Fresh Notebook
She bought me a fresh notebook
To write my deepest thoughts
Deliver up my soul
Daily to her
A hard serrated border
Thick along the spine
Designed to pay tribute in words
An opening address
A nod a wink
Initialled in my best
Invisible ink
I turn a new leaf over
Another page, far from
A new beginning
Or a new address
A naked page where I confess
My deepest wish
To sleep with you
On sheets of winter snow
One day I'll write
A sonnet for your eyes
Smiling like the cold sunlight
And close the notebook shut
Liberating me
From sharp parallel lines
And you will feed
Your hungered soul
On pages of my life
poem by Frank Bana
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Scribbles On A Page
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
back of a yellow notebook
torn pages out
let me go home
God!
let me go home
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
my little black writing pad
bent cover-spine
let me go home
God!
let me go home
(i think i need a break)
(i think i need to sleep)
poem by Michael Romero
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Life Art
Life Art
I want to write you a poem.
One that contains no verses
no words
how long it will be
I cannot tell.
It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun
a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword
I want it to be something
that you carry through your day
every day
I don’t know if I can write that poem
Or if indeed that poem can be written at all
So instead I am with you
Of you
And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem
Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook
But in the café
and in the street
At a table
In our bed
Every day we add another line
another image
another verse
and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem
That has ever been written.
poem by Andy Houlihan
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The Coffee Stain
The coffee stain imprinted on the page
of notebook paper I'm writing on right now
reminds me of your eyes—
dark, brown spirals cycling around
the pale blue lines that separate
my thoughts; the spacious white
that causes me to recall the downy
purity of the god[ess] I'd
forgotten somewhere. Though
it's just a fragment of a circle,
the roundness dissipating as it lifts,
the image remains, and the imperfections
that sink down beside the words I jot into the
sheets go far deeper than
these scribbles, discoloring the emptiness
further than I know how to admit. And I—
remembering your shape, the way you see, looking
through it— am happy, am awake—
by a jolt of reminiscent caffeine and an embrace that
kindles all tomorrow's pages— and I
am content to ponder of what is
or was or what could've been, letting it all soak as
I start to question what will be.
Que sera, sera.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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What Is Written In Red
I am written in red,
I am sliding across the page of life.
I am racing across the lines of language.
I am red.
I write words,
I create lines and sentences,
I am kept in solitude
I am red.
I create paragraphs.
I create signatures.
I know what you're thinking before you speak,
I am red.
I cannot breath because I am enclosed in a capsule.
A capsule that covers the knowledge inside.
All I do is stare at pages,
All I know is pages,
I become apart of the pages,
And the pages become apart of me.
I become apart of english,
I become apart of words,
I am RED.
BY: Takisha Fields
poem by Kiesha fields
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Golden Days
Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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There Is A Time To Write A Poem
THERE IS A TIME TO WRITE A POEM
There is a time to write a poem
It is anytime the soul is waiting to be said-
It is anytime the deepest feeling must be expressed-
It is anytime the words come before they are written down-
It is any time of intense holiness,
Of deepest love in words-
There is a time to write a poem
When the whole of one's being hears a song that must be said.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem For Those Who Are Sad
did Octavio say that happiness
and charm are cliches?
did he really mean that he
shall write about those who
labor in pain
about those who stopped
smiling because of the
harsh rain
about those who hide
because of the coming storm?
he could be right
not writing about the cliches of
happy days
for they have all enough
that make the sweet syrups
of their eating lives
let me write a poem for those
who are sad
for those who have less
let me write about the opening
of a flower
about the butterflies moving
out from their cocoons
let me write about the
end of the bitter days
for they have less and now
they may have more
through my lines
let me write about the
rising of the sun
the waking up of the boy
from his sleep
and the beginning
of his play on the yard
with his bike
let me write more
about what i really like...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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Silent Confession
The hands that write what lips would dare not say
and eyes that mock what mind would dare to play
of nights lost in the deepest thoughts of him
that dares to say the holiest name of names.
