Outhouse Walls
real poetry...
begins with
a hammer and a saw,
16 penny nails,
the sun at your back,
and a willing tree!
wiping the dirt
and the fear from
a small child's face,
with bare hands,
calloused and rough,
tender as the petals
of the long rose opening
in front of an empty house....
picking up the stray dog
hit by a passing car,
going too fast to stop,
or to care....
load him in your truck,
and off to the vet....
who trades you his time
for a bushel of beans,
and help building his porch....
real poetry written
on outhouse walls!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
16 Penny Nails!
strong harsh words,
16 penny nails driven
by a big hammer....
truth tears at the flesh
of the lie and the liar!
things arent pretty anymore.
hurt is real!
homeless is real!
jobless is real!
hunger is real!
the streets are real!
prison is real!
prejudice, oppression,
hatred, violence....
people used, and thrown away!
persecution... over religion,
over sexual choice,
over political viewpoints....
wars fought over oil fields,
riot squads beating peaceful protestors...
women losing the rights
to their own bodies....
lonliness, suicide, drug addiction....
a harsh picture, faces put on bodies....
and yet beneath it all
there still lies a beauty...
all human beings, all human beings,
made in the image of God!
how can we not respect each other?
and how can we overlook....
the value of life?
with trembling hands wiping away
the blood, sweat, and urine of life...
trembling hands that when joined
become the hands of prayer!
16 penny nails, with heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do It All Again!
empty water buckets
on a porch long deserted,
the old house falling down
like a tree sheds its leaves.
the chimney stands cold,
almost roaring with silence...
and there's still a marker
in the back yard where we buried the dog.
love yellowed sheets,
and maggots in the flour.
spiders march on the outhouse walls.
empty mason jars that remember green beans,
a hoe, and a shovel with a broken handle.
ghosts walk cobwebbed halls,
the old floor sags.
and the sounds of two young lovers
haunt the ticking of an unseen clock.
damn! to go back...
and do it all again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What's the real meaning of Poetry
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
what is the real meaning of you?
is it the sonnets, the haiku's the imagery
no one will ever know.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
I know the real meaning of you
to express my feelings and thoughts on paper
to be able to publish you.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
you tell me the meaning of you.
poem by Nadia Potenza
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poetry On The Chin
You gouged my mind's eye,
Tantalised all inner thought,
Shocked from unknown angles;
Sold me, told me cold,
Unfolded, moulded;
Shouldered any harbouring
Of empty morals.
You spun me round; undressed -
Pestered me with background riddle -
Piffle came to gleaning meaning.
And you stripped out prejudice - for none
Must exist in poetry,
Lest you close up an open mind
And f**k up as reader;
Lest your heart is not a bleeder -
It has to be - let it flush out
Upon your sleeve.
You lay apart my thinking brain
And let in the literary pickings of a
Great poetic phallus.
Yes, poetry can be callous.
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2010
poetry
poetry
poetry poetry poetry
poetry poetry poetry
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry
poetry poetry poetry
poetry
poetry
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Totally Biased
I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.
31-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Time Of Poetry Has Come
THE TIME OF POETRY HAS COME
The time of Poetry has come
I feel it within myself
Somehow waiting to be said
Worlds are hidden
And feel ready to come into being-
The time of Poetry is here
And I am writing now easily
Yet somehow within the poetry
And beyond it
Is something that needs to be said
Which my poetry now cannot say-
The Poetry the real Poetry
May be within me
And yet beyond myself
So that what I am writing now
Is not it,
But only an excuse for mentioning that
It can never really be mine.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poetry Is
poetry is what the soul wants
poetry is infinite sound that taunts
poetry is strength of ones spirit
poetry is the powerful truth within it
poetry is love and hate
poetry is what makes you stop wait and appreciate
poetry is something you should die for
poetry is what makes you dropp to the floor
poetry is put up randomly
poetry is, well, simply poetry
poem by Daniel Romero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
This Poetry
This poetry is not poetry
This poetry is not poetry as poetry goes
But is as silent as a man in a rollo neck jumper
Almost reading yesterdays news
This poetry is not poetry
As far as poetry goes
It is neither verse
Or poesy prose
This is a debunking of 'The poetry'
Everyone knows
And so they are not amused
This poetry is not poetry
So why poetry?
If not
Prose?
It is as idle as a man picking his nose
Pondering a wonderful muse
Yet some, are not amused
Infact if this poetry is Not poetry
What right have I to use, the word poetry?
It is a lovely panacea for expressing and de stressing
The individual's points of view
And yet if not poetry
Who says Not poetry
And who is qualified to choose?
Give me a pocket full of roses
Or a misty morning cloud
Are you amused?
clammy wynette aka Yvette m smith
march 09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sometimes I Read Or Hear A Poem
SOMETIMES I READ OR HEAR A POEM
Sometimes I read or hear a poem
And know there is real Poetry in the world-
Poetry that takes me beyond anything I myself could know or write-
Poetry of a different kind of Beauty -
A language I never thought to hear
But once heard charms and delights me
As never before.
