Springing With Mistakes
A mistake majestically springs to mind,
Divined by helpers, confined and solved;
My kind line confines me, bromine is around,
A little deadness suffices careering into the life.
Let the mid-wife be in strife, with wildness,
Without a pocket-knife, and let her see the pens.
Writing matches the reading, so does accosting,
And adhering to glue, we strive and acquaint.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Down the road
As I walk down these roads I see people crying,
Trying not show their true feeling toward the person they love,
The more I walk on these roads I understand that people have suffered enough heart aches,
Down this road don’t have a clue where it will take me,
Continue knowing that I have a glue on this hand and my other hand holding a knife,
A glue that might give me a clue,
A knife that might end my life,
Yet I have a decision to make which I want the knife or the glue,
Who am I to judge what I want in life that might end it,
I am out of my mind,
I need to start over but there is no where to began it,
I have suffered enough,
I take it back,
Take back all the pain, heart aches, sorrows, agony,
Take it all back,
You have caused me to see them all,
I don’t need this,
You have feed me lies, hate, and hopes,
I am fed up with you,
Please make this go away,
Down the road I go knowing what will this life take me.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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These Knives
Why walk around with a knife in your pocket?
Are you afraid of yourself? !
Or, do you want to kill somebody around you?
It is a shame that you have a knife in your pocket,
But stop this act of negativity and live and let us live;
Like the satus-quo of Romeo and Juliet.
You claim to go to church but,
There is a knife in your pocket!
Infact, this act will not take you to heaven.
So, do learn for the better than stabbing somebody with these knives.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Written Afterwards
So the days of my tramping are over,
And the days of my riding are done—
I’m about as content as a rover
Will ever be under the sun;
I write, after reading your letter—
My pipe with old memories rife—
And I feel in a mood that had better
Not meet the true eyes of the wife.
You must never admit a suggestion
That old things are good to recall;
You must never consider the question:
‘Was I happier then, after all?’
You must banish the old hope and sorrow
That make the sad pleasures of life,
You must live for To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be just to the wife.
I have changed since the first day I kissed her.
Which is due—Heaven bless her!—to her;
I’m respected and trusted—I’m ‘Mister,’
Addressed by the children as ‘Sir.’
And I feel the respect without feigning—
But you’d laugh the great laugh of your life
If you only saw me entertaining
An old lady friend of the wife.
By-the-way, when you’re writing, remember
That you never went drinking with me,
And forget our last night of December,
Lest our sev’ral accounts disagree.
And, for my sake, old man, you had better
Avoid the old language of strife,
For the technical terms of your letter
May be misunderstood by the wife.
Never hint of the girls appertaining
To the past (when you’re writing again),
For they take such a lot of explaining,
And you know how I hate to explain.
There are some things, we know to our sorrow,
That cut to the heart like a knife,
And your past is To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be true to the wife.
I believe that the creed we were chums in
Was grand, but too abstract and bold,
And the knowledge of life only comes in
When you’re married and fathered and old.
And it’s well. You may travel as few men,
You may stick to a mistress for life;
But the world, as it is, born of woman
Must be seen through the eyes of the wife.
No doubt you are dreaming as I did
And going the careless old pace,
While my future grows dull and decided,
And the world narrows down to the Place.
Let it be. If my ‘treason’s’ resented,
You may do worse, old man, in your life;
Let me dream, too, that I am contented—
For the sake of a true little wife.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Written In The First Leaf Of A Child's Memorandum-Book
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see
They seem for any use to be unfit for me.
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confined.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book.
