One day
Which opens thus
In a cliché of every day
Originating in a badly done homework
The writing of a day starts with sharpened pencils
In an attempt of an account stylistically tasteless
For a day could not break on through
To the parks and Sunday picnics
It frowned at the text with colourless faces
‘neath whose skin the whole drama of a day
Strikes open eyes with total indifference
To the stressful automobile rides
Through the city bridges
Hanged shortly before the elections
Under the text of pontoon despair
Over the river of unwritten anxiety
To the games in concrete stories
Tag hopscotch hide and seek
At the bottom of squatted childhoods
One day you will write
And nothing will say
Nothing will be able to utter
The closing of a day
Without a title or a ‘done on’ date
Nothing but a red ink
To correct your spelling mistakes
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Related quotes
Badges People Pages
oh we were so
set about the words
chagrine skin margins
footnotes of the neath heart
struck bottom corner left right
notes in pencils sharp
left overs of the right owners
who honestly told their stories
and never peeped from behind the titles
but
chapters the beginnings the ends
all burdened by a mind
thinking in badges people pages
oh so so set about the words
unanimated in the smoke bonfire
badges people pages
burned
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Me Too
Me too
through the broken nails
can scratch unwritten walls
Me too
when everything fails
seek another shrine a place to escape
Me too
dawn caressed and kissed
break out in numerous coloures and shapes
Me too
can always list
the hues hidden 'neath an empty gape
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Dastardly Task
One long, dry legal text, I'm trying
my best, one long dry legal text, but
nevertheless, however I try, I cannot
finish it, my head's starting to crack
I suffer for lack of oxygen, my skin is
shrivelling and nothing seems thrilling
in this long dark night of a legal text, I
cannot utter a word to reveal my plight
Or fight against my inner being, mute,
immobile, without typing because when
I try, time seems to dry up in front of my
face, psychosomatic fatigue indicates
I need people to talk to, the doll faces
keeping me company can't lift the veil of
darkness and the terrible legal text goes
on and on, I have been abandoned
By the forces of life, bitterness filling my
heart - though as soon as a joyful thing
happens again bitterness will be erased,
my soul shall soar as it always does
When wonderful ideas take my thoughts
into the higher realms of joy and delight,
but for now, let me be mute and tackle
the dastardly task of my terrible text
Shedding little parts of my heart as I carry
the yoke eating into my mind, destroying
my joy and my life
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A light born torch
In a single heart
My pen eating blue
A paper paling white
The means of all the skin
In the hear dying its ends
And eyes closing down
Make not a single sound
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Today I sing/ Danas pjevam
Today I sing unrest of a pontoon bridge
Beyond the water looking for a step and kiss
The hint of transfer a raft right across the sky
A ducat's ‘neath the tongue for midnight abyss
At the river bottom dug without my name
Today I sing a stone oh so deep it fell
I spread wings to the door silently like a crane
From my bottom flight a toll is in the bell
I'll be in your heart an echo strong and endless
On the bridge your daughter made of sparkling dress
Danas pjevam nemir pontonskoga mosta
Nad vodom što traži svoj poljubac gaz
I slutnjom prelaska splavom preko neba
S dukatom pod jezikom za ponocni jaz
Na dnu rijeke kopane bez imena mog
Danas pjevam kamen što duboko tone
Širim krila vratima tiho kao ždral
Sa dna moga leta sva me zvona zvone
Bicu ti u srcu odjek jak bez kraja
Na sredini mosta tvoja kcer od sjaja
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Hail Macbeth
Hail Macbeth I’m in your field
To deliver the messages of the witches set free
The Lady is strong she will not yield
Unless she is placed in a ‘not to be’
Hail Macbeth the golden eyes are shifting
Remember the earth belongs to me
Hail Macbeth the bullets are sifting
The blue that unlike you can clearly see
Hail Macbeth get out of your text
Before it’s too late for you may be the next
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Among the ropes of lie
A silent actor standing
Naked between the acts
Dragged out of a pack of cards
To deliver the paper speech
To raise his glass and toast
To nothing behind the curtain's outreach
And a playwright anonymous
With the hand on his forehead
Wondering about the rules of writing
The part of the text secretly overheard
But never whispered to the main and side roles
And a beautiful child playing by his side
Completely lost in translation
His future killed by error corrections
I wonder how long an acrobat world can sway
Among the ropes of its own lie
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Whose footsteps/ Č iji koraci
Half starringly in the Moon halved die out
Like slaves between
A bitten silver coin and broken teeth
Spelling a silent whisper
b-r-e-a-d master
the games are over all of them
Č iji koraci
Poluzvjezdano okrunjenim Mjesecom odumiru
Ko roblje što izmeđ u
Izjedenog srebrnjaka i polomljenih zuba
Tiho šapatom srič e
H-lj-e-b-a gospodaru
Igre su gotove sve
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Text
I text you
The words i mime
There is really no reason or rhyme
To persist after all this time
But can't resist as my love still stands
Clings to hope with two bleeding hands
And when i ask 'am i still in your heart'
You depress with your silence
And depart.
