when it wasn't easy.
Thought I had some sort of impact/effect.
I was wrong, it was just a crazy dream.
Where did all the people go?
I'm still here, writing away.
Sometimes you respond with a "nice write, keep it up"
and sometimes I think I'll just give this *crap* up.
Where did all the people go?
I miss you, come back?
Even if you disagree
write me, tell me how you really feel...
I think I may have walked with him
and talked of life and simple things.
We mended walls together, and then
talked of poetry and what it brings..
He told me how his life unfolded
and how the words began to flow.
How promises that he made, he kept,
described the woods filled up with snow..
I stood with him that day in Washington
and so proudly held his aging hand,
as he spoke about the Gift Outright
and hopes for JFK in our troubled land...
This lovely dream of mine I cherish.
His words speak directly to my heart ;
Of common man and treasured places,
he was a quiet man, a man apart.....
Her words were soft like a summer breeze
with thought as gentle as the wind
Printed or spoken to put the mind at ease
Emoting deep feelings from within
With love as her quest she sojourns through rhyme
Telling wondrous tales passionately placed in time
As you read her thoughts on the printed page
The wisdom of lost love
Gentle passionate rage
You feel all the hurt
and bask in the warmth of her smile
She invites the curious hearted to stay awhile
Caught up in the rapture of loves soft melody
You let yourself go easy and drift most gracefully
Easing through the fires of loves raging embrace
She dances with your inner soul
To a warm and caring place
With sweet poetic reason
She will slowly reel you in
With a smile warmed by the season
For true love to begin
There is no fear of leaving
True loving hearts they will stay
The lady of poetic reason
Her words will show the way
You tell me I am beautiful
Why are those words so hard for me to accept
I swallow so hard
It is hard to believe
Low self esteem
Why cannot I take a compliment
I go by day to day
Feeling like well you know
The words I cannot express
Its just how it is
I am this
I choose to try to understand
To let you love
To trust
To let you let me choose to realize I am just a woman trying to make it on this
complicated land.
A poet cannot always be understood,
but those that can reach us are better than good.
There’s one at the Soup for both young and old.
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold.
One poet I like who writes in this way
is very unique, and that’s why I say
when God made this man, he sure broke the mold!
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold.
So whether in rhyme, in free verse or haiku;
in senryu, sijo, or in dodoitsu,
the good doctor rocks it, and so you’ve been told!
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold.
Avoiding Gossip
By Elton Camp
“But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give
account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words thou shalt be justified,
and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.” Mathew 12: 36, 37
Gossip was started by Satan in the Garden of Eden
Eve believed the forbidden fruit they were needin’
She passed the word of the serpent along to her mate
And the final result, both of them soon came to hate
Gossiping and listening have continued up to this day
Very few can claim that they never have done that way
“I don’t know whether this is true or not” is their word
But then they proceed to repeat the thing they have heard
But wait, this applies not only to “them,” but also to me
I can’t rightly make the claim to be of hurtful gossip free
First of all, I need to remove the rafter out of my own eye
Only then to extract the straw from my neighbor’s I can try
Gossip can be deliberate and done with all malicious intent
But also, as nothing other than harmless chat it can be meant
But we must consider that each time the story is repeated,
Evil additions can be made while any good is also deleted
Putting words and “wards” in my words
I’m not wayward, but waying words into their ward
The world’s words are wayward
But my words are “rhyming” “way” “words”
My world, are full of words
But the world is full of wrongs
Yes! I’ll right the wrong by rhyming words
With writing rights, I’ll write right
My “right”, my ways, my words, my world,
Hmmm, “way words”,
Will change our world.
Vancouver's a private reference and it's not really about Canada as a whole, just one
experience regarding the aforementioned. Shh!
Schwein Fleisch vs schweinefleisch. As two distinct words it literally means "pig skin" as
one word it means "pork". I mean it as two distinct words so that it can tie in with
"pound of flesh". I was going to have "haut" but apparently "schweinhaut" is actually a
surname. Oh those unlucky few who roam the world as Mr and Mrs Pig-Skin! :(
__________
Vancouver
Chasing rainbows along horizons
Is insane. Clear misunderstanding.
You left the city and your pound of flesh.
Schwein Fleisch.
We were young, laughing and colliding
Corrupt to the claws. We were
Writing endlessly, listlessly and so
Apologetic. Pathetic fallacy
The downpour flooded the chalk into grey.
Of course we wrote about you.
Reviews were decadent and ego-manipulating.
We were akin with it. The world was always a
Spectrum of amazing.
Had to run.
Through the rainbow with
Your look of Old Nick.
No explanation.
Schwein Fleisch.
