Everyday Art
Whitman visits the wounded Union soldiers
Lincoln set in poems of spiritual strength
Common men in common language
Poetry from the ground floor of humanity
Spring flowers sown on a beige dress
Kilns bring pottery of country life
Lilacs in a simple vase in the kitchen
Quilts from a great grandmother
A table made by my father
Recipes of pea soup handed down
Paintings from a sweet Aunt
Photos taken of old barns
Old letters precious with romance
Value is so relative and subjective
I would never hire a interior decorator
Make your world alive with your own voice
We all rejoice in everyday art
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Isms, Isms, Isms
thank god poetry has inched its way
into the hearts of the common man again
let's not make its journey there too laborious
let's write poems for the common man
like Blake, like Wordsworth, like Neruda
poems that sing and dance as they make their
way out to the the sea of humanity
poems of the Creator's brush that paint an
enchanting innocent world to be unravelled
as they make their way into the repository of human knowledge
let's make it all that simple, like making tea
when all we have to ask is whether it should
be sweet or plain yet are sure it will be fully savoured
let's write poem with the common men's words
so that it can be embraced without apprehension
let's not extort an art of its life and gentility so that
they are drowned in a sea of isms, isms, isms
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Common Language
Common Language
The common language of Earth and galaxies everywhere,
is Soul Language, which sentient beings all do share.
Share their thoughts about conflict and strife,
bring back “peace” and end killing of life.
Life of course cannot die,
but can be needs to be respected, cherished and not denied.
Like Peter of Galilee,
was speaking Soul Language to 1,000 people times 3.
They all knew what he had said,
Pilgrims followed the teachings in which they were lead,
and became followers of The Way,
teachings for daily living of Jesus on that Pentecost Sunday.
Now nations of Earth can speak from a common ground,
hear the purist voice in the purist form without a sound.
Soul language has the presence of the divine,
it’s wisdom is used in Soul Language all the time.
Soul language can heal the conflict of the nations
Of Earth, make had a new world view in it’s rebirth.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 19,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Common Language
Common Language
The common language of Earth and galaxies everywhere,
is Soul Language, which sentient beings all do share.
Share their thoughts about conflict and strife,
bring back “peace” and end killing of life.
Life of course cannot die,
but can be needs to be respected, cherished and not denied.
Like Peter of Galilee,
was speaking Soul Language to 1,000 people times 3.
They all knew what he had said,
Pilgrims followed the teachings in which they were lead,
and became followers of The Way,
teachings for daily living of Jesus on that Pentecost Sunday.
Now nations of Earth can speak from a common ground,
hear the purist voice in the purist form without a sound.
Soul language has the presence of the divine,
it’s wisdom is used in Soul Language all the time.
Soul language can heal the conflict of the nations
Of Earth, make had a new world view in it’s rebirth.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 19,2011
www.christinasunrise.com www.purplepoems.com
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saints
In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.
My grandmother's was tranquil, even at the end.
She was like a person walking in calm water;
for some reason
the sea couldn't bring itself to hurt her.
When my aunt took the same path,
the waves broke over her, they attacked her,
which is how the Fates respond
to a true spiritual nature.
My grandmother was cautious, conservative:
that's why she escaped suffering.
My aunt's escaped nothing;
each time the sea retreats, someone she loves is taken away.
Still she won't experience
the sea as evil. To her, it is what it is:
where it touches land, it must turn to violence.
poem by Louise Gluck
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Next Instalment PLEASE 5.9.2009
There are three kinds of love:
1 Ideal, ROMANTIC love ‘pure and chaste from afar’
the unreachable star; 2 RATIONAL love, sacrifice for
common-sense relationships, and 3 SPIRITUAL
love for all of life as sacred
ROMANTIC love - unattainable; a guiding lodestar, a
Quixotic ideal I won’t let go, my favourite authors
have my undying devotion, they keep the flame
of beauty and dreams alive
Many Romantic love poems are selfish and narcissistic
with emotions effervescent, only a special few
delineate soul-mates’ eternal love,
I adore these, but it is
RATIONAL, common-sense love which makes the
world go round – sharing religion, world-view and
ethical conviction; sacrificing self to group,
for our kids whom we love to bits
Boring compared to the fire and delight of romance;
and the unconditional SPIRITUAL love of esoteric
texts is out of reach; - we might combine some
romance with rational love
Though experience shows life does not allow romance
for long, forcing a choice between short-lived affairs
and long-term, boring relationships;
alternatives so unsatisfactory - thus
Love poetry is a secret activity, requiring one reply
only, Thank you, next instalment please - to all
authors who delight me - ‘THANK YOU, next
instalment please - PLEASE.’
9 May 2009
poem by Margaret Alice
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The World Cup, A Common Stage
The World Cup is a common stage
It is an arena for winners
and an arena for losers
Without the losers, there is no
proclamation of winners.
The winners may rejoice
to have scored more
But their victory only happens
because there are those who
have scored less.
As a common arena in life's
test of strength and wits,
the winners can rejoice
but still without forgetting
that they win because others lose.