The finest pens I'll use, and wondrous pains I'll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year's end that show more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have passed aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Shine
(featuring Pink)
Written by Lisa Marie Presley and Linda Perry
Unidentified flying object in space
If I were identified you couldn't make me erase
You never understood me and I'd have to applaud
It's lonely out here alone but I can't be what I'm not
You can be all the writing on the wall
That you want
I'll be the line across it
I'll blow your mind
I'll blow your mind
And all the others can shine
But not like I can shine
You could have set me free
If you'd eased up on the line
It's supposed to be quiet
But it's loud in this sky
I'll take care of the vultures with a glass of wine
You can be all the writing on the wall
That you want
I'll be the line across it
I'll blow your mind
I'll blow your mind
You can be all the writing on the wall
That you want
I'll be the line across it
I'll blow your mind
I'll blow your mind
song performed by by Lisa Marie Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope Springs Eternal
Hope springs eternal
Like a streak of light
That pierces through the darkness
Of despair…
Hope springs eternal
Like a flower
Growing through a crack
In the concrete…
Hope springs eternal
Like an ember of glowing coal
Glowing through the deadness
Of the ashes…
Hope springs eternal
Like a small, encouraging whisper
Cutting through the silence
That follows failure…
Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord
As I've told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I'm simply trying to hear
what I'm saying and don't care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I'd improve.
'After all, ' she said,
'you've been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
'looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
What should he do-quit?
'Not a chance, '
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
'He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all, ' she said, 'my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It's all meat, no gristle, no fat.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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After School (Villanelles)
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
You will graduate soon but don’t forget.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
Some people will deal with it with a knife,
Because they are scared to try to forget.
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Others might get rich and have a good life,
But it could end up in a huge regret.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
Few may stay single in Gods way of life,
They will find happiness they won’t forget
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Most have a fine job and a loving wife.
Someone to go home to and be a set
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
For you who don’t take the bad way in life,
Will be happy and never have regret.
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
poem by Martin Glenn
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How Do I Love You?
In mere words I can find no kind of way
to express the depth of my love for you,
the yearning of every passing day,
not even in the things that I say and do.
In the simple small daily kind of things
that fit into the mere puzzle of life,
intimate, sincere heartfelt tidings
outbalancing the every day strife
it is all unclear in the silent need,
that comes natural to you as my wife
it is from far beyond any act or deed
and its truth never pierces like a knife,
but is much like childhood faith, without pain
it is somewhat difficult to explain…
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Portent
Horace, BK. V. Ode 20.
Oh, late withdrawn from human-kind
And following dreams we never knew!
Varus, what dream has Fate assigned
To trouble you?
Such virtue as commends of law
Of Virtue to the vulgar horde
Suffices not. You needs must draw
A righteous sword;
And, flagrant in well-doing, smite
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshipper invite
The God again.
Whence public strife and naked crime
And-deadlier than the cup you shun--
A people schooled to mock, in time,
All law--not one.
Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin,
Nor give thy children cause to doubt
That Virtue springs from Iron within--
Not lead without.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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No Simple Life
Life is simple but not for me
It's just not easy doing ABC
People think that I'm lazy
I just thought I was going crazy
It's hard to do my work I find
Because It's always on my mind
Reading, writing and arithmetic
Do I really have to do it
Not being able to read, write or spell
Living in this bubble of hell
I try to escape from thoughts and strife
No one knows my secret life
Or the struggle that I face each day
Dyslexia is real and it's here to stay.
Life is simple, it's just not easy.
poem by Hazel Connelly
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The Men Who Made Bad Matches
'Tis the song of many husbands, and you all must understand
That you cannot call me coward now that women rule the land;
I have written much for women, where I thought that they were right,
But the men who made bad matches claim a song from me to-night.
Oh, the men who made bad matches are of every tribe and clime,
And, if Adam was the first man, then they date from Adam’s time.
They shall live and they shall suffer, until married life is past,
And the last sad son of Adam stands alone—at peace at last.
Oh, the men who made bad matches, and the Great Misunderstood,
Are through all the world a mighty and a silent brotherhood.
If a wife is discontented, every other woman knows—
But the men who made bad matches keep the cruel secret close.
You may say that you can tell them, by their clothing, if you will,
But a man may seem neglected, and his home be happy still.
You may tell by their assumption of conventional disguise—
But, the men who made bad matches, I can tell them by their eyes!
I have seen them by the camp-fire, where a child’s voice never comes,
I have seen them by the fireside, in their seeming happy homes—
Seen their wives’ false arms go round them, and the kisses that were lies—
Oh, the men who made bad matches! I can tell them by their eyes.
