Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
quote by Don Marquis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
quote by Don Marquis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Special Greeting card
I was really amazed
It's from our Grandson!
A pencil drawing of a Gocart
Two old fashioned figures sitting inside
And he pushes.
Oh! He writes poetry in capital letters
Perhaps he thinks that we cannot read simple letters?
'Do not worry my dear Grandma & Grandpa
Sorry, I heard that your car has run into a junk-yard.
When I come to America
I'll push you to Grand Canyon in my cart
If you guide me along the road?
I pasted some pictures of Grand Canyon on my scrap-book
You know my girl friend 'Priyanwada' gave me.'
*I added this;
Hey! Sonny you looks like your naughty old Man
And why don't you send us her photograph?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Time Of Poetry Has Come
THE TIME OF POETRY HAS COME
The time of Poetry has come
I feel it within myself
Somehow waiting to be said
Worlds are hidden
And feel ready to come into being-
The time of Poetry is here
And I am writing now easily
Yet somehow within the poetry
And beyond it
Is something that needs to be said
Which my poetry now cannot say-
The Poetry the real Poetry
May be within me
And yet beyond myself
So that what I am writing now
Is not it,
But only an excuse for mentioning that
It can never really be mine.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Rose Petal
A Rose Petal
By: Artistic Perspective
September 15,2009
Age 12
A Rose Petal quickly falls off its rose.
I see that it's falling quickly, but in my mind I see it slowly.
What's pleasant about a piece of itself ripping, tearing away?
The only pleasant thought about it, is it will grow a new rose.
I watch the petal fall and plummet.
Until it hits the ground.
Rose petals, Rose petals, are all around.
Why must they fall off?
The rose is now unwhole.
Hopefully, it will come back,
Restore the rose's soul.
poem by Poem hunters
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Jagged Edges
Imagine, yourself-no, be there! -in a canyon,
Crisscrossed with sharp steel edges,
Rim to rim,
The Grand Canyon of canyons;
You're at the bottom-
There is no way out
Unslicing yourself.
That's the blues, not the greens,
(Like the colored wedges) ,
You feel wedged in every day
In the canyon of imperfection.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Friends Never Say Goodbye
Friends never say
goodbye...
But you and me
will never be the
same again.
Our friendship is
like a dying rose...
Every petal falls
off.
Every single rose petal
means something....
What you did to our
friendship is that
rose petal.
I’m sorry....but that
rose...is never going
to grow back....
And neither is our
friendship.
poem by Lisa Parks
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Petal of a Rose
A whole forest of them,
Or just a single petal of a rose,
Is enough,
Grasp it in my hand,
Grasp it I shall,
In hurricanes or normal rainy days,
It won't leave my caring palms,
That one petal of a rose,
To remind me of the rose in all her beauty,
But the rose is gone,
In some other forest some place far,
A forest forbidden to me,
There it blooms without me,
Only because of this fool's mistake,
So please do not escape or leave me,
Petal of a rose,
poem by Paurakh Shrestha
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A Rose Petal
A Rose Petal
By: Artistic Perspective
September 15,2009
Age 12
A Rose Petal quickly falls off its rose.
I see that it's falling quickly, but in my mind I see it slowly.
What's pleasant about a piece of itself ripping, tearing away?
The only pleasant thought about it, is it will grow a new rose.
I watch the petal fall and plummet.
Until it hits the ground.
Rose petals, Rose petals, are all around.
Why must they fall off?
The rose is now unwhole.
Hopefully, it will come back,
Restore the rose's soul.
poem by Artistic Perspective
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Red, Red Rose
Red, red rose, she blew her breath
Fingers, it’s stem she caressed
Then she closed her eyes and breathed the fragrance in
Tell me red, red rose, where does love end
She placed the rose, gently against her lips
She plucked a single petal, with finger tips
And as the wind caught and carried up high
Tell me red, red rose, can love it fly
Slowly one by one, each petal fell
Upon the last in her eye, a tear it swelled
And then she sighed as she asked to her self
Tell me red, red rose, is for love, is this what’s left
Red, red rose, red, red rose
You stand for love you should know
Should we hold on tight with all our might
Must one day we let go
Red, red rose, red, red rose
Your petals fly in the breeze
If I let go, red, red rose
What becomes of me.
