0025 Between (2)
Between each word, what happens in the mind?
what moves from hearing, seeing, through the worlds
of thought; emotion; both perhaps enjoined;
what depth of silent stillness may unfurl?
It's strange: as writer, when the words are set,
I find myself in some quite other place,
where writer, reader, hearer, truly meet;
like talk that's punctuated by deep peace.
For me, each comma, semi-colon, dash,
or bracket, or long colon's pause, or stop,
are moments when our minds may truly match;
communication perfect in that gap:
the punctuated moment, truth may find;
between each word, meet unity in mind.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Reader or writer
If you are a reader or a writer.
You should be a positive thinker.
You are more like a scientist observer.
Try to be an exact experimenter.
Nothing is too crazy to put on paper.
If you are a reader or a writer.
The reader is a wonderful dreamer.
The writer is a sincere worker.
Its lovely that both can be each other.
If you are a reader or a writer.
You should never say never.
So don't leave behind a book marker.
Make sure you have a word sharpener.
The Dictaphone Bard
[And here is a suggestion: Did you ever try dictating your stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? I would be glad to have you come down and make the experiment.--From a shorthand reporter's circular letter.]
(As "The Ballad of the Tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer)
We were crowded in the cabin comma
Not a soul would dare to sleep dash comma
It was midnight on the waters comma
And a storm was on the deep period
Apostrophe Tis a fearful thing in capital Winter
To be shattered by the blast comma
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder colon quote capital Cut away the mast exclamation point close quote
So we shuddered there in silence comma dash
For the stoutest held his breath comma
While the hungry sea was roaring comma
And the breakers talked with capital Death period
As thus we sat in darkness comma
Each one busy with his prayers comma
Quote We are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted comma
As he staggered down the stairs period
But his little daughter whispered comma
As she took his icy hand colon
Quote Isn't capital God upon the ocean comma
Just the same as on the land interrogation point close quote
Then we kissed the little maiden comma
And we spake in better cheer comma
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear period
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The Word That Wouldn’t Fit (Fun Poem 25)
A writer’s life is full of woe,
you find a word you like,
then you write something,
and try to fit that word in,
but when you look again.
That word you thought of
it just won’t fit in,
no matter how hard you try it,
that word just will not go.
In a fit of frustration,
you stick it here and there.
Just like jigsaw puzzle
where the pieces will not fit,
so this word will not go anywhere.
In the end you say, “OH heck! ”
Then you put the word
to the back of your mind.
Maybe another day
in another poem,
that word just might fit.
Having said all that,
I’m not betting on it.
poem by David Harris
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Emote One Day
when the heart speaks there is
no period it goes on loving without any room for
questioning it is like a dance where a punctuation is out of place always
arabesque
a twist
that art of tossing a spirit and falling down after
that moment when you talk to yourself because you need to unload a burden
like unleashing a dog captive to its house and master like a rain falling heavily on your roof without any colon like a surge of grief without a comma
like bliss that needs no
interjection like a cadena de amor with a dash
or something
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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East Coast Anthem
Walkin on the streets of D.C.
on the east coast where i live
they say "whats the problem
whats with this crazy kid"
you dont like the way i walk
or the way i talk
or the way i swing my hands
you dont like the words i speak or the thought i think
and i know you'll never understand
but you know...
on the east coast we ride until we die
you know
cuz theres a place inside my mind
yeah a place you'll never find
theres a place inside my mind
we'll see today
and theres a place inside my mind
yeah a place you'll never find
theres a place inside my mind
where we'll meet today
you know...
and wouldnt it be perfect
if i could stay with you and we could
change a thing or two
we'd change a thing or two
we would change the way you think
we would change the way i think
we would change the way they think
but we're not changin anything
you know...
on the east coast we ride until we die
you know
theres a place inside my mind
yeah a place you'll never find
theres a place inside
you'll see today
theres a place inside my mind
yeah a place you'll never find
theres a place inside my mind
you'll meet today
you know...
song performed by by Good Charlotte from Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Full stops and commas
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the middle of a rain storm or a lovely cup of tea.
