Poem
(Abbreviated from the conversation with Mr. T E H.
Over the flat slope of St Eloi
A wide wall of sandbags.
Night,
In the silence desultory men
Pottering over small fires, cleaning their mess-tins:
To and fro, from the lines,
Men walk as on Piccadilly,
Making paths in the dark,
Through scattered dead horses,
Over a dead Belgian’s body.
The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets,
Behind the lines, cannon, hidden, lying back miles.
Before the line, chaos.
My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are
corridors.
Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Making Connections
Tendrils grappling in air
Making connections be
It the wind or something else
Out there
Just to hold on to what when
Thin green sword-like palm
Hawaiian leaves stretching to the
Blue skies and sun
Making connections to whatever
Is who knows what slices thin some
Spaces in between light and dark
Some shadows playing like small
Children in the night park playground
Anything to touch life
Yawning to what-is if-this-could-happen
Then what?
Powered Rockets bulleting to space stabbing
& Lots of jet nozzles buzzing to
Vast dark silence clean cutting lines
Colored smoke curving with light
Making connections to planetary skies
Moon, Venus, Jupiter
On to Pluto to Zeus what if
One baby-finger touching fine fish
Fins swimming in ocean-space out-there
Making connections in between haze & fog
What if it is there that which lies next to this
Next to us from far and they can be then near
We are all tendrils rockets baby fingers space ocean fish fins
Making connections this empty hands loosened fingers
Dripping sands and spilling fine touches to wind chimes
Pointing stretching making fingers in between
A short distance making always always
Connections to what if what if I am there too.
Chances are, you chase and find them, footprints
They were once, and they all left, just seconds away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry Has Its Own Music
POETRY HAS ITS OWN MUSIC
Poetry has its own music-
A mind empty of it
Wonders where it is.
Poetry has a rhythm of its own
Without that rhythm
Dead words dead lines dead pages.
Seeking the rhythm the music of poetry
Flat lines come
And the poem is a parody
Of true poetry.
How many flat and false poems
Have I written
In order
To help me try
To come alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dead To My Poem
DEAD TO MY POEM
Dead to my poem-
Dead to the poems of others-
Dead to poetry
In any way at all-
Into another way of feeling:
Dry- nervous- anxious- fearful.
Prose is my soul
Empty small literal flat prose.
Flat prose
Lines too flat to even need paraphrase
No poem no poetry
Prose.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Before the storming of the Casinga trenches
The past was going in seconds
while I was being sheltered
behind a small wall, with bullets,
mortars and rockets
whining and exploding, dark was everything,
dark was all
with death spreading its tentacles,
gripping mostly the enemy
bringing them to a fall
but for those barely out of range,
covered by trenches
the change from living to dead
were only minutes away
but the present was catching up with them,
with sniper bullets, mortars homing in
and hand grenades arcing dead on target
and the enemy trench lying straight ahead
to win the battle, the only way to tread
and the future of living or dying
was drawing down on the intersection
of the order: to take the trench.
[Reference: Full Moon At Tierz: Before The Storming Of Huesca by John Cornford.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dead In The Wombs
those same children
who died in the waters
that swallowed Atlantis....
those same children,
starving 'neath Africa's sun....
dead from the bombings
in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran....
their bodies thrown into dumpsters
here in the United States....
dead on the borders,
dead in the oil filled waters,
dead on the cocaine streets,
dead in the prisons...
dead in the colleges,
dead in the unemployment lines....
dead on the picket lines,
dead, handcuffed, and beaten....
dying, and dead, world crazy spinning...
as the 'light of the world'
sputters, and goes out....
dead in the wombs of the
homeless, hopeless, and forgotten...
dead by our hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Spring Grove Rockets
We are Spring Grove Rockets.
So pull that money out of your pockets.
Because you know that we can stop it you just love to watch us block it.
Because we are the SPRING GROVE ROCKETS
We launch our hearts from the start
So don't try to braek us apart
We are strong
We are brave
We've got you beaten
to the grave
SPRING GROVE ROCKETS
poem by Kayla Nace
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Rocket
Sleeping late on
Warm afternoon
Waking up to
Bright silver moon
Silent words from
My heart to you
My empty filled
Filled up with you
Rockets fly
Rockets fly
I slip another smile in your pocket
My heart is racing to you like a rocket
Rockets fly
Rockets fly
I slip another smile in your pocket
My heart is racing to you like a rocket
The two of us we dream like one
Our energy could light the sun
The two of us take breath as one
The two of us... The two of us...
