Occasionally it does hit me, the words on a page. And I still love doing that, as I have for the last 60 years.
quote by Harold Pinter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A waltz of words...
Like ingredients in some magical cosmic recipe,
I pour my words onto a blank empty page,
My fingers caressing the letters on each key,
Like the instruments in an orchestra without sound,
Each sentence paints a picture in words,
An alphabet of paint I have come to know so well,
To free my words from the page all you need do is read,
For only then may they swirl through the air,
Alive with their own meaning and motion,
A waltz of words... Dancing within your synapses...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet's Page
All the words that fill a poet's page
can never convey love's feeling.
For all we know and think about love
is only what we're feeling.
The page itself is a bit of relief
as the words spill upon it.
But as the poet spells out the emotion
it seems as if they omit
the deepest and sweetest part of love
that words can never convey.
For the innermost ardor that's everlasting
is too hard for the pen to say.
But say it they must or die inside
and little by little sicken.
And write it they must or never be
able to feel their heart quicken.
And what words can come
that can live through the pain
of unfulfilled love that does remain.
The pen is just an extension
of the brain that's overworked tonite.
Oh that it had the power to bring
to me sweet delight
instead of another lonely,
lonely and empty night.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Wasted Words Of All The Years
THE WASTED WORDS OF ALL THE YEARS
The wasted words of all the years-
The time given to them-
A lifetime given to words
Never to be read.
Yet how I lived in those years.
And what hope I had in those words
And how I told my dreams in them
And how I tried to help those I loved.
No one needs the words
And no one wants them
But perhaps the life itself
In writing them
That too counts.
All the years of the words and the dreams and the hopes and the love of those I loved and the striving for greatness not to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Anniversary Poem to My Darling Gloria
The years fly our love grows stronger
Time bonds our life truly fonder
Weekday Sunday every day
Decades prove love will stay,
These words I say I know are true
Simply fact that ‘I love you'
.
.
NB.As teenagers 19 and 16 we wed
57 years ago July 1955. I wrote a poem
‘Gloria' {Published and sits on the
First page of an anthology of 200 poems]
Beauties Nucleus Gloria.
My darling,
If I was a painter
a master of repute,
A genius of deft strokes
to sketch the charcoal base.
One thousand years of learning
need I,
indeed,
to reproduce the beauty
that dwells within your soul,
and reflects upon your face.
poem by Ken e Hall
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The Poems Went Away
THE POEMS WENT AWAY
The poems went away.
Nothing inside.
An empty will for poetry
Forcing words on the page,
Words without music
Without resonance
Without great implication
Meaning.
Write, write, write
Lest you die.
And the words themselves
A kind of desperate uphill catching of breath
On the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Fading ink
Fading ink
~
the words which flowed
from pen to page
in a steady stream
have trickled silently
into a vacant space
silent prose sits impatiently
awaiting the spark
to ignite inspiration
to fire up the pen
and resume its flow
of words from pen to paper
but a nothingness holds
space for rent across the page
a canvas of thought
where words once ran
the old ink fades
in the light of a new day
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Three Little Words
Three little words
mean the whole world
to me…
Every moment,
Every year,
Every day of my life,
Every breath that I take
Those three little words
Keep me alive…
I say it to you
I’ve said it before
I feel for you
With all my heart…
Those three little words
Are so dear to me
You know and I know
Those three little words,
For you’ve said it to me
And have felt for me
Without a care
In this world…
Those three little words
Mean a lot to you
And Indeed
Are very precious to me…
So let’s Celebrate
This Valentine’s Day
Just as we cherish
Every day
Of our togetherness
And remain in love
forever more…
Holding ourselves
In a loving embrace
Caring, feeling,
Expressing…
Those three little words
From you to me
And me to you…
Yes, it is true
My Love
And here it goes,
Just the way
It has always been
Over the years…
And so I say it
To you, that
I Love You
I Love You,
I Love You.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Another nothing poem
Another nothing poem
~
These are just words
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
They do not hate or love
Laugh, cry or shout aloud
They know no malice or jealousy
They just piece together nicely
In a story or a poem
However they are written
Presented on a page
They remain just words
They talk of no living soul
But a fictional character
If one happens to be written
Or a place or feeling
Some may relate to it
You’re free to see what you like
Or dislike in these words
That’s all they are sitting here
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
Across the once blank page
Just another nothing poem
Waiting to be read
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Let The Poem I Write Be The Dream I Am
Let the poem I write be the dream I am
And let the secret silence of my words
Be the mystery of my own inner music
And let what comes to me on the page
Be the dance of the light God has given me
And let my words be quiet holy words
Which fill this day with prayer for all those
I Love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poetry Has Gone Out Of Me
The Poetry has gone out of me
I am as blank as prose-
There is no force of feeling in me
Flat as a lox my words on the page-
I am the middle of the Midwest
Going on and on on the surface only-
I have no inside-
No wind shakes me-
Words are words and only words,
Detached from all emotion-
How flat stale not even weary and unprofitable can a blank confessional poem be?
