Invisible And Hidden
After struggling for a never-ending period
of time with boring texts and finding even
beautiful words lost their charm because I
cannot be allowed to enjoy fun of reading
bewitching tales until I have completed my
allotted tasks and I can’t, my eyes cannot
focus, I can’t tell you what those grey and
black lines are supposed to say
I ran off to the library, happy in the high-step-
ping pace of the imaginary drum-majorette in
my mind, borrowed books by Helen Creswell,
Susan Cooper, Annie Dalton, Thomas Disch
and Felicity Finn; alternative universes under
my arm, marching with the illustrated keys to
magical realms in my hands in order to leave
the limited mind behind and
Share the experience of fictitious characters
carefully recorded, polished and published for
seekers like me who need to see other worlds
beyond the limited sensory one where feelings
are invisible and hidden and I make up my own
as I go…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Open Book's Monologue Part 5: Welcome To The Library!
Welcome to the library! come one come all
Welcome to the library! come with your brethren on this wall
Welcome to the library! come all you books tattered or new
Welcome to the library! come tired and overdue
Yes welcome to the library the place where you're most mundane
Yes welcome to the library the place where you're to endure most pain
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit unwanted
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit haunted
Yes welcome to the library where everyone's just like you
Yes welcome to the library where we're all books too!
Yes welcome to the library where you can take comfort
Yes welcome to the library where In the fact you're no longer unique
Yes welcome to the library You're just pen marks ink
Departing the library? I think not, even if you get out we'll bring you back
Departing the library? Here you rot, but we'll dust you to ease your passing
Departing the library? Don't make me laugh, here you're black and white
Departing the library? Nobody argues on your behalf, look more amassing
Welcome to the library! A place of keeping and safety
Welcome to the library! Take your place you'll like it, just wait and see
Welcome to the library! New books don't mind the old they're disillusioned
Welcome to the library! You've sold your soul... but it's too late for you
so WELCOME
poem by David Knox
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Lesson #1
Lesson #1...
You can not convince those,
Who have made up their minds...
That an alternative approach,
Will provide a better benefit.
They will not hear it!
Since their minds have been blocked,
And limited.
Leave them alone,
To experience their own ignorance.
And by doing this...
You have removed yourself,
From feelings of guilt and remorse.
Left behind for someone else,
To eventually admit.
You must allow them to confront their egos...
On their own terms.
If you don't...
No one grows to learn!
And an ego on a rampage,
Isn't worth sacrificing...
An earned peace of mind!
Leave that nonsense,
To find its own way.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Make yourself at home for Friend Thad
I keep stored in my library
a treasury of poetry.
These riches I’m prepared to share
with anyone who visits there.
They’re sure to find something to please
somewhere in my anthologies.
They’ll find great poets from the past.
Whose golden words were writ to last.
Philosophy and high romance
or choose at a random take a chance.
They’ll find more formal verse than free
but I think I can guarantee.
Theres something there to suit your taste
just take your time no need for haste.
If your inspired and wish to write
the desk is placed to catch the light.
The only rule you must obey
is do not take my books away.
Through hard experience I have learned
that borrowed books are not returned.
If you should choose to visit me
you’ll find me in my library.
That’s where I spend most of my time
composing metred verse in rhyme.
22-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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And then the paper is dirty
You start with a clean sheet of paper
Write some words, scribble, draw some lines
Some curves, sharp lines, tangent to bold
Lines, and rough sketches of faces and
Bodies, thin lines that get crooked from
End to end of this limited space,
You doodle, you get wild with so
Many lines unimaginable, senseless,
The paper finally looks dirty,
And you do not like it, you crumple
It and throw it in a waste basket,
You get another clean sheet,
And this time, you think what is
It really that you want to make
Out of this new clean sheet of paper.
You think, you ponder, and you need
More time this time not to waste
This clean, glossy sheet of paper.
I think you are doing well with your life.
You see you are supposed to be careful
Every word is delicate and every paper
Is actually accounted.
