There's More Where They Came From
There's more where they came from
The poems that were birthed from my heart
That is where my words have found their home
That is where my poems will always start.
There's more where they came from
Some may be lost through destructive forces
Still they are born from this breathing passion
And shared with love, to give happiness.
There's more where they came from
And perhaps they will only cease
When the poet in me has died and gone home
To my Father in heaven and I lie in peace.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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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
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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
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Self
Bluff it is
If I say I'm a learned poet
For I'm not a scholar
So too my poems
My master's degree..
Lost in the abyss of oblivion
Searching out of and on
Those learnt reminiscences
I write to learn
Learning to write
And that learning
For my heart's happy content
You're welcome to read my words
For shared should be my happiness
Pat or hit..I don't bother
For I'm not a learned poet
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Zimri
I am walking through the wilderness of love and,
I have three days journey on this mission;
But like the tent of Yael full of milk,
The earth shook and the mountains quaked.
Give ear to my poems oh Kings,
Give ear to my poems oh Queens,
Give ear to my poems oh Princes,
Give ear to my poems oh Princesses,
Give ear to my poems oh Nations,
For i am walking along the byways of love;
But Zimri is my heart's desire.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Small Need...
Let me write some poems
Let me be a poet.
Give me a pen,
Give me a paper,
And give me a few thoughts.
Let the world know me a lot
Let me be a clot.
Give my poems a rhyme
Give them a rhythum too.
And give me a name.
Let my poems be recited by all
Let my lines be quoted by the world.
Give me your fingers
Give me your mind as well.
Let me too be a poet.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Dream Miracles God Speaks To Soul Mine
I gave God two more poems today
two perfectly harmonic resonating poems
two poems dream mind writ
two poems never to write out
two poems never to public post
the first fruits the best
I vowed to give God
in awaiting dreams I gift
poems to God is gifted best poems
God smiles I watch heaven’s eyes
across cosmos God’s love is given
across created God space prayer given
love gifted given God’s love shines
dream miracles God speaks to soul mine
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Have Had Enough Of The Words And The Poems
I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THE WORDS AND THE POEMS
I have had enough of the words and the poems
And the endless sayings which lead only to more words and words
I want to go alone
To the far far distance
Where G-d is home
And there where I am real
Be
What I always dreamed
The loving son of Reuben Kelly and Edith Freedman
A little child
Whose father did not stop screaming in pain
And whose mother simply loved in kindness
No matter whatever was said or done
Because I miss them so still
In my old age
My parents my mother and my father Mom and Dad
They were the only best I ever had
God bless them wherever they are
And will I ever be with them again?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Muses Are Angry...
the thin, tall man, is looking for those words,
that he must garnish on his short story on the making,
for he leaves poetry for the moment falling short of metaphors,
he seeks advice from me, whom he thinks is taller, and thinner,
and already at home with the words that he thinks i have chosen so well,
but i without hesitation tells him
pointblank, like killing him with those empty bullets,
that he must not believe me, as i am only inventing myself, recreating
every part of me from a long time immersion of a drowning experience,
lucky, i have not died, and on fortitude, i have learned the art of breathing
through my mouth, my nostrils uncooperative to this endeavor of living,
it is the experience that reinvents us,
redefining our borders, sorting out those conflicts unsolved by wars,
not living in peace most of those times,
the struggles keep coming,
and describing those words with bloody bodies lying on the road
deserted, and feeling all completely abandoned,
i ask him if he sees those poems naked and dead
those short stories buried and without titles yet.
he is blind because of the money,
he is lost, because he is trying to satisfy his own hunger and thirst.
and so, there he is, without poems, strapped of sentences to start
his short story: the journey is canceled.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is Heaven?
Is Heaven just a place to go, when through with this life we know?
Is Heaven that place for everyone, when life on this earth is done?
Is Heaven, not a placed called Hell, where after life, all shall dwell?
