When his life belongs to a mysterious hand
He writes day & night
And erase sometimes.
Then writes again.
He drinks a lot and stops
When there is no funds.
Starts again when his wallet sounds.
He walked thousands of miles
But he feels still at the same place.
One day he spoke to an insect
It struggles to survive in a cobweb.
'Dear! How could I help you
When my life too belongs to a mysterious hand?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Reflections 101
he writes not because
he wants to be read and
be understood
got him wrong really
he writes because he likes
to live
life writes upon himself
and so he writes upon life too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Master Shakespeare
Quill in hand I see him so
A vision of him I there see
Word by word he writes on
No other can replace he
Master Shakespeare
A poet of Devine perfection
He writes and writes along
What an excellent inspiration
His words will continue on
Master Shakespeare
Magic in your very hand
No other takes your place
You I admire with my life
So full of love and grace
Master Shakespeare
poem by Suelynn Walters
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Writes
He seems to be
Doing drugs and
Drinks...
As whatever
He writes
Doesn't
Make
Much
Sense
To me.
Maybe,
Whenever he
Writes...
He's so very
Intoxicated
On a high,
That his
Sanity
Bids him
Goodbye,
And the
Utter
Nonsense
That he
Writes...
Doesn't
Make
Much
Sense
To me ;)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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He's A Man of His Word
He contemplates life
In general who people are
Or what things are
What is it all about?
He likes to learn
From those of us
With knowledge
Of the here and now
And of the past
He taps away
At his keyboard
As he reads
As he writes
And discovered
To his knowledge
That it helps him
To be a better man
His words are immaculate
Even words I've never heard
But when he writes his poetry
It has meaning to each word
The man is so humble
On what he writes
On what he feels
And on how he preserves others
And their words
I bow to thee Kevin Patrick
Who is a man?
Of his every word
poem by Kaila George
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Book Of Suleika - The Loving One Again
WRITES he in Neski,
Faithfully speaks he;
Writes he in Tali,
Joy to give, seeks he:
Writes he in either,
Good!--for he loves!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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There Was Nothing Left To Write
THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO WRITE
There was nothing left to write
Everything had already been written
And was being written over again and again
By thousands elsewhere-
There was nothing left to write
And nothing new to say -
And no need for anything he had to give-
It was over for him as a writer
Whether he accepted it or not-
No one would ever need or want anything he could do again-
And so when he despite all this still wrote
It seemed to many simply pathetic-
The obsessive reflex of an already lost soul-
Who wrote and wrote and wrote
Who writes and writes and writes
Who cannot stop
However senseless all he does, is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Written in Black Ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her story
Her experiences
Her life
Written in
Black ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her sorrows
People she lost
People who are gone
Written in
Black ink
She writes for
Days and
Days
Until
At last
Her masterpiece
Is finished
Her eyes Begin to
Close and
Oblivion Takes hold
And when she
Awakens
Her story will be written
Written in black ink
poem by Autumn Winds
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Russell Baker writes columns as a poet writes light verse - with tongue in cheek and a steady hand.
quote by Thomas D'Evelyn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Old Man Waits For a Poem To Come
AN OLD MAN WAITS FOR A POEM TO COME
An old man waits for a poem to come
How many poems will come
Before he’s done?
An old man writes and writes and writes
He will write
To the end of his life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Alone the soldier is....
Alone the soldier is...
lying on his bunk
in a unfamiliar land
thousands of miles from home
her picture at hand
his thoughts...
reliving old memories of home
his thoughts...
wondering, thinking of her
Alone the soldier is...
standing in the hot sun
in a unfamiliar land
thousands of miles from home
his rifle at hand
his eyes...
looking all around
his thoughts...
memories of home
Alone the soldier is....
at heart, at thought
thousands of miles from home
the 'Dear John' letter at hand
his eyes...
filled with watery tears
his thoughts...
wishing it were a nightmare
Alone the soldier is...
lying in his grave
in a dark cold casket
her picture at hand
his eyes....
see no more pain
his heart...
feels no more grief
poem by Anthony Scott
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy
For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.
This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.
It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.
He writes one late at night
to remind him
to get up in the morning
and one in the morning
to remind him to go to bed at night.
It is estimated he writes
quite a few hundred memos everyday.
His house is filed with little bits
of yellow paper stuck up here and there.
He couldn’t watch TV
even if he wanted to.
There are s many memos on it
you can’t see the screen.
One day his pen ran out
and no memos he could write.
He couldn’t even write a memo
to remind himself to buy a pen.