Never mind guilt, set it aside for a while.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Return to the Dream
‘Through The Wormhole’ Morgan Freeman debating whether
intelligent life exists in our universe led to my mind getting stuck
on the wrong mental station where my fictitious characters cannot
help in resolving the argument
My five senses let me experience the dead universe which Morgan
Freeman insists is the only thing in existence – making me feel so
desperately lonely; I need an alternative to the physical depiction
of a cold and lifeless universe
My instincts and feelings require the mystique of Spiritualism and
Occultism to empower my ‘dead’ body in which the ‘thinking ghost’
is enclosed to work efficiently; the ‘thinking ghost in the machine’
theory is suffocating – let me return to the dream
In order to lead a happy and productive life; let these scientists enjoy
their self-created dark, cold and meaningless universe restricted to
their illogical assumptions of undesigned life, the limitations of their
senses and the level of their technology
“Through The Wormhole” - Channel 251 - BBC Knowledge
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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I Was In Being
lifted off, flying away for the first time
in ages, reached the dream universe
where spiritual experience reach the
sublime - when my characters were
enclosed in the ambience of magical
feelings and conveyed the sensation
to me I was there, in virtual reality,
where I can experiment with
alternative ways of being…
so keep on whispering, it is working,
keep on flying, destiny is waiting, joy
indescribable - I thought it lost, but I
was wrong, it was here all the time
waiting for me to catch up - it took
all my imagination, conjuring a
myriad characters; only when I
discovered who was the key
and tried to use it
the door to magic opened again,
I was in…
[Sometimes the door is in your head,
sometimes in your heart, you can
never tell until you try]
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Library In You
The words that you speak.The wisdom you have inspired me. The stories you tell and the author in you comes out. Library In You
The parallel lines in you words the experience in the language the art of storytelling.Reception from people how these stories affect many lives.The library In You. Your literature speaks volumes to me.You are the simile and I; m the metaphore.The tone of beautiful words the elegance of rhythem in which you speak from. Listening brings many to high altitudes.The library In You
Grammar in how you use it.The ingredent to mothers cake the master in your own league.An idle mirror on how I can tell my story. Your flowetry with a pen and paper tells all issues of those in the ghetto. You are the symphony of art.
The mathematics of an artist and his brush.The fuel to the fire I ignite with inspiration. The mother speaks as the child listen.The library in You
To conquer all paths of storytelling to imply and relate with a pen and recongize these thoughts.
The pen writes the story but the mind conquers the thought.Words explains the love of literature.I accept the library in me
poem by Lucinda Bryson
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To my charmer...
I maybe ordinary but unlike my words,
my words aren't ordinary at all, you see.
My eyes are hazel shades of other worlds,
my eyes are attraction force, back to me.
I'm short but i'm smart, so smart,
my mind can be devilish, but not to you.
I won't begin to talk about my heart,
my heart's created for the love of you.
I may seem boring but i'm interesting,
my thoughts are amazing and my love within.
I may look poor but i'm actually investing,
my love, in your heart and i'm hoping to win.
And my hands are cold and yes, they're small,
to the touch of your hand, warm, they will become.
If my hands are small, my heart is not at all,
and to your love, i've loved my self and every one.
Tell me, how is she like? you're wife,
beautiful? loving? caring? smart? kind? ?
I'm all that, so, share my life,
believe me, i try but i can't leave you behind.
I think i'm under your spell,
i can't but to gaze upon your face.
I'm going straight to hell, but look at you,
and put your self in my place! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Limited expectations yield only limited results.
quote by Susan Laurson Willig
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Words To Be Written
Words can be said, they can be written
they can be funny or sad or informed
words are sought after by everyone
papers, scripts, books, letters or texts
they can gossip, tattle or lie
honest, trust worthy, confusing
written to story or rhyme to rhythm
they can be found in our minds
written or printed they are strong
brought together the bring magic
imaginations, fantasy, real life
many stories and songs by words
have touched the soul with in
my words are to enlighten and entertain your mind
to put you in places we never dreamed
and to think I could of done that
my words to you is my soul to share
written with love, hate and sorrow
take the time to enjoy the words
words make ours dreams come true
poem by Michael Peterson
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Scribal Culture
sheaves scribal pages
mountains of words
the man with words
is verse master of worlds
making a piece of men
primal transferable experience
so far we have come
from primeval soup existence
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
sheave - to gather, collect, or bind into a sheaf or sheaves.
scribal - (scribal culture) scribes who could read and write usually in several languages, were responsible for translating and accurately producing copies on manuscripts on papyri, parchment or vellum. Books of texts written by hand were extremely expensive, especially in the ancient world where scribes had a limited shelf life before the invention of glasses. In ancient illiterate civilizations writing, editing, copying, interpretation, and public reading were the work of a professional elite worth their literal weight in gold.
Vellum - (from the Old French Vélin, for 'calfskin') is mammal skin prepared for writing or printing on, to produce single pages, scrolls, codices or books.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Our Universal Being
We are not this body nor the vital breath
We are not the mind we’re beyond death.
We are all free souls though incarnate
We should know all this and meditate.
We are not the name known to mind
We are not the emotions of any kind.
We are beyond the thoughts that come and go
We are forever a free soul and this should know.
We are not the feelings that arise and subside
We are not any object that is seen from outside.
We are consciousness and witness the ebb and flow
We are beyond imagination and what it cannot show.
We are not that which is born and dies
We are that which is as vast as the skies.
We are all the children of The Infinite
We should know all this every minute.
We are not that which can be measured or quantified
We are not even something that in time is specified.
We are part and parcel of a boundless Supreme Being
We are indivisible existence not limited to eyes seeing.
