Talent Tallow Tally
When underneath the eaves poor poets wrote,
or artists sought to represent their dreams,
with wax for candles scarce, with scarce a groat,
while wood and coal too costly were, it seems
most inspiration 'penny lined' in haste
by hand cold-cramped too often went to waste.
What talent tallow's tally still remains,
where marble monuments rare pains portray?
What name, rich fame, whose reign's not washed away
by present tides past presents swift disdain?
What's hacked by history, once sent, untraced,
short sh[r]ift_ink scrawl shawl walled on billboard paste?
We flicker second thoughts until life's page
attention turns to fresher fad engage.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet XXVIII: Reign In My Thoughts
Reign in my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice:
Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate;
Yet heavy heart to make so hard a choice,
Of such as spoil thy poor afflicted stated.
For whilst they strive which shall be Lord of all,
All my poor life by them is trodden down;
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yield me nought that gives them their renown.
When back I look, I sigh my freedom past,
And wail the state wherein I present stand,
And see my fortune ever like to last,
Finding me reign'd with such a heavy hand.
What can I do by yield, and yield I do,
And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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He asked me if I'd take a penny for my thoughts.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
and I told him the things on my mind.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
I had thought then I'd be paid in kind.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
and the closest friends we came to be.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
I thought then the one he cared for, was me.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
now rich with my thoughts he was.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
I thought his reason was more than 'just because'.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
he's made me rich with a broken heart.
A penny for your thoughts he asked,
now my life has a broken start.
Poets Dreams
Poets Dreams
Pray dream of wondrous places where inspiration grows on trees
And jangles ever more in a soft warm scented breeze
Where all of us that even once did pause to write
Will find some inspiration comes to us in the night
When dreams portray through swirling mists
The true passion of a lovers kiss
And so can bring some prose to those
Who strain to see on their tip toes
The wonders of a new bloomed rose
That's growing just behind that wall
We couldn't climb when we were small
Sweet dreams I sanction for all who scribe
Those who create must not be denied
A vision from whence they cast new scenes
Painted here in rhyme from those eerie dreams
Take sustenance and candles long
Behold the words that flow upon
The parchment, screen or paper pad
With quill or type or pen we're glad
To find the steady pass of time
Does not our spirits undermine
As long as ever more may we write
Through sunny days and flicker filled nights
(c) Rhumour
February 6th 2009
Constant Time
Time past and the future give way to this present picture,
But can somebody tell me how to recognize that gate that leads to the bed of roses,
We speak about the future like the past is a grain of sand on the shore,
Washed away by the ocean tide,
Giving way to new grains to make a portrait of the present,
These past memories stay deep in our heart like the depths of the ocean,
Though it gets washed back to shore ones in a blue moon,
Reminding us that our past is a standard measurement of our strength,
Time moves so fast making the past to fade away,
this makes us seem so secured about the present,
Forgetting the fact that our present becomes our past that was once a present from nature as a new day,
Some take the future to be a dream and a wish,
But I take my future to be what I see when I stand from the bottom of the mountain to look at the top,
And my past to be the depth of the ocean that can always be washed ashore …
The only thing I can control is my present,
Yes cos my mind controls my hands to give you a flash of what goes on in my head
Like this words i write to you was once my future and will become my past, making my future my past and my past my future..So ironical isn’t it?
Standing here I sure know 1 thing,
I will reach the top by that foot path,
Yes of course it’s not to mean that I wouldn’t fall,
But I have to break myself off my present past and walk with grace to stand where I belong,
There where I am the king of my destiny,
The past is just going to be a page of memories,
And my future will become my present making time constant in my head,
Because I stand on my past which was once my present and my present which was once my future, making time equal and constant
As I flip thru this page of life,
By: ade
poem by Adeniran Oluokun
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Make Haste
Make haste, make haste, no time to waste,
the sandman’s on the move!
The minutes chased, missspent, misplaced,
swift scattered are, remove
from life the paste thats interlaced
with love to leave the groove
by others faced with fears encased
within themselves! Improve
your chances paced by those who’ve raced
where most may fear, disprove
the double-faced, minds [s]oft, effaced.
let no one disapprove
Strong spirits graced with soul true, chaste,
which ever must reprove
all evil based on base, poor taste, -
which ever seeks to prove
Good may be traced, Right be embraced
in confidence – for you’ve
the need to haste to truth, yes haste,
for Time is on the move!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Amoretti LXXV: One Day I Wrote Her Name
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise."
"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."
poem by Edmund Spenser
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I've been Hacked! ! !
i've been hacked, hacked
cut, cutting
my gentle words
my kind heart
HE cut my fingers my ideas too
in a crowd of sad poets
Made me me in pieces
try to speak for me
For some
For all of us! !
