Her and Him
She fell in love at the first sight
of his prismic points and insights
depicting a plethora of fireworks
consecutively sparkling in the sky.
Whilst he trampled in a delicate stupor
to muse upon her eloquent words
woven like a tapestry to mantle
the unfathomable slumbering firmament
Stocks of unedited ends and tales
smokes out of his hidden system.
Soft punctuation in creative rhymes,
fills me with bliss in every line.
Her unabashed tongue gyrated
to recount the tragedy of felled stars
And the rapier of her caustic words
slurred with a vicarious quiescence on mine
Unexhausted discoveries buried deep,
waiting to be excavated - let it be me.
Golden treasures waiting to be found,
slithering yellow beams for underground
A buoy tethered her unmoored soul
drifting in the abysmal enigma of the lost
and derided salutes, gust after gust, I pried
Surreptitiously to the farcical crooning submerged
His enigmatic stories yet to be untold,
full of promising ideas and thoughts.
Imagination and creativity at its best,
hopefully, I'll acquire the talent he posses.
Her lips need not to part, ink to blot
to saddle the sagacity cradled in her eyes
And what does the sibilance of her sighs
Exhumed from her pantheons, I wonder?
He is - truly - a master of his art,
wording emotions fumbling in his heart.
I'll touch his hands and sing his riddles,
through his words, I'll be singing with the angels.
With a flower tossed unto the remorseful grave -
A blossoming glow of hope; an etude uncurled
like the heaven's flourishing parasol
She, and her salient artistry, extended the writhing lace.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Liberty Sought For All
Words keep filling my brain.
I rarely write them down.
Because as soon as I empty my head.
Words start filling my brain again.
I can never empty my head.
For there remains too much unsaid.
Poignant thoughts, enlightened ideas, ideals.
Waiting for a poet to bring them to heal.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
Whirling Whirling Whirling Whirling Words.
Waiting for a chosen moment, of precise creativity.
Waiting for a special moment, of ordained existence.
Waiting to transform
a corrupt materialistic world.
Waiting to put compassion
back into heartless hearts.
Waiting to restore love
vitality freedom and nobility.
Waiting to herald a new age
of heaven sent realized liberty.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words Woven - Parody Mary BEULEY - Words Woven
Words woven into speech
soon reach
intact thread spirit of each act,
knit warp and weft of wit wish fact,
dreams' tapestry may teach.
Words express essentials,
transmit, unwind
from mind to mind,
address ideas which, blind,
would grope for means to equate
sensations refined,
coarse, sophisticate.
Thus they incarnate
emotion's multi coloured coat, pattern twist
around ideas which form,
unform,
inform or disinform,
or take by storm
precisely or by gist
the geist soul kissed.
Words woven into speech
pen hand,
when scanned
from thoughts’ life blood leach
emotions, sense, dressed to suit
points phallic and points mute,
ideo-grand!
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY 1837_1916 written 12 December 1995 – Words Woven revised 31 July 2008 notably first verse below
Words woven into speech
soon reach
to knit the spirit of each act,
the warp and weft of every fact,
through dreams to teach.
______________
Words Woven
Words woven into rhyme
In time
Become a tapestry of thought
A canvas of experience in which
Our dreams are wrought.
Words are the evidence of what goes on
communicate
Within the mind.
They clothe the invisible
With robes of speech,
Sophisticated as silk,
Homespun as hessian,
And in between
The many-patterned, many-textured range,
Familiar and strange,
Of words -
Woven and dyed and spun
For Fun
Or seriously aware
Of what is there.
Words woven into rhyme
Or prose
Transpose
Giving the tiny embryo of thought
A dress to wear, most delicately wrought,
And caught for ever in a form know
And understand.
Mary BEULEY 1837_1916
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY written 12 December 1995
poem by Jonathan Robin
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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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When red the wine
When red the wine
fills the glass
to its brim,
with sparkling shine
and taste sublime
and candles flicker
in the dark
and soft hands entwine
around mine,
I see the blush
upon your cheek
and the words you speak
sounds like a murmur
in my ear.