A final place to rest in peace, in blissful comfort that won’t cease?
Or, is Heaven to you much more, than rest beyond a golden door?
Do you desire to be in Heaven, beyond earth’s twenty-four seven?
Heaven is that true home above, for all who embraced God’s Love.
That love He showed on Calvary, where Christ died for you and me.
Do you know Christ, yourself, Who provides us with eternal wealth?
Providing believers an eternal home, granted from Heaven’s Throne;
But not all will accept God’s Son, although Christ died for everyone,
And they will not secure a place, in a home that’s supplied by Grace.
For Christ spoke of Heaven and Hell, when to His hearers He did tell,
About two very opposing destinies, while both shall still be eternities,
One for those who would believe, who, The Father above will receive,
And one for rejecters of The Lord, who, by our Father will be ignored.
Both being choices, which we make, when God we accept or forsake,
Heaven for all who accept Christ, through who God offers eternal life,
Hell for after one’s final breath, rejecting Christ, to enter eternal death.
Eternal places ahead for everyone, for their choice, about God’s Son.
The Dogs Of Drangonchester
The dogs of Dragonchester is a condo that sits by the Sea,
surounded by sand, tropical plants and palm trees.
Happy Dogs live at the Dragonchester for I have seen,
these dogs are special to their owners, they make them happy.
Inside this book is a collection of Dragonchester Dog poems,
you can read them at your leisure at night in your home.
Some poems might make you laugh, some poems might make you cry,
that is the observation of me the poet whose words I do scribe.
These poems you can pass along to your dear friends,
you can frame them if you like so you can read their words again.
Many wishes to the dog owners and a cheer to their pets,
many more stories to make into Dragonchester Dog poems still yet.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on December 22,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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P. O. E. M. S
To me Poems are spiritual
that come from deep inside the heart
that can't be taught in school.
Poems tells the story of our lives
Poems is a way to express
our feeling to the world
Poems reduce our pains
poems is the only way to speak to the heart
To me
Poems is not a choice
It's not a Habit
I's not a way to express others
But, It's a talent
that shows the world the real you
P- Passion
O- Observed
E- Emotion
M- Meaningul
S- Spiritual
P. O. E. M. S
poem by Guenael Oristel
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307
well she starts with hello how are you
i say, i am fine how about you?
she is not, perhaps, she has a quarrel
with her boyfriend
and they will soon be married this september
then to be changed this june
is she confused? i ask myself as i type
my messages, she says, maybe,
then we shifted to movies,
wings, chicago, as good as it gets,
the corny titanic, and i recommended
il postino, i tell her, watch it tonight
and you will like neruda
and this postman and this love
how a poet makes love
more open and visible and
expressable
to the lips of a seasick man in an island
that does not move with time
slow, and almost forgotten
until, the son of a dead man
who thanked the poet
talks to him
his father gone
but the love still lingers
in the island
where some poems were born
because
one must love
and be loved and the poems must give the tongue
for that expression.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Chat With A Friend Whose Name You Need Not Know
well she starts with hello how are you
i say, i am fine how about you?
she is not, perhaps, she has a quarrel
with her boyfriend
and they will soon be married this september
then to be changed this june
is she confused? i ask myself as i type
my messages, she says, maybe,
then we shifted to movies,
wings, chicago, as good as it gets,
the corny titanic, and i recommended
il postino, i tell her, watch it tonight
and you will like neruda
and this postman and this love
how a poet makes love
more open and visible and
expressable
to the lips of a seasick man in an island
that does not move with time
slow, and almost forgotten
until, the son of a dead man
who thanked the poet
talks to him
his father gone
but the love still lingers
in the island
where some poems were born
because
one must love
and be loved and the poems must give the tongue
for that expression.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry
Only place where I feel at home is poetry
Everywhere else I am always lost
Nothing seems proper, when verses of English poems are not present
All that I feel like doing is write and write
Sometimes, I do admit that I do get lost
However, I really belong only with poetry
Still, I always feel that nobody ever does understand my feelings
A blank space is always present within my heart
As sometimes I start to feel that things which I express are not good enough
I do not really know why?