He has no ideas to cut
He has no talent to cut
He has only a hacked soul
he does not know what love is
And LOVE is our task
Because Poet we are! ! !
Shard of blurry glass he is
Shard of limpid crystal we are! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
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Shape Shifting Words
without pause
without stopping
poet prose wrote...
entire poem concept
out complete
final finished
perfect form irregular
Michelangelo minds...
scan depths swift
chop away dross edges
swift writ
work revealing
original shape...
image mind
figure seen
into physical
reality speed world
true x-ray artists...
must ever dice work this
clay marble way fast
image craving out
solid marble blocks
from rich mind...
quarry form shape
shifting words
poem by Terence George Craddock
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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To Age With Grace
Let my birthday candles
glimmer in the dark.
As another year comes upon me
let me feel their spark
to face unafraid
my future days
that show up one by one,
whether they're lined with cloudy days
or shiny like the sun.
Each year that brings me closer
to that designated time,
the candles flicker softer
to let me know that I'm
closer to my God
than I've ever been.
So I blow out the candles once again
and take a new breath in.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Banking Coal
Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way,
Though all with shovels and with ashes,
Never resting till the fire seemed most dead;
Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps
Contentedly to bed. Sometimes the fire left alone
Would die, but like as not spiced tongues
Remaining by the hardest on till day would flicker up,
Never strong, to anyone who cared to rake for them.
But roaring fires never have been made that way.
I’d like to tell those folks that one grand flare
Transferred to memory tissues of the air
Is worth a like, or, for dull minds that turn in gold,
All money ever saved by banking coal.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Christmas Gifts
Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;
Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.
Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;
Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.
Eight Christmas presents--and one came from Devon;
Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.
Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick's;
Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.
Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;
Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.
Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;
Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.
Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;
Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.
Three Christmas presents still in full view;
Robin took the checker board, then there were two.
Two Christmas presents, promising fun,
Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.
One Christmas present--and now the list is done;
Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.
And the same happy child received every toy,
So many nicknames had one little boy.
poem by Carolyn Wells
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The Path Of Time
Whether of present or past
Or future if you please
The time that you portray
Moves only for yourself
Some choose to live in the past
Lost hopes and dreams they share
But time only last
Until they release the burden they bear
Some choose to live in the present
And behold the sights of each day
A balance of decisions for 10 second frames
And everything always seems fair
Some people look towards the future
To see long term effects unfold
However long it takes to get there
They keep persisting towards their goal
I chose to live in the present
Ignore the past and future presence
And live life like I will not see the next day
And still not have to care
But if I provide an example
For past, present, or future
My path is still my own
And moves only for myself
poem by Logan Fulk
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On Route from the Capital to Fengxian… to Damascus
There are many lessons of Christ holy and true
Which are hinted at in the words written by Du Pu
zhu men jiu
rou chou
lu you
dong si gu
Behind the wide red gates of the rich, food lies rotting from waste
Outside the poor lie frozen to death (neglected and emace'd)
You can learn the rest of that truth if you listen now
If you follow the narrow path: the Jesus Christ tao...
That those who horde the things of the earth
Will find those things ruined and replaced by dearth.
It is indeed an irony, that the humble poor-in-spirit
Recieve the gift of Truth by God when they listen and they hear it.
They have a greater treasure than the rich man could ever dream.
The first became the last, and the last shall reign supreme.
And here is the transcendent: That those who gather this Holy Truth
Do not deprive anyone else of the bread and elixir of heavenly youth
Yes, those rich-in-truth unlike the earthly wealthy,
Whose positions and perks are guarded by their strong and stealthy
Yes, those who have followed the straight path to His gate,
Unlike those who lock out the masses with their red iron gate
They call out to everyone to join them in their joyous eucharistic feast
Which celebrates the conquest over eternal death, which the blood of Christ released.
Irony! Red irony indeed, that Christ’s bounty rots not
Inside His narrow gates, for the poor who His salvation sought.
But the proud rich man, who ignores the love that Jesus showed,
Lies starved of truth and blessings; frozen on his own winding red road.
Du Pu (Tu Fu) was a poet from eight century China who wrote about the plight of the poor. He is revered as one of the greatest poets of China.
poem by Daniel Partlow
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Write A Poem
My poems are bad.
They are from a little known
poet's pen-
You say always...
You pen a poem, rather,
O, dirty words' father!
Fill P.H's page,
and your ill desire will get tamed,
under the light of gentle verse.
You are making yourself
and your life worse,
I think you are a joker.
This P.H is not a circus,
and we are not the viewers,
of a cheap show which you
represent everyday.
I want to say,
go and try to write a poem,
and try to tame,
your demonic lust.
