A Writer's Room
A desk by a window
A quiet room with a few antiques
Two book shelves and the internet
I visit so many poets and writers
Dawn shines on wood floors
Trees in the yard always inspire
They’re so real and unpretentious
They teach us beauty is being ourselves
The sun rises, latter the moon
Silence and ticking clocks
Pictures and photos that mean something
Sometimes I put on some music
Some can write anywhere
I seem to gather inspiration
A hot cup coffee and I am ready to go
I like this room for writing
My muse seems to like this old house
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Related quotes
The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writers Block
He was going to write a brilliant poem
probably the best one he'd ever done
but when he sat down at his desk
the inspiration just wouldn't come.
No matter how hard the poet tried
to get some ideas down onto the page
nothing worth writing about arrived
leaving him on the verge of rage.
Then an Eureka moment hit him
while listening to the ticking of the clock
he'd write a poem on the frustration
of that dreaded writers block.
He ended up writing five verses
about a poets worst nightmare
when your wanting to write a masterpiece
but end up pulling out your hair.
So the moral of this poem must be
that writers block isn't so bad after all
as you can use it as a poetry subject
instead of sitting there staring at the wall!
poem by Kevin Halls
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I need a past
Dalliance frozen like a tight snare
Recorded off wood floors
Appreciate a melody felt
Delivered and waiting for you
Does she love me concerns
Nerves as weak as the moon
My stereo is so nice
Writing in my dining room
Strong coffee and cream and sugar
I fall in love so easy
it's hot with a breeze
Modern poetry is so free
Some control freaks don't like it
Do you want a slice of my life
a little slice of time
Real and true and splintered
The music is sweet
I still somehow think I touched you
Going for a long walk in an hour
so green out
so lush and plush
Some times when I write
it feels like heaven
My dining room is nice lots of wood
cross breeze and a fan
I need the past
I certainly want a future
but a past is important
My past seems to protect me
Do you know what I mean?
People with a bad past seem off
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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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!
Her Hands Are Stronger Now
she greets you by the door. She knows you are coming.
Her heart pounds for you.
She shows the room. It looks for you for many years.
Now she brags the room is alive.
she opens the window and lets the air
and the trees know that you are here finally.
they all talk about you know.
they nod, you are no longer a dog.
Or a parakeet.
The chair opens its arms for you.
You take your seat.She asks you if you miss coffee.
Black coffee, without sugar.
You look around. There is nothing changed here.
20 years ago, all the structures are faithful
to their positions.
They miss you and like to embrace you.
She is restrained like a dam.
No tears this time.
Not even some tears of joy.
She knows why you are here.
The room, the tree and the window,
the floors are blind.
She knows that this will be the last time
of your compromise.
She is dead 20 years back
when you told her
about the truth.
How can she feel like the room, the floor,
the tree and the window
How can she be as foolish as air and cloud?
Her hands are strong now.
They write her name, her signature to sorrow.
Her heart notes the final statement.
Life is over.
Game is over.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Room
(chris waters/tom shapiro)
When I pull in the drive where your car used to be
It doesnt hurt me like it used to
I can walk through the door, and not wonder anymore
Where you are, like I used to
I can go down the hall, see the pictures on the wall
And not miss you
But I just cant bring myself to go into..
The room
Where I spent every night with you
And the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
Id remember too much if I opened that door
And Im not sure if I could face it
The beds emptiness would remind me youre with
Someone else, and I couldnt take it
So, I sleep on the couch in our living room now
Since our love died
cause Im still not ready yet to go inside...
The room
Where I spent every night with you
And the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
Where the light of the moon
Came through the window
And I held you
We were so close
And its just too soon
For me to go into the room
song performed by by Wade Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Versatilty
I think that I can claim to be
a poet who is versatile.
I try to write my poetry
in varied form and varied style.
I emulate and imitate
styles of great poets of the past.
To show that I appreciate
poets that time has over cast.
Although long dead their words live on.
A source of inspiration to
poets today.Though they’re long gone
and I give credit where its due.