song performed by by Yellowcard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rocket
Sleeping late on
Warm afternoon
Waking up to
Bright silver moon
Silent words from
My heart to you
My empty filled
Filled up with you
Rockets fly
Rockets fly
I slip another smile in your pocket
My heart is racing to you like a rocket
Rockets fly
Rockets fly
I slip another smile in your pocket
My heart is racing to you like a rocket
The two of us we dream like one
Our energy could light the sun
The two of us take breath as one
The two of us... The two of us...
song performed by by Yellowcard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fourth Of July (Love And Rockets Red Glare)
On this night of patriotic celebration
We find a special place to hide away
for a while
Just for the two of us
Under the boardwalk
We lay a blanket down and spread it out
Sitting on the blanket
The time has come
And so
One by one
Fireworks and rockets go off
As they go off
We exchange hugs and kisses
While still making time to see the beauty
and magic happening in the sky
On the Fourth of July
As the fireworks and celebration continue
On this Fourth of July
You and I can both agree
We wouldn't want to be anywhere else
Anywhere else in the world
On this Fourth of July
On the Fourth of July
For us
Tonight
It's definitely love and rockets red glare
Love and rockets red glare
All over
poem by Justin Gildow
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All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were
ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE
All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Love is a bitter thing
Love is a bitter thing
that cuts nastily,
Through my heart.
Too many beautiful things
still lies too spring fresh,
between you and me
for love to end by itself.
I do not know what to do
to stop love from disappearing somewhere
between yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Every time that you are with me
I know that things between us,
are still sparkling alive.
The things between the lines in each conversation,
your body language and your fingers that draw lines
through my hair,
betrays what lies hidden deep in your heart.
It does not make sense that you want it dead
and your words say that it is past,
but still you want to be with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tracks, Trails, Lines and pages
Tracks in forests… of woodland creatures
Trails of shooting stars in summer skies
Tracks of rockets o’er bloody battlefields
Traces of wrinkles round wizened eyes
Lines of wisdom on wrinkled faces
Lines of ants upon the floor
Lines of prose on parchment pages
Lines of carts inside the stores
Pages of life, inside old diarys
Pages dog-eared to mark the places
Pages filled with tales sad and fiery
Pages filled with empty spaces
poem by David Whalen
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The Night I Painted The Sky
I came from the north
Escaping convention
Modern invention that wont let me be
To the shores of st. martin
With my fiction addiction
To restart the fire
A dreamers remedy
Independence day
And all I remember
Was a midnight rainbow
That fell from the sky
As I stand on the beach
I slowly surrender
To the child in me
That cant say goodbye
The rockets in the air
And the people everywhere
Put away their differences for a while
Oh I am still a child
When it comes to something wild
Oh that was the night
I painted the sky
I dug in the sand
Like a boy on a mission
And there in my hands
A pyros delight
If un bombadier
A night time magician
I sparked the sky
As the rockets fly from view
The rockets in the air
And the people everywhere
Put away their differences for a while
Es I am still a child
When it comes to something wild
Oh that was the night
I painted the sky
Oh the mortars they roar
In anticipation
Proceeding the sigh
Of the uplifted eyes
It showers us all
In sulfuric sensation
The colors shine
And a fiery rhyme tonight
The rockets in the air (ooooh...)
And the people everywhere
Wont you put away your differences for a while
I am but a child
When it comes to something wild
Oh that was the night
That was the night
Oh that was the night
I painted the sky
Painted the sky
Painted the sky
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Exhortation On Some Lines....
something is missing in your lines.
i regret to tell you that.
it does not speak well of yourself
or the world
or any moment, it is like a desert and all we have is space and
a horizon
there is even no wind to blow the sands away
i do not expect rain in the desert
but i could have seen a camel or a line of trucks or a
caravan
or even a Bedouin riding on his black horse with a scimitar
here i am again
in my worst self trying to tell you what to do so that you can be what you are
your lines are straight and too clean and that make them appear
dishonest
people love crooked lines and those that move in free directions
lines that are cold like the wind
and yet vibrant at night
not really dead, but simply grieving in silence for the loss of
someone so loved and missed.
i do not want you to change your lines, they are yours to
show,
i may be unfair wishing that your lines may be like mine
but mine are too sad and always sounding like a lover abandoned.
the beautiful lines are not clean.
they are imbued with our errors, erasures, blasting in our faces
like explosives
where shattered as we are on the fields of our disasters
only in a few seconds
we become silent spaces again.
mine are sad, and lonely and abandoned.
they are the only ones i have now, and so i must be compelled to
have them and love them
just the way they are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Between The Lines
In between the lines
as we go about our lives
we often seem to think
no one loves no one cares
In between the lines
we drag our weary feet
and often think who cares
and shuffles mindless
to the beat
In between the lines
we search for gloom & doom
we come up with outrageous stories
that we plant between the lines
In between the lines
we throw caution to the wind
making out the lies
to be a bitter truth
so just bare in mind
what’s just been said
we always learn life’s mystery’s
in between the lines
poem by Kaila George
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Dark night...