Those who lose do no lose
their great value in that common stage.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Outside the Windy City
Outside the Windy City
lives the Lady Finnegan -
Carol dearly loves the Lord Jehovah
and is a part of His earthly plan.
Her heart has been pierced
by God's Holy Spirit;
for she placed her life before Him
and has chosen to submit.
Her adoration for the King
has burst forth with heart's joy,
from reading her great nephew's literature
within the borders of Illinois.
Now she's become God's messenger
via her gifts of Joe's Christian poetry -
For the fragrance of God's Love
envelopes her with scriptural potpourri.
Blessed to be a blessing,
her friendship has touched me -
For we have found common ground
between kinship and a love of poetry.
Dedicated to my Great Aunt Carol Finnegan,
the sister of my maternal Grandmother Marguerite Massa.
poem by Joseph James Breunig 3rd
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Reminiscence
A rose reminiscent of my father's garden
I found growing by a pathway outside my home- as well as
Another just lying upon the sidewalk-
I collected them and brought them home and
Placed them in a vase my mother always loved.
My mother and father always loved the springtime and
On this rainy Saturday afternoon,
I find it hard to believe they have been gone for twenty years.
My mother's spirit was as delicate as the petals on these roses-
My father's, as strong as their thorny stems that upheld them and
My own spirit, by them, always misunderstood.
Flowers are blossoming everywhere-
Daffodils and wild violets growing every place I look and
Cherry blossoms and dogwood seemly decorating the trees-
Bring back the fonder memories of my mother and my father-while
The rain and the sky so gray and overcast
Bring back memories of the sadness of being misunderstood.
It has been nearly forty years that
I had made my own special world in which to live and
In this world flowers grew not only just in the springtime months-
But all year around and in every place.
The real world was then, to me, a place I never lived in or comprehended, and
As long as I kept my mind alive inside the world of my imagination-
At that time, I believed that I had not a thing to fear.
Roses reminiscent of my father's garden,
Placed in the vase my mother so loved-
Upon this rainy Saturday day in March, evokes a few tears in my eyes and
Just for the moment I think of the laughter and good times we had together-
These thoughts are interrupted by memories of all of the anger, sadness,
Mistrust and disbelief that now overshadow memories of
These few pleasurable moments we not so often shared, and
I take these roses from the vase that sits alone upon the table,
Open my picture window and throw them to the rain, and
As my tears cease to fall and dry away- I say goodbye to all unhappy memories-and
As thoughts of my self-made world disappear,
I am thankful that I have a life in this world here alive, and while
I watch the rose petals flutter about in a gentle spring like breeze-
I leave thoughts of discontented past times behind me and
I realize that I have just been set free.
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Pictures In A Book
High on a tree a red cardinal sings
Snow melts under a free blue sky
It is Sunday and church bells ring
I love to watch the spring geese fly
The kitchen with flowers in the vase
She loved lavender lilacs on the table
Some memories never do get erased
Give your love while your still able
Now the rains and the winds blow
Mountains fill with great waterfalls
Streams swell with melting snow
Pine trees grow stalwart and tall
I remember roses on her summer dress
We loved to walk a moonlit mile
Her long hair flowing down her breast
Haunted by her laugh and sweet smile
Soon the fine tulips will start to bloom
The brown grass will turn deep green
Frogs will breed under the full moon
Wild flowers will grow by oak trees
I wonder if she often thinks of me?
We met when apple blossoms grow
Love seemed like an eternal sea
Parted when fall winds turned to snow
Now we are memories from another day
Pictures in a book neatly tucked away
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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For humanism also appeals to man as man. It seeks to liberate the universal qualities of human nature from the narrow limitations of blood and soil and class and to create a common language and a common culture in which men can realize their common humanity.
quote by Christopher Dawson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Part Of My Life
People write poetry for diverse reasons,
as in poems that describe the yearly seasons.
Poem's can show the love for our mother and father
and you can vent against the boyfriend of your daughter.
You can express your feelings about a day at the beach,
nothing is out of poetry's reach.
Beautiful poetry can make your heart soar
and bring alive days of yore.
It can make king's of old come alive
or make you sad enough to cry.
Poetry can describe angel's performing a celestial dance
or some other circumstance.
Poetry can help a relationship to mend
and it can also help it to end.
I have used poetry to describe a summer day's ice-cream cone
and to express feeling's of being alone.
Poetry will always be a part of my life,
to write of the good and write of the strife.
06/01/07
poem by Barbara Haskell
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Father Unite Us
Today my prayer will be short and sweet for you Father has given me yet another day to stand with strength upon my feet. Father I ask only one thing in this short little prayer. I ask Father that you unite all the people of this earth as one. I ask Father that you help us to realize that we really are sisters and brothers, that we are covered by the blood of the lamb, that no one can come between us while we are holding your glorious hand. Father unite us so that we will grow strong and able to fight the enemy. Protect us Father while we stand as soldiers under your great umbrella. Let us find peace in this world Father. I leave it all to you Father for you are our great leader, you are the King, You have the ability to make great mountains crumble and to part the rough waters of the sea, you are the all knowing and the great almighty.
