Related quotes: build me a poem like...

Leave Shoes Outside Please

build me a poem like a Japanese house
stark black words set against
crisp white paper wall

elaborate phrases eliminate
rhetorical excess dismiss
shoes left outside

clear minded
direct
pure

poem by Mary Havran
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Paper, Only for a Limited Time

Paper, blank and empty
A metaphor only meant for loneliness
White as new born snow
Lets add some words
To make a prophesized poem

Words, only meant for rhetorical use
Clouds that clear, only meant to hide the blue
The living, moving ocean that is our sky
Words, only meant for questioning
What are words but meaning

Clearing clouds, our living pulse bleeds through
Now this blank piece of paper
Has a shadow, and my shadow -combine
Lets make music together
Beautiful, wonderful, majestic music
Lets be music together-
And dance our hearts to something holy

Paper, blank and empty
But easily filled to create art
Art that can change the world
Turn it upside down, or nothing
Paper, blank and empty
But only for a limited time.

poem by Troy Clark
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Christmas House

On the second day of Christmas
we left the white house
which had enveloped us.
Ice-crisp evenings
we waited for the train;
the black, shining giant
that took us away
from Christmas.

The lights from the house
winked safely laughing
in white window-frames,
peacefully,
always the same.

Our fingers were freezing,
and we stared enthralled
towards the house
where Christmas dwelt,
not wanting to go away,
wishing to stay there
in Christmas
forever.

Translated from Norwegian by the author of the poem,

Åse Lilleskare Faugstad

poem by Aase Faugstad
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White Shoes

(jack tempchin)
I want em, I need em
And Im gonna go out and get em
White shoes
I know Ill feel better
When I slide down into the leather
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
I woke up from a dream
When I saw em in a magazine
White shoes
I said lou you gotta start new
And the first thing you gotta do
Is get some white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
You know he left me with the lonesome blues
Been hangin round too long with nothin to do
Yeah, he really made me pay those dues
But Im goin out on the town tonight in
White shoes
Well, I wanted em, I needed em
Yeah, and I went out and got em
White shoes
That new boy when I see him
Im gonna walk right up and meet him in
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes
Im goin out on the town tonight
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To the Departed

The starkness of white upon the green
The paper is crisp. Crisp and clean
A rustle of wind- a flutter of pages
Words written down- never to be seen

by the departed- by the intended
Written fast and hard with tears that blended
together with the words- together with the thoughts
together with angst that was politically rendered

Before the year was through- an Asian demise
the half expected telegram had given rise
to broken hearts and broken lives-
Broken promises and all that implies

The sliding of fingertips over etched names
with the aim to lay to rest any or all blame
And all along that black granite wall
step after step, you’ll find the same

Loving mementos laid gently down to rest
for those who have been loved the best
White letters lay upon green grass
to confide, beg forgiveness and perhaps to confess.

to the departed- to the intended
Written slowly and haltingly with tears that blended
together with the words and together with a wish…..
God..if only one day sooner the war could have ended.

poem by Julie Dant
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Black and White (Stream XV)

I have black thoughts,
It is a black day,
A day when the black dog
Coal black, hovers at my shoulder.
I shoulder the burden.
Deep in the black hole.
Black as a black hearted night.
Negative.
Stark.
Black and white.
I do not call my good days white days.
Why?
Or have white thoughts
On a white day,
When the white dog
Pure white sits upon my shoulder.
Which is unburdened.
Out of the pit,
Luxuriating in the bright white light;
White as the purest snow.
Positive.
For we live in a too white world
Maybe we should have grey days,
And light days.
Why should Black be negative and White poitive?

For me then, today is a grey day.
Maybe tomorrow will be a light day.

poem by Paul Brookes
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A Ode Poem To You

My mother gave me an ode poem, oh how I love that poem
The scene of her perfume on it, the picture of me in her arms
This letter I keep with me all the time, I love it so much I sleep with it under my pillow
To her nice hand writing, to the black ink she wrote in, she wrote until her ink went low

My poem is great, my poem is wonderful, to the white paper she wrote on it’s beautiful
To the green words of the title, my poem she gave me is the best
I love how she gave the lip stick print on the top of my poem, sad to say she's at rest
I will always love the poem she gave to me before she passed

To the words in the poem she gave me will always endure
Word by word my lovely poem is speaking to me gratefully
This ode poem was from my mom and for only me sincerely
I love my poem, oh how wonderful it can be

Its so wonderful do you want to read,
Take a look, take a look and you will see

poem by Twilight Simmons
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The Poem That Comes After The Afternoon Nap

THE POEM THAT COMES AFTER THE AFTERNOON NAP

The poem that comes after the afternoon nap
Wakes the world
Is clear
Understands
Hears the answers to problems
It could not see before.