There are stars that shine
in the night
but your golden eyes
are much more bright.
Later as passion
gets a life of its own
rapture fills the body,
mind and soul
and I thank Him
that made you mine
and blessed by planting
the first vine.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bestiary
The bestiary ruminates
with feline stalking
and vulpine calculations
and in the gallows
of this machine's lasso
I seek for garrison
Like a den
for the famished ponderings
and slavering propositions
Like a cage,
for the leonine trepidation
and the myriad of souls
adrift in unconsciousness
These words surfacing
the abysmal void of the paper -
footmarks of an transient paw
riveted in a stupor
under the salient verdigris
of the softest putrefaction
The perfidious sibilance
slithers in the crevasses
and the vulturine ululations
trampled inside the chamber
The bestiary is inside
the heart of this machination
like a den, like a cage
protecting the frangibility
from its own brittle bones
poem by Norman Santos
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Words of Mine
My words are full of love for you
Never did I ever desire to hurt you with my words
No meaning my words hold, if they ended up hurting you
Only have desired to love you
It has only been you, whom I have loved so much
Sadly, words of mine are truly painful
Since, sorrow is a lot.
How can I tell you that my feelings are truthful for you?
Wish, I just wish that you knew the real meaning of my deep love for you
Every word of mine may appear false to you
However, how can my heart be false for you?
Heart of mine has always been crazy for you
Never did pray for anything else, but you
It is you whom I forever want to wake up in the morning with
My arms will hold you tightly, so that you can be mine
In love and with love, through my words, which desire to touch your soul
Why do you think that I hate you?
Trust me, I love you
Words of mine are full of love
Only love for you.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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Holes In The Tapestry
Like a maudlin brooding
yarns unwoven for the bones
exhumed from the cold stones
I confabulate with the night
and her ashen moiré locks
falling like strings unfettered
from her enigmatic bleakness
fingers interlacing, knotting
vying for the lost linkage
of the sequestered nocturnes
And there is nothing more alone
in rivaling loneliness
stuck in a crossroad of footsteps
chasing their tapping heels
and the slithering pavement
only coiled to a vertigo
of ribald blatancy unfolded
from the clutters of perchance
The firmament was palled
by the melanin of the vesper
and holes rifted like cuts
bleeding abashedly
The pallor of the stars
yearned for the incendiary
but the flame is gone
with all the misgivings
The starshine beaming
on the silvered sifting,
scouring upon the sieves
tilling the sanguinary land
The yarn ends here
its ends forever lost
in a labyrinthine knot
(not a lasso to return,
not a lace to wove more,
just a noose and a garrison
suspended in multitudes)
gripping the heart
asphyxiating the chances
there is not a chance for revival
because we are the architects -
we are our ruptures
and festooned raptures
and the blame for every
hole in our tapestry.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Beautiful Romantic Space
Her heart is a beautiful romantic space
Her friendship is a divine love- message;
Is unforgettable flow of ecstasy
And invitation with bliss-giving beauty;
Is pleasant like simple and plain expression
Is tasty like creamy curd;
Shares companionship and makes mind serene
Lovingly caresses that sweet romantic space;
Such cooling is not available
In Ooty, Kodaikanal or Darjeling
Even doing penance in Himalayas
One can not attain such loving place;
The love and care of my beloved
Are natural flows
Resemble cuckoo’s melodious voice;
Her friendship is full of aesthetics
With her wide eyes she obliges affectionately
And gives alms of Bliss with grace and concern;
Her honey-filled lips speak sweet words
And her youthful body is full of treasures;
Her pretty face fills my thoughts
And always I dream about her;
That romantic space
Shares delicate touches on tender beds
And provides ecstasy of blissful union
And never lacks in anything;
Her body is delicate as flower
And sweetness pervades her every portion
She showers love and affection
And presents with warm hugs;
Her smile is brilliant as the shining stars
Her face resembles full moon
She stars in my heart
With her beauty and love;
Her romantic space is balm to disturbances
Her friendship is like moonlight
And she joined hands for nearness and intimacy with me
Causing exhilaration to me.
poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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Rollercoaster Vagaries
Just when I capitulated and succumbed
Into the callous hands of contingency
You trespassed my penetralium
With agitated legs of confusion
You were a sedentary beast in an open field
Of bowing grass and seething sun -
You malingered without a purpose.
