Days Glide
Days glided away from the seats of pleasure,
The quick spirit was mastered by the face;
Havoc of months and years persuaded me
To see the arrangements, and the several libraries
Of thoughts and endeavours.
I guessed of resemblances and letters,
Numbers pursued the words and words succumbed,
Each moment passed its time,
Months were old periods and designed to elate
The believers who repented for illnesses.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Forever
it's been days and months
it'll be years...forever
no one leaves unless they're left
the abandoned don't like
emptiness they stay with
filled with days and months
days and months and years
forever
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 12 Two Sides to Every Story
I dared to say those magic words ('I love you')
As people passed by in herds
you looked a little bit confused in our silence contest
But this is where the poem changes.. takes an unexpected turn
I guessed what you would say and that i would burn
But you didn't...? you smiled and you drew closer...
closer... thats how you glided forward and whispered to me 4 words
unlike my 3 words the ones that were spoken were like birds
I couldn't believe how happy i was...
I put my arms around you because
because those 4 words.... were 'I love you too'
are just what i needed to hear...
I silently knew my own thoughts for once! !
who knew the open book could read i knew that 'I loved you'
poem by David Knox
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Pollination
Pollination**
No days have passed I didn’t find
A woman I desired.
No months have passed I didn’t find
A woman I pursued.
No years have passed I didn’t find
A woman I flirted with.
No decades have passed I didn’t find
A woman who deserted.
The failure of fertilization
Is not the blame of pollination.
15.07.2007
No days have passed I didn’t find
A woman I desired.
No months have passed I didn’t find
A woman I pursued.
No years have passed I didn’t find
A woman I flirted with.
No decades have passed I didn’t find
A woman who deserted.
The failure of fertilization
Is not the blame of pollination.
15.07.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Forever—it composed of Nows
624
Forever—it composed of Nows—
'Tis not a different time—
Except for Infiniteness—
And Latitude of Home—
From this—experienced Here—
Remove the Dates—to These—
Let Months dissolve in further Months—
And Years—exhale in Years—
Without Debate—or Pause—
Or Celebrated Days—
No different Our Years would be
From Anno Domini's—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Each film is different. Time Code was very quick - a matter of months. Miss Julie has been on my shelf as a script for some seven or eight years. But then the shooting process was very quick - 16 days.
quote by Mike Figgis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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11/11/11
I wish the numbers could break even
there would much more to put
to the days months and years
perhaps today I buried the axes
fighting with time
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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June And July
June and July are right in the middle
Of a time that is a period to learn.
The months of our summer in this land
I call England,
Are like these months.
The other months work for these ones,
And those ones that are not these two months
Still believe in the sun and moon and planets.
They trust the stars, walk in the mind
And state our successes, in all our graveness.
The grave has no month, but lives in years
To manage the time in heaven.
For some June is like July,
But I think what they look is what they are.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Day My Heart Died
In matters of love
Time moves swiftly
Days turn into months
Months into years
Years into a lifetime
Alas, love dies unfulfilled
That day has arrived
Uninvited
Unwelcome
Unannounced
Today my heart died
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Libraries are undoubtedly the most interesting buildings ever designed: temples of knowledge built on billions of words, guaranteed to last for centuries.
Camelia Oprița in book The wall of thoughts (2020)
Submitted by Alexander
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Writing Frustrations I've Known
-It would seem, I've run out of words.
Nothing left to say.
I have lost my inner voice.
It's gone, completely astray.
Perhaps I should lay down pen and pad.
Never more write a rhyme.
On this poetry that I love
I shall spend no further time.
... not that I was ever truly a poet anyway
... it's just that, well, I did love it so;
... still, it feels the well is dry
... time to just let it go.
- So now, what of me shall be
Feeling empty in heart and head?
What purpose-without a word-shall be heard
With no way to express both hope and dread?
Where have the words gone
Must they ever stay away?
Who has taken my spirit's song
Why has the music of my soul nothing more to say?
... I try... seems of no use...
My mind torn asunder, literary abuse.
(this next part wrote a couple months later)
Listen, what do I hear?
Something is knocking at my gate!
A few months later now
But, not altogether too late.
A lonesome thought comes strolling in
From whence I cannot declare,
Just that it has arrived
With this simple message to share:
' What's a dime
To a lover of verse and rhyme,
And what's to fear
Of criticism drawing near?
For to write only for income
Would soon turn quite burdensome,
As surely as to not write for fear of ridicule
Would be to deny the voice within you.
The words may never turn a single head
But, don't dare believe they'll ever be dead!
God gives meaning to what he wants
Whether anyone else listens or not.
The way it is all spoke
By darling bards, or simple country folk,
Is well worth hearing
And so oft more than a bit endearing.
Don't worry about the rhyme
The perfect place or time,
Just give your soul in words as best you can
And those who should, will understand.
Those who don't
Just won't,
And that's o.k.
God speaks to them in other ways.
Trust his Spirit in all you do
Yes, this includes writing too,
Remember he promised he'd never leave you alone
Even in the simple words of your poems. '
-Pondering it over
I suppose this I've known all along,
Though thoughts may wander
True words are never gone.
Well, ya know what:
I believe I just might pick up paper and pen,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Give it a go, once again!
poem by Smoky Hoss
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At A Loss For Words
Some time had passed since a verse had come to mind
a mental blockage I have had, nothing seemed to rhyme.
No words of creation the supply had gone
no thoughts, or imagination, nothing, not a one.
The source had stopped for some strange reason,
as though there was a break in the poetry season.
I tried and I tried, but nothing would come together,
not even with a change in the weather.
In the early hours I woke up and had to pick up a pen,
for some strange reason I began writing again.
It is quite odd and I’ll never get to know
why periods of poetry come and go.
