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No Body

You are nobody to compel
A bird to Fly and sing.
You are nobody to command
A poet to write and read.
You are nobody no body
You are nobody to to to.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A Message Here For All You Poets

The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.

The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.

The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.

A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic Queen or King.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Villanelle of Ye Young Poet's First Villanelle to his Ladye and Ye Difficulties Thereof

To sing the charms of Rosabelle,
To pour my soul out at her feet,
I try to write this villanelle.

Now I am caught within her spell,
It seems to me most wondrous sweet
To sing the charms of Rosabelle.

I seek in vain for words to tell
My love -- Alas, my muse is weak!
I try to write this villanelle.

Would I had power to compel
The English language incomplete
To sing the charms of Rosabelle.

The ardent thoughts that in me dwell
On paper I would fair repeat
I try to write this villanelle.

My effort fruitless is. O H--l!
I'll tell her all when next we meet.
To sing the charms of Rosabelle,
I tried to write this villanelle.

poem by Eugene O'Neill
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This Poet Is Always Beside You

You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Divine Poetry

Poet never ceases to be poet
He can't remain quiet
He is not dependant on fate
He is with the scene and never late

Poetry is my food
I have completely understood
If I fail to write anytime in a day
That is enough cause for me to be taken away

I shall be no more
If thoughts compel me to feel bore
Thoughts just emerge from the idle store
Pen gets strength to write more and more

Poetry is dear to me like wife
It is also like an edge of knife
It may compel you to write tough
And land you in trouble to pass through rough

But you got to be fearless
As that may be tough situation to face
Many readers may try to pull your legs
When your are reciting it on the stage

It is easy to swim in imagery
Float in dreams with lines silvery
Moon may seem very near
To enjoy its beauty without fear

Poetry as such is divine gift
It may never allow having shift
He is the one who instills thought
When with peaceful mind they are sought

It is divinity that makes home
Pen must write always to welcome
Readers must enjoy skill and talent
Swim with melody and enjoy the moment

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Poet To Be

A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.

I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.

I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.

I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.

But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.

I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.

I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.

I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.

A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.

I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.

I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.

It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.

A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.

But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.

How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.

As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.

poem by Adam McKim
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A Poem Of Syntax

A poet and his bird, his dog, his cat and his tree
A poet and the bird in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree and the wind and the cloud
The bird in the tree, the dog in the tree, the cat in the tree,
The bird in the tree, the dog on the tree, the cat under the tree,
The bird on the tree, the bird in a tree, a bird in a tree, a bird in the tree,
And the wind and the cloud and the poet and his dog and his cat and the tree

The dog chases the cat the cat chases the bird
And they all arrive in that tree
Where the poet is sitting under that tree
The poet takes the dog and the cat was envious
And the bird looks at them in silence
The silence looks at the poet in the eye
Of the cat and the bird flies away
The poet and the dog is the poem of friendship
The cat and the dog is the poem of the endless natural quarrels
And the bird that flies away against the cat and the dog and the poet and the tree
And flies against the wind that the bird is now fighting
And the clouds that seem so blue and blue

The bird that actually flies away
Is actually me
I was not the poet with the dog

I am not the tree I am not the wind I am not the cloud I am not the poet there who had a dog as friend and I was not the quarrelsome thing from the blue and out of the blue

I am the bird with wings and I always fly away to places
Against the wind to places where I can be as always be the bird with wings in silence

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poet's Soul

I read the poet's souls in the poems,
I read the poet's inner world.
Pulse beats louder, then duller,
And all my doubts are just hurled.

The sadness sometimes a kiss cover,
Then suddenly curled at my feet,
Giving the whole body a heat,
The warmth of a true lover.

Fever passes through nervous points,
Chill runs through the whole body,
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
And feel that the soul is haughty.

I delve into the words and their nature,
Understanding destroys the walls,
Now I would like to capture
The main idea and the poems calls.

I read and my joy is in full swing,
My own soul gets the wings,
I am ready to fly with the singer,
Like me the poet is a swinger.

I am with that one who dared
To plunge into the holy spring naked,
I am with that one who shared
An inspiration and was not faked.

I read the poet's souls in the poems.
But do I read the souls of reality or dream?
Let's deem that no one here and there lies,
And the law of poetry is always precise.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 4th of April,2012

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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I read another poet I could not understand

I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND

I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.

And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.

But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?

Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-

Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Bird Tiha

Coming to me
Bird Tiha said
O poet
What are you doing
Here so long and
I answered nothing.

I had no word then
And the bird Tiha gave
Some words that I
missed in the sea
While walking on the wave.

