Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Everyone Here Is Working Hard For You
Do you realize how many poems I've seen,
That you have written?
'No!
How many have you actually 'read'? '
Comeon...
You are not aware of this at all?
I read a few but not all.
'I am aware that I am a writer.
Not an accountant.
Nor someone who sets limits,
To achieve a final goal.
Or someone seeking to impress.
Each day presents its own personality.
I'm learnig to appreciate quality and not quantity.
There is something about life I more understand each day.
My personal awareness of 'that' is what I keep addressed.'
Oh...
So what is that?
If you don't mind me asking?
'I know I am not alone...
Even though I perceive I am on my own!
I hear voices clearly say to me,
Everyone here is working hard for you.
That you must believe.'
I see.
And that makes you produce quality you don't notice?
An involvement you keep distanced?
'I did not say I didn't notice the quality.
Painfully that's done.
I don't put my sights on 'quantity'.
I don't want to overwhelm.
As much as I choose to stun!
And that takes paying attention to everyone! '
Like the voices heard in your head?
'You see...
You're trying to take this somewhere else.
And what you are 'attempting' to imply...
I'm not wasting any more of my time to listen to!
Read more than you do.
And if there is any comprehension to communicate,
You need not announce that to me! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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There IS Something About Living It
I know how life works.
There is something about living it,
Away from the sidelines in full participation...
That gives one the experience,
To speak on some matters with familiar authority.
I know how life works.
And from connecting 'that' which is observed,
To what's been heard to the ears...
Produces a clarity.
And reduces assumptions to be deduce from reality.
I know how life works.
There is something about living it,
Away from the sidelines in full participation...
That gives one the experience,
To speak on some matters with familiar authority.
And when people say they will do one thing,
But actually do another as was intended to do.
Or those who claim actions done to them happened,
But never occurred as they describe?
They know little about how life works.
And who from a distance has them observed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Paper Rose
Each time pen and line
brush the page
it is with you in mind;
all these years
you've been
reader to my writer-
you and I
giving life
to what starts as
mere blank pages-
and end as
our shared experience.
I can feel you;
hear you breathing
and lay
down each
night
renewed
for you have
read
between my lines
written and
I
received
your resonances
come back
to my ear-
these reciprocities
tracking
the journey
we each
together
have taken-
our lines entwining.
No greater bond
than the bond
of reader and that written;
no love more timeless
than that shared
in the missive
shaped
by two
interchanging
in this journey
through
life's space.
No gratitude greater
than mine.
Capture here then
to be clear
the
paper rose
this writing
is
because
its lines form
a rose
which will
last
down the years
forever read
forever written.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A New Thought
Pose a new thought for all to see,
Adjust it and as much as you like
Consider the differences that stretch your mind,
Its capacity is not small and never too large.
I respond to rough nature of feeling,
Instead the fight I casually experience is beyond me.
Fighting the war is like consuming fire through one’s belly,
And the same defence is made,
A reason I command for purposes.
The mind works forever, as I do.
The philosophy has a question to me.
It contains feathers, werewolves and princes,
For your very salvation or distress.
The mind is again a horror.
We must fight the suffering that I have made,
To abandon it can make us happy.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Everyday Is A Happy Day
here my stay shall be short
quality-wise
in the secret garden of my soul
i am singing
and then when the song is done
i go
it is as simple as that baby
i call it life
and life some more after
not here with you
with them out there on another kind of party
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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The Architect is just one of a series of works which examine the confrontation of innocence and experience, illustrating the complex ethics of power that exist between reader and writer, critic and artist, the human and the divine.
quote by John Scott
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writer's gift
The flow of ink in the writer’s pen
The flow of thoughts in the writer’s mind
A golden thread joining the sweet words
An enduring garland fresh with thoughts
A precious gem, worthier than gold
An epic in itself, the writer’s gift
No word is spoken, yet the tale is told
His mind speaks, his heart speaks
He blows life in each of his creation
The verses breath, the verses speak
The writer dies, yet the verses live
poem by Kavitha Krishnamurthy
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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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Secret Eyes Only!
Secret eyes only!
Secret love only,
Secret work only,
And like the muse of one's life;
But, this pain is all over us.
Bedind closed doors!
With secret eyes only;
And like what is heard, seen and written of! !
