Books Of Words
A new height has been achieved
By the tall men and tall women,
The people of the book that was raised
From the grounds of the school.
A new mind has occurred from imagining
The books and words and letters,
Shining forth from the page of its master
And writer who wrote the achievement.
We are history and time, we combine to feed
The mouths of our children,
As more of a book is studied by them,
More words are taught to their ears.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Why.............?
The American book of 'why',
The Asian book of 'why',
The European book of 'why',
The African book of 'why',
The Australian book of 'why',
The most asked question in the valley of world events;
Especially when one explodes a bomb!
The Christian book of 'why',
The Muslim book of 'why',
The Jewish book of 'why',
The Hindu book of 'why',
The Krishna book of 'why',
lLife is like the yeast which makes the bread rise;
But, the writer always has his or her own mind.
The Pagan book of 'why',
The Buddhist book of 'why',
The Protestant book of 'why',
The Confucian book of 'why',
To all life's aspects with the remaining books of 'why';
Poetry is the literature that muses with the mind.
Shall the trumpet be blown in the city and,
The people will not be afraid?
Seven bulls and seven rams,
I am the planted tree by the rivers of waters.
I am very young in years but,
The word 'why' is the question that goes around easily.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Closed Book
A book unopened
leaves words to die.
A book unopened
leaves words to lie
in perpetuity,
never alive, never free
to deliver its thoughts
for any to see.
Who was the writer?
What did he pen?
The absence of readers
are lost and then
the book lies quietly
on a shelf
and maybe all by itself it knows.
It will never be opened.
It will always be closed,
just like some people
who won't open up
and speak their words to you.
Their life is something
you'll never know,
something you won't view.
For they are a closed book too.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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I have written a few children's books. The first book that I wrote was for children. It was called ""The Package"", and it was a mystery story in pictures. It had no words.
quote by Laurie Anderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My English Teacher
At the grade three
A new teacher came
Around her table
A queue we were all in
Having exercise books on our hands
To get written our names on it
Twining with aroma of her perfume
Let the mind not go back to the bench
My English teacher
Not like other teachers
Wearing new dresses
Pleasant smile with snazzy
I bought a double rule book
To write proper English letters
Putting the alphabet of base
Following day had a message
No more with us
Principle's words
Teacher came to us
We cried a lot
"Why may teacher you go leaving us'
'Is our school not good'
While worshiping on her feet
Without an answer
Looking at us
Touched our heads
She got a transfer
Because of our remote dry school
Since then on
Until primary end
Without an English teacher
My texts books were new
She doesn't know me for sure
Placed an aroma still in my mind
You wrote that name of mine
I am writing today.
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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Inside The Library
one may accuse
a man reading a pile of books
of hiding away
from the touch of a lover
those fragile hands
not equated with the rough
feel of a page of
a book,
one may negate
his search as something
unnecessary
which should have better
be spent in the fields
of strawberries
and the stretch of green grass
and the tall lines of trees
in that cool green forest
but this man
does not sleep too
finding the words
in fact eating some of the
letters and
god forbids
now drinking some of
the dreary moisture
from the nooks
breathing the emptiness of
the shadows of the
room
till night.
he is on one hand
also a shape of sacrifice
a monument of greatness
a god
of those cockroaches
who by time shall
understand all these
quivers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Sir With Love (feat. Al Green)
The time has come for closing books and long last looks must end
And as I leave I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong and weak from strong
That's a lot to learn,
What, what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon
I would try to make a start
But I, would rather you let me give my heart
To you, with love
Those schoolgirl days of telling tales and biting nails are gone, yeah
But in my mind I know that they live on and on and on and on
But how do you thank someone
Who has taken you from crayons to perfume?
Well it it's not easy, but I'll try
If you wanted the sky
I would write across the sky in letters
That would soar a thousand feet high
To you, with love
Those awkward years have hurried by, why did they fly, fly away?
Why is it Sir, children grow up to be people one day?
What takes the place of climbing trees,
And dirty knees, in the world outside?
What, what is there that I can buy?
If you wanted the world,
I'd surround it with a wall, I'd scrawl
These words with letters ten feet tall
To you, with love
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Sir, With Love
[ original version by lulu ]
Those schoolgirl days of telling tales and biting nails are gone
But in my mind I know they will still live on and on
But how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to
Perfume?
It isnt easy but Ill try
If you wanted the sky I would write across the sky
In letters that would soar a thousand feet high
To sir, with love
Those awkward years have hurried by - why do they fly away?
Why is it, sir, that children grow up to be people one day?
What takes the place of climbing trees and dirty knees in the world
Outside?
What is there for you I can buy?
