Like a Kitten Left By The Road
Each time I first post
a newly written poem
I feel deep regret
that I’ve done it in haste
As if I’ve dropped off
An unwanted kitten
On a lonely country road
To fend for it’s self
Through a strange alien world
I’ve never truly dropped off a kitten
But if I ever did, I’m sure
After sixty seconds I’d be
Turning around and driving like an idiot
With a tear on my cheek, yelling
“ I’m comin’ to get you lil' kitty. I’m so sorry! ”
Well, that’s the way I am with my poems
Thirty seconds after I post them
I feel so sorry for them
Somewhere out there in hyperspace
All alone…so pitiful
Even the one’s that
I don’t like much myself!
Maybe all the other poems
Welcome it to the web
I sure hope so!
I really do worry about the little guys
One minute nestled in my warm little brain
And the next kicked out in the cold
Well Hell! Godspeed little poems and odes
And like God, I’m goin’ to look in you
From time to time
to make sure you’re doing OK
And If you’re not, then I’ll delet you
And bring you back home
Am I the only whackjob that feels this way?
Nah! I don’t think so.
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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
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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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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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now you, too, think I am what my poems say.
i know that your poems are you,
they always say a lot
from the bottom of your heart
i have always felt
what you want to tell
not just me but to this
world,
i must admit now,
without reservations
without any motive
for any evasion,
i am too, what my poems
say
about me, i am too what
my poems think, about me,
i am my poem
and i am true
i think you are your poems too
verily true
we feel it
as we read these poems
ourselves
some scars have become too visible,
some lies straightened
smoother this time, and have become shy
like convicts of some crimes
duly proven &
judged.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Would Write Now-Can Be Written In Seconds
THE POEM I WOULD WRITE NOW/ CAN BE WRITTEN IN SECONDS
The poem I would write now
Can be written in seconds -
A small poem
Easy to remember
A poem which will give hope and happiness
To others-
Who also write poetry
And dream of their own poems
As I do of mine.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If Poems Had...
if poems had hands,
they'd unload all the guns,
tear down the walls that divide us,
wipe tears from the face of sadness.
if poems had wings,
they'd fly over the barriers
and through the storms,
to nest on the cliffs of freedom.
if poems had hearts,
they'd feel all suffering as their own,
they'd forgive without hesitation,
and love without condition.
if poems had homes,
they'd unlock and open the door,
and let the stranger in,
giving shelter to the lost.
if poems had hope,
they'd believe in spite of,
validating the worth of,
each and every thing that breathes!
if poems had bodies,
hands, wings, hearts, homes, and hope...
turning into you and me,
written by an unseen hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Critics Have Appeared
critics have appeared
in these cyber times
hunting for poems
and passing wise words
on poems they swallow in seconds
and whose comments are like puke;
and whose own gems of poems when you seek
it turns out, they have not published any
at the very poetry portals where they pass such magnificent judgment…
O Ye Critics who hunt for poems
come back another day
when you have poems some of your very own…
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Seconds
All day
Hiding from the sun
Waiting for the golden one
Waiting for your fame
After the parade has gone
Outside was a happy place
Every face had a smile like the golden face
For a second
Your knuckles white as your fingers curl
The shot that was heard around the world
For a second
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds of your time to take his life
Seconds
Seconds
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
For a second
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
It took seconds of your time to take his life
It took seconds
For a second
It took seconds of your time to take his life
Seconds of your time to take his life
For a second
For a second
For a second
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Is Restless In Me
THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME
The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Evening Poem
AN EVENING POEM
An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.
All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.
We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.
It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.
What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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There Are The Poems That Are Not The Real Poems
There are the poems that are not the real poems,
And the poems that are-
And the poems that are seem to come out of their own saying
With a rhythm and a meaning which makes a music so deep,
Even the most lonely soul feels them as a singing inside.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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Frustrating Seconds
These seconds of time that seem so small
really are not that small at all.
They continuously add up to a minute.
Sixty seconds later and all that's within it
is larger as they pass.
And then they add up to an hour.
Now those seconds have more power.
They move along and soon there'll be
another day gone from you with me.
Seconds, minutes, hours and days
have grown so long in heartfelt ways.
They leave me wondering just how long
these drawn out seconds did me wrong?
I'd love to bundle them up real tight
and little by little squeeze them at night.
And when the dawn is here again
remember all of them and say Amen.
I do not wish my life away.
I just want those seconds to go their way.
Let them add up for another fool.
For these seconds for me are much too cruel.
I don't need seconds, minutes or hours
to remind me of eternity.
I will not count the time anymore
for all it contains is the misery
of being away from you.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Few Poems Are Remembered
FEW POEMS ARE REMEMBERED
Few poems are remembered -
Few poems are ever really known-
Few poems are chosen -
Few poems make us want to return to them again and again-
Out of thousands written every day
Perhaps one poem in a decade
Perhaps less.
This is not the poem.
One can write a lifetime
Without ever writing one such poem.
Most of us never write the poem
And most of us are not remembered either.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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All I Can Do Now Is Write Another Poem
All I can do now is write another poem-
The poems are small,
And do not require the long hours and long years
Of the books-
Like the world as a whole
I seem to have a shorter attention span
And less patience-
A poem can be written and given a name
In minutes not years-
Though some would say a great poem
Takes the travail of years of waiting
And years of work-
But I did not say
‘All I can do now is write another great poem'
Perhaps I have in all the years of the nights never written one-
I can write the poems I write
My kinds of poems
In a fairly short time-
All I can do now
Is write another of my kind of poems-
Whether they be worth anything,
Or not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The guy who ones us..
and there’s this guy,
hits my poems every day
devotedly
that’s a lot of poems
doesn’t read them,
just hits them
to dropp another 1 in the voting box
on new poems, or ones he’s already oned, alike
he or she no surely he
girls have better things to do
saw some poems had rated 10
naturally assumed that this was faked
because he’s like that, decided
it was time to take me down a peg
but adding his comments – no,
too public, better do it secretly
then announce it publicly
as an act of holy justice..
if a poem’s got no rating – bliss!
a very public 1 like a steaming turd…
if it’s already got a 10, a 1
will bring that down to 5.5..
and there’s always tomorrow..
a 10, two ones make 4.0..
a 10, three ones, make 3.3.. and so on…
alas for him, he can’t ever reduce my score
with 10 plus 1 to the xth, to lower than 1.0…
funny, I still feel the same me in my poems…
I hope there’s only one of him,
it’s an awful waste of time, chasing
a paper power, a passing screen…
fun though it is, to spread childish smears
across the adult world…
needless to say, his many weeks of work
have served to elevate our hit-rate…
and as we sink on one list, then we rise
on another… the injustice of it all…
now the real false figures are his, not ours…
and then, he thought, it’s time for Frank..
and then, for Tara.. and who next?
maybe some I haven’t spotted?
That high scorer above all,
Nikki, so far, has escaped his attention…
But then, Nikki has no poems to one!
last year, he was called Joe Fazio or some such,
this year, he’s called ‘Poet Watch’..
if only… I’d be happier, as a poet,
if he had read the poems he oned…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Back To My Work
It's time for me to write again
The poems were on pause
So as to ease my mind
Now I see it only took my emotions away
It was locked with the thoughts of new poems
Now I'm back and filled to the brim
Here come the poems
For so long tried to escape to paper
Blocked by procrastination and laziness
Welcome to the world new poems
May the paper caress you for years to come
Written January 31,2011
poem by Ryan Collins
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Oh The Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS
Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –
What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?
I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-
Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-
Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-
Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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