So dark is the night by choice
Silenced of humorous voice,
So lonely is the night of charms
Devoid of a lover's warm arms.
Dark shadows rising upward bound
Above me from the silent ground
Destroying my inner secret dreams
Waking to the sounds of inner screams
Dark shadows rising here to stay
Even after they're casted away
They come back with violence
At the depth of dead silence
Dark shadows rising unkind
causing chaos across my mind
I cant stand, my painful cries
As the dark night arrives
Dark shadows rising knocking me flat
Paralysing me purposefully so that
I can't move and nobody cares
The dark night blindly stares
Dark shadows dying away to fly
Over the dark coloured sky
No more shadows flying around
Remembering my dreams abound
As the heavenly glowing stars swoon
Circling around the glittering moon
Radiating above in the sky like mothers
Amongst the ashen white, I saw serenity's colours
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Hat Too Flat
We come in on the morning scan
All the way from far arcturus
Bringing with us peace and good will
From the margins of space and time
Our women are slung down low to the ground
Theyre very good youve probably had one
Our men are brave, studly and wise,
A pleasure to behold
Right away we walk the walk
More or less we talk the talk
But every time we make our play
Their eyes get wide they run away
cause the hat stays too flat
My hat is way too flat
My english she is much better now
But my hat remains too flat
The man smells a rat
And thats the end of that
My english it is more better now
But my hat is still too flat
Fair arcturus fashion forecast:
Skirts will be shorter
Legs stay long
Virtual raincoats are coming back
Hats as always continued flat
Back at home the machines work hard
We folk like to take it easy
Honing our awareness of
The finer things of life
Here when I go down to my job
I work hard for what seems like a long time
I look at my watch: fifteen minutes
It felt like half a day!
Soon enough we break for lunch
Me and the boys now Im one of the bunch
But no one wants to sit with me
So tell me what can the matter be?
The hat stays too flat
My hat is way too flat
My english she is much better now
But the hat is just too flat
A little thing like that
They dont get past the hat
My english it is more better now
But my hat remains too flat
song performed by by Steely Dan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Twenty Lines
I just read this poem about using just twenty lines,
and it brought these words to my mind.
Who are they to tell us how many lines we should use to speak?
This is America where we have a law known as freedom of speech.
Just twenty lines tell you something about my life in words.
To me that seem completely absurd.
My life is much more than just twenty lines.
Hell I am thirty nine.
And if they except me to sum up thirty nine years in twenty lines
They are complete outside their minds.
How am I suppose to tell you how I nearly died when I was child?
Or how my mother harsh words took away my smile:
In just twenty lines?
Like I said they must be out of their minds.
I guest I can do if I shorten my life.
I don't have to talk about how much I love my future wife.
But her love is the inspiration for a lot of my poems.
So to not talk about her would be wrong.
I have a lot more to say but I'm out of time.
I reach my limit of my twenty lines.
The Patteran
From over the leagues of ice and snow, and the miles of scorching sand;
From back of the days of long ago, and the lonely sea and land—
To the end of the world and our Gipsy race, to the death of our dark-eyed line,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine,
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine—
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given them health and strength, pure blood, clear skins for a glorious youth;
I have set in their souls contempt for sham, and a deathless regard for truth;
I have bequeathed the spirit to fight, I have given the will to rise,
And the slumbering fires of Hate and Love in their dreaming, dreaming eyes.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given the love for their native land, wherever that land may be
(My children came from the East, my friends, and round by the Northern Sea),
And a son of a son of mine enemy, to the end of his treacherous line,
Shall be stricken to earth, if he dare but speak, by a son of a son of mine.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Life Line
Ten thousand miles away from someone
Ten thousand miles away from you
Whos your friend on the end of a telephone line
A telephone lines like a life line
You run me cool you run me hot love
You take me where I wanna be
Ship to shore, air to land
Seems its always the same
I always end up with a lame brain
Dont got talkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont go walkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont got talkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont go walkin in your sleep no
Youre ten thousand miles away
Livin it up in the paradise
Dont make it right, dont make it wrong
When you know youve got a friend
Whos at the other end
And a telephone lines like a life line
But a walk on the wire
It dont put out no fire
A telephone lines like a life line
Dont got talkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont go walkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont got talkin in your sleep no
Dont go givin it all away
Dont go walkin in your sleep no
Youre ten thousand miles away
When you wake youll find me sleepin
The clock dont stop when youre not here
But you know youve got a friend
Whos at the other end
And a telephone lines like a life line
A telephone line is a life line
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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