If you wanted the world Id surround it with a wall
Id scrawl in words with letters ten feet tall
To sir, with love
The time has come for closing books and long last looks must end
And as I leave, I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong and weak from strong
Thats a lot to learn - what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon I would try to make a start
But I would rather you let me give my heart
To sir, with love
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Book
It was late in the autumn of 2210
The shuttle had gone off to Mars,
The highways of Asia were solidly blocked
With a billion Chinese cars,
I'd wandered around the Museum of Trees,
The Fruit Section opened my eyes,
The bitterness taste of electronic apples
So cleverly changed, and disguised.
I seemed to be wandering round on my own,
Museums were on their way out,
The Virtual Channels were simple to screen
And more easy to access, no doubt.
The ancient attendant had followed me round,
He warily started to say:
‘I have something hidden, way out in the back
If you're interested, come out this way! '
He led to a room that was dingy and dark,
Went over and pulled up the blind,
The place was so dirty, with cobwebs and dust,
‘Not used much; I hope you don't mind! '
And there on the table he pointed it out,
A thick slab of something - I looked,
‘You'll not see another of these in your life,
‘What is it? ' I said. ‘It's a book! '
He lifted the thick leather cover for me,
To show what he called was a page,
‘The government banned them in '73,
They said they caused people to rage.
We're not used to words on a scale such as this…'
There were words and more words, like a plague,
They dazzled my vision, I staggered a bit
Like a man who is struck with an ague.
He turned other pages, a hundred of them,
A thousand, I just couldn't count,
And every one teeming with words on each page
So the figures continued to mount.
‘We're used to see just fifteen words in a line,
We twitter and tweet all the time,
How could a person sit down with a book
With all that! - without blowing his mind? '
‘It's called ‘General Knowledge', the old man replied,
‘Not something you hear every day,
And fabulous stories and verses in rhyme,
And the glory of history's sway.
There once was a time, there were millions of these,
Each home had a shelf full of books,
But once our technology grabbed at our minds
We were lost, we were pretty well hooked! '
‘The government knew it was dumbing us down,
You can't fight what you'll never know,
By banning the books and the Libraries
Our minds were beginning to slow.'
I left there quite thoughtful, I needed to write
How misled we had been, and were blind,
I started with paper, a pen and some ink
And believe it! - I wrote it in rhyme!
poem by David Lewis Paget (3 September 2012)
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To Sir, With Love
Lyrics by don black
Music by marc london
The time has come
For closing books, and long last looks must end
And as i leave
I know that i am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong
And weak from strong
That's a lot to learn
What, what can i give you in return?
If you wanted the moon
I would try to make a start
But i, would rather let me give my heart
To you, with love
Those schoolgirl days
Of telling tales and biting nails are gone, yeah
But in my mind
I know that they live on and on and on and on
But how do you thank someone
Who has taken you from crayons to perfume?
Well it's not easy
But i'll try
If you wanted the sky
I would write across the sky in letters
That would soar a thousand feet high
To you, with love
Those awkward years have hurried by
Why did they fly, fly away
Why is it sir children, grow up to be people one day?
What takes the place of climbing tres and dirty knees in the world outside?
What, what is there that i can buy?
If you wanted the world
I'd surround it with a wall i'd scrawl
These words withe letters ten feet tall
To you, with love
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We May Be Little
We may be little, not to tall,
but the love we share is above all.
To be little is just fine,
if I were tall I'd run, and hide.
Short people are here to stay,
so giants get out of our way.
Trampled in life by big people's laughs, because they think we are so small,
they think they are so smart, just because they are tall.
Ha! ! I say to these giants, for short is all right,
and if they don't like us because of our height,
We won't go down without a fight.
(I wrote this back when I was a teenager, and living in Chicago.
poem by Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Book Of Love
Written by lindsey buckingham and richard dashut.
Walked out, goodbye
I swore I never would cry
Tore a page of my heart
She wants me to be her friend
Im lonely again
Tore a page of my heart
Oh, tell me who wrote the book of love
Was it somebody from above
(ha, ha, ha)
Surely he must know all the rules
(ha, ha, ha)
Knowledge not meant for mortal fools
Must have been someone from above
Tell me, who wrote the book of love
In silence the lonely make all their mistakes
Tore a page of my heart
Someone in heaven above
Shop me how to love
Tore a page of my heart
Oh, tell me who wrote the book of love
Was it somebody from above
(ha, ha, ha)
Surely he must know all the rules
(ha, ha, ha)
Knowledge not meant for mortal fools
Must have been someone from above
Tell me, who wrote the book of love
Oh, tell me who wrote the book of love
Was it somebody from above
(ha, ha, ha)
Surely he must know all the rules
(ha, ha, ha)
Knowledge not meant for mortal fools
Must have been someone from above
Tell me, who wrote the book of love
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Listen, Learn, Read On
In ages past when spells were cast
In a time of men in steel
When a man was taught no special thing
It was all done by feel
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Hear the song of lovely joan
Her sound so sweet and clear
In the courtroom of the king
Among children and the peers
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
now hear ye the words of taliesyn,
On the foaming beach of the ocean,
In the day of trouble,
I shall be of more service to thee
Than three hundred salmon...
