Cry
He has the edge of me, the quill,
and the waves of prolong prose.
The hands move, they write with no
purpose but to disappear into death minds.
Meanings of grief,
turning into dark stone, teardropp become
ice drops, reach the end, and break
into dry whispers of cry
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Related quotes
My Answer To Her Letter
sorry
for not having answered your letter in understandable prose
as it will be hard for me to do so
i am trained
to think
in a language that must not be easily understood
this poetry
of stone
and trickles of rain
that must be hard, and stoic, and solid
and yet
must in time
be fluid
to an adversity
patience
trickles like drops of water from a high stone inside a cave
to meet
its destiny
down the river underneath the trees and rocks
what do you see?
you will see nothing except some words that meet you
hiding in their own meanings
some words are better seen
but must not be said
in utterances
the words die their own deaths
the meanings dissolve
in their very structures
like ice melting
water turning into vapor
and then
gone
you try to hold on to mist
you breathe
you live only in the memory
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dearly Beloved (write To Me)
Write me a poem, dearly beloved,
Write of your love, your fidelity, your proclivity
For doing what is right for me, not what is right;
Speak to me of what you feel
Not sugared words served on pity tarts
Write me a poem, dearly beloved,
If you cannot, then contend to break my heart.
Write me a prose, dearly beloved,
Then narrate it on an elevated stand
To the heavens and the sea and whatever lies betwixt
The shadows of both so that all can hear;
Speak only truth for I cannot stomach lies of such art
Write me a prose, dearly beloved,
If you cannot, then contend to break my heart.
Write me a sonnet, dearly beloved
And sing it by the edge of the fast flowing stream
Sing to me as if you sang to all the forest
And called forth its life from the concealing leaves of jade
And of this assembly of the innocent, I shall be an active part
So write me a sonnet, dearly beloved,
If you cannot, then contend to break my heart.
poem by Samah Khan
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Vanish
The elements in my thoughts are emptiness in
my hands, the uncertainty of your reach, i cannot
think of, but only hope that the day is not yet gone
entirely from my extending shelf. Where the literature
of infinite prose are the taste of one self, to become
myself as one into your spoken words. The writing
all becomes a shadow of many regrets. My hands
can only feel the texture of the paperback, but not
the words written, they can only register in my
conscious to stay and appear when i need them. I
cannot grab your voice nor your thoughts, if only
i could reach the sky and write my prose in a cloud
you shall read my contemplation from a distance
where ever you are. Tell me where it is your standing,
unless you want me lost. For eons I have longed the
moment to come. Tell me where to find you unless
you want me to fall. The prose only say you wait
desperately for hope.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Millions of water drops
drops of water
millions of drops
Falling down the rocks
Millions of water drops
Glittering in the sun
Shining like pearls
Millions of water drops
Ending as a river
Finding way to ocean
Millions of water drops
Creating childrens happiness
Laughter and joyfullness
Millions of water drops
Soon will tide reach
White long shores
Millions of water drops
Animating Waves
into forming caves
Millions of water drops
splittering from above
till reaching top of the hill
Millions of water drops
Without them no sound
No whispers of the living
Millions of water drops
Watch the clearness
From crest to earth
Millions of water drops
For tribe’s best
Beware of waste
Millions of water drops
Treasured should they be
As belonging to all humanity
(march 2008, Switzerland)
poem by Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi Angel
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At The Edge Of The Edge Of The Edge
AT THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE EDGE
At the edge of the edge of the edge
There is another invisible edge
And this too has an edge and another edge
Edges unending
Beyond our comprehension
Waiting for us to fall down and down-
On the edge of the edge of the edge
I write on
Has the great descent already begun
And am I in the midst of it
As I pretend to go on?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Waiting For You (Sestina)
The tangled wood reminds me of your hair -
dark like the night and falling in whispers.
Kneeling underneath the sheltering pines,
I sip silence and stroke the memories.
You have long been gone, and I miss your hands,
slipping through the long sleeves of languid love.
Time is a leaf on the branch of our love,
curled in the corners of your chestnut hair
and falling like sand through hourglass hands.
Wind strokes my back and quietly whispers.
Stars float down a dark sky of memories,
their bright pulse like beacons above the pines.
Thus hangs the moon, suspended among pines,
promising brighter days showered with love;
but for now, I live in the memories.
I braid a blue blossom into my hair,
its fragrance wafting like weary whispers,
spider-spun silk in the palm of my hands.
I remember how you captured my hands,
held them within the shadow of the pines,
and kissed them soft as butterfly whispers.
It was then that I knew I was in love,
when you gently stroked the length of my hair,
now curled within the moonlight memories.