I watched you disentangled the tethers
That was long shorn and in a placid thought
I wondered if you didn't even know
The long months that it coiled scored
And what of fading does oblivion concern?
I ask you, where do all the things
That dementia took lingers?
I ask you, from what do you want
Me to run from; your sudden meddling?
Like a black bird at midflight
With wings relentless of the wind
You will beat on, but I will not
Enter your hopeful and painful vaults again
I wondered if your tongue was forked
And the eloquent laces are tied,
For your final words - words that I
Have long surmised and suffered from
Without being spoken because I was ahead
Yet I was also the one left out - your words
Is a cacophonous riddle that perhaps,
Even your sagacity cannot fathom
So In my buoyant esplanade
In the oblivious sea of psychasthenia
I searched for my lost musing
In the graves of the abysmal brine
That sent the open wounds to caustic effervescence
Excoriating the chain of logic to understand
Your rollercoaster vagary but it all drowned
With all my hollow-eyed cold corpses
Siphoned by the nights of two-way soliloquies
I dived for an empty answer
And the plethora of reasoning and unreasoning
Ceased at a pointblank end
How lovely it is out there in your place
That you have not learned of the apocalypse?
In these rollercoaster vagaries
You are the highest, the deepest
The most convoluted slope
That I have ridden
But the ride is over now
And the game is lost.
poem by Norman Santos
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His Second Decade
An artisan of surreal noises
Made of groans and chortles
Making words that sat like lead
pounce like a spear of chains
Pulling the vaults to break
And let loose a paunch soul
With a flagrant gaunt face
To become the visage
Of his subtly dubbed art.
While it's easy to toss
White roses on a grave
It is his eloquent etude
To exhume its blossoming.
Welcome to your second decade,
Undoubtedly your golden age,
Now flourish in your parade.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Liberty Sought For All: At A Price!
Words plague words
keep filling - infested brain.
Plague words true scholar
will rarely - write them immune.
Propaganda scripted media infested
inflammatory - derogatory words.
As soon as spoon feed populace
empties pulp - mash mind head.
Multi media starts plastering filling
muted receptive - brains glue again.
On line cyber connected superimposed dots never
empty pumpkin heads - pencil subconsciously track.
Approved agenda hidden patterns remain propagated
terminating insightful - opponents if too out spoken.
Poignant thoughts, enlightened ideas, ideals unaccepted
prohibited confiscated, stored in iron curtain libraries.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words!
Whirling Whirling Whirling Whirling Words!
Megabytes of clandestine observations retrieved
waiting for spin doctors ordained seals exploiting!
Waiting to perpetrate perpetuate approved
materialistic corrupt financial exploitations!
Waiting to put cash power back into bloody hands
of resource exploiters dictator despot regimes!
Waiting to restore exploitative status quo
vitality freedom, denied to puppet countries!
Waiting to herald, a grand new profit sheet
of heaven sent fortunes, realized continuance!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Muse of Love
The heart is a dream catcher
Elves play amongst the trees
Winds blow with supple song
Words flow like singing seas
Sparrows dart like little angels
Rainbows sing and rivers run
Love brightens daily bread
Gratitude shines like morning sun
Perception enhanced by choice
We receive what we believe
Harps and lutes of eternal joy
As a man thinketh so is he
Change brings new reasoning
See the flowers bloom with love
Yellow and red like bright stars
The sky kisses the earth with love
Moonlight shadows dance in paradise
Lovers dance as one sweet garden
Orchids white as wedding gowns
Sing from the heart that’s pardoned
Lofty Venus burns with mystery
Clouds sail like souls going home
Tender touch where bliss sighs
Muse of love writes a poem
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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4th July Blues
I am here alone.