Some are marked as commas, some as asterisks
I bet you've had some commas, take stock and think a bit.
A colon is a long pause for something that I treasure
such as a special friend, although it's hard to measure.
Apostrophe's a hiccup for something that I've missed
and if it's you I'm sorry, for sometimes I'm remiss.
Full stops are very sad for that's when someone dies
and though we know it happens, it startles hearts and minds.
That's when my heart stops beating for just a tick or tock,
I stumble and I falter, a colon stops the clock.
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the pausing of the traffic or the falling of a leaf.
Without some punctuation life's meaning would be less,
you may give this some thought, (in brackets would be best)
poem by Ruth Walters
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Poetry in Me.........
Oh poetry my friend inside, dormant thoughts lie,
Anger writes the feelings in the speed of thought,
I swing the axe to split the block of inspiration
Mind Pictures in my words sleeping under dreams.
Happiness and sadness hold hands in the whirlpool of words
Metaphor movies flicker in my brain,
Venting feelings to flow from my pen,
Celestial images punctuated live as
Syllables jostle for rhythm’s flow.
Oh poetry my friend inside, dormant thoughts lie,
I find comfort deep within as we write together
With your silent guide my friend,
In the cutting room snakes strangle the ‘odd’ word
Oh poetry my friend inside, dormant thoughts lie,
I find comfort deep within as we write together
With your silent guide my friend,
In the cutting room snakes strangle the ‘odd’ word
Then wonders mark unfolds, originality leaps forth.
My eyes close feeling tired the hour is late
On this session I must close the gate,
Oh poetry my friend inside, dormant thoughts sleep,
A silent friend to keep.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Only Words
Written by brian vander ark
Through evidence of circumstance
You held me to a second chance
Feigning interest so sincere
Curse the days Ive wasted here
All the words that you waste debating
Every word so intimidating
I can let a lot of things that you say go
I could never let another day go
All the words that evaporated
Every word so intimidating
Ill never make mention of it if you say so
But I could never let another day go by
Definitions you have missed
Punctuated by your fist
Feigning interest out of fear
I curse the days Ive wasted here
All the words that you waste debating
Every word so intimidating
I can let a lot of things that you say go
I could never let another day go
All the words that evaporated
Every word so intimidating
Ill never make mention of it if you say so
But I could never let another day go by
Surprise yourself with every word
Its so absurd
All the words...
All the words that you punctuated
Every word so intimidating
I can let a lot of things that you say go
I could never let another day go
All the years that evaporated
All the tears that I tolerated
Ill never make mention of it if you say so
But I could never let another day go by
song performed by by Verve Pipe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unicorn 4
What is known, is known – known gently,
meekly, mildly, sweetly; that’s the experience
that men bring back who’ve seen that creature plain.
But since the unicorn grazes in all our minds and hearts,
each has his image. Poets love to write of that creature
as they picture it; but what of those who met it plain
in forest glade, upon the hills, or white amidst the waves?
It’s said that, then, some poets put away their pens forever or awhile,
despairing that their word-hoard holds no words
that can describe those things invisible which
that creature brings to the mind, when met;
some can no longer give it even a name
as if that very word can seem to falsify.
They’re asked, was it, just, beautiful? – and hesitate,
because what yesterday, was ‘beautiful’ is a different word
today; that creature shows them that a word
means what it does; today, ‘beauty’ has done more in them;
it speaks a unity which is not static – can do all things
as Helen’s beauty, so we’re told, could make a war from peace;
so beauty can make peace from war – as poets prove.
And so, those who’ve seen it plain but wish
to say no word that might be less than truth
find that its subtle magic guides their pen
so that they may write with that same ease
with which that creature lives,
write of any, and of all things.
