Further more from the poets desk
The drum of the pen upon this desk
Rings the impassable opening line
How to break from the restraint
To speak full admissions of the mind
Be it of love or observation to life
I am as yet unable to pen a word
The is no tale, letter nor a comedy
I am able to dictate unto the page
The agony of my literary silence
Grows with the slow passing of time
Drumming ceased Pen firmly in hand
And the clicking of the lid begins
Thoughts search and contemplate
While nothing written remains
My eyes look not into the room
But into another place of fantasy
Where I dance with romantic words
And survey loves great tragedy
All of this I seek to fill my mind
So I may finally pen
The impassable opening line
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Loves On The Line
Tell me baby
Have we lost everything that we had before
What do you do in the day
When I walk out the door
I can see you made up your mind
And I know our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
With each passing day
I gotta watch more and more what I say to you
I can feel your eyes looking through me
As I sit at the table at dinnertime
I can feel our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
I watch our kids
Growin up, going to school
Is there anything else for us now
Are we both just fools
Wasting our precious time
At night we lay in bed
But its like youre not even there
Theres something real bad
Going wrong somewhere
Last night I heard you cry
And I know our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line, our loves on the line
Loves on the line
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seek The Lord
Friend, if you seek to understand, you will know The Son of Man.
If you search with all your heart, Christ will guide you at the start.
Christ will give you eyes to see, that shall help your heart believe.
You will see Him throughout the day, as He leads you all the way.
The Lord is on the written page, and is read by men of every age.
He is the Living Word of God, and He will guide you with His rod.
Friend, if you seek The Lord above, He will fill you with His Love.
With His love He gives a peace, along the way that will not cease.
And in The Lord you can depend, He wants to be to you, a friend.
If you seek to find Him friend, He shall lead you to a glorious end.
On the cross He did His part, to change your mind and your heart.
Friend, now the rest is up to you, for Jesus did what He had to do.
Seek Christ in the written Word, to confirm what you have heard.
Friend, if you truly seek The Lord, your effort shall not be ignored.
For your eyes will be opened to, everything God has done for you.
The Lord’s promises you will see, are good through all of Eternity.
Seek Him while He can be found, and you will be on solid ground.
Seeking will lead you to believe, then Jesus Christ you will receive.
And your search for The Lord, will reap for you an Eternal Reward.
For all who do seek Jesus Christ, receive through faith Eternal Life.
A literary affair
A literary affair
~
We dance in metaphors
A familiar verse
Seducing through lines
We wrap up high imagery
Pleasing the eye of the mind
We flaunt and tease
Play wicked games with words
We do as we please
Upon the pages of books
Where we throw ourselves
Into a casual comfort
We lie, play pretence
Say words were afraid to
All in a secret place
Found at the end of a pen
There written between each line
We are revealed, lovers
Fully entwined together
In a rich dance of verse
We are guilty of a literary affair
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Verses From God
I’m just the pen; God is the ink, Who fills me as I write and think,
And God’s ink never runs dry, as it flows from His Spirit on high.
Penning verse that never ends, as He talks to a world of friends,
As I go to God in prayer, He pens down each blessing and care.
In a trial God helps me through, He pens verse to share with you,
And the blessing He brings my way, as He helps me, day to day.
As I write every word and line, I do not claim the verses as mine,
For as the pen to page is pressed, it is my heart that is blessed.
Blessing seem to come my way, as He helps me, in what to say,
To illustrate to all those who read, that Jesus is The Lord indeed.
His Words just seem to flow, not knowing where His idea will go,
But His point He makes every time, as God speaks on each line.
He draws from deep inside, my heart, where His Scriptures hide,
Always used at the proper place, to pen down a verse of Grace.
And as the page begins to fill, it is not my poem, but God’s will,
That fills lines with His Word, which some who read, never heard.
It’s God above who fills my pen, with words for the eyes of men,
By means of only poetic verse, to claim victory, over sin’s curse.
The page is filled by God above, with true examples of His Love,
Penning Truth for men to see, He’s a God who loves you and me.
(Copyright ©08/2007)
His letter.
The letter has come at last.
You have been waiting for days.
You open the envelope with
Both excitement and anxiety
Gripping you tight. His script
Is as per norm: clear, well written
With that slanting at the end of words.
He hasn’t signed with love or left
Those flying bird kisses. You see
Meaning between words, not those
He’s written, but what it was he
Meant to say, but hasn’t. You skip
Words on matters trite. You read
Deeply on the words that mention
You or how he feels. You hold his
Letter tightly between fingers of
Both hands. The page shakes.
He doesn’t say he loves you or
Speak of that night of sexual passion.
