THAT, I Do Know
You see this?
I've been doing it,
Most of my life.
Writing.
I began in the '50's
The nineteen fifties.
With little or no encouragement,
At all that I could see.
OH...
My mom use to buy my sister
And I writing pads and finger painting sets
to keep me from writing on the walls.
And...
I guess a few spankings supplied an incentive!
Now that I remember certain events.
It was my sister Mimmie,
Who discovered I could write poetry.
And she didn't believe me.
People 'assume' I was nourished,
And encouraged by my parents.
I don't think they knew what I did,
To be honest.
I was born 'this creative being'.
With demands I made.
No one 'gave' me a thing,
But a headache.
With a parade of negative comments,
About my exposed interests.
They assigned to being a little effeminate.
But I played ball and stuff like that.
I wasn't hung up on gender!
That is more expressed today,
Than in those days I grew up.
So...
I am quite amazed today,
Especially...
That someone would ask me 'how'
I do 'this' and what they need to know...
To do 'that'?
'Gee, I don't know what to say.
Or how to say anything at all about it.
Uh...you...uh...well? ...I...uh...Gee.'
Sometimes I'm left speechless.
I just know...
If it is something done that is loved,
It will discover a way to express itself.
THAT,
Is what I have discovered over many years,
Of unrelentless devotion.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
When She Played It Was On Her Piano
As a kid I had ambitions.
And the first of them was to do my chores,
Before my mother would come home from work.
And she would pack them on too!
'I told you to sweep this floor.'
I did!
'With what?
A sandwich?
Do it again.'
My sister, Mimmie, would look at me.
And smile!
I couldn't wait,
To give her the spray can...
To kill the roaches!
I didn't know we weren't suppose to have them,
Until I was eight years old!
And that's not a joke.
One day when my mother went to work,
I made sure Mimmie got introduced.
She's a grandmother now.
And every once in a while...
She will mention how mean I was to her.
Nobody is going to sit,
And enjoy me getting whipped!
And that has been my philosophy...
Learned very early in my life.
Those days are long gone.
And being assigned to responsibilites,
I believe every child needs.
However...
Too many parents have raised lazy and spoiled children.
Believing one day,
They will awaken and be accountable for their actions!
Today as I reflect on my childhood,
I am glad my mother did not allow me to go to sleep...
To chance an awakening to what I knew I should do.
What I had and was going to do got done,
Before I had an opportunity to give it thought.
Procrastination,
Was not a lesson my mother taught.
I've seen parents,
Do everything possible for their children.
To wonder at a later date in time,
Why their children disrespect them.
Even 'if' I looked as if I wanted to say something back,
My mother would put a 'switch' to my behind.
AND...
I would have to fine one she liked to use on me.
That was before the calling of 911.
Today...
They would call that child abuse.
When I grew up...
We got our 'butts' tore up.
Just for looking as 'if'...
We did not enjoy getting whippings!
And I aint hardly kidding.
How does that 'old' saying go?
~Spare the rod and spoil the child.~
Well...
Mimmie and I were very spoiled.
But...
A rocking of a boat,
Did not float at all...
With Ms Edna!
When she played,
It was on her piano!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Writing The Words
I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.
I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.
I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.
I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.
I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.
So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.
poem by Rachel Brewer
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my little sister's GONE: (
She was five when her sister left
And with her gone she felt like she experienced death
She was too young to even know what that meant
Apart for seven months is what they spent
Her older sister was her best friend
She always looked up to her
Her smile she would always lend
She witnessed drugs
Barely given a hug
Barely shown any love
And just when she lost hope
Her sister would always show up
At the most needed time
Her sister never knew it
But she always completed her inside
And then her sister would go away again
And the same thing would happen
Then suddenly her sister stopped coming around
For a better life is what she thought she had found
A better life that didn’t include her
But she never knew that every day
Her sister thought about her
She always wondered where her sister went
And why she always left without their lives together spent
One day she gotten taken away
To a family friend
And for a while she would stay
But she was still mistreated
Barely eaten
Always hit
But she never told her sister this shyt
When her sister would call
She’d say I’m okay
Cause her sisters on speaker phone
What more could she really say
Her sister always promised that she would visit
And every day she waited
Hoping she’d keep it
But then she realized she was stuck
But knew that her sister still had love
It was just hard for her to see her face
And she felt like in this world she had no place
One day her sister came for her
She went to church and looked for her
She asked where is my little sister
And they all replied GONE
That’s when I soon discovered what exactly had been done
I always promised my sister Shilah that I would come and see her
And she waited until she finally gave up
And now she’s gone and I know it’s my fault
If I had only come sooner
She would still be here
She would still know that I cared
She waited for me to keep my promise
And I did but it was too late
and now i feel dis-honest
poem by Shilesha Johnson
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...
Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.
But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'
Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.
The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.
Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.
I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.
It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?
poem by Maddy Macleod
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I'm Not Writing A Poem Today
I'm not writing a poem today, don't feel like writing,
Instead I'll watch soaps today, while nail-biting.