Copyright 2006 Bill Simmons
aka BillWilliamStar
[email protected]
poem by Bill Simmons
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The Days Of Waiting
an old man
a black book
a cigarette
and some smoke
a room
a black suit
a table and a footstool
a poetry to read
and then
a sound sleep....
there are dreams that follow
soon
but like his grand
days of youth
he will find it hard to remember..
his days and nights
are nothing but matters of waiting
and waiting
all these
drag.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Petal Game
pick a flower
to play the petal game
pluck a petal
he loves me
pluck a petal
I don't love him
pluck a petal
he keeps getting closer
pluck a petal
I keep pushing him away
pluck a petal
he is always around me
pluck a petal
I hide away from him
pluck a petal
he is always protecting me
pluck a petal
I just punch him in the gut
pluck a petal
he never seems to get it
pluck a petal
I really hate his guts
pluck a petal
he just really bugs me
pluck a petal
I need a new flower now
pick a flower
to play the petal game
poem by Amber Lyn Charneski
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Poetry
Poetry.......
Poetry defines me
Poetry.......
A place where you be you and I'll be me.
Poetry.......
We are best friends for eternity.
My Poetry.......
Is the daughter of my emotion,
There I've said it, no need to interpret the connection.
Poetry.......
Where my pen and paper are sealed with a kiss,
So easy to write for my mind is a bliss.
Poetry.......
Poetry has multiple meanings,
An indescribable feeling when I realize others understand them.
My Poetry.......
It just comes natural to me.
My Poetry.......
Is out there, , , , , away from exile,
And style of writing is very versatile.
Poetry.......Poetry.......
P oetry.......
It speaks out to me.
poem by Anita Khelawan
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...
Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.
But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'
Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.
The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.
Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.
I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.
It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?
poem by Maddy Macleod
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Gertrude Stein is interviewed on American poetry
and there was the knocking on the door
that we were expecting
and it was the man
that we were expecting
with the questions we were expecting
to which answers were expected
by those who expect answers
as if life were like that
which for writers it is not
yes, tea was drunk
and after tea the tape recorder set up
so that what I said
I would continue to say
somewhere else
even when I changed my mind
here and nowhere else
and he said Ms Stein
what do you think of American poetry
and we said well it's American
and it's poetry
that's as it should be
and really that's all there is to say
and the man looked disappointed
so we asked him did he read poetry
and he said poetry no I dont read poetry
but my editor does
so I said it's really about Americans
living their lives
that's what American poetry is really about
because Americans move around
and so their words move around and
words in English have lost their intensity
but American words are always on the move
and they are more intense
yes, Americans living among Americans
and talking to their neighbours
if it's not about that
it's not really American poetry at all is it
if it's not about that
then why bother writing poetry
and the man was asking about a rose
being a rose being a rose and we said
for a hundred years the rose
has not been red in poetry
but now for the first time in a hundred years
the rose is red again
and the man looked at his watch
and said thank you Ms Stein
and was switching off his tape recorder
and a month later that
was what we said
in a magazine much read
by Americans who mostly
are not poets no very few but we said it
we know that this is so
because we read it there
and we think that really
that was all there was to say
because that was all we think
is really important
about American Poetry
that the words move like Americans move
and that is exciting for a writer
and that is the important thing about
American Poetry
poem by Michael Shepherd
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If You Hate Poetry
i have read that somewhere,
if you hate poetry
you have to get
this book,
buy it, and
you will love
it.
sales talk.
if you really hate poetry,
why buy
a book of poetry?
you may dislike me
but poems
are nothing but
spits
of something
that you do not
want to stay
inside your throat
all i need
is a little relief
from this
urge to vomit
and here you
are
reading mine.
(i am
laughing)
so do you really hate
poetry?
k, buy that book
you will really
love it
(the book)
and hate the more
what you hated most.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Everywhere I go
There's something I really need
Everyone I know
Is someone I want to be
Even though
I don't really know me
I better pick it up
Before I let it slip away
I better stick it out
Before I take another day
Into mouth
Everything I say fades out
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Can I open up your eyes?
Only when the clouds break?
Can I feel the light?
Even though the world shakes
Every night,
You're my quiet satellite
Can I hold you close?
Do her out of focus
And everything I know
I don't even know this
It all falls through
I'm here and I hear you
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cause I need to, just to reach you
Do you hear me?
Coming clearly?
Am I hollow?
Just an echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sarah Palin - now don't laugh - is writing a book. Not just reading a book, writing a book. Actually, in the word of the publisher, she's 'collaborating' on a book. What an embarrassment! It's one of these 'I told you,' books that jocks do.
quote by Chris Matthews
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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