We make mockery their fates
Knowing that mishaps have no dates
Priding ourselves in our states
We fail to see our dirty slates
But I see their smile and ask why
Understanding their language,I try
In true innocence ,they do fly
As on their privacy,I do pry
But I would rather turn a deaf ear
Than to hear to words to fear
I marvel at their silent cheer
As I seek to draw near
I would rather go dumb
Than say words to make you numb
I watch my talk and chew gum
As I seek to hurt none
our beloved brother from India
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
board his magic carpet
woven with wit, intellect and insight
soar through sagas steeped in mythology
captivating revelations on cultural tradition
unique perspectives on historical events
clever concepts conveyed with humor
psychology, philosophy, behavior observations
materialize as “Mehtaisms”
stirring the soup
adding spice to the broth
supporting work of members new and old
our international melting pot
enriched by the work of a Literary Doctor
salute a special sage who graces us with gifts
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
* Dedicated to Dr. Ram Mehta in honor of Joe Maverick’s “Better than Gold” contest
James is my name with its historic meaning
An important king bore this name
Carrying it to its royal fame,
One reason why this name I’m esteeming
King James gave us the Bible in English
For which I am so proud
I say the words low or loud
But I could never speak Yiddish.
In the holy writ, more than one person shared
This name so renowned.
Oh, how she loved its sound ,
The name Mama always declared.
My uncle called me by a nickname;
He wanted to call me Jim
But Mama had words with him
She told him that JAMES is my name.
So family and friends, all my life,
Called me what Mom named me,
For that was her earnest plea.
Substitutes pierced her like a knife.
But I had a livelihood and bread to win
There, co-workers gave me a moniker
For which they would prefer—
They called me Jimmy or simply Jim.
Other aliases have been most replete,
Such as Whimpy, and Daneymoco,
Else, a-k-a, Hey You, or Jimbo.
Regardless, I will always come to eat.
For the "WHAT'S IN A NAME?" Contest
Sponsored by Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.
I think I may have walked with him
and talked of life and simple things.
We mended walls together, and then
talked of poetry and what it brings..
He told me how his life unfolded
and how the words began to flow.
How promises that he made, he kept,
described the woods filled up with snow..
I stood with him that day in Washington
and so proudly held his aging hand,
as he spoke about the Gift Outright
and hopes for JFK in our troubled land...
This lovely dream of mine I cherish.
His words speak directly to my heart ;
Of common man and treasured places,
he was a quiet man, a man apart.....
Mean is meaningless,
has not
it’s meaning here, I
proclaim
without which he will
die and rot
lest it my cruel beast
shall tame
forked tongue speaks only
violence
doomed fate by kind word or
belief
extinguish and stake claim it’s’
silence
turning peaceful over
new leaf
no value rendered is
but nil
his only power I
assign
I’ll mount him not from
molehill
to him mind’s peace do I
resign
Intention does define
one’s deed
bearing fruitless vine, Mean
does sow
may I not gossip, bear
this seed
bless, in you that, Mean’s seed
not grow
tolerance of Mean, I
refuse
wish words reflect my kind
intent
this world may we all then
infuse
Same song, sung again,
and sent
we know not what harm we
may cause
with cruel intentions’ turn
of phrase
might words break tender heart
because
we mend words, yet mend not,
our ways
The words we speak
How clever, how cheap
With just a whisper
We turn cities into glitter
I feel the need for mourning
No, it’s just no good
We’re just no good
What’s the use in proselytizing
The enigmatic, homophobic, problematic, religious fanatic?
Speaking words with little meaning
What’s the use in spewing words with no residual resonance?
Clicking the clicker, hoping for a flicker
Just a bit of sugary static
The manic’s are always the ones to leave everything undone
We make fun of worthless things
Wealthy women with loaded egos
Surrounded by air heads, a multitude of morons
It’s bad enough I have to endure feelings I can’t express
Must I entertain the notion of a people with good intentions?
Left captive in a cage
Stuck here, engaged in a fit of rage
I hope to negate the arrogant & obstinate
From enjoying the fruits of my cerebral labor.
We die at tender ages,
while ambitions are still young;
we are trials and failures.
Poets are people too.
Our wastes stink like everyone’s.
We cry, we hoot.
We love, we show disgust.
Poets are people too.
The same lips that brought comfort to the oppressed
and shout approvals for things well done,
utter dark enchantments
and trumped-up stories.
Poets are people too.
Our fables of love bring descents
and eternal anguish to the beguiled.
Our soft words stir wilting souls to endure,
and cast delight into tearful eyes.
Poets are people too.
Our words are mummies,
preserved for scrutiny.
We echoed the defiance for ethics,
and bend revolting spirits to resign.
We mold soft hearts as cruel as stones,
and corrupt beautiful minds.
Poets are people too.
We are mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts;
we are children, delightful children.
We are the voices of ten thousands suffering.
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