Although some things I write are new
I cannot trace their origin.
I trust my muse as poets do.
She prods me until I begin.
She tells me there is no such thing
as writers block there cannot be.
A poor excuse for not writing
I’m not allowed to be lazy
That’s something she won’t tolerate
and drags me from my bed to write.
Though I protest the hour is late.
She is insistent that I write.
If she should choose to stay away
I’d seize the opportunity
to simple have a lazy day
Without my conscience pricking me.
11-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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My House
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
My house is very beautiful at night
My friend and teacher occupies a spare room
Hes dead, at peace at last the wandering jew
Other friends had put stones on his grave
He was the first great man that I had ever met
Sylvia and I got out our ouija board
To dial a spirit, across the room it soared
We were happy and amazed at what we saw
Blazing stood the proud and regal name delmore
Delmore, I missed all your funny ways
I missed your jokes and the brilliant things you said
My dedalus to your bloom, was such a perfect wit
And to find you in my house makes things perfect
I really got a lucky life
My writing, my motorcycle and my wife
And to top it all off a spirit of pure poetry
Is living in this stone and wood house with me
The image of the poets in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
Our house is very beautiful at night
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Shangri-La Hotel
A visit to Shangri-La Hotel,
To my lover's room;
A visit to Shangri-La Hotel,
Like the eyes of an elephant;
I want to be in everybody's shoes but,
My mind is bigger than my shoes.
Like a message to the blue bears,
Like amessage to the white bears,
Like a message to the black bears,
LIke a message to the brown bears,
Keep it clean and soft;
a simple life to the muse of love.
A visit to my lover's room,
I am always moving and i don't look back;
Forward ever!
A visit to my lover's room,
I am always moving without looking back;
Backwards never!
A visit to my lover's room,
I know my back could be crooked;
But, i always move on.
I will surely reach to the end one day,
Like a visit to Shangri-La Hotel;
Forward ever, backwards never.
There comes a time when all seems so lost but,
Don't give up on your dreams in this life;
Like a marriage in the rain,
I do have a lover to visit.
The visit of my lover's room is like,
A love song in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To marry in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To make love in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To walk naked in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To sing in the rain;
Life is like that at times and,
I have my mind on you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Falling Asleep
Voices moving about in the quiet house:
Thud of feet and a muffled shutting of doors:
Everyone yawning. Only the clocks are alert.
Out in the night there’s autumn-smelling gloom
Crowded with whispering trees; across the park
A hollow cry of hounds like lonely bells:
And I know that the clouds are moving across the moon;
The low, red, rising moon. Now herons call
And wrangle by their pool; and hooting owls
Sail from the wood above pale stooks of oats.
Waiting for sleep, I drift from thoughts like these;
And where to-day was dream-like, build my dreams.
Music ... there was a bright white room below,
And someone singing a song about a soldier,
One hour, two hours ago: and soon the song
Will be ‘last night’: but now the beauty swings
Across my brain, ghost of remembered chords
Which still can make such radiance in my dream
That I can watch the marching of my soldiers,
And count their faces; faces; sunlit faces.
Falling asleep ... the herons, and the hounds....
September in the darkness; and the world
I’ve known; all fading past me into peace.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Monastery
Up the long flight of stairs
every tread echoes from stone walls
as if to comment on how stillness
tells of sound its silent origin.
In the quiet library, the central table
bears a careful written message:
‘Silence is spoken here’..
and that’s truer than
at first it seems to read;
round the walls, shelves of books
as silent as the monks
standing upright in their stalls
witness words that seek to share;
yet ultimately, wave fare well, turn back;
speak of silence sought and silence found;
yet cannot speak of silence;
in the name of silence, take a book,
well-worn, from off the shelf;
meet it in the silence of the room,
read a few words, and lay it down;
glance at the other readers round the room;
fall still.
Here, silence speaks of stillness;
stillness joys in silence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Book
Standing at the door, to your room, I lean against the frame,
I am frozen, I whisper your name.
The chair at the desk, where you always sat, to work
is in place, unmoved, in the dark.
