Related quotes: dead poets stacked like saltine...

Graves Of Your Fathers

dead poets stacked like saltine crackers,
in the hangers where the bombs are loaded.
the smell of flesh burning
doesnt change with skin colors,
screams in the night defy language!
justice oozes from pus filled wounds,
faces stolen from bodies marching.
death falls like the rain that has no after,
on the poor and the ignorant without discrimination.
the power surges, lights flicker and fade,
the children of the poets sharpen knives,
and sleep with stray cats....
when even darkness sickens itself,
and women gather garbage by flashlight.
the beast you fed the poets' tongues,
sits staring at your mother!
and you walk blindly down the tracks,
throwing pennies on the graves of your fathers!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

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
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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
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We As Poets

We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.

poem by Naveed Akram
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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
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Dark Poets

rain come touch my heart
wake me up inside
seems if i had sleep
100 years without knowing
wash my tears away
dark poets
give me your strenght
and open my eyes
open my heart
to let the rain in
dark poets
dont let me close my heart
dont stop the rain
oh dark poets
let the rain come in
forever falling deep insede
daek poets
let the rain into my heart

poem by Guadalupe martinez
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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.

quote by T.S. Eliot (1920)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Write Poems For Poets

I WRITE POEMS FOR POETS

I write poems for poets
Our situation as poets-
The longings the feelings
We so need to express-
The love of language-
The hunger for recognition-
The frequent rejection-
The kind word of a reader that moves-

Poems for poets
We as we each are
All so different-
And we as we share
Words and worlds
We hope to have read.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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A Single Candle/Death Herself

A single flame lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death

Her hands clasped anrond their souls
The souls of the dead
She feeds of their screams
The screams of the dead

Her legs lay bellow her
Bellow death
Her black gown over her body
The body of death

Her chest rises and falls with her breath
The breath of death
Her cloak drawn over her long flowing jet hair
The face of death

Her eyes unmoved unfeeling
Do you see it?
Do you see the soul of death?
Do you feel it?

Her skin as white as snow as it fades into darkness
The snow of tears
Her cloths as dark as night that swallows the light
The dark we all shall see

Her eyes close as she feels their souls flow
Flow from the dead
She leaves them there to lay in darkness
She steals from the dead

A single candle lights their faces filled with her
Filled with death
They fall into the darkness of her eyes, of her heart
The darkness of death

A single candle shall stay to light their way
Their way through the dark
A single candle holds their past
The pain and trials

A single candle lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death herself

A single candle

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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An Exhortation

Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a day?

Poets are on this cold earth,
As chameleons might be,
Hidden from their early birth
In a cave beneath the sea;
Where light is, chameleons change:
Where love is not, poets do:
Fame is love disguised: if few
Find either, never think it strange
That poets range.

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
A poet's free and heavenly mind:
If bright chameleons should devour
Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,
O, refuse the boon!

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Poetribute

Poets are few
But the pens are plenty Is like the world is running to his end
With no minute and hour paused to rest
Running as if to fulfil long-told revelation
Poets have all gone beneath the sand
The pregnant graveyards
Where they sleep with the hope to be born
To another world hereafter
Death be not proud
You can only claim the flesh
But not the soul
O the poets are few
And the pens are plenty
Hard are the words out.
To combat untruth in men

poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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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
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The Poet As A Flatterer

he loves bukowski and e.e. cummings too,
and he colors his world with their shades and hues
and the souls of other poets come to him
love us too
we are too lonely in here
our poems have turned dusty
read us too

and out of respect for those who are dead and lonely
he takes them all inside his room
lights his lamp and burns his eyebrows
(literally dissecting each flesh and vein of those
poets departed)

he writes at the break of his day
i love you all and honor you

but sorry, i have my own poems too
and like yours... forgive me...
they're dusty too and need my reading company.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Language Poets are writing only about language itself. The Ashbery poets are writing only about poetry itself. That seems to me a kind of dead end.

quote by Robert Morgan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tribute To All Poets

Poets in awe
beauty of the sea
swimming the ocean
begging to be free

Poetry in motion
Walking the land
Carving out each word
Deep down in the sand

Poets hungry
Devour each page
reach for each meaning
put on a stage

Poetry screams silence
during blackened night
with the glow of the moon
shining silvery white

Poets asleep
thinking each new rhyme
Waltzing the floor
Running in time

Poetry Forever
neither alive or dead
remembering the words
that get stuck in your head

poem by Linda Racaniello
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Poets generally love cats -- because poets have no delusions about their own superiority.

quote by Marion Garretty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Deity

Mother Saraswatee is prayed in each family;
Guys, girls, women, men pray gaily.
Mother smiles on the altar;
Blessth devotees, fulfils desire.

The vast blue sky is clear;
Encourages poets to derive pleasure.
Poets pen various beauteous poems delightfully;
Film stars dance gaily.

Singers sing melodious songs peacefully;
People enjoy the songs gaily.
Wife waits for husband’s kiss.
Derives mother’s Heavenly Bliss.

Innocence women reigns on Earth;
Vernal season is an Ocean of mirth.
Vernal Breeze kisses all the creatures;
Mother fulfils all innocent creatures’ desires.

Poets chant mother’s hymns devotionally;
Children recite Mother’s name delightfully.
Mother is the Deity of Deities;
She is an Ocean of Gaiety.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
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For All The Poets

FOR ALL THE POETS

This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.

This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.

This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.

This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.

This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.

This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.

This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.