Then he found a pencil
and shouted that will do.
Now he is able to write memos to himself
to tell himself what to do.
As far as I know,
he hasn’t written a memo
to remind himself to sharpen
the pencil once and a while.
28 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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About A Lady
she writes, with all disappointments
her chin on her elbow her feet right on her ears
plans are falling out like buds that did not make it to become flowers
what is so simple has shattered into a complication
out of control, her life has become, she stops for a while,
she needs this moment
she poses the question: what went wrong along the way?
love was there
compassion was abundant
he sends her a note through her email: darling, don't worry
my love shall see you through
she is restless, jobless, she tries everything to please
what boredom was there
life is also a matter of luck, she concludes
she writes him, forget it, let me do it without you
without myself in this
i will let life do its share,
luck to manifest. I will wait, she says, I can always wait.
This time, i will do nothing.
Let the chair come to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Busy Lives
When someone says 'do telephone', she telephones
When someone says 'please write', she always writes
When someone says 'pop by', she excitedly replies
that she will, and what is more, she always does.
But the world is perverse in its behaviour
and most people find her eagerness quite strange.
When she telephones or writes or dares to visit;
they're most put out or dare I say, enraged!
She ponders on her life and their behaviour
she feels so very lonely and so sad.
She popped in yesterday to see a neighbour.
They said, in callous tones, 'go get a life'.
They chat amongst themselves and they condemn her.
They say, 'Well you know her, she's not quite right',
but in their hearts, they know, of course, they've failed her,
their excuse is that they lead such busy lives.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Poem about Poetry - I know how God writes his poem
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the delicate, artistic and
defining lines of every flower
petals, pistil, stamen, pollens,
fragrant and scents that fill the air
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the ray of the sun
that reveals their metaphors
and rhymes in the rain
an arc over the clear blue sky
i know how god writes his poem
it is in your eyes, two lakes of honey
that sail me into your warm saccharine world
dilating and constricting to let them
speak more volume to my my lovelorn heart
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the dazzling lines of the sea
that shows the sky how many ways
it can define and redefine itself
it is in the breeze that pulls off a dancer
twirling towards me in every direction
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Heart Writes
Unending words flow through me
like streams of water-
My heart writes not to tell
the world Im broken,
that he should shed some tears for me.
But it writes to tell
the world my failures...
and that somehow
he would learn from them.
Broken words that know forever
flow through me like streams of water-
My heart writes not to show
the world I need him,
and that he should praise me more.
But it writes to tell
the world the lessons
I wish I knew before.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Happy New Year To You 2011
Kee writes to you,
My dearest,
Happy new year for you to be blessed,
you writes the best
really blessed if writes from the heart....
You penned few lines on my our book
The harvest of god and prayer words on dreams
Somewhere, you keep my heart and its burns
a kiss of your words....
To see no further than ……
And now our psalm
And a smell of fiery word in this poem
your writes little is the best....
I love our greatness in its charm..
happy new year to you dearest
Sincerely wish you happy new year,
you loves our poems on god
Kee thampi
poem by Thampi KEE
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Their Kind Of Books
You are somebody's wife and now,
Somebody's husband is using you;
But, is this what you call love? !
You are somebody's husband and now,
Somebody's wife is sleeping with you;
But, is this what you call love? !
What kind of world is this?
Is this the kind of love or lust that you want?
What kind of garden of Eden is this?
Is this what you call lust or love?
Oh, what a shame! ! !
A lady sleeps with a president and writes a book about it,
A man kills a woman ans writes a book about it,
A thief robs a bank and writes a book about it,
A man sleeps with somebody's wife and writes a book about it,
A flirt sleeps with different people and writes a book about it,
A kidnapper is very successful with his or her acts and writes a book about it,
A woman kills a man and writes a book about it,
And so on and so forth as we seen in this world;
But, sin is like enjoyment to these people in this Garden of Eden!
And now, thier kind of books are all over the stores in this world for sale.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Separation
If I walk a thousand miles
and have no place to go
my adventure will be worrisome
and all the things I know
will make me want to hesitate
before taking another stride.
For all the places I leave behind
are places where I cried.
But I needed the walk to show me
that escape was not the way.
All I did was travel right along
and at the end of the day
those miles I walked were numbing
and gave me nothing new.
So I walked a thousand more miles
and came back home to you.
My feet were sore. My heart was sore
but then I saw your face.
And all those miles that I walked
never could replace
the familiarity, the same old scene
and how being with you feels.
Time and space can't fix all wounds
but the walking somehow heals.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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