You fold the letter carefully; place
It in the pocket of your dress. You
Gaze out the window at the passing
Crowds below. It isn’t what he writes
That troubles you, but what he leaves
Unsaid that brings you now so low.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Matchstick Men
Pencil figures stand about a page
Matchstick men with little to do
Sketching the unknown romance
A love letter waits, long overdue
Vacant words leave empty lines
Where figures dance or idly stand
Boredom holds off the first word
Or the wanting of something better
To write than those words already
Excluded and cast aside by the mind
Perhaps the matchstick men could assist
Each one holding aloft a sign
Stating a love is evident and in place
A sign which simply reads ‘I love you’
No need for flowing letters of romance
Which thought or boredom fail to pen
Leaving a mass of matchstick men
Standing, dancing and watching
Every open and empty line
They are drawn to fill out time
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Unbroken words
Unbroken words
~
My words lay unbroken
Left imprinted across the page
Thought filled feelings
Like memories waiting to be read
Past loves and passions I’ve known
Days when heartache and anger
Seemed to fill the air about me
I sift through old papers
Trying to remember or forget
Dependent on the stories written
How I have changed and yet not
Another thought, another feeling
Expressed in the same old tired way
Unbroken words show a dairy
Of fantasy and beauty caught
In a verse a tale or song remains
As true as it was written
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Line
Sometimes a line comes along,
From nowhere, or
Anywhere, or
Everywhere;
It's just there
Going into your head,
Like the blueprint of your soul
Has been read.
And it is good -so good- to you.
You feel you must share it
With the entire world, through and through.
So you work and you try
To find a way
With wise words
This line to say;
Wrestle with your intellect
As you might,
Work on it
Day and night.
Still, the written words just are not there;
And, you begin to wonder does it matter?
Would anyone, anyhow truly care?
So, you put it away
In the darkness of the mind,
Out of touch
And out of time.
The moments and seasons
Drift ever along,
To here and to there
On and on.
As life has a way of pounding
And dragging with a mix of wonder and drear,
Day unto day
Year after year;
Season upon season...
Until, for some unseen reason
You one day come to realize
It's still there...
In your soul, somewhere.
That beautiful old verse
From way back when,
So you seek it out
Once again.
Ponder and ponder through the mind
Search and search, look and look
Until you find
The nearly forgotten words
Of this fantastic old line.
When once more thought
It still lays open the soul so bare,
And gives cause again to wonder
Now, would-could anyone care?
Yet, with age comes shifting perspective
Thereby giving cause to think:
Does it truly matter anymore?
For is that- was that ever-
What the line
Was given for?
Soon your spirit soars
Whistling, to yourself, the old familiar score,
A time... or two...
As here again it has its mystic effect upon you,
Its movement, its passion
Its wonderful sense of sweet satisfaction;
The places it takes you
In your heart and mind,
Way back and way forward
Throughout all time.
As if a precious gift
Given for none other,
Your spirit alone to uplift
Like the tender note of a fantastic old lover.
Therefore you become quite aware
Even if no one else ever cares,
The line was never meant for the world.
Rather, all along
It's meaning to be known,
Was always and only...
For you alone.
It was only with you
Who could truly for it care,
That God did so, the line
Desire to share.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Looking For An Opening
the guide for an opening is light
or water
on some crevices they always know
how to whisper
that in there there is an opening
and you must see it
and start from there
the message has always been
let there be light
so your eyes can see
let there be water
so you shall not thirst
darkness at the end had always been a loser
and dampness glows to a warmth of the spirit
what lies there soon flies
and the silence always turns into a very sweet song
there is hope
like a flower that grows in the wild
soon there shall be this meeting
of the most beautiful day
your feet shall begin to dance
your mind flying like a hawk
the skies all embracing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
opening...
the door of the cage,
letting the winged breath fly....
opening....
your heart to itself,
and to all hearts beating....
opening....
the vault of conceptions,
the entrance to the tomb
of past lives and memories....
opening...
your hands to the world
as if it were your neighbor,
and you, it's home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The End Of The Line
(graham russell)
This will take some understanding
I believe someone is sending, love to us and everyone
Who cares to take a gamble sometimes
Think of me Ive given all I can, stretched an arm and open hand to you
So never say no
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
You I need, always needed dont turn back for any reason
First we talk and then we fall headfirst into each others thinking
Please be where Ill always see you, life is short
The twinkle of an eye is all we have until we say
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Take me away take me away
Take me away
Do you dream fantasy and believe what you see is weird
I need a remedy or a book to get off this fear
All I wanted to know is how do I get the truth from here
We play so small a part, but we started from somewhere
All the friends that I can think of
Know whats going to happen to them
If they dont think on today and plan ahead for their tomorrow
Here we are just lucky children breaking out of the shell
Ill take your hand today and love you til we reach
The end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Take me away
Take me away
Take me away
Do you dream fantasy and believe what you see is weird.
