Compelled to Write
As I
sit
in
silence
contemplating.
Somewhere
deep
within,
emotions
begin
to
stir.
Emerging
to the
surface,
eyes
become
misty.
I am
left
with the
question
why.?
Once
again
I am
compelled
to
write.
poem by Heather Burns
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Related quotes
How Do You Write Poetry
There is a question I am often asked,
of which I have no answer for at all.
The question is a simple one,
how do you write poetry?
To be honest I haven’t got a clue.
With me the words just trickle out
one after the other,
if they rhyme that is great
and if they don’t, I just scratch my head.
I cannot tell anyone how to write,
for me it’s just a natural thing.
I write almost everything,
novels, short stories, poems and songs.
I have even written a couple of plays,
but that was a long, long time ago.
However to tell anyone how to write,
I would not know where to begin.
The answer I give to the question is simple;
write whatever you like good or bad.
It’s yours and be proud of it
no matter what anyone else has to say.
The more you write the better you will get.
However, the most important thing
that you should always remember and that is
that you write, write, and write!
9 November 2011
poem by David Harris
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night
I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.
I go back to where I am
And begin again.
There is always a poem if one is patient enough.
But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?
I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.
This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence
One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -
Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Silence Part III
Silence is the only thing I hear
Silence is what I fear
Silence tells me that nothing remains
Silence tells ne that its the end of your game
As silence fills the air
I begin to wish he was there
I wish I didn't let him walk out that door
And I hate that there's nothing I can do anymore
To make him mine again
I love him more than anything but I didn't know it then
And now silence is all that's left
Silence because of an unnecessary bereft
The silence rings in my ears
Because I let go of what I should have kept near
The tears pour out of my eyes
As I lay there in silence - but that's no surprise
Edited
one afternoon when the sun
sinks at the horizon and fades like a face
of my beloved
i begin to write about the fact of
friendship
not in poetic form but
factual
it is all about you
the day you left for america and you never write
a letter at the time
when letters were still in.
it is about a question of not talking
about a silence that still speaks despite the fact
that my hands cover my mouth
it is about a promise
that you will be you despite the absence of everyone
despite the loneliness
that lingers like a leech
on the skin of your feet as you pass the murky waters
of your life
friend, dissolve like sugar to water and be invisible
but still be sweet as ever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Broken
Existence
I write my life for you, I write for me
I wrote in bondage, I write now I’m free
No one will ever know my many layers and scars
I’ve been beaten down, tried so hard in vain, no bars
Like a caged bird, I lost my song, I lost my will
No self esteem, or wanting to go on still
I had to learn to love me, was I worth while
The scars so deep, will never heal, but yet I smile
I am broken and can’t be fixed, I put on my face to hide,
The pain and emotions that lie below the surface, won’t collide
You didn’t do this my love, you just have to suffer with me
You’ve done so much for me, you’ve loved me and let me be
Not knowing who I am, neither do I at times, I’m just broken!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stop The Train (feat. Peter Tosh)
Stir it up little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
It's been a long long time since I've got you on my mind
And now you are here
I say it's so clear
To see what we can do, honey, just me and you
Come on and stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
I'll push the wood, I'll blaze your fire
Then I'll satisfy your heart's desire
Said I'll stir it up, yeah, ev'ry minute, yeah
All you got to do is keep it in, baby
And stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up, yeah
Oh, will you quench me while I'm thirsty?
Come and cool me down when I'm hot?
Your recipe, darling, is so tasty
And you sure can stir your pot
So stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up
song performed by by Bob Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thought That It Was You
(morten harket / ole sverre olsen)
I thought that it was you
The things you saw me do
They were true
Little did I know
You found me in your joy
And there was i, a little boy
My shadows theyre not new
My souls split in two
Lord, I thought that it was you
This christmas snow that falls
Gives silence to us all, amen, amen
You know my deepest sin
Youve seen me deep within
So fill me now like wind
And let the miracle begin
Theres a river and you know
Theres a place we used to go
Thats where I throw our ashes now
I must have walked into a cave
Among these things that you must save
And there I touched the grave
You know my deepest sin
Youve seen me deep within
But fill me now like wind
And let the miracle begin
You know my deepest sin
Youve seen me deep within
But fill me now like wind
And let the miracle begin
Sometimes I felt so sure
When I opened up your doors
That thered been no one there before
You know my deepest sin
Youve seen me deep within
But fly, fly higher from it
Just look into my eyes
You know my deepest sin
Youve seen me deep within
But fill me now like wind
And let the miracle begin
And the secrets that you say
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like Endless Rivers
I pick up my pen
something deep
within whispers
write your heart.
automatically
I begin.
My heart takes
the lead
controlling my
hand
and emotions.
like an endless
river
flowing into
eternity
finially it
stops
I lay down my
pen
I am finished.
poem by Heather Burns
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The pain of silence
Like a little girl i sit waiting
Hoping not to be disappointed
But there again all there is,
Is the pain of silence
The silence is taking over
When that day comes closer
I try to forget and just hope
But still the pain of silence
Now this day i begin to dread
Because i know deep within
Once again all there will be
Is the pain of silence
I try to shut this out
But it haunts me like a shadow in the dark
As i fail to run from the silence
The silence is too hard to bear
And because of it i live in fear
For i do not know what to expect
So i dwell in the pain of silence
poem by Abigail Sikwenda
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Misty Water
By the town of straight and narrow,
Theres a dark and misty place.
Everything is hazy,
So the people are afraid.
All except marias daughters,
Who believe in misty ways.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty morning glaze.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
Though maria is not lovely,
Shes the lady of my dreams.
cause I see my lady,
Through a misty, silky screen.