I have seen them bad in prison—seen them sullen, seen them sad;
I have seen them (in the mad-house)—I have seen them raving mad.
Watched them fight the battle bravely, for the children’s sake alone,
Like a father who has wronged them, and who lives but to atone.
But it’s cruel, oh! it’s cruel, for the husband and the wife,
Who have not one thought in common, and are yoked for weary life.
They must see it through and suffer, for the children they must rear—
Oh, the folk who made bad matches have a heavy cross to bear.
There is not a ray of comfort, in the future’s gloomy sky,
For the children of bad matches will make trouble by-and-bye.
And though second wives be angels, while the first wives were the worst,
No second wife yet wedded makes a man forget the first.
Ah! the men who made bad matches think more often than we know,
Of the girls they should have married, in the glorious long ago,
And there’s many a wife and mother thinks with bitter pain to-day,
Of her giddy, silly girlhood, and the man she sent away.
Life is sad for men and women, but the thoughts are bitter sad
Of the girls we should have married, and the boys we should have had.
But we’ll part now with a handshake, if we cannot with a kiss,
And bad matches may be mended in a better world than this.
poem by Henry Lawson
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~genius~
Genius lives within every human mind
Hidden, until unlocked the hidden door
Where all can be understood or divined
Where there’s a vast universe to explore
And “Heroic deeds” cannot be confined
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Barren Sweetness
By the absurdity of life, I declare existence obsolete,
I outline the futility of strife, and triumph a lying feat,
Imposed by men, ignorant though they may be,
But you refuse to comprehend, the end is like sleep,
So to you I recommend, such that was to me, sweet.
Love was a soothing melody to my weary mind,
Friendship, a hidden treasure that was not always kind,
Authenticity, or in other words, honesty, was hard to find,
Yet nothing was so exquisite when truly divined,
Imagination, my savior, a memory impossibly defined,
And fantasy, a haven that I never really left behind.
poem by Jeremy Cahoon
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Hardship
Excruciating and harrowing throb alarmed me,
Exercising my mind with pain and agony;
The opening of gates should ensue,
To the world of pleasure, the life of fun.
I spoke of boredom as the past,
I spoke of happiness as a child,
But when I met my wife in this puzzle called life
The reality was bigger of pleasure,
Pleasant news arrived of a son, of a daughter,
Even more of them.
The son asked all the day why my puzzle was solved,
When the pain had returned from my life.
They could only help and pray,
I prayed on and on, and so I succeeded.
Prayer is the peace of this life-
My puzzle is solved.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sexy Shame
Rotten right down to the core
Born in to a whore of no more
Stunted to a mind of no explore
Trust in life is twisted & tore
Forever left out in the street
Flaunting for somebody to greet
All playing to the same old beat
Running from a bold badge of heat
Heart pierced with sharp edge knife
Will never escape this nasty ass life
Hope is all lost in being a loving wife
A prayer to forgive this life of strife
(7/23/09)
poem by Arthur Garcia
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Six Blade Knife
Your six blade knife can do anything for you
Anything you want it to
One blade for breaking my heart
One blade for tearing me apart
Your six blade knife-do anything for you
You can take away my mind like you take away the top of a tin
When you come up from behind and lay it down cold on my skin
Took a stone from my soul when I was lame
Just so you could make me tame
You take away my mind like you take away the top of a tin
Id like to be free of it now - I dont want it no more
Id like to be free of it now - you know I dont want it no more
Everybody got a knife it can be just what they want it to be
A needle a wife or something that you just cant see
You know it keeps you strong
Yes and itll do me wrong
Your six blade knife - do anything for you
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night
I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.
I go back to where I am
And begin again.
There is always a poem if one is patient enough.
But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?
I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.
This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence
One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -
Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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You must strive to multiply bread so that it suffices for the tables of mankind, and not rather favor an artificial control of birth, which would be irrational, in order to diminish the number of guests at the banquet of life.
quote by Pope Paul VI
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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