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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End Of The Line
(graham russell)
This will take some understanding
I believe someone is sending love to us and everyone
Who cares to take a gamble sometimes
Think of me Ive given all I can
Stretched an arm and open hand to you
So never say no
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
You I need, always needed, dont turn back for any reason
First we talk and then we fall headfirst into each others thinking
Please be where Ill always see you, life is short
The twinkle of an eye is all we have until we say
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Take me away, take me away
Take me away
Do you dream fantasy and believe what you see is weird
I need a remedy or a book to get off this fear
All I wanted to know is how do I get the truth from here.
We play so small a part
But we started from somewhere
All the friends that I can think of
Know whats going to happen to them
If they dont think on today and plan ahead for their tomorrow
Here we are just lucky children breaking out of the shell
Ill take your hand today and love you till we reach
The end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Reach the end of the line
Take me away
Take me away
Take me away
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
Thats the end of the line
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wagner Room
“Sorry, sir. Booked out.. but then...”
The patronne’s voice is calm, you’re
penniless again in Paris, facing doom
and banking on the hope her “then..
..again” - will mean a room.
“.Eh bien, there is..the Wagner one,
“That’s fine”.You sign and slip up to
the premier etage, aware you’re in
a debt of gratitude whose depth
is verging on Wagnerian
and gingerly approach the desk
on which the “Parsifal” composer
must’ve had the opening thunder
chords in music mind, . But find
you’re also forced to wonder-
was it this room’s compression,
exile, mounting debts, Minna’s
moods, music-drama’s dreams
had him contemplate such mad
mythic and Teutonic themes?
An overture begins. The Rienzi
chords cross-fade with strums
on a guitar, some Latin Quarter
busker shouts and in the bowels
beneath the metro drums,
a duke-box Piaf bleats Love Ever
and you have a letter to dash off
that is a winding -back of tape
in which you piece together all
these bits of Paris into shape.
poem by John a'Beckett
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A Prolific Me
In the quiet hours of the evening,
I sit at my desk
and set my imagination free
hoping to write one poem,
but then end up with three.
It is no good I have to confess
I am just a prolific me.
The poems are all different
and I never know what subject
will come to my fertile mind,
only that it will come in a rush
line after line after line.
I tried to slow down the process
by not picking up my pen,
and then just ended up
with lots of words
just dancing around in my head.
The more I tried to fight them
the more they multiply
and I just end up again
being a prolific me.
14 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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The Writer
From where comes that burning spark
That lights a lantern in the dark,
And from its shadowed prison frees
The story, as the mind it sees.
The thoughts released from darkness then
To form their words before the pen;
These words that come from deep within
Upon the page their freedom win.
And where was just an empty plain
A line is writ and writ again
Of maidens fair and heroes bold,
Until the story all is told.
And there the words - before his eyes
The tale upon the pages lies.
Now in the wider world it lives;
To thoughts, the words, the writer gives.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Versus
Wood, leather, metal
clank together in irregular rhythm:
behind the Roman ploughman
crows and sparrows compete
to see what the blade throws up
from this red soil like ancient pots;
the horse, its patience godlike,
knows when to turn without
that hoarse, brief, ancient shout.
The old typewriter rattles on so fast
you cannot tell whether she is happy in her work;
again, again, the bell rings, telling her
it’s time for carriage to reverse.
The poet’s eyes are unfocussed,
lost to thought; the words come slow;
more certain, where the line may end -
the mind to take the mind’s own breath.
Versus. Where the furrow ends;
and where the line of verse
asks some new thing of the mind.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ode to Henry
The literary life
Of chaos and strife
Like a marriage with no wife
Can hardly seem right …
Swimming in a sea of words
They dance and they flow
A river of thoughts so wasteful …
Inside my mind so playful
And so completely distasteful …
But yet I know …
Henry Miller
Not the pillar
Of society
We'd all love to be
But his words they
Dance across the page
In obscene chaos
Life laid out before us
You cant ignore
The blood and the gore
All part of the dream
Not all that it seems
For beauty there in lies
Before our perfect eyes
Midst sensual sighs
Questioning what's real?
No longer of importance.
Just allow yourself to Feel...
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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An Island
Where there is an arrow there is thought,
Inside the island is a disease so welcome,
These layers of thought are in the mind,
Opening tragedy and comedy as well
My islands are numerous like the particles,
Sayings are deplored and welcomed,
But we are numbers and words in the end,
Like the praises of the head and heart.
poem by Naveed Akram
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