I text her
And sometimes for days
She leaves me in deepest malaise
Then answers when my last nerve end frays.
And the light that i saw in her eye
Gently flickers and threatens to die
As my memory, tired and vexed
Sees me through
'Til she sends the next text.
I text you
Think maybe you care
That some day or year we will share
our one love extraordinaire
But time eats away at our life
Cutting with razor sharp knife
And our old dream of husband and wife
Faces the gallows next
Yet absurdly i send you a text.
poem by Kevin East
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Rites of whales
Void worlds wrung are weeping
Their wheels have whimpered away
Wound around a wristwatch in a skyless watcher’s eyes
Weaved in webs of woes
Closed by sorrow killed
Sealing stolen seals
Ill fire flames smitten by the breath
Writing rites of whales
Splash beauty unwritten
Passages of time turn urns into hours
No pallid pills for piligrims paving their own paths
Swimming soulful oceans that soar up to the sky
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The lute is still in hands it’ll break
Unless the world opens up for me
The lute is still my breath it’ll take
In blasts of wind Eol’s heart will be
Unless the paths are walked in a seal
Unless the seals are open in a quest
Unless the pain is open for a heal
Unless the heart finds a place to rest
The lute is still in hands it’ll break
Unless the world opens up for me
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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X-ray inferno
They called me to be an extra
They did not know I had a camera in my soul
For some all the worlds a stage
For some all the stage is the world
Wonder if the great one knew this
When he shook his spears
I was in between
Neither the real actor nor the real lifer
Perhaps this was each interpretation gave up
The stage I was standing on
I could not grasp the text even though I got it in time
Perhaps it was quite enough for a stage
Certainly not for a life
Act 1 and its main character
He had a face unto which
An invisible hand of law left the visible scars
A quite sufficient number of them for a drama
He had those eyes hesitating between comedy and tragedy
There was laughter in one eye and tears in another
He laughed the way the dramaturge ordered him to do
But he cried quite independently
He had those arms destroyed by uncreation
He never knew the text as he had no camera in his soul
Great words of great minds so frequently he stammered
Little did he understand even less did he rehearse
He was a great actor but on this stage
Under the spotlight all he did was stand frozen
Act 2 The Prompter
He was in collusion with the sky
The Hermes of a contemporary theatre
He flattered all the laws of life
He knew exactly how low to go down into his box
So as to avoid the knocks from the stage
He knew exactly what and when
To whisper the texts into whose ears
He had known the text by heart
Even before it was written
Great words of great minds he recited out of his underground darkness
And he always knew the right moment
Because he knew everything about time
He never acted but he was a real lifer
He made more than art out of whispering
And put enormous effort into his role
Up to the point of having vocal cords damaged
Act 3 Dramaturge
His life role was creating illusion dramat urgent
He lived by apparitions and apparently lived
He was a little god of his own creations
He walked the planks his spirit split
He borrowed life to text without a single doubt
In any single moment
That stage is just an attempt of life
However
He knew how to make other not to doubt that
And that was all his power
With the sword of an illusion he cut the greatest actors
Even the greatest lifers feared him
He never doubted that he was just a slave of an endless creating
Whose purpose cannot be seen due to doubt
Peripeteia
A drunken night officer set fire to this theatre
Burning down deus ex machina as well
AD 2000 copywRITE of DESERT FeARTtre S&M HEARTiculated by M.O.