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to sleep soon,
Instead I'll later wake up and look at the white moon,
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to be sad,
Instead I'm going to search for something else that makes me glad.
So peace be unto anyone that reads the letter here,
For I am not writing a poem today, just going to get a beer.
poem by Chad Fisher
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For My Sister On Her Sixty- Fifth Birthday
FOR MY SISTER ON HER SIXTY- FIFTH BIRTHDAY
Where have the years gone?
My sister -
The most beautiful the kindest little girl on First Street Troy New York
Is sixty-five years old today-
Where have the years gone?
How can I ever thank her
For the devotion with which she cared for my parents
In those most difficult last years?
How can I ever say how much her being the only witness
Left with me of that world then
Means to me?
How can I say how happy I am for her
That she has raised with her husband
Four loving and caring daughters
That she made quite late in life
A name and career for herself?
Above all that she is still the good caring person
Who with her mother’s practicality
Makes the best of what life gives.
My prayer is for health and blessing for her
And her family
In the years ahead.
God gave me only one sister
Thank God it is Joycie.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How Light Those Loafers
You are not the first to 'assume'
My interest in writing...
Exposed some insight,
As to how light those loafers I wear.
I've been a boot wearer most of my life.
With a mission to accomplish...
On a path I walk alone.
And I've done this on my own.
As God has condoned it!
For someone like yourself,
Who has no life experiences under your belt...
To believe I am weak because I allow you accessibility?
Do not become tricked by your definition of weakness.
I am prepared from 'all' angles...
And spiritual dimensions,
To protect my interests.
And...
With the best of trusted guidance!
You are not the first to 'assume'
My interest in writing...
Exposed some insight,
As to how light those loafers I wear.
I do not wear loafers,
To feel light in them at all
My feet are secured,
In comfortable customed made boots!
And my fists do ball when called upon to do so!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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Why I Could Care Less' by Lawrence S. Pertillar
I grew up in the projects,
My sister and I.
I was the older...
And expected to be the protector,
Without excuses or alibis.
I had no one older to express my frustrations.
My mother was both my mom and dad then.
And my sister and I were latchkey children!
I grew up with an edge.
A bit of a chip on my shoulder!
I really didn't have a childhood...
I always felt quite older.
And throughout my life...
Witnessing those who whine about petty stuff.
I look back upon my life thanking God,
How I grew up.
I thank God for my parents...
And their struggles to maintain.
My sister Andrea who helped me remain sane!
The Women's League Day Care Center...
With their counselors who guided me on my way.
The residents of Bellevue Square...
To this day I may see a few from those 'golden days'.
And to those who take others for granted.
With demands their selfish whims be met...
If it had not been for them,
And their pointless greed and attitudes...
I probably would not express,
Why I could care less...
About them now being in distress and duress.
My mama taught me a few things about survival...
'What goes up comes down!
Folks who grin and smile...
Will someday show frowns.
Now go outside and try to be a child,
Like the other kids! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Poem I Did Not Write Today
THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY
The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.
The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.
It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.
It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry The Beacon!
Beacon of literature is ever poetry only!
Greatness of literature lies in quality ideas;
Richness of language depends on poetry;
Worthiness of matter in poetry only is best!
Writing needs creative mind whatever thing is!
Novels, Short stories, Prose and Poetry are they
That enhance the richness of literature ever;
That too writing poetry makes one great sure!
Having chosen the form of poetry to write itself
Is not an easy matter as it needs skill and time
To write what one feels, thinks and conceives
In heart, mind and soul, otherwise no good at all!
Other forms of literature needs concentrated work
But poetry needs natural ability to express free all!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Fodder I Would Consider As Topics
I am amazed by those,
Who 'assume' they provide fodder...
I would consider as topics for my poems.
And I have stated on several occasions,
I am not inspired like that.
There is something that happens inside of me,
That dictates where my attention is zapped by attraction.
And it becomes a source to enforce,
Upon my consciousness with a focused concentration.
I wish there was an easier explanation!
But I did not learn what I do in school.
And I wish there was something connected I could say,
To have those who are curious accept and go away!
Like...
I just love the sound of rhyme.
Or...
I wasn't good at sports,
So poetry was less physical.
How about this one...
I grew up in a dysfunctional environment.
And a pad and pen became my best friends.
Maybe...
Writing was cheaper than paying a psychiatrist.
Seriously,
Writng 'was' cheaper than paying a psychiatrist.
And since I've been writing most of my life...
I declare myself 'freed' of issues and mentally stable.
Well...
Maybe I am not completely freed of 'all' issues.
And...
Why is it some people,
Take other people and their time for granted?
As if one's love for something,
Does not automatically means there is an absence...
Of a work ethic.
Or there is no initiative, motivation or discipline involved.
There are many people without a creative bone in their bodies,
Who are the first to believe...
Doing something one does not like,
Is practical.
And that reflects a 'normal' society!
'And' more acceptable than enjoying one's life!
I am amazed by those,
Who 'assume' they provide fodder...
I would consider as topics for my poems.