The feeling of being without feeling
No feeling at all.
A lox inside and a lox on the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It took me about three years to write About Grace. I wasn't teaching two of those years, so I was working eight-hour days, five days a week. And it would include research and reading - it wasn't just a blank page, laying down words.
quote by Anthony Doerr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The fear...
Yet another blank page I see before me,
Waiting to be bathed in my words,
Emotions spill out like a fountain of feelings,
The emptiness scares me for what if I may not fill it,
What if I cannot bring the light of life to my dreams,
The loneliness of a barren heart failing me,
That I may fall deeper into complete nothingness,
Shall my dreams ever cease to be?
Will my words dry up and my heart wither?
Yet once again my story springs to life upon the page,
And my fear is but a memory...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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When I write, the first blank page, or any blank page, means nothing to me. What means something is a page that has been filled with words.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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I Am Happy This Chanukah
I am happy this Chanukah
After all the years of praying and waiting
My children have children of their own
I thank God for this-
I am quite old now
But I don’t yet feel it that much-
Perhaps I did not make it in my work as I hoped
But in so much of my life the only word is ‘Gratitude’.
Thank God I am still here in Israel in Jerusalem
After all these years
Sitting in a park off Palmach Street
The sun on the page
Writing in calm
These small words down.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Heart
Thinking of you every second, since you remind me of the one I loved
Truly did love you, with the feelings of my true heart
Every minute, every second I am thinking of you
Only you come in my dreams and in my thoughts
Cannot say anything more to you
Love you so deeply and you are the one I am trying to think of, even in this darkness
Very well I do know that you are not mine anymore
Still when I think of someone, who is beautiful and truly sexy
Only reflection which comes to my mind is of you
Even though sometimes in my opinion I start to reject you
As you thought I was the one who was going to hurt you
Every minute, I am thinking
Sometimes, the feeling is bitter and occasionally sweet
It is only you, whom I loved so much
My heart knows, that you are seeing someone else now
Only you, come into my heart, sometimes I just want to cry
Occasionally, I even want to laugh and love you
My heart knows you, even though you failed in knowing me.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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These Words Are Meant For You
So there is no confusion let clarity clarify here
these words on this page are meant for you;
you.
Strung along these lines are precious intents
longing longings from down deep where souls converse,
floodings of sentiments traversing time and distance all
forming a straight line to you.
Gratitude is the staff that allows me to walk and write-
bread given me by you
sustains;
for clarity's sake
understand
these words are meant for you;
you.
Time and distance, acquaintance
and daily externals and such
mean less than these
soul exchanges proffered.
These words are meant for you;
yes you.
In the interstices words allow
in the hurried moments
where emotions and ideas fly
there is only I you and the written page
and that is enough
These words are meant for you-J
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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More Letters
More letters found stuffed
Beneath his brown best shoes,
Which had yellowed with age.
Love letters with small crosses
For kisses at the bottom
Of the page. Words neatly penned,
Love spoken of, gifts thanked for,
Places seen, shared and remembered.
He was a dark horse, Mother said,
Never knew he had these, so many here,
Stuffed, forgotten or out of sight and mind.
Granddad had had some woman
On the go at some time and place
Years ago, before Gran, before
The whole circus of living had ended.
A photograph tucked between pages,
Some woman in old-fashioned hat
And dress and wide-open eyes.
Secrets hidden and kept, words
Upon words on pages, scribbled
By a hand now sure to be dead.
Best burn them, Mother sighed,
Nothing to be gained, best nothing’s said.
poem by Terry Collett
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With no words
Nicely missed page with no words
No imprints but waiting order from lords
Soon something may be out to adore
Lot many unsaid things to adore
This is how page is filled
Sprit is revived and not killed
Many may catch it as inspiring zeal
Many may think it not fiction but real
Word may not remain as words
It will be sharp weapon like sword
May cut through many sweet hearts
Provide healing touch at the start
Such is power and strength
Words to fill and create the length
A surface to write and inscribe
If so worth to describe
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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