©Miroslava Odalović
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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An operating theatre
is the place where no one declaims
'to be or not to be'
there are no actors no text
just instruments
life saving ones
death dwelling ones
and the surgeons caring the masks
I will never understand the term(s)
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The day and night are moving
through the cityscape billboards and landmarks
the benches in the park stand frozen alone
nothing sits them the way they sit despair
dead crumbs lying by the cigarette butts
city posts lights and a couple of open windows
like traffic signs of things directing too slow
each foot seems to be moving into
'where do we go? '
'uncontrolled movement into several directions'
flat screen tv will call it a 'situation'
I guess that's where we are placed
into a difficult, conflicting, conflicted 'sitting'
Copyright circled C Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Never preach a sermon without a text from the Bible, a text containing the theme which you can elaborate. The text is the best proof in support of your argument. A sermon without a text is an argument without a proof.
quote by Isaac Mayer Wise
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exe
there were pictures on the faces
pictures words clear on faces vague
they let them let hang like birds wet
pinned on the wire to dry they hanged them
each edge bridge thought
the water was a suicidal thing
but it was the what they hanged
already dead drip dropp dripping
crossing cursed scar scanned x rayed
through evil hands of time
into a sound beautiful caress
hugged and kissed comforted alive
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I Wrote A Poem Across The Universe
I wrote a poem across the Universe
It was read among the stars-
Cosmic messages were sent endlessly reinterpreting it-
It appeared in Galactic anthologies
And whole Civilizations taught it in their schools-
Worlds were born with it and worlds lamented their dying with it-
It became the Text of the Text of the Text of the Text of the Text
Of cosmic intergalactic meaningfulness-
I wrote a poem across the Universe-
It was read for billions of years
And then somehow
No attention was paid to it anymore-
And it vanished for as long as forever can be understood to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Perfect Poem
Fledgling poets often make a wide variety of mistakes,
And it’s nice to have these brought to your attention.
People enjoy writing poetry, as at the end of the day,
They end up, with a product of their own invention.
If you’re writing a poem to enter into a competition,
Don’t be tempted to use coloured ink or fancy fonts;
Along with the use of images, they detract from the poem,
And this is not what any reader, especially a judge, wants.
The title of your masterpiece is very important indeed;
It needs to really grab the reader’s eye and attention.
People don’t always realise how important a catchy title is,
But, it is a valid point which really is worth a mention.
The body of text, needs to be broken into bite size verses,
So as it’s attractive to the reader’s roving and selective eye.
If a poem looks forbidding, and uninviting on the printed page,
Many a reader is likely to just gloss over it, and pass it on by.
The wording of a poem should sound as natural as can be:
Phrases shouldn’t be inverted in order to satisfy a rhyme.
The use of inversion is not considered to be skilful writing,
But, it is used by many writers of poetry, time after time.
The lines of a poem, especially those ones which rhyme,
Give or take a syllable, should be roughly of equal length.
If a poem has a really good strong, rhythmic pulse to it,
It really does give it so much more balance and strength.
Readers are much less likely to choose to read a poem,
If it is really confusing, or if it is just weirdly obscure.
Too many ideas and themes packed into one piece alone,
Is another problem which readers hate to have to endure.
You shouldn’t tell the reader too much or too little –
It needs to be just the right amount of information.
They need the chance to find their own way into a poem,
Leaving room for their own imagination, and interpretation.
Certain subjects are covered time and time again,
And so there’s not really anything very new to say;
If you do choose to write about a popular subject,
You need to present it in a totally fresh and new way.
If you follow the above useful advice and guidelines,
Your chances of winning a competition should increase.
Correct any spelling and grammatical errors you may have,
Then, you should end up with pretty much the perfect piece.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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All Those Things Solely Defined
Concave convex prisms slips of mind
Easily forgotten shadowed slowly creeping
Sometimes in a tear sometimes in a smile
Prerequisite vague visage coloured
Sprinkling window panes
Of eyes both closed and open
Things navelled in the centre of the womb
Boiling in passion rendered into a word
The call themselves unwritten poems
Writing a lightening upon a palm
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Judgement Of A Word
Global internet on line
American spelling machine?
When searching online
will flag British judgement
as spelling incorrect
will insist on US judgment
yet is this judgement correct?
Both judgment and judgement
occur with equal frequency set?
One spelling English one American
what a bother when both are correct?
Will you your online dictionary update?
Your own personal ‘judgment call' abridgment?
This choice spelling inconsistencies will assist?
Still wondering why the two spellings resist?
To this question trade English American
politics dark flavours a colonial twist?
War of 1812 sabres parent British patron.
Oxford English Dictionary preferred
judgement a war of words is absurd.
1812 fosters nationalism independent.
Judgement remained form sanctioned
in the Bible in new Revised Version.
Older English spelling recommended.
Shakespeare plays judgment US spelt.
Judgement rules British English text.
Rule is spell consistently either is best.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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