This is just how I feel sometimes
Since, often the mode of being depressed comes to my life
Then, I become a depressed poet who has only past memories
Nothing else I have as remaining to love or care
However, still I keep on penning things, only to still remain alive
Otherwise, I would be dead without words
Only place where I belong is poetry and here I feel being at home.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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John Masefield Was Much More Than A Poet Laureate
John Masefield was much more than a poet laureate he was indeed a verse maker supreme
His longer poems are surely masterpieces and will live for centuries or so it would seem
From his prolific pen the rhymes kept flowing he kept on penning till the day he died
No doubt about it born to be a wordsmith and greatness of him cannot be denied
John Masefield wrote the poetry of the masses and in his lifetime was famed Worldwide
His 'Reynard The Fox' the greatest hunting poem ever of the hunting people of the English countryside
His other famed longer poems 'The Daffodil Fields' and 'The Everlasting Mercy' and 'Dauber' the boy artsist who died at sea
As well as others are true masterpieces to rhyme to him seemed to come easily
His descriptive powers to say the least amazing it must be true that poets are born not made
For sixty years he was a major poet a literary icon of the wordsmith trade
John Masefield he was Ledbury's greatest poet one might say a manufacturer of rhyme
For many years he was Britain's Poet Laureate until he too lost out to father time
He truly was the poet of the people and poets of his stature as always are rare
He died an old man in his eighty ninth year with England's best he surely does compare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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We Need Poems To Make Us Love Life More
WE NEED POEMS TO MAKE US LOVE LIFE MORE
We need poems to make us love life more
Poems that will make us happier
Poems that will make us kinder, better people.
We need poems that will inspire us
That will add to our sense of the world’s Beauty
We need Poems that will make us love others as we love ourselves as we love God.
We need holy poems
And joyful poems
And blessed poems
And kind poems
We need poems which will make us love life more
Which will help us love others and ourselves more
God more
We need poems.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Dogs Of Drangonchester
THE DOGS OF DRANGONCHESTER
The dogs of Dragonchester is a condo that sits by the Sea,
surounded by sand, tropical plants and palm trees.
Happy Dogs live at the Dragonchester for I have seen,
these dogs are special to their owners, they make them happy.
Inside this book is a collection of Dragonchester Dog poems,
you can read them at your leisure at night in your home.
Some poems might make you laugh, some poems might make you cry,
that is the observation of me the poet whose words I do scribe.
These poems you can pass along to your dear friends,
you can frame them if you like so you can read their words again.
Many wishes to the dog owners and a cheer to their pets,
many more stories to make into Dragonchester Dog poems still yet.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on December 22,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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All I Can Do Is Write Poems
ALL I CAN DO IS WRITE POEMS
All I can do is write poems
I have nothing else to say-
Only what Poetry alone can give
The expression of the soul
The deepest feeling we have
Whatever is in us and hurts the most
And needs most to be said.
All I can do in pain is write poems
But when the gladness comes?
When the happiness returns?
I will try too to to find words
For what is unsayable.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Going Home On The Northern Pacific
The way home for me was eastbound
on the Northern Pacific from California
riding coach (pillow furnished for a fee)
and reading paperback books -
everything from Robinson Jeffers
'...stones have stood for a thousand years,
and pained thoughts found the honey
of peace in old poems.'
to Denise Levertov's Illustrious Ancestors
'...poems direct as what the birds said,
hard as a floor, sound as a bench,
mysterious as the silence when the tailor
would pause with his needle in the air.'
even the obscure Ray Durem
'...I cannot find those mild and gracious words
to clothe the carnage.'
I got off when the train reached Chicago
a soldier home from the war
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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