Any Street In Any Town
Look down any street
in any town across the land
at the rows of houses there.
Then you begin to wonder
what memories each house shares.
Some of happiness
where dreams have come true.
Some are of sadness
where lives have been hurt by pain.
Some with tragic stories
they never want to share again.
Each house will have many stories
of the individuals whom lived there.
Each story will be different
from all the rest.
Each leave memories
in every room they slept.
Their stories are unending
as new families come along.
22 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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Stories
Every year has its own stories in this life,
Every month has its own stories in this life,
Every week has its own stories in this life,
Every day has its own stories in this life,
Every hour has its own stories in this life,
Every minute has its own stories in this life,
And like the muse of the mind as we grow up;
So, we are all with stories to tell in this world.
As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As balck as charcoal,
As green as the grass,
As blue as the sky;
But everybody has stories to tell in this world!
And like the muse o love in the land of beauty,
For each year has its own story.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Sheltered Memories
I did some traveling
A few years ago
I wanted to meet family
That I really didn’t know
Some lived in the same
Family home for years
Full of precious memories
From happiness to tears
I listened to stories
These folks had to tell
Treasured sweet memories
I saw my notebook swell
For these were the stories
That needed to pass
Down through generations
So questions were asked
I saw how they lived
A different life from mine
Heard tales of today
Many from another time
I smile as I see photos
Of family from the past
Photos shelter memories
That will forever last!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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The Stories
The stories
Night bed its mats
And also we are
Wait and see
The narrative begins with the story
The stories of long time ago
Between fact and fiction
The stories from the ends of the earth
And depth of the ocean
We draw the characters and imagine
Live roles
And sail far and far
And overwhelmed with happiness
And the longing pulls us
And eyebrows painted terms on our faces
The story behind the story
Delight our nights
The stories of my grandmother.
poem by Mohammed AlBalushi
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Sonnet: An Empty House Remembers
The empty house around me ticks and creaks,
A moody end to evening's gentle rains,
A brooding quiet as the daylight wanes,
The secret language empty houses speak.
What stories might this house preserve entire
In rhythmic code composed of click and groan?
Does House recall a sadness with each moan?
Is laughter stored in every plank and wire?
And how might I, a fleeting visitor,
Acquire an ear for stories trapped in time,
And wrap a tale or two in words and rhyme?
How can I tap the House's secret lore?
In silence soft the house slips off to sleep.
Alone I sit, in darkness vast and deep.
poem by Russell Collier
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Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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Memories
Memories of good times
Memories of bad times
Memories of our love
So many memories
Memories of us crying
Memories of us laughing
Memories of our commitment
So many memories
Memories of us hugging
Memories of us kissing
Memories of those late nights
So many memories
Memories of how we met
Memories of how you left
Memories of what you said
So many memories
Why did you leave me
with so many memories
Did you ever realize
that my memories are yours
Everything we did together
stays within our memories
I remember getting hurt
Do you hurt too
Let's make a new memory
that we can both share
Let's love again
in our memories
poem by Adam McKim
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Stories About Home
I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out
These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell
But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine
I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain
So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad
But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...
So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart
Clyde Grant Bryson
poem by Clyde Bryson
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Just To See (If You're There)
hands of coal,
back bent with time...
eyes that play tricks,
and ears that need help.
pictures of memories hidden
behind lips terse and still.
stories wrapped in stories,
no one listens to anymore.
the ghosts of love walking
the floors of an empty house...
eat a little, stare out the window,
read the obituaries just to see
if you're there!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Have a Nice Day
When you live somewhere
for a very long-time,
street corners gather memories,
friendly memories
you can say Hi to everyday.
They are memories
of your progress through life.
Memories of important events
that moulded and shaped our lives.
Therefore, whenever
we pass the corners
our friendly memories
are always there to say
have a nice day
(12 November 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Old Dan
Old stories he told and old ballads he sung
The Tans were in Ireland when old Dan was young
He was twenty six years in nineteen sixteen
And the bitterness and grief of war he had seen.
I knew him when he was in his mid sixties in his life's early Fall
And he said his Civil war memories were his saddest memories of all
When the signing of a Treaty caused families to divide
And brother at the hand of brother had died.
