The Letter, 1974
A certain man was left alone
Creating work for his hands to own
Left alone by his woman lover
Abandoned by a man, his brother
Humbled he lay reading poems
Relearning faith from modern bibles
Reading in poems of a fool Isaiah
Instructed in his own desire
A dreaming man once found a letter
Beloved hands, but not for him
A letter returned to the stars
To free him from his burning heart.
poem by Frank Bana
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From Sarah With Love
[Verse 1:]
For so many years we were friends
And yes I always knew what we could do
But so many tears in the rain
Felt the night you said
That love had come to you
I thought you were not my kind
I thought that I could never feel for you
The passion and love you were feeling
And so you left
For someone new
And now that you're far and away
I'm sending a letter today
[Chorus:]
From Sarah with love
She'd got the lover she is dreaming of
She never found the words to say
But I know that today
She's gonna send her letter to you
From Sarah with love
She took your picture to the stars above
And they told her it is true
She could dare to fall in love with you
So don't make her blue when she writes to you
From Sarah with love
[Verse 2:]
So maybe the chance for romance
Is like a train to catch before it's gone
And I'll keep on waiting and dreaming
You're strong enough
To understand
As long as you're so far away
I'm sending a letter each day
[Chorus]
[Last chorus:]
From Sarah with love
She'd got the lover she is dreaming of
She never found the words to say
But I know that today
She's gonna send her letter to you
From Sarah with love
She's gotta know what you are thinking of
'Cause every little now and then
And again and again
I know her heart cries out for you
From Sarah with love
She'd got the lover she is dreaming of
Never found the words to say
song performed by by Sarah Connor from Green Eyed Soul
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emotion of Snow
Snow
As cold as your frozen heart
As colorless as you see life as
Your frozen heart is waiting to be melt down
Your love letter to nobody
Snow
Falling from the sky
Snow
Resemble of winter
You said: 'It's so beautiful here'
You said it to nobody
merely whispered to the wind in winter
The sad memory of you asked
'I s it just that all left for me? '
replied
'Yes it is.That's just all that memory left for you.'
Snow
In this silent night
Cold winter night
You are all left alone with your unsent love letter
Your love letter to nobody
Sing what you can't say
Poem that you are reading by now
Is my love for nobody
poem by Lin Kah Mun
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Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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Kabir reading 'Kabir
See this fine manuscript
so beautifully illuminated round the picture –
why, it’s none other than Kabir!
reading a book entitled The Poems of Kabir;
he’s smiling, laughing, waving his hands –
how can he be enjoying himself so much?
The manuscript doesn’t tell you this;
only Kabir can tell you, in that other place..
of all the poems, he only recognises two
as poems that he wrote himself..
but here’s Kabir’s delight today:
many of the other poems, he thinks,
could pass for his!
How wonderful to be so praised in spirit!
As he reads – see, he’s circled round with angels;
they’re all laughing too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Kabir reads 'Kabir
See this fine manuscript
so beautifully illuminated round the picture –
why, it’s none other than Kabir!
reading a book entitled The Poems of Kabir;
he’s smiling, laughing, waving his hands –
how can he be enjoying himself so much?
The manuscript doesn’t tell you this;
only Kabir can tell you, in that other place..
of all the poems, he only recognises two
as poems that he wrote himself..
but here’s Kabir’s delight today:
many of the other poems, he thinks,
are good enough to be his!
How wonderful to be so praised in spirit!
As he reads – see, he’s circled round with angels;
they’re all laughing too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Open Stage Poetry Reading
After the one that sings, and after the one
that can make up poems of a kind right on the spot;
after a girl who didn't . . . walk very well,
took five minutes to get from her seat to the stage
then read one poem with hardly any words in it
and halted the whole way back in a staggering silence;
after the bald one's rhymes about this teeth;
a woman got up whose poems won't write down,
it's all in the way the voices in her come out.
We went to a medium once, and a woman locked
in a trance let a dead man come inside her and talk.
She held herself like . . . a woman being a man.
That's what it was at the open stage poetry reading,
and I left without talking, I hadn't come expecting it.
What could I have told her, I think it's a dead man?
It wasn't something I wanted to get that close to.