And all who’ve seen it – who’ve seen it move
within the utter stillness of itself
as never before have they seen a creature move
and hold that in themselves, wish, wordless, to return
to be again in that creature’s still shared self-presence;
the wisest of them finally to find
that it may graze forever in the poet’s mind.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writer's gift
The flow of ink in the writer’s pen
The flow of thoughts in the writer’s mind
A golden thread joining the sweet words
An enduring garland fresh with thoughts
A precious gem, worthier than gold
An epic in itself, the writer’s gift
No word is spoken, yet the tale is told
His mind speaks, his heart speaks
He blows life in each of his creation
The verses breath, the verses speak
The writer dies, yet the verses live
poem by Kavitha Krishnamurthy
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We Will Meet Again
Was it the words she said or was it all in the way in which the lady said them?
Her eyes that spoke to me were sending my heart a thought so deep I cant forget them
I guess it wasnt the right time or the place
For love right then
But we met destiny, and it sealed our fate
Chorus:
Well me again (we will meet again)
I know we will (we will meet again)
On my heart its written (we will meet again)
Somewhere, someplace, somehow Ill find her then as I did now... just for a moment
And I will hear the wind that told me
I will return again my love have patience
Lifes a circle, it all comes back around, so until then...
Ill be waiting for you knowing somehow?
Repeat chorus
And if she were standing in a crowd
Shed be the one that I would find among the faces
And if the music was too loud
Itd be her voice that I would hear
Above it all (we will meet again)
I know we will (we will meet again)
I know we will (we will meet again)
And if she were standing in a crowd
Shed be the one that I would find among the faces
And if the music was too loud
Itd be her voice that I would hear
Above it all (we will meet again)
I know we will (we will meet again)
On my heart its written (we will meet again)
From this day till... (we will meet again)
Well me again (we will meet again)
Well me again (we will meet again)
song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Awful Thing To Waste
So maybe you could do with a break
You've had about all you can take
You need to find somewhere you can run to
Somewhere a long way from here
Somewhere where the skies are all clear
Somewhere you can think all your thoughts through
It took a long time to make me understand
You gotta meet life and shake it by the hand
You gotta use your emotion
You talk a nice line to put your mind at ease
You want to sit back and count your memories
But that's no solution
I don't want to harp about it
But what you gonna do about it?
Look at how you're set in your ways
You used to be so willing to face
Any find of problem before you
Life is not as long as you think
Open up your mind and you'll see
Don't destroy yourself I implore you
You've got a fine wife, a perfect family
You had it all planned to live so carefully
But where does it get you
They say the mind is an awful thing to waste
And that's a fact that you must come to face
What more can I tell you?
song performed by by Supertramp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Well Crafted Word
Why am I so philosophical, a philosopher a long time ago once wrote.
The song writer, script writer, poet and novelist like to use a great quote.
Some poems are written with a catchy rhyme and a theme.
A well crafted word can help and be a great writers dream.
Everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the sword.
A well crafted word can give the reader great reward.
'A metaphor is just like a simile'; An unknown author once quoted.
It's true about all writers I know, they all hate their words being misquoted.
To writers one and all, a well crafted word is always a must to write down.
Just remember this about all writers, they can make great use of a pronoun.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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The Mind's Polarities
It’s said – and so it seems to be –
that when the individual mind
emerges from that place where mind
rests, perfect, and in unity with all things to be known –
in that place, which is; within us, and without us:
that in that moment, as the mind expands,
and as its sphere within expands to match that sphere without,
polarities arise; such axis as may join them
to lie hidden and forgot; instead we see
all as remotenesses, that grow ever more the farther;
and then – the aweful nature of the human lie –
name them ‘opposites’… and in that step,
a further one, ‘duality’…
and so, condemn ourselves to fruitless life
where, across the vast mind’s sphere,
sadness – let’s say – sees, far off, that pure happiness -
too far, too far, to be within its reach…
and happiness, seeing far off, sadness, seeks in pleasure
to keep its distance…and so, the balance swings,
the world wags, and the mind knows only restlessness…
and knows, desire… how we forget,
we could not know desire, but that we knew
what desire desires; what’s missing in our world;
sadness, knowing the happiness; what would sadness be
without its knowing, in full, its happiness? ..
if we but saw desire as grace; looked at it with clear eye;
we might see, lurking there within,
beyond the warnings of its waywardness,
that holy thing that yearns alway for onefulness…
and as we have departed,
then by grace, so we return;
find by that third perfect point;
that eye that sees, from its eternal home,
duality to resolve in unity..
and all absolved, we’re absolute..