The hare he bounds across the page
Past castles white and fair
Past dreaming chessmen on their boards
With a fools mate as a snare
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
three times I have been born
I know this from meditation...
The bird he flies the distance
From pages two to six
Past minstrels in their boxes
To the waters of the styx
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Dont take the pictures lightly
Listen to their sound
For from their coloured feeling
Experience is found
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
all the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,
For I know what has been, what is now,
And what hereafter will occur...
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The History Of You And Me
Everytime you think of me.
Write it all down in your diary.
And never forget you were mine.
'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..
On every page that you write.
Move your pen, with those old memories of me.
Holding me in your arms.
'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..
Try not to miss a word.
Don't miss a single word, about those old romantic nights.
The nights you spent with me.
'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..
Yaahh! The history of you and me....
Love Song Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1990,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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The Writer...
IT is not the books
not the words neither is there an
expert way of fishing for
metaphors,
IT is the life lived (and for some
cut so shortly like an unfinished tapestry of
fallen leaves on top of the
flowing skin of the silvery river)
IT is the life that is lived to the fullest extent
no shortcuts, no surrender of the last glimmer of hope,
Till the last day, IT IS our lives that write us
and it that unplanned and
unexpected death
that says the
last words at the last page
of this unpublished
book.
IT IS LIFE
the writer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Romance Of A Book
Reading a book, you're hit by romance,
No matter the subject matter,
You can read and read,
And every book is different,
Some stories are more pleasant than others,
While some are funny, but most are serious,
For the romance of a book,
Is in everyone's heart,
No matter their age or height,
Whether male or female:
It is all relative and I devour,
Each and every book,
I can read the classics,
Or even a heart-warming romance,
I just get through so many books,
I love every storyline,
Not so much the gory parts,
But the cleverness of the fictional detectives,
And those rock stars that roam the stage,
For a book is something that will never age,
No matter how many years on the shelf,
And stories can be shared with everyone else,
Yet everyone has their own views,
And books can be lifting when they're feeling blue,
For people have been reading fiction for centuries,
But, of course, not all books are fictional:
There're the historical books, interesting,
Even if a reader is just passing through,
And we can all learn something from the history books,
And let's not forget the autobiographies:
Many a man and woman fascinating,
Having lead unique lives and having had special loves,
And there is a romance to these people,
For they walked the same earth as everyone else,
Yet brought something strange and special to the world,
Like a scientist making a new discovery,
Or a rock star penning a hit song,
And all these things are which make books belong,
I haven't met anyone yet who finds books boring,
Because books are not boring: they are fascinating,
Unique, special, strange, romantic and enjoyable,
And every reader's dream: like hitting 'play' on a record,
For this is the romance of a book.
poem by Paula Glynn
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The poor and the affluent are not communicating because they do not have the same words. When we talk of the millions who are culturally deprived, we refer not to those who do not have access to good libraries and bookstores, or to museums and centers for the performing arts, but those deprived of the words with which everything else is built, the words that opens doors. Children without words are licked before they start. The legion of the young wordless in urban and rural slums, eight to ten years old, do not know the meaning of hundreds of words which most middle-class people assume to be familiar to much younger children. Most of them have never seen their parents read a book or a magazine, or heard words used in other than rudimentary ways related to physical needs and functions. Thus is cultural fallout caused, the vicious circle of ignorance and poverty reinforced and perpetuated. Children deprived of words become school dropouts; dropouts deprived of hope behave delinquently. Amateur censors blame delinquency on reading immoral books and magazines, when in fact, the inability to read anything is the basic trouble.
quote by Peter S. Jennison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empire State Human
Since I was very young I realised
I never wanted to be human size
So I avoid the crowds and traffic jams
They just remind me of how small I am
Because of this longing in my heart
Im going to start the growing up
Im going to grow now and never stop
Think like a mountain, grow to the top
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
With concentration
My size increased
And now Im fourteen stories high
At least!!
Empire state human
Just a bored kid
Ill go to egypt to be
A pyramid
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Brick by brick
Stone by stone
Growing till hes fully grown
Brick by brick
Stone by stone
Growing till hes fully grown
Fetch more water
Fetch more sand
Biggest person in the land
Fetch more water
Fetch more sand
Biggest person in the land
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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On A Young Poetess’s Grave
UNDER her gentle seeing,
In her delicate little hand,
They placed the Book of Being,
To read and understand.
The Book was mighty and olden,
Yea, worn and eaten with age;
Though the letters look’d great and golden,
She could not read a page.
The letters flutter’d before her,
And all look’d sweetly wild:
Death saw her, and bent o’er her,
As she pouted her lips and smil’d.
And weary a little with tracing
The Book, she look’d aside,
And lightly smiling, and placing
A Flower in its leaves, she died.
She died, but her sweetness fled not,
As fly the things of power,—
For the Book wherein she read not
Is the sweeter for the Flower.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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