It may be said that poems are in one way like icebergs: only about a third of their bulk appears above the surface of the page.
quote by Howard Nemerov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Poem In Here
this is a blank space reserved for an obituary of a dead poem
prose claims a space though in another glossy page.
plese turn to the next page
those non-poets like me please transfer to another room
this place is for dead poems for those who killed living poems this page this space is reserved for all of them.
we non-poets are moving out to another empty page
about to be added, if you can wait, mr. poet...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The closer the bird is to the surface of the water, the firmer and more inelastic is the uplift of the rising air. The bird appears to almost feel the surface with the tip of its weather wing.
quote by Lawrence Hargrave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anyone who slaps a 'this page is best viewed with Browser X' label on a Web page appears to be yearning for the bad old days, before the Web, when you had very little chance of reading a document written on another computer, another word processor, or another network.
quote by Tim Berners-Lee
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ode To Costco
Oh Costco,
kingdom of bulk.
If I didn't have you, I'd sulk.
Food samples, shopping carts,
ha you'll beat all the other marts.
24 pack haha try 36,
This store won't go in the mix!
Sam's Club is for fools,
everybody knows Costco rules.
Food in bulk and bulk galore,
You'll always be my favorite store.
poem by Erin Sanchez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh The Poems And More Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE MORE POEMS
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems I am writing all the time
God has given me this gift
And when I wait in the right way
And when I listen to myself properly
The poems come in ways I could never have thought of or imagined before
They come as mysteries as gifts as surprises
As wonderful to me as perhaps to you their possible readers
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems God has given me
And the light of this day and so many other days, also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Other Side of the Page
I pass to the other side of the page.
-Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the last days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler's hunger for love,
the nun's hunger for God,
the child's hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the other side of the page.
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Isn't...Is!
An isn't...
Is!
When that isn't...
Appears.
An isn't...
Is!
When that isn't...
Appears.
Cheating spouses,
Who run about...
To play a cat and mouse,
Out of the house.
Often lie,
When they can...
To hide unfaithfulness from eyes that scan.
But that isn't...
Is!
When that isn't appears.
Oh yes that isn't,
Is...
When that isn't appears!
Those downlow and attempting discreet...
Play it cheap,
While sneaking under sheets.
Be they lesbians or homos too,
Cruising darkened streets to do what they do...
To hide an isn't...
That is!
When they say what isn't,
Appears.
Oh yes that isn't,
Is...
When that isn't appears!
You can say that isn't,
Is!
When that isn't,
Appears!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not Every Poem Knows How To Say Its Own Name Properly
NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS HOW TO SAY ITS OWN NAME PROPERLY
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly-
There are poems that have no name
And poems that are named by others who have not written them-
There are poems whose names make them what they are
And poems whose names contradict and belie them-
Many poems have their first lines as their names
And these poems often are as memorable as one line only-
Great poems and good poems can be nameless
Or can have unforgettable names.
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly -
Poems are poems are poems
And names are names are names
And sometimes they meet and are one
And live happily ever after-
But there are times when perhaps
They never should have met each other at all.
Poems have their names
And names have their poems
But sometimes they love each other
And truly are one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So Near, Yet So Far
With each new day that comes along
my heart bursts out with another song
of love and longing for that which is
always calling me like an eternal whiz.
'So near yet so far' is a term often used
to describe the distance which is abused
between us and that which is our goal
and all we have to do is realise our soul.
We'll find sooner or later the Treasured Pearl
around which all of our existence does whirl.
___________________________________
Note:
This poem appears in my unpublished book along with two other poems on the same page under the title of 'Three By Ten'. I have herein given it a new title for this submission.
Please see also my other poem titled 'Within Us'.
poem by George Krokos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Unturned Page
Each morning we awake
to greet a brand new day.
Each night we go to bed
and the day just fades away.
Everyday in our lives
is like an unturned page
and we are merely puppets
on its enormous stage.
We are guided along paths,
shown the right way to go
as the unturned page get written on
from dawn t dusk
by someone’s guiding hand.
When they’ve finished writing,
we go to bed at night
and sleep until the morning light.
Then a new unturned page appears
waiting for us to travel on.