But I’m thankful when words and lines come to me
it is as though they are sent telepathically.
It doesn’t matter if the poem is incorrect or good
or if it’s taken as silly, or is misunderstood.
As long as it relays that moment’s thought
an instinctive message that cannot be taught.
To me it doesn’t matter if its only two lines long,
or whether it has many verses, or even sounds wrong.
When thoughts of words or sentences come to mind
I have to write them down no matter the place or time.
If I don’t record the thought on paper right away
they become lost forever in the space of night and day.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Have I said enough?
Nothing more to reflect and nothing more to say,
Enough and no more; did I cover it all completely?
Days may roll over into months, and months into years,
Impervious yet, never the need to say anything more on this...
Alas! Everything doesn’t happen at once; else, what could Time mean to any one,
An instalment in reality is what we get through in each instance of Time and no more,
As of today, what I know is what I assume; and that undoubtedly will mature some more tomorrow,
Today, I had hoped to have said enough to seal my lips forever; but will my retirement stick through?
poem by Ram Josyula
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5 6 7 8 9 10
5 letters, pride
6 syllables, i will be missing you
7 cigarette sticks
8 days of summer together
9 months again of waiting
10 years of discerning
whether i deserve you or not.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Funeral Of An Animal
The funeral made me sink into an animal,
The room felt comfortable, more so than one’s mind.
I stare at the camera working my sleep
And sight became pleasure in the snivelling months.
You add a holy symbol to the deathly months and years,
A stuffed dog or cat betrays me further than this.
Alone and magnified by the sun of hard work,
Fibres in the organs of right stoop into oblivion.
After this cooking pleasure, the wine-cups are filled
To make the flames too wide for the animals.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Lie
For William Verdun Harris
My late brother.
It started years before I was born,
but the lie came into being after.
I knew nothing of it, why should I?
You never question your parents,
what they tell you, you believe.
Therefore, the lie grew and grew
as years folded into one another.
The lie became accepted as the truth.
Its hurt would not be felt
before four score and more had passed.
A Christmas card with a note from an Aunt.
Your half brother Bill would love to hear from you.
Half brother? I have no half brother.
He is your adopted brother
and my adopted uncle, so I was told.
No, he is your half brother.
I investigated what was said.
Soon the truth of the lie was revealed.
The lie had split two brothers,
to the other sides of the world.
Through urgent phone calls, I found him.
I had to see him, too many years had passed.
Who knows how long we had?
Travel plans were made,
the journey was now set.
After forty-two years, we came face to face.
Hug, tears and a family get together.
Those lost faces from the other side of the world.
We talked and talked into the night,
so much to learn and so little time.
Two weeks went quick and we parted again.
The telephone a communication line,
but how do you make up so many years,
with such little time?
The answer is you don’t.
The next year we extended our visit,
but still it wasn’t long enough.
We would never get another year,
within months my brother was gone,
and for months, I missed his calls.
But the lie was never retracted,
and my sister never got to know,
the other brother that she had.
She still believes the lie,
and won’t accept the truth.
She does not talk to me,
not out of anything either of us has done.
The long distant lie is at fault,
the guilt no one could admit to,
because they felt it would bring great shame.
Now a family lies in tatters,
a sad story all that remains,
about a lie, which almost the truth became.
What will the future bring, that’s something we can never tell.
I for one, hold no one with any ill will.
poem by David Harris
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My time has been passed viciously and agreeably at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that 'Carpe Diem' is not enough. I have been obliged to crop even the seconds-for who can trust to tomorrow
Lyric Simplicity (Revised)
When I write a poem it comes from the heart
It is the place for a really good start
What I have written is impetuous in its purpose
Trying to make sense and not be a bore
Fancy words are not at my core
Days and months go by and to my great frustration
My mind goes blank without information
But then it happens and the words just flow
The spirit soars and my heart is aglow
I am no Pablo Neruda, Rilke, nor Goethe or Keats
I have to go on writing spreading my own seeds.
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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The Dignity Of Words
i agree as you say
that words must still keep that dignity
they used to have
before we meet
after all we started with a few words
took some more
and savored its flavors
the scents of its letters
the tastes of its
sweet vowels
when we kissed if you remember
we swallowed words
when we made love we let go
some consonants
to our satisfaction
the thrill seemingly without end
now while dining we are four seats apart
you seat at the front
i at the rear of this distance
between us
the words are not reborn
only this silence
constricting like a boa
swallowing
the crowd of thoughts in concrete
on walls of words
our heads finally collide
i could have opted for
the mute and deaf
the dumb who loves me for whatever i am
regret is not my choice
it is here and not leaving
it is eating me
like i am a delicious delicacy
i am sorry, i keep my mouth shut.
what will i say? i am back to the silent world
of my solitude
long time ago, this was paradise of clauses
now, you say it, this is a complete sentence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For Elizabeth
"Beautiful" she said;
And none can her gainsay.
The poetess who spoke,
then, in quiet, passed away.
Cossetted within her husband's arms,
frail and small in death's repose,
Never again would she put pen to paper.
No more sonnets would her art compose.
Her illnesses had dogged her all her life.
Only morphine kept the pain at bay.
It also gave to her a heightened sense
of the beauty of mundane reality.
How vividly did her expressive eyes
Put words to thoughts and thoughts to
printed page.
She was the wild enthusiast of life,
whose poetry was the spirit of the age.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Poem that Played with Me!
We played and played
Hours days months years
You went your way
And I went my way
Then began a game
Of hide and seek
Tired I pushed the door
There you're hiding...
Tired I dropped to the floor
There you're under the cot
Did you go your way?
Did I go my way?
We still play and play
Hours days months years
You didn't really go anywhere
Nor did I go my way!
(26 May 2011)
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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