A poem is learned by heart and then not again repeated. We will suppose that after a half year it has been forgotten: no effort of recollection is able to call it back again into consciousness.
quote by Hermann Ebbinghaus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Canada With Love
two opposite time zones
we know it but not so different geographically
we must so suppose
you have forgotten to write a poem
for me
but i still write one poem for you
to remember
that someone from one of the islands
in the Far East
still cares for you and worries much
when you start to have
insomnia
i will never be cold as a snow there
there is not such coldness
here in my heart
i will be always as warm as the sun that
you first saw here
soft as the foams of the sea
where you first learned how to swim
gentle as the marshes
floating on the river where we tried
to catch fish on a summer day
it is a promise. Good Night.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Physical Poetry
The physics of poetry
is best explained in a mind experiment
in the construction of this very poem.
As I write the question becomes
what is the word-next and its origins?
Now what word-next can be
is a question of probabilities;
since if I choose rhyme as my scheme
and since the words which will rhyme are finite
and not infinite
the only question then becomes
which one of these will I choose.
Now if I choose a word-next outside
rhyming
then I risk not making poetic sense
since writing a gibberish word,
or one not related to the whole,
would be judged word-next nonsense.
Now we ask who or what in the brain
is making these two decisions
is it me or is it something mysterious;
is it drawing upon the past and memory
or from an instantaneous present
or even perhaps from my future?
Or is it just random choices I make
without even understanding them?
But suppose it is something we call
consciousness which exists
in the brain-cloud of cells which
can with millions of possibilities
produce a entirely new idea
which by definition
can come to exist
like language itself
and produce something never before said;
and now is being compiled in the brain
in this very instant and brought into existence.
That is humans have with language
the ability to create sentences
which have never before existed,
spoken or written because some languages have
enough words in them to make these permutations
near infinite and hence new ideas possible therewith.
Suppose the same is true of the human mind
and human senses make possible from this
this exercise we call
the idea.
So beyond the physical aspects of the brain
there must be a non-physical aspect we call
consciousness, the spiritual, or whatever
word we choose as its name.
Now the other half of the transaction
is even more amazing:
I just made up a new idea
never been expressed before
and can talk to you about it
and given enough clues
it becomes something you understand
and you yourself can write
a poem about.
This must be trans-consciousness
which is now a double miracle
nobody understands.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Telling the bees
It was the year before last that
I started to notice it.
Bees wandered into the house
then didn’t remember the way back
Bees. Whose sense of direction used to be
great than any Indian scout;
as if mankind had lost its most valuable gift
-what might that be?
Scientists are still working on the reasons.
There were more lost bees last year;
when they’re half exhausted and quieten down,
staying on the window pane for a few second more,
I take a jam jar and a piece of paper
and take them to the door
talking to them as I did when
I buried that baby swallow when I was four;
indecipherable words that I would use
to a cat run over in the road,
a child in pain; some sort of sounds
of consolation for what’s beyond words anyway
that only music could express.
It’s ancient: you should talk to bees;
tell them of all that affects the house, the family;
when there’s a death, you put a piece of black cloth
on the hive. In return, they do things for you
that are beyond your notice or their explanation.
How can I tell them, we’re so sorry for you, we don’t know,
when we do we’ll tell you; it’s probably our fault,
chemicals and stuff. So far this year, only one
huge bumble-bee, I couldn’t catch it;
it hid from me. Perhaps they’ve learned
whatever it is they had forgotten;
perhaps they risked their lives
to warn us: you too have forgotten
something that could kill your species:
you too, have forgotten the way back…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To E. H. K.
ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM
To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath
From some far forest which I once have known,
The perfume of this flower of verse is blown.
Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death,
Naught that with joy she bears e'er withereth.
So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown,
Lives come and gone and altered like mine own,
This poem comes to me a shibboleth:
Brings sound of past communings to my ear,
Turns round the tide of time and bears me back
Along an old and long untraversed way;
Makes me forget this is a later year,
Makes me tread o'er a reminiscent track,
Half sad, half glad, to one forgotten day!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem
THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-
I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-
A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Forgotten Angel I'm Without You
The eyes bleed form the insides
The head collapses on impact
How am I suppose to react
The sweat pours from my forehead
You were thought to be dead
With so much left unsaid
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
I'm so sorry
You lied in a comma
Three years pasted
The doctor said you'd never wake
Oh how the heart breaks
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
You've missed so much since you supposedly died
I got married
And it wasn't you
Now I feel so blue
Sad
Twisted
Torn
Ripped into a thousand pieces
Let me choke till my breathing ceases
I got a couple nieces
Baby twins
I wonder if I can ever be forgiven
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
Oh the mistake I made
But I now got to be brave
I won't allow myself to be torn in two
A get well card will never due
My forgotten angel
Being so brave
My forgotten angel
Learning to talk again
My forgotten angel
Learning to walk again
I will stay away once your okay
So I don't wonder what could have been
I feel like your next of kin
I will pretend we were never together at all
I will always want to answer that phone call
My forgotten angel
I'm sorry
I can't
I moved on without you
Without you
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Last Poem Of The Year
THE LAST POEM OF THE YEAR
The last poem of the year
Has Happiness as its message
Has Sadness as its theme
Has Love as its Longing
And Repentance as its meaning-
The last poem of the year
Has gratitude to God
And prayer for those I love
And prayer for healing for
sick-friends and family-
The last poem of the year
Has quiet as its message
And silence as its theme
And kindness as its longing
And hope for the next year
As its blessing-
The last poem of the year-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Last Year
I may be in my Junior year.