Yet in his chamber near to mine...
I hear what ears would dare not hear -
those sounds which canst my conscience bear
for sins flown by the air.
My soul had wished to clasp the sinner from the sin
to forsake the sneer mockeries of evil I had seen
in my deepest thoughts of him,
that dares to say the holiest name of names.
I cease to recall the priest's chamber near to mine
and tried so hard to let my hands betray
to write what lips would dare not say.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Sonnet For Homework
Okay, sonnet for homework.
I'm in the library, ready to write.
My notebook thick, pen poised to write on it.
My mind open, ready to get it right.
My view? The sky and billowing white clouds,
Tip of trees languidly blowing in the breeze.
I cherish the quiet, the lask of crowds
But the outdoor view is merely a tease.
Surrounded by stacks of books here I sit.
Slight noises of people, paper and books.
A constant motor's hum and bit by bit
I write this poem, concerned with how it looks.
Does it make sense, read well, and does it scan?
Or instead, perhaps some trash for the can?
poem by Caitlin losa
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These Words Are Meant For You
So there is no confusion let clarity clarify here
these words on this page are meant for you;
you.
Strung along these lines are precious intents
longing longings from down deep where souls converse,
floodings of sentiments traversing time and distance all
forming a straight line to you.
Gratitude is the staff that allows me to walk and write-
bread given me by you
sustains;
for clarity's sake
understand
these words are meant for you;
you.
Time and distance, acquaintance
and daily externals and such
mean less than these
soul exchanges proffered.
These words are meant for you;
yes you.
In the interstices words allow
in the hurried moments
where emotions and ideas fly
there is only I you and the written page
and that is enough
These words are meant for you-J
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Writing Break
I sit and write
Literary expelling my mind
On thoughts and feelings
In words I sometimes reflect
Seeing my every image
My pretence of character
Both good and bad staring back
Between the lines of the page
There in stories made up
In verse I see captured
Broken up pieces of myself
That others may relate to
Its all a humane experience
Literary coming off the page
In poetic dedication
I sit here and I write
Feeding my obsessive addiction
Now back to writing
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Follow The Imbroglio Closely For It Breeds Inspiration
have you noticed that when in trial
sure its hard to smile
but when im sick when im down when i cant move
when im just stuck when i just cant prove
myself when i feel detached from my body detached from life
that I've given away my life in a sadistic deal a fief,
or contract, this is when i write
this time is right
its then that i spill my best words on this page
even in my sickness and trouble i keep animosity far away like a careful sage
i choose to rhyme
when there is nothing to live for
when I've become something to abhor!
this is when you see me
just write write so happily
okay okay maybe this is just typing
whoosh whoosh listen as i sing
the words that i think and put them on a page just for you only for you
as long as you is the reader
poem by David Knox
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Connecting
Page 1, Personal Column
Miss Smith
1 Poets Lane
Waxing Lyrical
Watford.
If I could touch your soul with my emotions;
let my inner feelings be undressed
and if by chance you saw me as a lover
instead of just a simple loyal friend.
But then, these things are just imagination.
My love for you must stay closed, under wraps.
But should you read these words and feel like minded
please write to me at the above address.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Poet's Page
All the words that fill a poet's page
can never convey love's feeling.
For all we know and think about love
is only what we're feeling.
The page itself is a bit of relief
as the words spill upon it.
But as the poet spells out the emotion
it seems as if they omit
the deepest and sweetest part of love
that words can never convey.
For the innermost ardor that's everlasting
is too hard for the pen to say.
But say it they must or die inside
and little by little sicken.
And write it they must or never be
able to feel their heart quicken.
And what words can come
that can live through the pain
of unfulfilled love that does remain.
The pen is just an extension
of the brain that's overworked tonite.
Oh that it had the power to bring
to me sweet delight
instead of another lonely,
lonely and empty night.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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