I sigh, holding my breathe, I switch on the light
I say your name, adjust my eyes to the sight.
Everything is in its place, unmoved, just waiting
on your return, digital clock on desk blinking
in even rhythm, as time moves on,
unaware, uncaring that you are gone.
on the wall, family pictures of the past
moments in time, captured, held fast.
Afraid to break the silence, to enter the room, I wait
and for a moment I pretend you are just late,
that I will turn as I hear your footsteps on the stair
and see you standing, smiling, blue eyes full of care.
and then, that moment, that hope, has past
one heavy foot forward, I enter the room at last.
An inspiration, to me, to all of us, friends and family
you dealt with your illness, with strength and dignity,
I can still hear your laughter, your silly jokes,
remembering your love for books and gadgets.
reminiscing, I notice on your desk, a book
lying open, page marked, I move to have a look
As I read I start to smile, your last message,
the lyrics from Life of Brian, a circled passage
'Always look on the Bright side of Life'
for my children and my wife.
poem by Julie Duff
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The Write Place
I have a desk at which to write
but I prefer my old arm chair
It is so comfortable, just right
I usually do my writing there.
I have a pc which I use
mainly to edit and correct
The quick outpourings of my muse
as do most poets I suspect.
A pad and pencil are my tools
I use modern technology
but stick to my old fashioned rules
when I’m composing poetry
My desk is very nearly bare
but books abound by my arm chair.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beauty Rises
Beauty rises
Stars set black
As dawn awakens
The unyielding skies
Beauty rises
From slumbers grasp
Drinks coffee
Dons her mask
Beauty rises
To meet the day
Another away
Another day
poem by Chuck Cowan
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Consider your verdict for C.P Sharma
.
The countryside shows black and white a winter scene that’s pure delight.
When observed by a poets eyes. The inspiration it supplies.
he will record in metered verse, before impressions can disperse
He always carries pad and pen prepared to write no matter when.
his muse commands that he must write.Imagination in full flight.
as he attempts to share with you, the simple beauty of the view.
The fields of white are broken by bare trees which show against the sky.
He finds himself a sheltered spot, the day is cold but he is not.
He is consumed by his desire to write in burning words of fire
Describe the beauty of the day before the blue sky turns to gray.
Darkness must fall and will erase the beauty lit by the suns ray.
His brain moves faster than his pen, When he gets home he’ll write again.
Re edit it and check it through. When he’s convinced that it will do.
He’ll type it into his P.C, which will present it legibly.
Then post it on the internet, a task that he will not forget.
He’ll sit and wait for the replies.His poem read by other eyes
their honest comments let him know.Has he succeeded; yes or no.
30-Dec-08
http: // blog.my space.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Walk Into My Room And Let Me Teach You
Love,
Siblings,
Expected;
Walk into my room and let me teach you!
And like the muse of love to capture your emotions,
But let me tell you a story.
Clinic,
Post office,
Security post!
Ready for an occupation in the name of love;
But, walk into my room and let me teach you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Shes On The Zoom
Well she got up every morning and she waited in the cold
Got on the stinking yellow school bus and did what she was told
And she stared out the window, all the way down to high school.
She went to home economics just like all the other girls
Making chicken a la king and peanut butter swirls
But she knew in her heart there had to be something better somewhere.
Well the boys in the school, they were just a bunch of fools
And they acted like a bunch of bad bumpkins.
But she went out with this guy cause she knew a girls gotta do something.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
She wasnt meant to stick around here, and be some quarterbacks wife
She wasnt meant to stick around here, be barefoot and pregnant the rest
Of her life...
Well she got up every morning and she waited in the cold
Got on the stinking yellow cab, put the money through the hole
And she stared out the window, all the way down fifth avenue.
She went on all the cattle calls just like all the other girls
And she waited by the phone in her rollers and her curls
But she knew in her heart there had to be something better.
Well she ran into this guy who was down at 54
Had a lot of gold and chains and he got her in the door,
And he knew so many people, and he made her lots of pretty promises.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
song performed by by Don Henley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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