He is in his dark place alone.
Darkness has consumed his life.
I want to pull his body into mine to keep him safe within the light.
I can’t breathe or smile today.
There are no words from him.
Only silences.
I am having 4th July blue day.
My heart is trembling in sorrow.
My soul is screaming words that are no longer hidden away from me.
Tears flow like heaven’s dam has burst free.
Love is strong, but my essence is twisted about dark knots.
Parties are going on today.
Families cooking as their children laugh and run about.
I am here crying with my pain of not having him in my arms.
4th July Blues is coming down hard upon me today.
People are cheering and drinking.
Crowds are flowing about parks with happiness and love.
He is locked in darkness.
I have locked myself away from life and happiness, until he is free.
I love him.
Desire and dreams flow upon the shimmering sky of endless passion.
Tears are always falling like endless of waterfall of hope.
Will he feel my desire and love for him today?
Do I stand to lose him no matter what the future brings upon life?
Heart is beating his haunting name forever.
My soul is listening for his voice to behind me, so when I turn around, I can run into his arms of loves.
Fireworks will soon fill the darken sky about life, but I will be shut away.
There will be no reason to soar or dream, even be happy because my sweet Theo will not be here with me.
How can life be so full of wondrous thing, but full of such darkness that steals people away from your reach?
I am sad and blue upon a day that should be full of happiness and endless dreams coming true.
4th July Blues is tearing my world apart.
Tears flow.
My heart is lost.
Even my soul dares nothing upon each new day that the sun rises without my sweet Theo being within life.
Reasons too dare life is lost and drift farther away from reach,
But
My heart and soul love for Theo is strong and true.
When my knees are becoming weak, it’s his haunting words that pick me and carries me on through-out this day of happiness.
Time will be passing by me and him,
But
I know in the end, my prayers and love is flowing upon wind of life for angels to sing about and God to weep too.
One day, I know I will be able to reach out to him.
One day, he will pick up the pen and paper to write me, if by luck, one day he will reach out to me once again on the phone.
Upon that day,
I will run to him.
Than upon that day the stars will burst like endless fireworks upon the sky on 4th July.
Nothing will keep my heart and soul from telling him all about my love and wicked dreams of him.
Will he smile?
Will he tell me all that lurks in his heart and soul?
Will we become best of friends or more?
No matter what happens upon that day, I know I will be happy again he is free to dare his endless dreaming of modeling and acting.
4th July Blues will only be erased upon the day my hands touch his face and speak what is within my heart and soul for him.
Fireworks today hold no substance in my heart or soul.
Reasons to be happy is drifting lost upon the dark sea.
Theo is alone.
I am alone, until the day I know he is free.
Whatever happens upon this day, I will not care.
As the ticking sound goes on, I will weep to his hidden pain and sorrow.
My mind has no reason to believe in magic upon this day, it only a day that hold no future or words from Theo.
I am walking around like zombie full of nothing but endless tears of pain and sorrow.
There is no salvation for this weep terror within my essence.
Dark desire for drinking and drugging is plaguing me like gentle wind of yesterday dreams of sin,
But
I know I will be strong because of my love for Theo.
I honor and dutiful to scream out my love and strength into the powerful darkness in hopes Theo and world to hear soaring like a beacon guiding him back into the light.
I sit here drinking my cup of coffee thinking about Theo and today, but with no happiness in my writing.
Today is the 4th July, but today is just another day in hallow life with no happiness.
Twisting about with emotion, thinking all about him, wishing he could be reaching out to me.
Hell, with 4th July, what day is good other than the day, my sweet Theo is free and moving about his life and career again.
Upon that day, the stars will burst with hidden fireworks for me meaning my heart and soul can once again soar in happiness.
4th July is not today because Theo is not free.
poem by Firestar Christopoulos
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Gone Is Inspiration
A thought!
