Muse
Every poet waits
for a really great poem
to take form
in words,
but I rather want my muse
to become part of me
and to give life to every word
and to write words
that comes flaming from the page.
poem by Gert Strydom
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You Do Not Have...
you do not have to
read me
for me to become
another poet
i am
and i can be
and i will be
even without you
and you are
and you can be
and you shall be
even without me
i am a poet
because i have decided to write the poems
and the poem shall be there forever
until the right reader comes along
the one who loves
a poem even without me
even without you
even without the world
this poem and that poem shall be
even without us
for these are words
and words shall be words even without the world
for it was the word which came first
and shall remain
till eternity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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I don't Write a Poem
I don't write a poem
but sprinkle my heart
on white papers.
I don't write a poem
but kiss flaming words
on the lips of volcano.
I don't write a poem
but croon a lullaby
for drizzling lids.
I don't write a poem
the poem writes me
and sets me free
from the life engulfed
by mirages.
@@@
poem by Madhav Sarkunde
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Hope Always To Write
'hope always to write more
not to be a good poet'
the words of my friend
Hosny Soliman defined
my thoughts perfectly
to write just a little more
to gift just a little more
to give just a little more
with no thought wasted
upon desire to write
a good poem a great poem
Splitting image from the poem ‘We Sing Our Love In Life Worships’ by Terence George Craddock.
Dedicated to the painter poet Hosney Soliman.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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This Poem Should Have Been Written Long Ago By Someone Else
This poem should have been written long ago by someone else
They should have said what needs to be said
Clearly and yet beautifully
They should have known what to do with their words and their intimations -
But instead I old I tired old I I with the I I I always I’ing
Have to write it again-
This poem should have been written by someone else
The way I was when I was young
But even then probably it should have been written by someone else
Younger happier stronger wiser more courageous able to give and inspire others to love life more and make it more good and more beautiful
A real poet a great poet should have written this poem
And then it would be one
Even I would try not to forget.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If I Had A Poem This Morning
IF I HAD A POEM THIS MORNING
If I had a poem this morning
And I could write it
With all my soul,
Then I would feel somehow
That I and this day are worthwhile.
But what I have
Is for the moment
Only these words.
And these words slowly emerging on the page
Feel awkward and lonely and slow and prosaic.
Still they are my words, my thoughts
What I have now to give.
And what if we so much want to give
And what we have to give
Is of no value to anyone else
At all?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Modern Day Poet
I am the modern day poet you know
that must make words that easily flow.
For to just present words that ramble on
is to yield forth words that soon are gone.
They're gone from the listener and reader too,
who cannot reason or cannot view
how the words just seem to sit on a page
allowed to sit and yellow with age.
Words must be caressed and also thrive
to take on rhythms which come alive,
alive in the memory that through the ear
has taken it in and holds it dear.
And so in each poem I have my say.
And so in each poem my words do sway
back and forth like a front porch swing
giving my poem a magical ring.
I never allow dullness to come into play
for then my poem will be thrown away
into the piles of poems never read
because they're too hard to keep in the head.
So over and over it's become my style
to enchant the reader for a little while,
making them remember the lilting rhyme
that got into my head one word at a time.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Words
I write there, and then you write they’re
I write who, and then you write whom
I misspell my words, too me you then curse
Then you call me a stupid loon.
You call me names, from which I refrain
Then I am off to a different room.
I forget punctuation's, It gives you frustrations
I don't use a contraction, you give me verbal action
Then I misspell a word, you call me absurd
I give you my silence it’s my only reaction.
You call me a name, my innocence I proclaim
My humility is seems, is your only satisfaction.
I sit at my typewriter, I still am a fighter
As I close my eyes, words still materialize
Words are my friends, rhyming is my sin
Maybe someday that, you will realize.
I finish another poem, to the world I show them
I write another verse, it becomes my universe.
You are my inspiration, my poems your creation
You correct what I write, it gives you such delight
You enjoy to respell, at words which you excel
You tell me they are wrong, I know you are right.
But you still are my friend, I hope it will never end
I am the poet, your a wordsmith and you show it.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The One That Got Away!
I tried! I tried! I tried my best! The words I can't recall...
I know those words were truly blessed, they were incredible!
They came within a midnight dream! I'm here at 1 a.m.
My pleasant mood became extreme, 'I can't remember them! '
The dream began and she passed by, my Muse with words so wise...
At first, her beauty made me sigh, with smiles that filled my eyes!
I tried to write the poem down... I thought I caught each verse...