But, a day comes when these secrets will be exposed.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Secret Life Of Arabia
The secret life of arabia
Secret secrets never seen
Secret secrets ever green
I was running at the speed of life
Through mornings thoughts and fantasies
Then I saw your eyes at the cross fades
Secret secrets never seen
Secret secrets ever green
The secret life of arabia
Never here never seen
Secret life ever green
The secret life of arabia
You must see the movie the sand in my eyes
I walk through a desert song when the heroine dies
Arabia (secret secret)
Arabia (secret)
Arabia (secret secret)
Arabia
Arabia (secret secret)
Arabia
Arabia (secret secret)
Arabia
Arabia (secret secret)
Arabia
Arabia (secret secret)
The secret life of arabia
Never here never seen
Secret life ever green
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I absolutely believe in the power of tithing and giving back. My own experience about all the blessings I've had in my life is that the more I give away, the more that comes back. That is the way life works, and that is the way energy works.
quote by Ken Blanchard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The constipation
Pity is a kind of love
That you must experience;
Doing so, you cleanse your soul.
Being true is a kind of love
That you must experience;
Doing so, you please your soul.
To part with is a kind of love
That you must experience;
Doing so, you ease your soul.
To earn, to gain and to count
Are things done with creed and pride
To fill and stuff the soul with.
The soul is the bowel, which’s full
When you’re in the pinnacle.
The bowl must ease out its contents.
Unless you pity, be true
And gift in the path of life,
Your soul has to constipate.
10.10.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The quality of mercy (conditions apply)
The quality of mercy,
Portia declared,
the quality of mercy is
suspended during the present conflict
the quality of mercy is
not the business of a Minister of Justice
the quality of mercy is
not a matter of individual conscience
the quality of mercy is
too subtle for public discussion
or law
the quality of mercy is
only for Shakespeare and stuff
the quality of mercy is
less stimulating than revenge
the quality of mercy is
no business of yours
the quality of mercy is
no concern of religious authorities
who should stay silent
the quality of mercy is
an outdated concept
the quality of mercy is
nothing to do with forgiveness
or circumstantial evidence
or the remission of sins
the quality of mercy is
no longer a matter of pride
the quality of mercy is
no longer a mark of humanity
the quality of mercy
would be OK if Obama said so
the quality of mercy
is one hell of a hot potato
cooked in oil
the quality of mercy
droppeth as the gentle
dew from heaven
upon a broken fuselage
and it is too much
or too little
for our understanding.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Writer's Author
GOD had written a story
in a book called 'destiny'
all things and even not-a-things are listed
and won't be missed
even Shakespeare could write the beautiful romeo n Juliet,
the story of Othello, Hamlet
or even he could made the beautifullest sonnet
GOD had written about all writer and poet
GOD is writer's author
March 2009
poem by Arif Furqan
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Secret In Suspension
Always away to india to find themselves,
What is it they wish to find?
The buddha nature of the Ganjes flowing?
The secret of a perfect mind.
I know in myself that the books on my shelf
About goblins and elfs and spirits unkind
Atune to my soul, in a bottomless hole
Solving the secret of a perfect mind.
Free of blind suspicision
Free of shackles binding
The secret in suspension
Is the secret you are finding.
poem by David Lacey
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Beauty In Your Body, Or Happy In Your Soul?
Staying young and looking young,
Is not always a boon,
Life is going, it is true,
But we grow in spirit with it too.
Our soul will always live,
Being young forever,
Body is only a soul transporter,
To experience life on Planet.
Is it matter hair is grey, or colored
When you experience it all,
What is the meaning of your life,
Beauty in your body or happy in your soul?
poem by Cristina Teodor
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Written
Written
12: 03: am
I begin between these black lines-
white spaces blinking back-
my two hands outstretched
crafting nothing;
I cannot write;
crossed;
blocked, stoppages,
tea cup emptied,
usual tricks limp-
my muse bereft,
I am alone with
the fulsomeness of it.
12: 15: am
My Gods are all adrift.
My well's dig down
out of reach;
my mind's fount's dry-asleep.
Panic now
in this chronicling.
12: 20: am
Poetry's realm from me retreated
a cruel feeling;
that which came so easily before
is now silhouetted dimly.
I cry
a dry uncryable tear.
12: 53: am
I cup
a new cup of cold tea.
1: 03: am
Whatever this is
come to me
gradually curiosity
now feels greater than
my writer's grief.
I want to see
the outlines the specter is
to write nothing when nothing's there
no face
no driven ideas
no words span
no creativity transformed or fixed....
1: 33: am
Hushed
I lie down with it;
exhausted on my bed of paradox-
it's experience embraced.
I am swept to the surrender
of writing about the nothingness
at my pen, now shaking.
2: 53Lam
three drafts;
a small epiphany:
Ample is all experience
no blank lines will ever reach
or witness.
By this
my last lines written
after
2: 53: am
from listlessness and nothing
to expressions of same-
poetically-
minor miracle this.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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