He had fought in war but the praises of war would not sing
He said war to Ireland death and sorrow did bring
A heroic freedom fighter of which he never did brag
He said far too many lives lost for the colour of a flag.
With the deceased of Munster for decades he lay
I knew him as an ageing man his hair silver gray
He told stories and sung songs of his younger years
Of the Ireland he loved Land of bloodshed and tears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Stories We Could Tell
Talkin to myself again
Wondering if this travelin is good
Is there something better wed be doing if we could
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
Remember that guitar in a museum in tennessee
And the nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
And the scratches on the face
Told of all the times he fell
Singin every story he could tell
And oh the stories it could tell
And I bet you it still rings like a bell
And I wish we could sit back on the bed in some motel
And listen to the stories we could tell
So if youre on the road tracking down here every night
And youre singin for a livin neath the brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride this carousel
You did it for the stories you could tell
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories
Everyone has a story, even the homeless man on the street, but do we care? How did your life begin, and what were your dreams?
Maybe you'd have a beach home, with a boat floating next to the dock.
Your life would be good in the sun, but now that dream is smashed on the ocean rocks.
Dumpster diving for your next meal, where did all the country's wealth go? Hookers getting younger, no parents to hold them, everyday someone different to blow.
Now the weather is getting colder, and Christmas is coming around.
Rich families gathering around their big pretty white trees.
A man who lost it all on the street, with nothing to eat, looking into their perfect life, his body full of fleas.
Fake laughs inside that gorgeous home, everyone pretending love is in the air. Grandpa sitting in the corner,401k gone, lost it all as the market crashed, life isn't fair.
Screaming woman in the hospital, pushing out her fifth illegitimate baby. Young eyes looking up at a mother he'll never know. His life story is gonna be the next slim shady.
Everyone has their stories, read them as you look into a stranger's eyes. Through the pain, we share laughter, a united body of beings.
Lastly, see the aged man dying, eyes dimming. He is going to make new stories now, as his soul begins to fly.
poem by Midnight Writer
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Pagan Place
Jer Bear and Mikey Mouse,
smoked pot in Pagan house.
Pagan house had bugs inside,
and rats that crawled the sides,
now this is where I used to reside.
Spider woman lived below me
with clothes black and white,
and Top Dog in front house
blasting radio into the night.
It was the Pagan House with
Stories that were a disgrace,
it was a weird and crazy place.
My pup Shieka was stolen on
The sidewalk,
across from the table where
I used to talk…to Lu Lu who
told me a thing or two.
Luckily Sheikee my new pup
showed up,
Just that week,
she was shy and meek.
These were my best memories,
on Ocean Breeze.
Written by Christina Sunrise on Feb.7,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Pagan Place
Jer Bear and Mikey Mouse,
smoked pot in Pagan house.
Pagan house had bugs inside,
and rats that crawled the sides,
now this is where I used to reside.
Spider woman lived below me
with clothes black and white,
and Top Dog in front house
blasting radio into the night.
It was the Pagan House with
Stories that were a disgrace,
it was a weird and crazy place.
My pup Shieka was stolen on
The sidewalk,
across from the table where
I used to talk…to Lu Lu who
told me a thing or two.
Luckily Sheikee my new pup
showed up,
Just that week,
she was shy and meek.
These were my best memories,
on Ocean Breeze.
Written by Christina Sunrise on Feb.7,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Captured Memories
Captured memories from the past
At the Oklahoma History Center
You’ll be surprised and impressed
The very moment you enter
It’s such a treasured museum
One you will truly enjoy
Early railroad pictures
That has so many stories
A one room school house
Really takes you back
Railroad in the early stages
So different from the Amtrak
Teepees from the past as well
Oil once called Black gold
An oh, the stories and the tales
So many to be told
So take some time and visit
The Oklahoma History Center
You’ll be so glad you did, folks
The very moment that you enter!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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True stories, autobiographical stories, like some novels, begin long ago, before the acts in the account, before the birth of some of the people in the tale.
quote by Harold Brodkey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories
when we were young stories were told
That I'd kiss you sweet like
People said there was a connection between us
Now that we're old stories are told
Of how I hold you tight
Whenever I see those people I tell them they were right
Stories will be told
From when our children are young
until they're old
About our endless love
We must have had a blessing from above
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Until the sun won't rise
Oh
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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