No body was there with me
To help me in my
Searching and I was
Searching nothing
Bird Tiha came to me
all along and said again
Not to worry my dear poet
Lo I am yours.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Isolation Rocks

to read poets
their poems
is time choice

actually poet
would write
more superior

poems
if educated read
other poets?

interacted more
nothing happens
in still isolation?

isolation rocks
soul voice would
become more

mainstream
golden voice
is orchestra

soloist singers
must solo sing
orchestra backed?

therefore
give me
the crags

rivers
waterfalls
wilderness

as I sing
their alone
only echoes

are
distant
heard

poem by Terence George Craddock
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A BeAPoeIt Poem

I say I'm not a poet, For like of which I know it,
Rhymes absurd in metered word,
Describing not a poet

Edgar Allen knew it, The flying raven flew it,
The poems grow for Poe to know,
And Nevermore he drew it

Maya made to wing it, The caging bird to bring it,
With Angelou a freedom flow,
In Stilling bird to sing it

Robert's ride to sigh it, The road with just one by it,
Frost travels one concealing sun,
But Traveling to try it

I'll never be a poet, Descriptions rip to sew it,
Moving here and there with wear,
Encoding how I show it

poem by Paul Moosberg
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God is the creator

God is the creator
poem is a creation
Poet is not God.

I am a lover of poem
Poet is my hero
God is hero's hero.

I just read poem
I just enjoy reading poem
I shall continue to read poem
As long as I enjoy poem.

At times
Poems are being written by me.
The credit goes to God
God direct me to write poem
And I write.

God only can explain the meaning
I am just an instrument
And nothing.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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To A Bullfinch

Oh bullfinch bird unfettered wild and free
Piping on branch of leafy alder tree
Lit by the bright and warming sun of May
You do seem happy on this pleasant day

Were I a poet I'd write for you a lay
A lyric that might last till amen day
A poem a poet would feel quite proud to write
And school goer would feel happy to recite

Were I an artist your picture I would draw
A masterpiece that art critic dare find flaw
A painting far too splendid to ignore
That well might last five hundred years or more.

But I'm no artist nor neither am I poet
Since doggerel is all I've ever wrote
And what I'd give to desribe you in words
One of the fairest of all wildborn birds.

You've got strong beak designed for cracking seeds
That you find on hedgerows bordering green meads
And you wear the colours favoured most by kings
Dark head, pink breast and beautiful blue wings.

The lark, the thrush and blackbird sing more sweet
As a singing bird with them you can't compete
But beauty wise you do look number one
When lit by rays of brightly glowing sun.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Poet is free

Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Why I Write?

When indelible memories of the past,
Torment my heart and mind; I write.

When mist floats in front of the eyes,
The light comes from behind; I write.

When the men of the callous world,
Compel me to be confined; I write.

When my heart weeps wailing upon
The wise being led by the blind; I write.

When in self schemed distribution I see
The deserving limping behind; I write.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Self

Bluff it is
If I say I'm a learned poet
For I'm not a scholar
So too my poems

My master's degree..
Lost in the abyss of oblivion
Searching out of and on
Those learnt reminiscences

I write to learn
Learning to write
And that learning
For my heart's happy content

You're welcome to read my words
For shared should be my happiness
Pat or hit..I don't bother
For I'm not a learned poet

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly

at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '

'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly

'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands

And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me

poem by Raj Arumugam
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~ O' Poetry I Read I Write ~

~ O' POETRY I READ I WRITE ~

Ms. Nivedita
UK
29 December,2009.

Poetry ~
I read I read I read
Without asking,
Knowing why?

Poetry ~
I write I write I write
Without asking,
Knowing why?

O' Poetry ~
Read n’ write
To share
Dare n’ bare,
Don’t care
Love to dye
By
Hi and fie.
.
O' Poetry ~
Life I buy
Never sell bye bye
All I’ll do until I die
Lo! I’m no hi-fi.

----

Copyright reserved by the author

poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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If You Are a Poet

If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.

To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.

To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.

To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.

Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.

To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.

Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Just A Poet

I am just a poet
Poems are my life
Words are the soul
The pen is my might.
Versus are the cup
From which that I drink
And knowledge is the bread
From which my mind is fed.
I live if just to write
The words that I cant speak,
For locked away in my mind
Are the versus to be rhymed.
I am but a simple writer
With a pen and pad in hand
Gazing at the sky and trees
To write what man should read.
I have walked many trodden paths
And down many mournful road,
Now I write about their tears and fears
For now they have became my soul.
I cant cure a mans health
Nor can I stop a war
As I am not much as I see myself
A poor man who loves the Lord.
And when I walk my last mile
And then I'll write my last smile
And on my pad it will show it
That I was but, a simple poet.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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