And, Magic!
and so once again,
spring hath violated
the tomb of god,
and brought forth magic!
shadows dance,
seeds are planted.
life bursts through
the frozen casket...
light begins anew,
poets too long slumbered,
cast the webbing from their eyes,
birthing words into being.
thunderstorms, and magic.
the sun carries the hands of time.
summer dares come, wave upon wave,
poets dance naked in the moonlight.
lovers come together,
fission, and creation.
worlds are formed,
history testifies!
wine lusts for the lips,
as flesh for flesh.
the drums beat wildly,
death is but orgasm!
all too soon,
autumn aproaches.
the harvest of desire,
fires built in the night.
hair turns grey,
thoughts lose form.
leaves begin to turn,
and fall, tis magic!
and poets rhyme the turning
of the earth and the sea.
worship the shell shocked earth,
dance in the memory....
then leaves turn brown,
decay, and return.
poets lose their eyesight,
follow the beat of the heart.
the winter chill comes,
barelimbed trees offer prayers...
at the graves of the poets,
marked by fresh fallen snow.
words lost, or engraved forever,
in the coming of spring,
in darkness to light...
what else could it be...
but magic!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen
I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
IV
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If I Knew What Poets Know
If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?
Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.
If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It's Love! Magic!
Is It Magic?
I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?
I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?
You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?
There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?
When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?
The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.
Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.
I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again, without
the cloak of your magic.
You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.
Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely.
You Have Cast Your Spell...
Is It Magic?
I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?
I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?
You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?
There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?
When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?
The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.
Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.
I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again, without
the cloak of your magic.
You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.
Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely.
To those who dance the night away
Beneath the sordid streets,
the beat streaks from below.
Deep down underground,
Camden underworld
is heaving.
I am right in believing,
that poets don't dance.
From the side,
Eyes wide,
Observing those who dance
the night away,
whilst I play word games,
and only dance with the
words in my head.
with feet like lead.
I envy you, who can Dance,
and drink, and move
like monkeys.
There is no fun,
in poetry.
There in no sun,
in misery.
All your smiles,
sadden me,
for you are free,
to dance the night away.
poem by Not Long Left
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It's Love! Magic!
Is It Magic?
I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?
I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?
You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?
There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?
When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?
The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.
Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.
I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again, without
the cloak of your magic.
You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.
Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely.
poem by Waldon Pond Productions
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The First Poets
The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.
The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.
The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.
The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.
Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.
Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.
The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When I See Autumn
I see autumn in dancing leaves.
I see autumn in words of poets.
I listen the breeze of autumn in your heart beat.
Which touches my heart when I hug you softly.
I fly in autumn higher and higher.
With a zig zag flow the more I get lighter.
I taste the fruits gifted by trees.
Celebrating and sharing the blessings of autumn.
If you search me please do it soon.
I may get lost in the bushes of autumn.
I get green and green with orange purple flowers.
When the leaves all around me give me the showers.
I dance with the chanting sparrows.
I forget all of my sorrows.
I get lost, lost and lost in the arms of God.
I become numb and dumb when I see autumn.
This poem I write in response of Seema Choudhary's poem 'Beauty of Autumn' and I give her the credit.
poem by Ramesh Kavdia
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poets Are Holy Hypocrites
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse.
they sit for as long as it takes
like terriers at a foxhole
or for second-best practice,
at a rabbit-hole,
totally still, alert, all their powers
poured into attention;
what a lesson dogs
are for humans
then – a movement in
their consciousness; it could be
anything creative – a film, a poem;
and with it comes the sense
of wonder; they are as children
living in an eternal present
of the universe as gift;
they take up their pen or keyboard
and, so carefully, as they
would handle a new-born baby,
write down this spell for that it is
for the benefit of others quite unknown
and then like a christening shawl,
white, soft, handmade with love,
offer it to the world.
then some who believe its magic
read the spell, are reborn
or cured, or restored
to good health and humour
or simply have a good day
while those who don’t believe the spell,
well of course the magic doesn’t work for them
so far so very good. But then
those who aren’t into wanting spells
and have opinions about
their opinions, say, that word is wrong,
so it’s not a magic spell. it’s a bad spell,
in fact it’s not a spell at all
and others who also have opinions
about their opinions, say, that word is right,
so it’s a good and magic spell; and there they are,
all crowded round peering through their
dirty glasses, pushing and shoving and shouting
to get nearer the spell and have their say
and oh dear, there's the poet in there too
saying oh do you really think that
I'd better look at it again
and see if you might be right
and sad to say, some poets
begin to worry, about whether
the words of their spell are quite right
not trusting the magic, as if
it came from them and not from itself...
and the magic shrugs its shoulders
and says oh well and goes some place else
where it might be more appreciated
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse
[with more than a little acknowledgement to the vision of Michael Leunig, cartoonist and Living National Treasure]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Is It Magic?
I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?
I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?
You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?
There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?
When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?
The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.
Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.
I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again, without
the cloak of your magic.
You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.
Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely.
Magic? Love? Both?
Why do I love you? I love you
because...you...are you.
I know not why I love.
Have you cast your spell of magic,
that makes this so?
I have taken to notice, the magic
that is life. Is that you? Is it
your magic that makes me so aware?