A blurry thought in my head
and my pen is full of ink
I am dry,
I am sore
I can't channel my soul
before the words of my heart
would seep right through my
fingers
and possess my pen
but now I am blank
I am dry,
I am empty again
I hate the times when
my mind is still
and still I cannot channel
the artistry in me
the flame of inspiration
has died out
I am cold
I am stuck
my brain is paused
why is this so?
Pages beg
to be written on
keys plead for me to type
stories linger within
waiting for me
to give them life
but i cannot
I am frozen
and so are my words
so is the rhythm
the rhyme
the floetry
of my poetry
has flown off into
the sky
and with the birds
go my words
And I am here,
I am dry
Gone is inspiration!
poem by Upile Chisala
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Poem
Words hung on paper
Like thoughts in the wind
Some flitter to and fro
But the good ones always seem to blow
Away and away,
Again and again.
Go down to the river of exile
Where the sad ones cry,
Go out to the catacombs
Where the old ones die...
Like a leaf in the fall
It's all such a temporary thing,
So put a little music with it
And hope it'll make someone's soul sing.
Slumbering forth with sadness
A mingled mixture of madness
This sobriquet symphony
Of mellow deep;
Heart felt longings,
Vagabond thoughts,
And lack of sleep -
Every bit of being blends
As awe and imagination together
Never end.
Mighty words in waves
Churn man's deep,
With wild wonders to reap.
Where mystery and majesty are born,
The poetic possibilities of translation
Range from sage to scorn.
In a million ways arriving
Within each new day
The great gift given,
If only wise enough words can be found
To say.
These are the forms and foundations of poem,
Read or written, loved or smitten,
Gathered together, or alone,
If one will only listen to hear
The faint whispers of Eternity speak,
Ever drawing nearer, and nearer...
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Three Words
Three laconic words I love you enshroud
The hearts of those of dead love
Angels whom hide behind love's cloud
Below here on earth from up above
Each line a line in their ivory dipped wings
I love you I love you captivate
Thine hearts of hearts the angels sing
As our hearts draw close and gravitate
Dead words in dead song the poet grieves
At the grave of love of dead grizzled white
To resurrect thee with I love you he believes
In love, every love, love at first sight
As the clouds, separate and light shine through
All hearts eyes gaze and learn
It's true, it's true
In the words I love you we burn….
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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I can not wait for two o’clock to come
I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to climb on my motorbike
and to ride to the place
where the words of other poets
get life and energy
and bring bliss and burning beauty
and sometimes sincerity
or stark reality
as magic to me.
I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to hear the words
of a master and to find something
in his thoughts that I can make mine,
as if it was buried in my soul
just waiting for the sun and rain
and interaction to sprout
growing green like a living thing.
I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to read my own poetry
and to see what other
people make of it
and to know
if my words are truly
hitting their mark.
I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
and to experience something great
that makes life worth living
and perhaps for some time
to sit near the presence
of the Immortal One
that gives man the ability
to turn words into the magic
that life aught to be.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Men Are Eloquent
Words are quite easy to say,
Hidden truth shows in the eyes.
Love expressed in flattery
May soon be revealed in 'Goodbyes'.
For men are so very eloquent
They speak of dreamy promises,
Emotions that were never meant
And sweetened lies lace all their kisses.
So be wary before it is too late
All women, you need to be wise
To avoid the pain and sad fate,
These truths you must realize.
When men say that they love you
But cannot ask for you to marry
Be sure that this man is not true
And his words are ever so empty.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Love Sonnet 02: This is your day, so special in a way,
This is your day, so special in a way,
As your life begins, while their waiting ends,
When two decades ago, you wafted free,
To be the gust of May, that Springtime sends;
Will angels grudge on being copied by,
Of their vestal grace and celestial charms?
As such were endowments, you edify,
The armor of your heart, that none disarms;
As bud that turned flower and fruit becomes,
May soon comprise the longings of your call,
Whereas flourishing from seed, soon blossoms,
That completes life's cycle, the task for all;
.….So, to you, happy birthday, bloom of Spring,
…..And wishing you the joys, the year will bring.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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To Caroline
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov'd thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as thine own.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In sighs alone it breath'd my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only hope is, to forget!