I could never do it myself, let a dead man come in-
or would it be, into me, a dead woman that would come?
poem by Eric Torgersen
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It Would Be Illegal To Have
FREE BEER.
the fallacy of accent
sometimes works
the fantasy of freedom
the way we deny ourselves
the truth, the way we choose
what to accept and discard
even if the same may prove
to be harmful. And so when
she reads the letter that she
does not really like reading
to someone whom she does
not want to offend she says
and you
know it: I RESENT THAT LETTER!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Before I Sleep Tonight
i have written many poems
and you have been reading
perhaps all of them and you
even remember what i have
written and left there, i always
tell you i am busy, for i am,
doing anything, reading and
writing each poem, each
feeling, but before i sleep
tonight, as i will write this as
my last poem, let me tell you
given the choice between
poetry and you, you know too
well, that i will choose you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Letter
I saw a letter lying on the floor
I couldn't help but look inside
Thought it was something that you must've left
Left there for me to find
All your words were on that page
All my dreams came true that day
I found
[chorus:]
Your letter...
Your letter...
It said you loved me
But you didn't know the words to say
It said you never knew that you could ever feel this way
It said you only wish someday that i would feel the same
In your letter
Your letter
I guess it just never occured to me
That you would feel the way i did
You kept the sweetest secret from my heart
You kept those feelings in
Though you never showed a sign
Give a clue to what i'd find
Inside
[chorus]
I was so happy that i almost cried
To think that you would think of me that way
It's like you took my sweetest dream
And made that dream come true
I would be with you
Always...
I saw a name i didn't recognize
I felt the tears come to my eyes
Seeing that the love that you've been longing for
Was another love, not mine
No, you never showed a sign
But it was right there in the lines
Inside
Your letter
Your letter
It said you loved him
But you didn't know the words to say
It said you never knew that you could ever feel this way
It said you only wish someday that he would feel the same
In your letter
Your letter
I saw a letter lying on the floor...
song performed by by 112
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modern Love XV: I Think She Sleeps
I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low
Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor;
The face turned with it. Now make fast the door.
Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe.
The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love,
Frights not our modern dames:--well if he did!
Now will I pour new light upon that lid,
Full-sloping like the breasts beneath. 'Sweet dove,
Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb.
I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare
Grows woman to the burden my hands bear:
Her own handwriting to me when no curb
Was left on Passion's tongue. She trembles through;
A woman's tremble--the whole instrument:--
I show another letter lately sent.
The words are very like: the name is new.
poem by George Meredith
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It's Not Easy Being The Love Poet
'The Love Poet' that's what they call me
I admit it's flattering being the one and only
Other poets write love poems I will concede
But none with the emotion of mine, none indeed
But being the love poet has it's price
Everyone expects my work to be happy, be nice
If I ever feel lousy I can't write it down
Because reading it might cause the audience to frown
I'm not always Happy Harry I will admit
Every now and the, I really feel like shit
Depression a remnant of the life I left behind
Has found me again and has it's grip on my mind
But sad or not, I've a reputation to uphold
I write poetry that's warm and not cold
Push depression aside begin a new love poem
2nd draft I write on my way home
Every now and then, I will read a sad one
Which leads to another, what have I begun?
I want to make people smile not cry
And here I am reading qbout how I want to die
Even love poets have their bad days
Finding out today was the end of always
Without her, love poems just don't seem right
Neighbors hear you crying, long into the night
poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Stifle not the reader
Reading is an art,
reading is a tool.
Those who think it dumb,
must be such a fool.
Reading is enjoyment,
reading is a blast.
Reading is a separate entity
from the future and the past.
Reading is done in present,
though written in a tense.
Reading is about life,
in surprise or suspense.
Reading is a place of joy,
full of hope and song,
Reading is a place I feel
that I truly do belong.
A trapdoor to a fantasy,
A world thought lost to us,
Reading is a place of wonder,
a place that we can trust.
Why read about reality,
when I can delve into magic.
Why stifle my own happiness,
with scenarios so tragic.
Stifle not the reader,
for it is their choice alone.
Reading is an outlet,
for hearts that turned to stone.
My Canadian Chronicles 30
Last night was kind of strange for me.