And seeing is believing,
But I cant believe my eyes.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty paradise.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters...
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't
Many people write
For their true emotions to unravel
Out of depression, angst, spite
But I can’t
I don’t write poems when I’m sad
They write from their experiences
When he left me
When they died
Bringing tears, causing cries
But I can’t
I don’t write when I’m sad
The tears dutifully stain my cheek
And roll on and on
Through and through
Down
Down
Down
But I can’t
And I don’t write poems when I’m sad
And all the anger and sadness
Thrust inside of me
Just bursting to get out
Screaming
Pleading
Begging to get out
But they can’t
Because I don’t write poems when I’m sad
And I don’t know what to do
How to express my pain
And woe, and the feeling
It drains me, and it shows
But there’s nothing I can do
Because I don’t ever write poetry when I’m sad
The Mechanical Woman
She unscrewed herself from the bed and plugged into the energy socket feeling the warm flow of electrons as her eyes focused; as she heard the whir of the appliances all around her beginning to stir.
She took her leg, inspected it, and carefully placed it with her modular clamp, seating it carefully to test it. It was new, plasti-form and still had the charge to it from its titanium surface. There was a small crackle as she activated it with a single nerve transmission from her cerebellum. It rotated slightly, felt good and she moved it laterally, preparing to dismount from her sleeping slab, onto the tile floor.
Her right leg she lifted lofting it slightly placing it along side her new left one and tested both by gingerly standing up all the while adjusting her gyroscopes.
Her level tested perpendicular and the signal landed in her brain with a satisfying click.
There was no question about it. Her ingrams had been successfully implanted. The question was, if this would fool her 'husband.'
To be continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Moment Of Silence
Bow your head and listen
its a lesson to learn
yet it your not getting
but you raise your hand to ask a question
but no one can answer
so you bow your head in silence
they all begin to laugh
not with you but at you
you sit alone because theres nothing you can do
you ask for peace
to be left alone
but tears fall when your on your own
burning memories
and riping pasts
hoping for moments that will last
so listen now and listen good
because my ears are open
atleast someones should
poor it all out to me open your heart
all of it builds up inside
so its tearing you a part
can we have a moment of silence
for the times you tried but in the end failed
a moment of silence for when the truths revailed
and someone actually wants to listen
a moment of silence for concentration
hear your heart beat
so when you look up you'd be standing by me
Can we have a moment of silence?
poem by Yahdaj Roseney
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No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
Persistent Pecker
Off in the misty distance
I hear a hungry woodpecker
Hammering with his head.
This omnivorous, opportunist
Breaks the silence of the morn
With his rat-a-tat-tatting
As if knocking on a door.
His persistent pecking
Will end with success
When he excavates
The hapless insect
A meal deservingly gained
But the silence won’t remain
Because he'll begin all over again.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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My Search For Silence
I'll sit here in my bedroom
where the silence is sometimes deafening
(when I have thoughts on my mind
that need to be discussed) .
As I clear my mind to listen
to the silence
I realize there is no silence here.
The ticking of the old wind-up alarm clock
becomes so loud...
I feel compelled to move
my ''experiment'' to another room.
I find a comfortable spot
in the bathroom.
Sitting on the bench that normally holds
the all-important reading material
I begin to listen for the silence.
It takes very little time
for me to realize this is not the room
for silence.
The sink begins dripping
almost as if to mock me
and say ''Silence...yeah right! ''
I tighten the faucet only
to be laughed at by the toilet
as it makes it's usual
groan while it levels off the water in the bowl.
This is surely not the room for silence.
I head to the kitchen.
There must be silence here.
I find it still and quiet until I really listen.
The flourescent light above the stove
is whining as if to say ''I'm here! ''
I turn it off and begin my quest for silence
once more.
The refridgerator lets out a God-awful noise
that makes me jump.
It only last a few seconds but it's enough
to ruin the mood.
I begin to wonder if silence
can ever truly be found
in a house that is lived in.
I go sit in the living room.
As I plop down on the micro-suede couch
and listen to the music it makes against my flannel pajamas
I laugh.
Who wants silence?
I love the sounds of my life.
This house is full of sounds...
love, laughter, water dripping, lights flickering,
the clocks ticking....
and I'm listening
and loving every sound!
Timeless Songs
I wish to write more timeless songs
that have the power to wake the moon
and draw her from the skies;
that have the strength to stir the stars,
unveil their evening sparks.
I wish to write more timeless songs
that have the courage to stop the sea
from singing lullaby's;
that have the strength to stir the wind,
unveil her sweet disguise.
I wish to write more timeless songs
to bring me back to you;
to give me strength to stir my soul,
and make my dreams come true.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Do Not Misinterpret My Silence
when we are in bed
after making love
i always feast on my own silence
not wanting to share it
with you and you begin to ask
if i am a still there
if i am lost somewhere in the thoughts
of another
and you touch my face
for my eyes to see you
the whole of you naked still
and desirable
and i have to tell you again
not to misinterpret my silence
as i still think of the
'fireworks' when you begin
to smile
when you kiss me again
despite.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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These Little Poems Are All I Can Write Now
THESE LITTLE POEMS ARE ALL I CAN WRITE NOW
These little poems are all I can write now
The rest is gone.
But these poems too question themselves
Doubt their own value and reality.
After such a long road
I am still uncertain.
Nothing I have done
Resonates with recognition of its worth.
Old and alone still
I write on.
Sisyphus had a rock
Which grew so heavy with the years
He could barely begin
To roll it up the hill again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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