We are love and bliss and have all this to share
We are that which is sought by many out there.
We are also that which is neither lost nor found
We are the reality and essence of all that's around.
We are above any likes and dislikes that may form
We are not an ordinary being or one of the norm.
We are in humbleness devoted to helping the weak
We are the changeless Truth and Wisdom we seek.
We are One Infinite Existence without beginning or end
We have Everything inside us we should all comprehend.
We are not many but One and all can experience this as a fact
We are That which always was, now is and forever will be Intact.
----------------------
Note:
Originally titled 'My Universal Self And Metaphysical Being' and written in the first person format. Try reading it in the first person i.e. start each line with: I am.....
poem by George Krokos
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This Pace Made
You totally misinterpret,
The pace I keep.
Not one step do I make,
That is taken...
Has you in my mind to compete.
Or is there a thought given to your mission.
I have interests to pursue.
What about you?
This pace made,
Is not awaiting your notice.
Nor is this pace made,
Initiated in the origin of hesitation.
But is a motivation to focus my eyes on the prize.
With my own determination affixed to it!
To feel I am achieving 'something' that validates,
The time I've spent blessed in the appreciation of my life.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Poem Was Written In Mind And Lost
The poem was written in mind and lost-
Like so many thousands of pages
Like whole archives and whole civilizations
It will be unknown-
Dying happens all the time – naturally-
And staying alive is a limited option only
We cannot save our own holy words for long.
These lines too
Will be buried one day
In the eternal land of silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tether My Free-Wheeling Mind
Finally finished reading The Valley
Of Fear - I freaked out, ran shouting
through the house: Sherlock Holmes
is the best, once again, history of early
America, Pinkerton Men, lawlessness,
Arthur Conan Doyle changing me into
a convert for law and order
Helped me to cross the border between
wishing for freedom and being responsible,
now I really have nothing else to read, to-
morrow I must go to the library or die in
agony and sorrow, being without mental
stimulation would turn me into the devil
himself, breathing fire and brimstone
A whirling dervish of impatience to get
my hands on something that will tether
my free-wheeling mind…
"Sherlock Holmes - The Complete Illustrated
Novels" - Reprinted in 1991 Reed International
Books Ltd.
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Borrowed
borrowed shirts, borrowed shoes,
borrowed books, borrowed thoughts,
borrowed bed, borrowed lover,
borrowed dreams, borrowed salt.
borrowed children, borrowed mothers,
borrowed study, borrowed lives.
borrowed God, borrowed heaven,
borrowed killers with borrowed knives.
borrowed flags, borrowed lies,
borrowed virtue, borrowed freedom.
borrowed bombs, borrowed bullets,
borrowed puppets, borrowed kingdoms.
borrowed soup bowls, borrowed numbers,
borrowed tents, borrowed bridge.
borrowed hope, borrowed survival,
borrowed till it's sacrilige!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ephemeral
Dont want the story to end, stop reading
before the end, take the book back to the
library, I can keep the characters alive in
mid-stride while already submitting to the
charm of the greatest mathematician, the
ship of the desert, the camel enjoying his
lunch for dinner while the ephemeral world
of the Aegean Sea conjured in such archaic
Afrikaans remains a fixed mirage in my heart
unwavering in the air to entice me to join the
fictitious scene and find a new ideal there
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Seeking To Uncover Hidden Meanings
If more people read words actually written,
Less time would be spent by them...
Seeking to uncover hidden meanings,
Or trying to find a way to define the mind...
Of the writer.
Or...
Make attempts to read between the lines,
When there is a lack of comprehension...
Of the lines already there that appear.
But like most folks,
Who obtain their knowledge from gossip...
A title to them given speaks,
More than their reading of words.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Why Time Flies
When times are boaring (BORING]
Then put the mind to work
Or better yet, ya bet
Hands & Mind, or Hands-Feet-Mind
All together - Work
Becoming a writer - or anything -
Put the mind to work, then go to work.
When relaxing - be at ease
Allow time to breath and breath deeply.
It's like someone said
'smell the roses before you're dead! '
Enjoy the 'Now' for what it is! ! ! !
Not what it should have been
Or what could have been.
And allow others to see things
Through their own eyes.
See How Time Flies?
poem by John E Laipple
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Suppressed Feelings
The sadness behind
Your beautiful smile
Is clearly reflected
In you bewitching eyes!
Pride and reality crash
When the truth is hidden
And kept away from the World
That nervously wonders
What is going on
Between you and me!
Real feelings
That makes you so nervous
Whenever I am around you!
Feelings that at night,
Quitly invade your dreams!
You stubbornly refuse
To clearly acknowledge
That I am the one
Permanently stamped
In your heart and mind!
Now that time
Is rapidly passing by,
What are you waiting for,
When my open arms
Are ready to welcome you
One more time?
Copywrite(c) 2012
New York City
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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