The poem that comes after the afternoon nap
Is a clear- minded Poem
A Poem of light
A Poem without fear
A happy Poem.

It has the answer
To the question
Yesterday asked
And tomorrow may make questionable again
A happy poem
Now.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Chris And His Golden Arches Brick Wall Graffiti

Well... it had the police mighty puzzled...
The graffiti red spray painted on the wall...
But for me and my pals we know who done it...
And it will be his name that we will call.

He left a very bold message to Eric...
Long about last Wednesday night...
With bright red spray paint he left his mark...
He's a vandal with not one bit of light;

He has no remorse for defacing property...
Now that the brick wall is broken...
Ain't that just calling the kettle black?
Leaving the words as a sure understood token! ! ! ;

For on the brick wall of: 'The Golden Arches'...
Right here in my town came the words of the dim wit...
Ringing out as: 'a sunshine island 'clear as a bell'
Yo-'Eric-Lets Fix It;

A poem about vandalism
In my town last week
And the perp who is no doubt
Behind it!
We aim to find out!

poem by Theodora Onken
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This Poem Is A Mess

This poem is a mess
It claimed shads of paper
Drained in pensil and ink
Finished and unfinished
This poem is a mess

This poem is a mess
It victimised toilet paper
Short and long, of all colours
Scribbled, drafted and erased
Pinned on the wall, anywhichway
This poem is a mess

This poem is a mess
It messed up everywhere
Lying on the floor, sholved
In the pockets, every corner
With incomprehensible words,
Misspelt, miswritten, strange
This poem is a mess.

Sunday,12/04/2009,
Huyton, Liverpool, UK

poem by Isaac Maliya
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Shattered windows, Colors of white

Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.

On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.

A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.

The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.

The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.

poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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The Mood

I'll simply be out shopping,
or just going for a run,
when words and phrases hit me,
and a poem has begun.

Sentences and lots of words,
go running through my mind,
and i know if i dont write them down,
my thoughts leave me behind.

So quick hand me some paper!
Just please give me that pen!
If i do not write this down soon,
the words will go again.

poem by Holly Smith
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Verwoerd is Black

This poem is pregnant
with the black bloodshed of 1976.
This poem is constipated
with slavery of the poor.
This poem is the titanic of people’s hopes
sinking in the freezing ocean of democracy.
This poem is the enemy of the state,
‘cause, this poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.

This poem is a hook that fishes
odd deeds buried behind black faces.
This poem is a mirror
that reflects odd unknown images
of stinking rich black men.
This poem is the voice of the angry dead.
This poem is a hammer to nail
in the brain of greedy politicians.
This poem is a database
of all black leaders.
This poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.

This poem is for you
black man who spits
at the sight of a white man.
This poem is for you
white man who owns a savaged land
full of secret mass graves.
This poem is for you
black and white who hug and kiss
to please Madiba.
This poem is for you
the poor, who sing:
freedom has finally come.
This poem is for you, who know no truth,
‘cause, this poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.

This poem is for you
my brother & sister who have lost taste
of your mother-tongue
in the multiracial Model C schools.
This poem is for you
black mama, who has configured her black being
‘cause black is barbaric.
This poem is the anger of hunger.
This poem is for the unemployed voters
who find solace in booze, sex & crime.
This poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.

poem by Mpho Ramaano
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Her Own Departure

Her own departure is a show.
a big bag hanging on her
shoulders, her left hand
holding a coin purse,
her right crumpling a
white handkerchief wet
with her tears.

she is crying. Her blue
blouse fits her fat and her
black pants are loose
like two shirts.

She wears her white rubber
shoes, sort of telling me
that she will be running
towards the place
that she will be hiding
for days.Or just towards
the airport. Or bus station
or port.

I don't really care.

