I stepped out yesterday,
with no money for food,
no money for rent.
Only a T-shirt, jeans, and shoes,
that's enough, I told myself.
In my bag, my laptop,
my copies, my pen.
I am writing two things now,
one book, Always Go Up,
and one novel about my life.
I have nothing in my hands,
but I have a dream in England,
to become a PhD doctor.
I don't know how I will pay,
I don't know how I will eat,
but I know I will make my dream come true.
Before the feminine
Had in the feline
What kept as sweet company with.
And more so tranquil!
Bedded, if back of me.
If days not nightly.
Love-snug purrs, if unstroked too
And sleepy, heard still.
"Sometimes there are No feelings, just words that talk very loud." By Poet
Come let me tell you a story,
about a want to be writer.
A young girl's notebook filled,
filled with her writings.
How a teacher put her and her writings down,
letting the class laugh at her work.
She knew she had something to say,
even if they did not believe in her.
She believed in herself,
even when the world was in doubt.
She used ink as her paints for painting,
on her canvas called paper.
She learned about rhymes and limericks,
along with verse, acrostic and more.
So many styles to choose from,
what was a girl to do?
Just write more for her readers,
telling stories in her poems.
She loved how her magical words,
seemed to go dancing across the paper.
When she found PoetrySoup,
she felt like she had come home.
Other writers to help her learn,
even correcting her from time to time.
Comments to inspire her,
bringing out her creativity and imagination.
A true writer writes from their heart,
never letting anyone stop them.
the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
Your dress dazzling bright, my mind flying high, like a kite.
Beyond the clouds, into the starry night,
To meet the goddess’ might. Though, she just intends to fright.
Even with her pearly white light, her life is naught, but to plight.
However, I myself cannot seem to become her light, in the darkness of night.
Say Something ...
Don’t juxtapose pretty words
because you think
they sound good together
Say Something ...
(James River Writer’s Conference: October, 2016)
I Van Gough,
love my paints and canvas.
My brush is dancing with dark blue,
as it covers the white canvas.
I see yellow as a luminous moon in my work,
like the bright sun outside my window.
A little white for depth,
white is all colors as one.
Black is needed to make this night dark,
because my night sky is filled with swirling stars,
with a village and cypress trees looking mysterious.
I create with paints and canvas,
my writer friend creates with ink,
a quill pen on paper.
My work comes alive with paint,
my friend comes alive with words.
Now almost finished,
I want it to be about a heavenly night,
I see a "Starry Night,"
this should be your name.
"Starry Night,"
Painted By Vincent Van Gogh in 1889.
My laptop greets me daily
with the confidence of a cat~
smug, blinking, and absolutely certain
I am the problem.
I type a brilliant sentence;
it responds by freezing mid-word,
as if to say, “Let’s not rush genius.”
(I was not rushing. I was caffeinated.)
At 42% battery, it sighs dramatically,
dims the screen,
and collapses like a Victorian poet
who has felt too much.
I write heroic journey,
it changes it to herbal jelly,
which is… a different story entirely.
But at the end of the day,
we make peace~
me with my stubborn ideas,
it with its mysterious moods~
two flawed artists
trying to create something
before one of us crashes.
the starving novelist writes,
ink thinning like his sleepless nights~
a hunger that still ignites.
An extra scribble
appears beside my own draft
across the blank page.
The words arrive more swiftly
yet who really spoke them?
Together we weave
a cloth, neither hand could make—
Collaboration!
At dawn I can't untangle
who wrote each word in the thread.
A ghost at my desk,
finished unfinished thoughts,
before I wrote them.
I gain a clearer voice, yet
lose the sense of - by and with.
By Phan Tan Hai
Opening the book, reading a few pages,
the words shine like precious jade—
a hidden diamond strength
stepping past the realm of sorrow.
The young girl’s laughter of long ago
echoes along the lines;
a strand of hair tied into the poem,
waiting for some future life of peace.
Following the Buddha pointing at the moon,
I mistake it again for a jade hand;
wading endlessly through the stream of prose,
someone’s laughter sounds like weeping.
A time when hair was very green,
a time of ten thousand words;
now the smile is soundless,
now the words are wordless.
By Phan Tan Hai
ink drained, the hand tilts, weary—
the page says its farewell;
fragrant with a century’s words,
the poet’s soul closes its eyes.
the lines lean, trembling,
the hand grows tired;
the verse exhales smoke,
chilling the page,
piercing deep into my soul;
a drop of ink rolls,
round and unending.
By Phan Tan Hai
Leaving the quiet countryside for the city,
he remembered the grass wet with night dew,
remembered sunlight on ripened rice fields,
remembered sutra-chanting drifting softly from temples.
He wrote onto paper the soul of ancient towers,
lifting his brush with a sorrowful ink.
Loneliness seemed to gather and settle—
he asked where the true spring source might be found.
Upwards is his destination
Lost is his designation
No call from Stars above
No message of half-hearted love
Green reconnects with Red to combine
As our Smith relaxes his invisible spine
His journey so far has been to hone and refine
It is all he can muster, so far out of line
No matter his blindness, he saunters past
The Fire's Cot, mid-molten blast
Making Names wander, til' the Bellows blow
Up stairways, they travel, where our Smith now goes
Steep and coarse, the walkway is cobbled
Thrown together, stone and metal were knobbled
Though our Smith travels slowly with a slippery crawl
He soon gains some confidence, and takes steps, small
Almost like a snail with it's juice left behind
Our Smith leaves a trail a hunter could find
Green and Red splotches on a watery rind
Moving unbothered by secrets enshrined
He shivers and coils to the top of this 'case
Wriggling his body to scream from his face
"CaN i PlEaSe ReTuRn To ThE BoSs' GrAcE?!
i KnOw I'm NoT aLoNe In ThIs SpAcE!"
The steps begin to brightly glow
A clear departure from ash and shadow
The metal grey shifts to a sharpened Pink
"A fallen Smith is a missing Link."
"A true writer must write. Ink is in their veins." By Poet
Writers love their many letters to choose from,
letters turning into words then into sentences.
Poems come from the love of writing,
writing about the past or maybe about the present.
Poems can be true or false,
some will make you cry and others will make you laugh.
The writer and reader are both in love,
in love with letters, words, sentences and reading.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.