*
this, by mine own hand… writ
in a deep yearning sadness;
sadness that would fain convince itself
that happiness, this morning, is too distant; so, then,
to abide in sorrowed sadness…
and yet, there are strange joys,
where sadness meets all other things, in duty and in law;
speaks of all things in some strange disguise;
finds its heart, where heart it never sought;
and so, if words may do
what words should do, I name this poem’s end
its true beginning: name it now,
dedicating it, to truth and joy, and to myself:
A Poem in Praise of Happiness.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Place Between
Where and how to find immortal soul;
or self; eternal witness; eye of God;
or place, or space, within the eager heart
where All, or One, may hide – or may await?
So where to find first clue; or some frayed end
of golden thread that leads to golden light?
Not in the wrinkled brow… but in the simplest things
the greatest secrets wait, as we are told;
in the magic land that’s called Between:
Between the end of one thought, and the next,
as it is formed within the mind – the briefest space
where nothing but the witness of our self
rests, perfect, pure, complete, within itself;
inviting us to join that rest for just as long
as we enjoy this satisfaction
of the presence of ourself;
And if that taste of presence pleases -
then, between each word we hear or speak,
we’ll find the silence of ourself; and find
how each word comes from silence, and returns;
and as we relish and besport in that great space,
from greater silence, greater words may come..
There is no limit to that world, Between:
we’ll find it more and more, within all things,
beyond all things; it is the music of our life
which sings its song through thought and speech and act;
a music in a boundless space, so vast
that we may meet our greater self – at last!
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Nada Mas (only the poem)
Reader, your voice is the poem
you are the words; and
nothing more.
Reader, there is no poetry
unless you speak it.
Reader, there is no sound
you must find what it has to say.
Reader, seek the thought
rising from your soul.
Reader, look all about you, up and down
no one else has come this way.
Reader, there is no other poem
only you among the words of the word; and
nothing more.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Writer's Ink
I am the writer's ink,
So just write with me without any fear;
I will move more than expected,
I will write more than expected,
I am the writer's ink.
Use me slowly or even faster,
I will talk more than expected;
I do have the message to teach everyone.
Of the beauty of communication,
I am used by everyone;
I am the writer's ink,
I do make people sad or glad;
My ink makes rulers sad,
My ink makes personalities sad,
My ink makes the common man sad,
The way i am used matters.
I am the writer's ink,
I am not expensive;
Buy me and use me always.
How can a country like Ghana be poor? !
Ghana has gold, oil, cocoa and timber;
There are also diamond, bauxite and other minerals;
How then can Ghana be poor? !
The writer's ink should tell us more.
Mismanagement is the food in the country,
Ghana has really more than it needs;
This country shouldn't be poor.
What the leaders say on air is not,
What we see on the ground;
I am the talkative ready to talk.
I am the writer's ink,
I will always speak the truth!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Silent About That Night
In later years,
seated around a huge fire,
crackling and spitting on a snowy night,
the best beer in Europe frothing from the jug,
they'd ask him, jocular like but curious with it,
how it felt to be remembered
just once a year, all over the known world
for that one night long ago?
' 'tis strange really: he were a right sod to work for afore that -
never a word to me, as if I didn't be there;
but that night, it were strange -
it were the moment he stood there looking out of the window:
there were summat in the room -
wish I were a writer, like,
to say what it were...
we've never spoken about it, mind,
but we both know it's there unspoken, like..
we haven't had a bad word between us ever since...
that's what I'd like to write about,
that's the moment...'
silence for a time, as they looked into the hissing fire,
those woodcutters and their mates;
then put their coats on, trudged out
into the snow 'where the saint...'
well you know the rest...
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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