1 June 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saved
Scraped
the inside surface of my rib cage
Hell
Was never turning to the next page
Stagnant
Murdering surface of the pond weed
Sealed
Entombed and stifled by the wrong need
Scared
Was how malignancy had grown strong
Faced
Was how to kick it into head long
Healed
The mind that breaks out of its prison
Saved
The ledge that sanity had given
poem by Stevie Taite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems About Poems About Poems
Poems about poems about poems-
More poems and more poems and more poems-
Poems poems poems poems poems-
How many poems?
How much poetry
Until there is no poetry at all?
But only 'words' and 'words' and 'words'
Until one goes far away
Where there was never a poem before-
And suddenly hears
“Let there be Light”.
And Poetry perhaps
Is born again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Which Poems Are True and Which Poems Only A Story?
WHICH POEMS ARE TRUE AND WHICH POEMS ONLY A STORY?
Which poems are true
and which poems only a story?
There are poems I have to write
They are the heart of who I am-
And other poems that tell a story my mind makes
And takes me where I do not know I'll ever really be-
There are real poems and there are imaginary poems-
And there are poems-in- between like this one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Can it be Memory, Inspiration, or Figment Causing This?
The poems I write are a story of my life
They are a foreseeable future, a regret filled past
In this they stain, in my poems they stain
The dreams, my ideals, life lessons, and hopes
Flood on to the page waiting to be read
Stranger they become
Stranger to be in my mind
How they come to be there
That bolt of lines that swirl and toil in my mind
They say for my allure, they sway for my attention
'Take me', they cry, 'Take me for your own'
'Release us from here, bring us to life and capture us in
your work! '
'Immortalize us in history on that page! '
They sway faster in an angry tempo
Chanting now on how to be used
Begging, pleading to be used
I grasp the pen and paper
Pull my laptop closer
I write and type as fast as my hands can go
The tempo soothes, and the swaying stops
All is quiet
All is empty
They are released, glorified on this magnificent page.
Written: January 21,2012
poem by Ryan Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Always The Poems In Me
Always the poems in me-
Saying themselves over and over
Returning to lines learned long ago
Or lines learned with more difficulty in old age-
Always the poems in me-
While my own poems written
And forgotten
As if only
Poems of a single occasion
The time of their writing-
Always the poems in me-
The poems which others will have in them after me
Poems not my own.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's a Feeling Deeper
There is a certain meaning to it.
For people who are born to do this.
It's not on the surface to depict.
With an easy category to assign to it.
It's a feeling deeper.
There is a certain meaning to it.
For people who are born to do this.
It's just not what it appears to exist.
This 'thing' is deeper.
Below a surface reached for 'it'.
It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.
Deeper,
And from below a surface that must be exposed.
This 'thing' gets deeper,
And those knowing it want it shown not kept unknown.
It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
It's a feeling deeper.
It's not on the surface to depict.
With an easy category to assign to it.
It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
It's just not what it appears to exist.
This 'thing' is deeper.
Below a surface reached for 'it'.
It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
Deeper.
Deeper.
It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
Much deeper.
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper.
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper!
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper!
Much much deeper!
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper.
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper!
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper!
Much much deeper!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem
In the early evening, a now, as man is bending
over his writing table.
Slowly he lifts his head; a woman
appears, carrying roses.
Her face floats to the surface of the mirror,
marked with the green spokes of rose stems.
It is a form
of suffering: then always the transparent page
raised to the window until its veins emerge
as words finally filled with ink.
And I am meant to understand
what binds them together
or to the gray house held firmly in place by dusk
because I must enter their lives:
it is spring, the pear tree
filming with weak, white blossoms.
poem by Louise Gluck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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These Poems These Songs This Beauty This Life
THESE POEMS THESE SONGS THIS BEAUTY THIS LIFE
These poems these songs this beauty this life-
All that I hear inside me
And have heard from others
Through years of listening-
All that I take with me inside
As if it were forever mine
The songs I have learned and love
The poems I recite in my soul
Without even trying to-
All this like the dust
Like the air
Will vanish when I go
And the song of my soul
Will be
As blank as the silence
Of a page never written on.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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