She takes the ATM
with her, and the credit cards.
She does not tell me
where she is going.
She gives the hint that
it will be far away from
this cold house.

I am staying. I am glued
to this house.
I am silent and peaceful
now. I still have many things
to think and write.

My first poem after she leaves
shall be titled, 'Good riddance! '

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stark

All matter and existence
build from the concept of quark
Stark

Everything you need for life
Fits on one Arc
Stark

A misty graveyard with just
the song of the Lark
Stark

The raving madness that takes hold
and makes you bark
Stark

The cutting bluntness
of a succinct remark
Stark

Barren, the searing desert.
I fight the urge to disembark
Stark

A broken mind, in the shade
of depression, so dark
Stark

A winters morn alone
on a bench in an empty park
Stark

poem by Stevie Taite
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Precious poem

Bewildering words bounce out from your stem
Day by day you grow becomingly
My precious poem
Pepping up my know-how strongly

You talk to me in a language that puzzles
Whilst paragraphs and sentences and words
Fight each other daily rigorously in your shuttle
There is never a time or space for them to get bored
Sufficient room for grammar, you can always afford

Sometimes you are like a gem
Sometimes you spike up mayhem
With structures of words that condemn
But you are still my precious poem

At times you have a clear message
Creating pure outrage
At times there is no clear passage
Words are scribbled in a gobbled up language
At times you have both attributes as one package
But you are still my precious poem

I must confirm
On your own terms
Both at AM or PM
You will always be my precious poem

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Poem Without A First Line

for no real poem has a first line
any more than a real book
has a first page

it comes out of a dark lost forest
or a bright unknowing cloud

or an unbearable pain
so unbearable that even
if you wrote the poem on a piece of paper
and threw the paper away
it would ease the pain

or a childhood so miserable
that only a complete change of life
could recognise one single beautiful thought

or an astonishing moment
when you knelt and prayed
for the first time in your life
to a god you did not know
with words you did not understand
for they were not even words

or the moment when all the horror of the world
faced all the love and beauty in the world
and both were so taken aback
that they could only embrace
and later, speak

or a nowhere and a nothing
so stark that only poetry

without a first line

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Freedom Bound

Beneath my fingers I feel the smooth silky paper.
Somewhere within my head, a poem’s carefully strung.
Then one will be committed to join with the other,
When it has been carefully sprung.

Beneath my fingers I see the strong tough paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s shining through.
Then one will be exhibited, joined with the other,
Where they will be seen, shining new.

Beneath my fingers I hear the crisp firm paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s freedom bound.
When one will be entrusted to join with the other,
Then freedom will at last be found.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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White Letters On Green Green Grass

Never had he spoken of what they saw
He’d held it back- his emotions raw
Until this day when it came to pass
He found the name etched in black glass

Before that wall he found himself kneeling
Couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling
His ravaged soul opened up at last
As long-buried memories flooded from the past

Black ink against the paper lined
On and on as he spoke his mind
Comrades-in-arms; friends ‘till the last
White letter on green green grass…..

His tears spilled and on the paper fell
As he wrote it all down; describing their hell
Fevered and hard; the words came fast
Purging his soul as he relived their past

Black ink against the paper lined
On and on as he spoke his mind
Comrades-in-arms; friends till the last
White letter on green green grass…..

poem by Julie Dant
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On A White Bench

at the plaza of this town
fronting the cafe
where i am now writing this poem

i see a white cemented bench
beside a mahogany tree
three men are sitting
they are talking
and i cannot hear them
i am walled
by this glass wall

one wears a white cap
holding a radio
blue faded jeans
and rubber shoes

the second one
a brown subanen native
wearing a white shirt
with a political ads
to vote for mayor dong

the third one
already left before i finished this poem

i could have described him
but i fell short of time and sensitivity

i ask someone beside me
what these three men are up to

they are waiting
they are looking for a job on this hard times
when the price of rice has gone high
together with the gas

i know you want something more than this kind of write
did i keep you waiting too?

tell me did i keep you waiting too for something that you want me to tell you?
i have nothing to tell you

how does it feel to wait, hours perhaps, for something that does not come/
how does it feel to wait

for nothing? tell me, tell me, if you understand now, how is it to sit on a white
bench beside a mahogany tree, in the plaza, in front of an internet cafe

where i write a poem
and nothing nothing really happens