You are part of my entire being.
Is this also, your magic at work?
There's a song in my heart, and a
spring in my step. Is it magic?
Is it love? Magic? Love? Both?
When apart I feel a loss. Is
it your magic, that compels me
to miss you so?
The Magic of your kiss. The Magic of
your voice. The Magic of your touch.
If it is magic, I am completely
and willing, under your spell.
Can I live but a day, without the
love of your magic? No. Not
a day, or a minute, or one second
for all eternity.
I have never felt this way before.
Nor will I ever again without
the cloak of your magic.
You are, and always will be,
My Magic Lady.
Yes...yes, most will say it is
love. Love perhaps.
Magic? Definitely!
Magic Dance
You remind me of the baby
What baby? baby with the power
What power? power of voodoo
Who do? you do
Do what? remind me of the baby
I saw my baby, crying hard as babe could cry
What could I do
My babys love had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew
What kind of magic spell to use
Slime and snails
Or puppy dogs tails
Thunder or lightning
Then baby said
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Put that baby spell on me
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby, make him free
I saw my baby, trying hard as babe could try
What could I do
My babys fun had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew
What kind of magic spell to use
Slime and snails
Or puppy dogs tails
Thunder or lightning
Then baby said
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Put that baby spell on me
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby, make him free
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Put that baby spell on me (ooh)
You remind me of the baby
What baby? the baby with the power
What power? power of voodoo
Who do? you do
Do what? remind me of the baby
Dance magic, dance, ooh ooh ooh
Dance magic, dance magic, ooh ooh ooh
Dance magic
What kind of magic spell to use
Slime and snails
Or puppy dog tails
Thunder or lightning
Something frightening
Dance magic, dance
Dance magic, dance
Put that baby spell on me
Jump magic, jump
Jump magic, jump
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby make him free
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic
Slap that slap that baby make him free
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Magic Madness
Lost in a portrait I saw as a boy,
of posing flamingos and tropical sun.
Suzanne is calling from out of her window,
a sweet invitation for oranges and rum.
Dive in the dawn of her shimmering ways,
“Love me for ever”, she said,
or give me your power for only a day”,
then drove me right out of my head.
Magic Madness in the candle-light night
where raging fires burn to turn to coals
Magic Madness, silken, satin delight.
Hotly whispered pleading, “More, my baby, more…”
Magic Madness
Sway to the beckoning Spanish guitar,
castanets tapping a rhythm to me.
Angela moves like a dream coming answered
and slyly enchanting this man of the sea.
Sailing come morning and I must be there.
“Love me forever”, she cried,
or lie in my garden as long as you dare”,
then drove me right out of my mind.
Magic Madness in the candle-light night
where raging fires burn to turn to coals
Magic Madness, silken, satin delight.
Hotly whispered pleading, “More, my baby, more…”
Magic Madness
Fate fills the years, like wind in the main.
The boy grows to manhood then sails no more.
Valerie’s calling the children to supper,
wordlessly watching me watching the shore.
Madness comes on as the moon turns the tide,
“Come to me sailor, again.
Your harbor is waiting to take you inside
and magic will dance on the wind.”
Magic Madness in the candle-light night
where raging fires burn to turn to coals
Magic Madness, silken, satin delight.
Hotly whispered pleading, “More, my baby, more…”
Magic Madness
poem by A.D. Varrone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dance Dance Dance
After six hours of school I've had enough for the day
I hit the radio dial and turn it up all the way
I gotta dance (dance dance dance now the beat's really hot) right on the spot
(Dance dance dance right there on the spot)
The beat's really hot
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
Dance (dance) dance (dance) dance (dance) yeah!
When I feel put down I try to shake it off quick
With my guy by my side the radio does the trick
I wanna dance (dance dance dance now the beat's really hot) right on the spot
(Dance dance dance right there on the spot)
The beat's really hot
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
Dance (dance) dance (dance) dance (dance) yeah!
At a weekend dance we like to show up late
I play it cool when it's slow and jump it when it's fast
I gotta dance (dance dance dance now the beat's really hot) right on the spot
(Dance dance dance right there on the spot)
The beat's really hot
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
Dance (dance) dance (dance) dance (dance) yeah!
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
(Dance dance dance right there on the spot)
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
Dance (dance) dance (dance) dance (dance) yeah!
(Dance dance dance now the beat's really hot)
(Dance dance dance right there on the spot)
song performed by by Wilson Phillips
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Once Upon a Time Words
The art of Dance, poetry in motion,
Poetry is the art of once upon a time words
Metaphorically painted in the mind
By a poets notions of love and nature's wonder.
The magic poetic symphony of words in a poem is
Placed by the genius akin to a chess master.
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Writers and Poets....A Dedication
Writers, poets swing from chandeliers
Happy in the bliss of unlived fear
The quest of Poseidon once found
-Relief.
Jazzing away the hours
In disbelief-
Whoa! man, yeah that's jazz,
But the grooviness,
Once lost ain't that grand-
Ptah, gotta have the beebop
Rhythm, funk and R&B
Red light magic pleasantries,
DAMN! ~whoops I'm on my beat
Lost in the magic of these happy feet.
poem by III Lewis Dowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!