Moonlight makes magic of the memories,
within the palms of her shimmering hands,
and she sprinkles starlight throughout my hair.
Initials are carved in one of the pines
within a whimsical heart made with love
and sanctified with undying whispers.
The past unfolds in wandering whispers,
ushered through the gate of my memories.
I write a letter of undying love,
hold it like seeds in the palm of my hands,
and plant it with a kiss beneath the pines
as the wind looses a wisp of my hair.
The pale wings of my love move like whispers,
tangling in your hair like memories
captured within your hands beneath the pines.
poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
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Footsteps
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
Whenever trouble comes around
Or lonely nights lead underground
And far in the dark
Abandoned cars suddenly start up
An anxious sound
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
When loneliness induces fear
Like waves against a
Ramshackle pier
When thunder and rain
Scar the windowpane once again
I want you near
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Im longing to see you
I want you, I need you
Like a child who feels afraid
Of the dark at night
Hoping to hear a gentle touch
Turning on a welcome light
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is poetry even in prose, in all the great prose which is not merely utilitarian or didactic: there exist poets who write in prose or at least in more or less apparent prose; millions of poets write verses which have no connection with poetry.
quote by Eugenio Montale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Edge Of The Edge Of The Edge
ON THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE EDGE
On the edge of the edge of the edge
There is nowhere to go-
Home is lost,
And all the distances have broken down-
One cannot move
One can only fear-
On the edge of the edge of the edge
Falling is fear-
And holding one’s ground
One step at a time
Is a small miracle
One is not sure
One can make alone.
On the edge of the edge of the edge-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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On a Razor's Edge We Live
but gazing into bright desert space
we see endless highways, distant
mountains we never reach,
sharp hills, steep cliffs
receding
as we move closer,
closer,
to the pacing sun
creasing dark canyons
casting amber light
into the gauzy sky,
yet our dark dreams trouble
faint stars and reeling planets
throwing wide nets over
haunted, lost souls
when, morning at last,
we begin again
pursuing the tumbling edge
of this turning globe
and we believe that
it will never end, will never
end,
will never
end.
poem by Steven Federle
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Annex The Belief
A dialogue with fear,
to end the thought,
was walking alone on the edge of death.
All the mercy of life was with it.
Gone were the waves,
whispering, back to the sea of mundane paucities.
The sky and the pain were there.
Again a question of collective guilt was rising.
So much noise was coming
without any resemblance
with the damaged certainties.
An act of voiceless jealousy was starting for the ethnic slur.
It will not disappear
a conjugation between light and dark.
Can truth annex the belief
with a half hitch?
poem by Satish Verma
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Hula Hands
Lovely hula hands, graceful as a bird in motion
Riding like the doves over the ocean, lovely hula hands
Kah Li ma na ni'ae
Lovely hula hands, telling of the rain in the valleys
And the swirling winds over Na' Pali, lovely hula hands
Kah Li ma na ni'ae
I can feel the soft caresses of your hula hands, your lovely hula hands
Every little move expresses, so I'll understand all the tender meanings
Of your hula hands, fingertips that say Aloha
Say to me again I love you, lovely hula hands
Kah Li ma na ni'ae
I can feel the soft caresses of your hula hands, your lovely hula hands
Every litte move expresses, so I'll understand all the tender meanings
Of your hula hands, fingertips that say Aloha
Say to me again I love you, lovely hula hands
Kah Li ma na ni'ae
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meaning of Death
when a poet writes of death
don't take it literally
death has many meanings
which differ significantly
to a poet death might mean
death of a past
which is a new beginning
one that might last
death to a poet is life
time to start a new chapter
turn the page
turn sadness into laughter
to a poet death is a new start
ending of strife
closing, locking the doors
of their old life
death has so many meanings
not only for a poet
all parts of life leads to death
some just don't know it
death means change
chance for a new beginning
put the past behind
stop losing, start winning
so to a poet
death is not always bad
we must write our feelings
whether good or sad
p.s.not sure this makes much sense
but i was buzzed ;)
poem by Sandy Nobody
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Sweat Drops
Sweat Drops
Sweat drops and sea waves
Are salty alike:
Manifestations of agility.
Purest drops fall down
From the forehead of labor,
But laziness and corpse never sweat.
On all the races are seen sweat dews,
On which fall the victory rays,
Creating the rainbows in the minds.
Mountaineers mount up
In the blue moonlight,
And down in the sweat drops.
Seeds sprout
In each fallen dropp in the field:
Sweat drops are life drops.