And I have stated on several occasions,
I am not inspired like that.
In fact,
Very 'few' people inspire me period.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Commenting (Please Read)
This poem is dedicated to a very dear friend in Canada.
Melvina Germain.
The first person who left a heart prints on my work almost a year and a half ago. Mel, a million thanks from me.
Love and Hugs.
David xxxx
Some people read your work
and then pass on their way,
never leaving a comment
whether they liked it or not.
For any writer good or bad,
unless someone makes a comment on your work,
you feel left out in the cold.
For those who think that comments do not help,
let me tell you what comments have done for me.
For six or seven years I had given up writing,
I swore I would never lift my pen again.
Then in January 2007,
I posted a few old poems on a poetry site.
I was confused and lost at the time.
Never though for one moment
anyone would want to read my humble work.
I was wrong.
Through the comments I received,
I started writing again.
Since the 19th January 2007 to today the 14th June 2008
I have written 1132 poems, a 80,000 word novel,
collaborated on over 20 poems
with two young ladies half a world away from me
and published my first book of poetry.
For under a year and a half
that is not a bad record
and it happened through the encouragement in comments.
So the next time you read someone work
and there is a space for a comment,
leave one please.
Those little heart prints can change someone’s life
and encourage them on to do better things.
Your comment does not have to be lengthy,
just a word or two will do.
Remember it is good to help someone
and by leaving a comment,
that is just what you will do.
I always leave a comment on everything I read
knowing how others comments have helped me.
14 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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Grew To Believe
I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
Especially when I thought that I had,
Something I should not want to have.
Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
An acceptance of their gifts.
I grew up in the projects.
And those who were 'different' were made to feel it.
Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
A happiness with talents they possessed.
With a gladness from others...
Who did not address an envy with a jealousness.
But a showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew!
A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.
I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
But...
A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.
A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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For Sharon (my little sister and second mother)
You were always my little sister, whether you knew it or not,
Even though you thought differently, when you were just a tot-
Even way back then, you wanted to take care of me,
You put on the Big Sister act, it didn't bother me, you see-
But when I reflect on those early times, I find I am mistaken-
For those years you stood by me, for granted you were taken.
You married young in life, your roads were rough, like mine-
But now your days are treasured, like aged and ripe old wine.
You've found the one that loves you, that one with the special glow-
That very special mate...hold him tight and don't let go!
And here I'm writing verse to you, to give you thanks and blessing-
For the times that you took care of me, for the grooming and the dressing!
Thanks for the times you freely gave, thanks for all of the care-
That was sisterly love, that only a sister could share!
You were my little sister- I was the other brother -
And now, the secret's out - You were my second mother!
poem by David Lessard
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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What Will I Do Today And What Will I Do Tomorrow?
What will I do today and what will I do tomorrow
And what will I do for the rest of my life?
Write and write and write
Until I can no longer write –
And even if this writing is never known?
And even if this writing is wholly lost?
And even if this writing is not really worth very much?
And even if it is known only a little?
And even if others are highly critical of it?
And even if it seems vanity of vanity and only vanity?
Write and write and write
To the end of my life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Queen of What Is Right
Yes!
She is my sister.
And Queen,
Of What Is Right.
No one,
Not even me...
Can argue with Mimmie D.
She is seldom wrong!
So prepare to take a hike.
She's quite talented and gifted.
And seems to never rest.
She makes things look too easy.
Even her children, Shayla and Landry...
Often find time with her protest.
But Mimmie is quite a special person!
And yes, I can say this...
It is true,
She knows what is best.
She knows how to dress with style and grace.
When she cooks a meal,
I've witness people stuff their faces.
Everything she touches,
Has a quality to it.
And she's the first on the scene,
When family, friends and those she loves get sick!
Did I tell you she was a nurse?
When she was just a child...
Healing the 'universe' she use to rehearse.
She tried to practice her skills on me!
But I had to remind her...
I was the one born first!
'Mahhhh...
Will you tell Mimmie to leave me alone.
She's trying to tell me what to say.
When I get on the telephone! '
Yes!
She is my sister.
And Queen,
Of What Is Right.
Yes, we had our arguments.
And yes we had our childish fights.
But on September 10th two thousand and nine,
My little sister will be sixty.
And it is hard to believe,
Without me...
She has done quite fine.
But sometimes I wonder about her husband AL.
After thirty six years of wedded bliss with sister Mim...
He seems to get better as he ages with her.
And not showing one sign,
He is out of his mind!
There has to be 'something' WRONG with THEM.
Two peas in the same pod.
The love they have for each other,
Today...
IS quite odd!
Yes!
She is my sister.
And Queen,
Of What Is Right.
And I love her dearly with all my heart!
Since Andrea and me,
Are both alike.
'Mahhhh...
will you tell LArry to leave me alone.
And mine his own business,
When I talk on the telephone! '
Dedicated to my sister,
Andrea 'Mimmie' Doreen Pertillar Dixon.
In celebration of her 60th birthday.
September 10th 2009.
'I love you, Mimmie.'
Larry
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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