There is Poetry-
And there are real Poets-
And there are yet Dreams to be written-
So write on Stranger
Maybe you are the next one
A real poet
A voice the world truly needs and wants and loves to hear
Beyond any ever heard before.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Explaining poetry
How can I ever explain poetry?
To a child it would be easy
Eenie minee minee moe
Catch the monkey by the toe
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To get a pail of water
Is a poem easily understood by
A child
But to an adult
How can I ever explain poetry?
Can I explain it with a straight
Look in the eye
And I will tell him
Poetry Is looking a person straight in the eye
Yes you have only one more day to live?
Can I explain it to him
Like I have a gun and point it straight to his head
And say
Yes poetry kills and it kills you in a minute
And for free?
Or can I explain poetry to him
Like I am on the tenth floor of this building
And I tell him I am so problematic
And all I have to do is
Jump and kill myself
And he would be there
To tell me
Life is beautiful
There is reason to live
That I am loved
That many people still care
That I have a mission
That I have lots of good things to do
That this world has meaning
That I am the child of this universe
That I am no less than the trees and the stars and that by all means
I have the right to be here
That poetry can save
That poetry is one saving person holding one back to his senses
that poetry is hope, love, kindness
it has no word for hate
it does not kill
or enslave
or annihilate
Poetry is a decision
Not to jump.
That is poetry to me
And as an adult he must understand.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Three
How can I ever explain poetry?
To a child it would be easy
Eenie minee minee moe
Catch the monkey by the toe
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To get a pail of water
Is a poem easily understood by
A child
But to an adult
How can I ever explain poetry?
Can I explain it with a straight
Look in the eye
And I will tell him
Poetry Is looking a person straight in the eye
Yes you have only one more day to live?
Can I explain it to him
Like I have a gun and point it straight to his head
And say
Yes poetry kills and it kills you in a minute
And for free?
Or can I explain poetry to him
Like I am on the tenth floor of this building
And I tell him I am so problematic
And all I have to do is
Jump and kill myself
And he would be there
To tell me
Life is beautiful
There is reason to live
That I am loved
That many people still care
That I have a mission
That I have lots of good things to do
That this world has meaning
That I am the child of this universe
That I am no less than the trees and the stars and that by all means
I have the right to be here
That poetry can save
That poetry is one saving person holding one back to his senses
that poetry is hope, love, kindness
it has no word for hate
it does not kill
or enslave
or annihilate
Poetry is a decision
Not to jump.
That is poetry to me
And as an adult he must understand
he must understand what i am really trying to say
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Hands Of Time!
the hands of a small child,
shaping sand on the beach.
the flutter of wings,
a sparrow's first flight.
seeds planted by hand
in the fresh plowed ground.
the light teasing shadows,
late afternoon to night.
the war hero's silence,
his eyes grown hard.
the family burying the child,
the mother cannot weep.
the hungry stare
of poverty's stink.
the addict's hard edge,
bare rooms, bare walls.
the hanging tree,
and the lovers oak.
the bullet in the chamber,
and the open mission.
the church locked empty,
boxes to beds in the alley.
the old man who cant forgive
what the young boy did.
the hands of a small child...
the hands of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Questions
How to start? What to say?
I don't remember ever feeling this way.
Can it be true? Does anyone care?
Is it only make-believe or are You really there?
Is there a chance I've been missing the best?
Could it be life is more than a guess?
I'm afraid to let go, yet I long to see.
If You are real, be real to me,
If You are real, be real to me.
Okay, supposing I were to come to You?
Not saying I will, just supposing I do?
Would I have to be, just another guy?
Two a penny's not for me, it just won't satisfy.
I'm just confused, by candles and prayers.
I just need to know, if You are there.
Show me the way, for I long to see.
If You are real, be real to me,
If You are real, be real to me.
I'm just confused, by candles and prayers.
I just need to know, if You are there.
Show me the way, for I long to see.
If You are real, be real to me,
If You are real, be real to me.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
As A Child I Loved Poetry
AS A CHILD I LOVED POETRY
As a child I loved poetry,
As an old man I love poetry-
Years of reading poetry are in me,
A lifetime of poetry.
But as a poet,
I am less than what I know from others,
And less than what I would have been-
A small poet
Of small lines
Old and getting older
And still loving the lines
That rhyme inside
And make life more beautiful.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
There Is A Time For Poetry
THERE IS A TIME FOR POETRY
There is a time for Poetry
When Life cries out desperately for Help-
Or when Love overwhelms
Or Fear comes.
Spring is a time for Poetry
And Autumn also
Winter has its Poetry
And Summer too.
There is a time for Poetry
Which is any time the human heart needs
A deep time
A sad time
A Lonely time.
Any time-
A time for Poetry- Now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!