Sweat stream
Floats the failures away,
Depositing fresh joys on the shore.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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When Artists Freedom Sing Melody
poets once busy with parchment quill by candlelight
are now busy stroking screen keyboards by electric light
mind thinks in poetic harmony in rhythm pace memory
themes spread ripple out in receptive minds synchronicity
write waking dreams unlock symbolic language in poetic lives
an omnipresent thirst is a golden scarab flying through minds
a light touch of mind illumination transcends purpose causality
all may be well in the world when artists freedom sing melody
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Whispers In The Silence
Whispers in the silence-
Whispers, Rising like a wave-
In unison, In defiance.
Whispers, Rising to a single scream- Sanity’s grave…
Endless screaming whispers, In the silence- Waves, Pounding the mind.
A tainted conscience-
In remorseful bind.
Longing for inner silence…
Black today, And black tomorrows-
Prisoners bound, Within dark sorrows…
Repenting our malice- Seeking redemptive solace.
A cold wind blows- Our soul shudders- Our souls bleed.
Within our shadows of regret- None shall covet us.
For silence, Our minds solemnly plead…
Spirits full of woe.
A tainted conscience.
Cries, Pleading, That this pain, None else know.
Longing for inner silence-
Inner peace-
That these screaming whispers, In the silence cease…
poem by Philip Alarie
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Thomas Chickenbone
He was demented and well-known
By those who knew him not at all-
The thundering Thomas Chickenbone,
Who walked these famed poetic halls.
The younger lemmings aped his writing,
That came from his almighty quill,
That wrought much jealousy and fighting
Among his peers of lesser skill.
Larger-than-life, he walked alone,
Like some half human and half beast-
The brazen Thomas Chickenbone-
The bomb of poetry released.
He rolled his r's and hissed his s's
In every poem he would write
Like presidential addresses,
That he delivered day and night.
He was determined like a stone,
And no one could break his will-
The feisty Thomas Chickenbone
With balls of fire in his quill.
Some women said that he alone
Had stamina of a thousand men,
For mighty Thomas Chickenbone
Was very potent with his pen.
August 18,2007
poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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The purpose of my propose
The smell of roses, dwell forever in memories of me proposing. I held it in my hand, when you opened the door, it was the first thing you saw.
I saw a teardropp rush down from your eye to your chin, complimented by your smile, and before it dropped… I could tell it was a tear of joy.
Bags fell down from your hands for you to reach for me. Before you burst into tears I remember you whispering in my ear so soft, so clear, so beautiful “YES”.
Before I could open my mouth, I felt your lips against mine, your kiss so divine. And then you said: “How Glad I Am That You Are Mine…”
…THE PURPOSE OF MY PROPOSE…
poem by Thato Maluleka
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Turn To Stone
The city streets are empty now the lights dont shine no more
And so the songs are way down low turning turning turning
A sound that flows into my mind the echoes of the daylight
Of everything that is alive in my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
The dying embers of the night a fire that slowly fades till dawn
Still glow upon the wall so bright burning burning burning
The tired streets that hide away from here to everywhere they go
Roll past my door into the day in my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Yes, Im turnin to stone cos you aint comin home.
Why you aint comin home if Im turnin to stone?
Youve been gone for so long and I cant carry on,
Yes, Im turnin, Im turnin, Im turnin to stone.
The dancing shadows on the wall the two-step in the hall
Are all I see since youve been gone turning turning turning
Through all I sit here and I wait I turn to stone I turn to stone
You will return again some day to my blue world
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
I turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
Turn to stone when you comin home, I cant go on.
Turn to stone when you are gone, I turn to stone.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ghost Of Our Love
Watching the waves rolling to the shore,
as I sit throwing pebbles into the water.
The smoke from my cigarette
drifts over my head,
caught in the evening breeze.
Pictures of you move across my mind,
and I sit wondering
how many waves you will see
before you reach that distant shore,
where your new life will begin.
Tears leak from my eyes,
as I remember
why you were sailing away.
There was nothing I could say
to make you stay.
The storms were too long,
too dark in intensity,
and too many.
Now you are going half a world away.
I wish you luck my love.
Standing I look out, at the restless sea.
For a few moments,
an almost eternity.
I stand there seeing nothing,
but curling while rolling waves.
’Good luck and goodbye.’
I whispered in the breeze
before turning away,
heading back to n empty home
that is waiting for me.
The ghost of our love,
my only company.
As I reach the path,
there is a light on within.
My key slips into the lock,
it turns and the door opens.
Your silhouette stands there
with arms outstretched.
Is this just a ghost of out love?
Our fingertips touch
and my heart begins to beat once more.
poem by David Harris
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