I'm a poor lady,
my family is also so,
you are rich and famous,
don't waste your valuable
time after dust and ash!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Author's Inspiration
My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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White Magic
Is it not a wonderful thing to be able to force an astonished plant to bear rare flowers which are foreign to it. . . and to obtain a marvelous result from sap which, left to itself, would have produced corollas without beauty? -VIRGIL.
I stood forlorn and pale,
Pressed by the cold sand, pinched by the thin grass,
Last of my race and frail
Who reigned in beauty once, when beauty was,
Before the rich earth beckoned to the sea,
Took his salt lips to taste,
And spread this gradual waste-
This ruin of lower, this doom of grass and tree.
Each Spring could scarcely lift
My brows from the sand drift
To fill my lips with April as she went,
Or force my weariness
To its sad, summer dress:
On the harsh beach, I heard the grey sea rise,
The ragged grass made ceaseless, dim lament,
And day and night scarce changed the mournful skies.
Foot on the sand, a shadow on the sea!
A face leaned over me.
Across each wasted limb
Passed healingly a warm, great, god-like hand.
I was drawn up to him,
From my frail feet fell the last grains of sand.
Then haste and darkness stooped and made me theirs;
Deep handed me to deep; . . .
I faded then as names fade from men's prayers,--
As a sigh at last made friends with sleep.
But the same hand that bore me from the sea,
Waking me tenderly,
Bound me to a rough stranger of my race,--
Me weary and pale to him, and him to me.
I turned my piteous face
Aside ashamed; I struggled to be free.
I slept, I dreamed, I woke to that embrace! . . .
Sweet tides stole through my veins,
Strange fires and thrills and pains;
To my cold lips the bloom crept back once more
I glowed as a bride glows;
I watched the day with delicate hands restore
My kinship with the rose.
About my throat my hair went like a flame,
My brows were wreathed, in purple I was dressed,
I bore my bride's name,
A great star burned my breast.
No longer bound, I leaned the same sweet way
Towards her lover. Now astonished I
Who was a beggar stand obediently
Beside Cophetua.
poem by Muriel Stuart
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History may be past
History may be past
Embedded in memory and may not last
It is glorious past with memorable events
Preserved with honor as unforgettable counts
As the things can be clearly seen in mirror
History will site you mistakes and errors
It may not repeat in near future or for times to come
We take pride for being a part and welcome
How many bloody wars have been fought?
Was peace not explored or sought?
Why so much bitterness about past?
Why still not coming to terms very fast?
How can I forget that number of times country was invaded?
How can that easily it be wiped out that in problem we were landed?
The poverty, helplessness and backwardness come before like picture?
Making me restless with burning rage at heart for future
I am for sure and everybody will share
You can not equate past with future
The present is in between to balance
It must be thought over and given chance
We can’t carry bitterness all along
History may not pardon us for pursuing wrong
If we had rich tradition in forgiving the evil and past
We must surely feel elated with very good start
We have witnessed hostility running in for decades
It has no reasons to be continued for indefinite days
Each passing day is proving costly and very deadly
We must learn lesson from it and end it immediately
It is invaluable treasure to have it as glorious history
New generation can take pride in not feel sorry
It is freedom and free environment that we intended to give
For our lapses they may surely understand forgive
History can be considered as past milestones
The present can not ignore it and consider as bye gone
We have come to stay here as inseparable part
Even thought it may be unworthy or glorious past
What does this indicate in particular?
Do we want to create the situation like similar?
It is thing of past and must be buried sincerely
We have to pick positive threads and weave it neatly
It will be great tribute to our elderly statesman
They left behind for us a rich and healthy tradition
It is for us to judge the past and shape the destiny
Time may force us to explain our conduct to many
It is our duty to preserve
Assess the situation and observe
Freedom and past must be close to our mind
Yet another similar situation always too find
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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My Favourite Fan
Being a writer I receive
Sweet screeds from folk of every land;
Some are so weird you'd scarce believe,
And some quite hard to understand:
But as a conscientious man
I type my thanks to all I can.
So when I got a foreign scrawl
That spider-webbed across the page,
Said I: "This is the worst of all;
No doubt a child of tender age
Has written it, so I'll be kind,
And send an answer to her mind.
Promptly I typed a nice reply
And thought that it would be the end,
But in due course confused was I
To get a letter signed: Your Friend;
And with it, full of girlish grace,
A snapshot of a winsome face.
"I am afraid," she wrote to me,
"That you must have bees sure surprised
At my poor penmanship . . . You see,
My arms and legs are paralyzed:
With pen held in a sort of sheath
I do my writing with my teeth."
Though sadness followed my amaze,
And pity too, I must confess
The look that lit her laughing gaze
Was one of sunny happiness. . . .
Oh spirit of a heroine!
Your smile so tender, so divine,
I pray, may never cease to shine.
poem by Robert William Service
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