She spoke so fast I had to frown, things went from bad to worse!
When I woke up, some words remained, just fragments, nothing more,
Just phrases from the poem gained my Muse chose to outpour...
But then a haze dwelt in my mind... A scrabbling for the rest...
But finally I couldn't find the words that made me blessed!
Then anger flooded in my heart! A river full of rage...
Although I tried to make a start, I hadn't filled the page...
I prayed to God! 'Please help me, Lord! Don't let this poem fade! '
But silence fell, I stood ignored, forlorn, bereft, dismayed...
That's when I grabbed the negative and turned it all around!
I gave it all that I could give, new poems to astound!
I wrote all day, I wrote all night, a hundred poem's done!
Forget my Muse! I did all right! Boy, what a marathon!
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The power of words
Sometimes when you had
an idea for a poem
you didn’t jot it down
and let it be
to fade away into the naught
as if it really didn’t matter
or your words had lost their power
or was there a hidden fear,
something that you didn’t
want to talk about
or something that you didn’t
want to appear,
something that you were afraid
would kill your luck
or disturb your thoughts?
When we spoke at times
you would sarcastically say
go and write a poem about it
and I wonder if you really
didn’t care about writing
or just not about me
or was it jealousy?
Sometimes when the words
of a great poem came to me
you would demand that I immediately
do something for you
to proof my love
and not give me the opportunity
to capture the sacred words.
Yet, as time went by
and I had to leave
the words came back to you
and great verses appeared
and you said that I could string out
poems to the nth power
and wanted me
to write great messages as well
and I was afraid that card like lines
would kill the magic of words in me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Poems Went Away
THE POEMS WENT AWAY
The poems went away.
Nothing inside.
An empty will for poetry
Forcing words on the page,
Words without music
Without resonance
Without great implication
Meaning.
Write, write, write
Lest you die.
And the words themselves
A kind of desperate uphill catching of breath
On the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem About The Poem
The poem about the poem
And what is a poem?
And what is a poet?
And will the poem
Save me?
Help you?
And is writing the poem
The best I can do?
Or is it only words and more words?
Is the poem about the poem
For the poet only?
Or for each one reading and speaking and hearing it?
The poem about the poem
On this sunny spring Jerusalem morning
Peace and happiness in me -
The poem about the poem
For now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Dotty and Willy.
Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. Willy
has finished his poem, he
is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his
dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him
instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
Willy's kiss and him gone off
to bed, humming to himself.
She will sit by lamplight, take
out her pen, and write on the
clean page, how he wrote,
what he wrote, the words,
the muse, the leaving of him.
She will leave out the kiss,
the embrace, the seeing each
other face to face. Willy hates
writing things down, he just likes
to sit when the words come and
he can speak them and let Dotty
write the words in the air floating
there. He gets up from his chair,
paces the room, his hands behind
his back, his words gone, his mood
dark, becoming black. Dotty looks
at her hands, entwines her fingers,
makes a church, makes a steeple,
looks inside, sees ink stained people.
poem by Terry Collett
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A poem for you...
I write a poem for you today,
to get a place in your heart for ever
A poem that could tell you my love for you
I write my poem with emotion and affection
for you to understand my deep thoughts for you
A poem to love and a poem to understand its soul
A poem to enjoy and a poem to understand its happiness
A poem to think and a poem to understand its way of life
A poem to learn and a poem to understand its content
A poem to sing and a poem to understand its melody
A poem to cry and a poem to understand its sorrow
There are poems I have written but this is specially for you
The poem could tell you how important you are for me
There are words comes out freely from my mind to write poem
but there are no words to find my love for you
Those words can not missed as I miss your love today
Let me have all those words put in to my heart and
say I love to write a love poem for you
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright ©2004 Ravi Sathasivam
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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A Poem Especially For You
I write this poem,
Especially for you.
Hope you like it too.
I love this poem,
Hope you love it too,
Especially for you.
I love you so much that,
I Dream of you every night,
Especially be with you.
I write this poem,
Especially for you,
To remember your loving smile.
Give me your smile,
Give me your cheerful face,
Give me your Laughter.
Only this poem can,
Take your heart away.
Especially made for you.
I say this poem,
Especially designed for you,
In remembrance of our True friendship.
In this moment of life,
I share this poem
Especially with you.
In this precious memory,
I want you to know that,
I forever love you.
To say the right words,
At the right time;
Especially for you, is hard.
More than any right words,
I composed this poem,
Especially for you,
So that the world may know that
I fall in Love with you again.
Especially with you.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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