Father I leave this prayer for peace to you, knowing that you will know what to do.
I pray Father in the name of your precious son Jesus. Amen
Written: March 2,2008
poem by Melvina Germain
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Good Evening Mr. Waldheim
Good evening mr.waldheim
And pontiff how are you?
You have so much in common
In the things you do
And here comes jesse jackson
He talks of common ground
Does that common ground include me
Or is it just a sound
A sound that shakes
Oh jesse, you must watch the sounds you make
A sound that quakes
There are fears that still reverberate
Jesse you say common ground
Does that include the plo?
What about people right here right now
Who fought for you not so long ago?
The words that flow so freely
Falling dancing from your lips
I hope that you dont cheapen them
With a racist slip
Oh common ground
Is common ground a word or just a sound
Common ground
Remember those civil rights workers buried in the ground
If I ran for president
And once was a member of the klan
Wouldnt you call me on it
The way I call you on farrakhan
And pontiff, pretty pontiff
Can anyone shake your hand ?
Or is it just that you like uniforms
And someone kissing your hand
Or is it true
The common ground for me includes you too
Oh, oh, is it true
The common ground for me includes you too
Good evening mr.waldheim
Pontiff how are you
As you both stroll through the woods at night
Im thinking thoughts of you
And jesse youre inside my thoughts
As the rhythmic words subside
My common ground invites you in
Or do you prefer to wait outside
Or is it true
The common ground for me is without you
Or is it true
The common ground for me is without you
Oh is it true
Theres no ground common enough for me and you
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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America's strength is not our diversity; our strength is our ability to unite people of different backgrounds around common principles. A common language is necessary to reach that goal.
quote by Ernest Istook
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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(ballad) If I could...
If I could.....
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If I could
I'd bring our soldiers home..
i would bring them safe and sound
home again on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home.
If i could
I'd make this world free
If i could
I'd make this world free
no cold and hungry children
no pain or poverty...
if i could
I'd make this world free.
If i could
i'd bring or soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them safe and sound
Home again, on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home..
If i could
i'd change nine one one
if i could
I'd change nine one one
I'd give anything to change
the damage that's been done
if i could
I'd change nine one one...
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If i could
I'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them all safe and sound
home on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
poem by Connetta Jean
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A Den Of Poetry!
Many poets I see on line today!
For fun many are indulging in poetry;
Not only amusement but also truth
Best ones produce in their poems!
Where can we find quality poetry
In the world poetry website as this one?
All are mixed with each other so much
That it is impossible to separate them!
All funny poems have to be skipped
For reading the really worthy ones!
To do so precious time is wasted
Everyday browsing on this website!
Finding the poetry true is finding treasure
In the depths of this deep poetry den!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Wandering At Morn
WANDERING at morn,
Emerging from the night, from gloomy thoughts--thee in my thoughts,
Yearning for thee, harmonious Union! thee, Singing Bird divine!
Thee, seated coil'd in evil times, my Country, with craft and black
dismay--with every meanness, treason thrust upon thee;
--Wandering--this common marvel I beheld--the parent thrush I
watch'd, feeding its young,
(The singing thrush, whose tones of joy and faith ecstatic,
Fail not to certify and cheer my soul.)
There ponder'd, felt I,
If worms, snakes, loathsome grubs, may to sweet spiritual songs be
turn'd,
If vermin so transposed, so used, so bless'd may be, 10
Then may I trust in you, your fortunes, days, my country;
--Who knows that these may be the lessons fit for you?
From these your future Song may rise, with joyous trills,
Destin'd to fill the world.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Rita Matlock Gruenberg
Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys,
And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six,
Here is your little Rita at last
Grown old, grown forty-nine;
Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,
With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;
Piecing together strength for the act,
Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!
After wandering afar, over the world,
Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood--
(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.)
Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength,
Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you
With a life that used these gifts of your blood.
But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.
At last the cruelist trap of all.
Then I fought the bars, pried open the door,
Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut,
And tore me to death as I used your courage
To free myself!
Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.
Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring--
Grandmother!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Poetry Is Somebody Writing
Poetry is somebody writing
About soft rotting peaches,
Lying on a table that's missing a leg
In a deserted cottage somewhere,
With ermine curtains.
And Poetry is someone explaining
That the poem holds promise of great beauty,
In the seeds of the peaches,
Even if they are over-ripe;
And even if the curtains are poorly matched.
And Poetry is someone else arguing
That the poem is about avarice
And wasted opportunity
In a post-modern world.
And Poetry is somebody else saying
A poem is just a still life
Made out of nothing in particular,
And thus can't be assigned relative values.
And Poetry is the child,
Falling asleep on the table
Holding a poem book open,
Pressed against his cheek,
And dreaming of ermine peaches
Rolling off of limping tables,
In a dark cottage alone,
In the middle of an existence
Nowhere that we could recognize.
poem by Patti Masterman
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