But next year is my last year.
As I look back on the time I’ve been here,
And it feels like my first day as a freshman.
No matter what year I’m in school, I will always be meeting new people.
Most of the people I meet is the people who had moved away,
Now coming back.
Half the friends you come in with,
Will end up being half the friends you won’t be friends with.
So far what I am trying to say is that you need cherish the moments you have.
In a blink of an eye it will all be over.
You say your years won’t be like that
And when you graduate you say where does it go.
My Last Year’s about to begin! !
poem by Natasha Knowles
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Out Loud
would you be the wind to blow me home
would you be a dream
on the wings of a poem
and if you were walking through a crowd
you know I'd be proud
[CHORUS:]
if you call my name out loud
do you suppose that I would come running
do you suppose I'd come at all
I suppose I would
and if we were walking
down a dead end street
would you be the one to let our eyes meet
or would you just keep on walking
down to the turn around
'cause you know I'd be proud
[CHORUS]
and if I was gone from the land we know
would be the dawn
and let your beauty still show
and if you were walking
and heard the cold night coming
would you call my name
'cause you know I'd come running
song performed by by Dispatch from Bang Bang
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothing..
This poem is not about love..
This poem is not about pain..
This poem is not about the things i have learned...
This poem is not for the broken hearted..
This poem is not for the ones seeking help..
This poem is not for the depressed...
This poem is for no one,
Because no one can contain nothing...
This poem is not filled with wisdom..
This poem was not written with love...
This poem was not written for a lover nor a brother...
This poem was nothing special...
Not quite remarkable....
But it is nothing because that what it was...
Nothing and it will never be anything...
poem by Jenna Marie
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I should point out that I was intimately involved with a group of women here a year and a half ago when there was an effort made by a right wing element in the President's party to get him to turn back the clock.
quote by Birch Bayh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Every Poem Is Another Effort
EVERY POEM IS ANOTHER EFFORT
Every poem is another effort
To make the Unknown-
Smile.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote In Mind/ A Poem Today
I wrote in mind
a poem today
Now it is forgotten
Like so much dust
Its disappearance
Means nothing to anyone
But myself.
I write this poem now
A lesser poem
To understand again
The best of what I do
Most likely will be
Forgotten.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different.
quote by William James
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epiphany, Dead Man Walking
i learned to walk again,
the day you drove away
and left me standing in the drive...
i learned to see again,
staring at old photographs
in a book hid away.
i learned to think again,
thinking, and rethinking
every move and every action.
i learned to feel again,
struck dumb with waves of sorrow,
with blood on my lips.
i learned to cry again,
in the dark and sleepless night,
when no one else could see.
i learned to fight again,
pushed back against the wall
with nothing left to lose.
i learned to pray again,
to a God that doesnt answer,
from the gates of hell.
i learned to dream again,
violent shaking nightmares,
waking up to a cold sweat.
i learned to love again
to cherish every moment,
every touch forgotten.
i learned to walk again,
and walked off into the sunset
with our hearts in my hands.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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It’s time to seal my father’s book
The one I’ve been given while he was still alive
Sometime before the year 2000
I filled it in last year
After so many years of not writing
Posted some of its contents
It contains
Like so many previously empty pages
Lots of something and bits of half nothing
And I’m sure that this peace of information is totally irrelevant
For the readers
Except for the fact
That there are always pages that need to remain just that
The pages and nothing else
Even though they contain things that should not be forgotten
That will not be forgotten
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night
I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.
I go back to where I am
And begin again.
There is always a poem if one is patient enough.
But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?
I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.
This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence
One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -
Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Told You So - Carrie Underwood
Suppose I called you up tonight,
And told you that I love you,
And suppose I said I wanna come back home.
And suppose I cried and said I think
I finally learned my lesson, and I'm
Tired of spendin' all my time alone.
If I told you that I realized
You're all I ever wanted,
And it's killin' me to be so far away.
Would you tell me that you love me, too,
And would we cry together,
Or would you simply laugh at me and say...
(Chorus)
I told you so, oh, I told you so,
I told you someday you'd come
Crawlin' back and askin' me to take you in.
I told you so, but you had to go.
Now, I've found somebody new,
And you will never break
My heart in two again.
If I got down on my knees, and told you I was yours forever,
Would you get down on yours, too,
And take my hand?
Would we get that old-time feelin',
Would we laugh and talk for hours,
The way we did when our love first began?
Would you tell me that you've missed me, too,
And that you've been so lonely,
And you've waited for the day that I returned?
And we'd live and love forever,
And that I'm your one and only,
Or would you say the table's finally turned?
And would you say...
(Chorus)
Now, I've found somebody new,
And you will never break
My heart in two again.
poem by Rebecca Ryan
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