A friend took me long to a small café
to listen to some poetry being read
never thinking for one moment
that I would end up reading mine there.
It happened and I did,
my hands shook when I got up to the mike
and stood there and did my bit,
reading out what I regard the best two poems I have written.
I believe the person who organized it
was thrilled because his little group
suddenly went international when I got up to the mike.
It was a small group of about thirty,
each poet had a different style
and I had an awesome night
standing there
reading at “The Weed.”
18 June 2009
poem by David Harris
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Mean Erotic Poems
as i arrive you go away
in an instant
saying bye
i got to go, i have a date on the island
somewhere
distant, so distant from you
you left a note telling me my erotic poems
are mean
and not exciting and not turning you on
like a woman should be
reading about sex, sympathy, some tea and company
some smoke
making love to the red curtains
some hard liquor
to make your breast stiff
and
a fighter, like the way how hard i turn on
you
and like the way my hands go wild and smash
the softness of your thoughts
you leave and heave an ending sigh
your signature
of
i hate you, i hate you, i hate you
perhaps even promising not to read
any poem
of mine anymore, anywhere, anytime
i understand,
the poems are mean, they are not meant for you
they long for someone
somewhere and her name lingers still
in my arm like a rose tattoo
there is a thorn there
always and some drops of blood
dried
now, more like some drawings, mere drawings of my youth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dawn Tomorrow
Another letter may come today
from the same editor at Poetry Paradise
telling me he'll pass on the poems
I sent a year ago because
they aren't a good fit for his pages.
But this time, he says, he'll give my poems
to his brother, the skywriter,
who will emblazon them in snow
against a sky so blue
millions of people will love them
almost as much as I do.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Last Letter
Thou left me in lachrymose
State when I got at my
Door letter placed with rose
And penned upon sorry…
The letter was little curled,
And was wet with pearls
Pain and rain was limpid
In words like the crystal…
Single glossy wisp of your hair
Left in enclosed pages
Burning both of us desire
Without any hope in fire…
Over any misunderstanding
Won't we change or leave hand,
Why then you did so leaving
My hand with cureless pain?
Because I loved you more
Than anything in the world,
Was that my fault to be
With you to the last breathe?
I want nothing but mine
Heart that you've taken away
From me and leaving pain
with untimely full rain…
poem by Narendra Rai
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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My companion
I don't know where I'll be,
when who ever buys my book to read.
I was just writing the date on my new
notebook, and these thoughts came to my mind.
Sometimes when I'm going over some
writing I see the date on the paper,
and it brings me memories of
how I felt at the time when I
wrote those poems,
Those notes, they have the flavor
of me. My intimate thoughts my most
saddest and happiest moments of
my existence.
My poems my notes my
stories and my hands, they are one.
One memory in all together.
The way my hands clinch my
writing my every move of prose.
I don't know who
Will want to read the writing coming
from a stranger a none-known poet.
From lonesome I, no one
knows who she is.
I cherish every letter,
word and phrase my hands have writting.
Because all of this has been to me a wonderful
companion of my lonesome life of appetence to feed.
Copyright©ElenaToledo2011
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Like So Many Poems I Read
LIKE SO MANY POEMS I READ
Like so many poems I read
These poems I am reading now
Are not poems to me.
They are too detached
Too abstract
Too up in the air.
I want to hear the words
Make a music of feeling
In my soul.
A poem must move me
If it is to be real.
Why then do I write these words
as if a poem?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am Sorry....
so you really read my poems?
are you then
reading me?
are you going inside my
heart and mind?
are you a blood corpuscle now
traveling inside my veins?
are you another strange thought
on a journey to my
brain?
are there lapses or
synapses?
do you see my heart
beating inside
my body?
i guess i have to say
i am sorry
it is never me.
I am the other people.
I am the old man who
lost a house
I too am the old woman
who lost a son
in the war
I am too the child
abandoned in the street
Sometimes i am
the moon resting on the
bosom of a river
Last night i was the
sea breeze
refreshing drying the tears
of a woman
abused
Tonight i am someone else
that i met in the
street
soon i will choose
whether i should be a
carpet or
the tick
so will you still read me?
you want to enclose me
in my own work?
sorry, you called the
wrong number.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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