Run My Hand
the thoughts
in me force
me to run my hand over the font
to pen me a thought
and bond
to squat me a poem in thought
like a dream that sucks my sores
between my fingers
and thumb, in scores
of many other thoughts
by the shores
stagger my mind
in awe
as i dig my mind
with the pen on my hand
between me and slightly no end
and stuck within the same band
as the music of the tip of my pen
dance to my fingers and learn
how to write; i knew not until then
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Stream Of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness
Thoughts that come at random
With no foresight and no plan
My fingers type at their own volition
With no structured idea at hand
I live in an environment of inquietude
In an ambiance of unease and perhaps fear
There’s a weight upon my forehead
A sense of loss of things I hold dear
Today’s a day much like any other
I read, I eat, yet feel so incomplete,
and blandly smiling at me in calm so replete
On my desk, photos of sisters and brother
Just to sit and compose idle randomness
At my desk, takes my mind away for a bit
Yet at the back of my mind sits emptyness
And knowing I cannot escape from it
This bit of inane exposition
Is from my fingers and not of my mind
I try to stop all conscious thought
And let my fingers write blind
My busy fingers put a name
To unconscious sentiments so sad
Stream of consciousness
says more of the same…and that..
I’m slowly going mad
poem by David Whalen
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My Thoughts
Thought in the eyes,
The ears.
Thought in mind,
The brain,
Thought in heart,
The soul.
Great thought is great
when it becomes great deeds.
With my thoughts within
Building my world within
Learning with thought;
Is great learning wisdom.
Learning without thought,
Is opportunity lost.
Thought for others
Thought for God
Thought for good
Thought for God’s blessing
Thoughts teach me,
Thoughts educate me,
Thoughts clarify me,
Thoughts enlighten me.
Thoughts make me wise
Thoughts make me patience
Thoughts make me trust others
Thoughts make me clam.
Thoughts before act
Is smart and wise
Act before thoughts
Is stupid and foolish
That’s my thoughts
They make thinking clear
They make belief deepen
They make confidence high.
In thoughts, my world
In my world, make my thoughts.
In thoughts, my words
In my words, make my speech
It’s my thoughts count
Counting my thoughts
To endless counting thoughts
Thinking the thoughts endlessly
My thoughts and thoughts again.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Do You Really Find It Hard To Write A Poem?
let me tell you
it is not hard to write the poems in your mind
they are already there in the first place
inside your heart
always wanting to be written
all you need is just your way of waking your fingers in deep sleep
let them be
let them write the words
at the tip of your fingers
let the words speak for themselves
do not intervene
let them be
let the emotions dance like the wind
let the thoughts trickle like the rain
let them be
follow the river as it winds along the banks of your feelings
then watch
how all the waters of your self fall like
a water fall.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dance, Dance, Dance
Never thought love had a rainbow on it
Used to think a cloud was a nightmare
That was up until I first met you
Now I go around hoping you care.
Dance, dance, feel it all around you
Dance, dance, dance,
Never thought love had a rainbow on it
See the girl dance
See the girl dance.
Mississippi mud never touched her fingers
California sand lies in her hand
Love her more than life as the daylight lingers
Early in the morning Ill be her man.
Dance, dance, feel it all around you
Dance, dance, dance,
Mississippi mud never touched her fingers
See the girl dance
See the girl dance.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Clarity
do not eat words
do not eat my poetry
do not attempt to chew it
do not swallow it whole like how a boa swallows the whole pig
take your time. look at it. from the first word to the last.
think of this poem as syllables, not as thoughts, not as my thoughts.
or your thoughts. think of this poem as a feeling.
a baby sleeping. a calm look at the eye. a stare.
a grip. a hand grasping another hand.
a breath suspended in cold air.
two hands in prayer. think of this as the sound of a distant bell.
an orange dressed monk walking at the shore.
a leaf falling on the white sand.
a last step on the trip.
a beginning of a dream.
do not think now. Feel the sands slipping from your fingers.
See the sands falling on the floor of the sand.
do not move. Do not swallow your saliva.
And then speak the first word of this line.
This i think is clarity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thinking
I think and think
and every single thought
comes into my mind
as if it were caught
in a spidery web
that sticks like glue
until that thought
is finally through.
Some thoughts are happy
and they are most welcome.
Some thoughts are sad
and then I'm overrun
with tears that fill my eyes
like a pool.
I cry out these thoughts,
my number one rule.
For to hold back my tears
and not let them flow
would drown my thinking
and where would they go?
Into a whirlpool
that circles around
making my demeanor
take me down?
No, I say.
Pick up your pen.
Write those thoughts
and say amen.
Read them aloud
for they're now on a page,
not trapped in my mind
like a bird in a cage.
Freedom, freedom
my mind is free.
Oh how rewarding
that can be.
Enjoy it I say
for it won't last long
for I think and I think
as my life moves along.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Thoughts Mind Soul Echoes
thoughts like children
scatter from our mind
thoughts were part of us?
thoughts came from us?
thoughts live beyond us?
thoughts outlive our lives?
thoughts mind soul echoes
haunting fragments of mind
light shines through prisms
separates into colour bands
thought trails sunset colours
spectrum ribbons thoughts
spiral into keen conceptions
meaning insight discriminates
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Thought I Couldnt Dance
Stand back, and give me room
And listen to that beat
I got the music in my soul
And the rhythm in my feet
When I hear the music,
You wont catch me standing still
And I wont miss a beat
I never have and I never will
And you thought I couldnt dance
And you thought I couldnt dance
I can dance to anything
That any band can play
Ive got old-fashioned values
But Im pretty up to date
And I know all the latest hits
On the radio
You dont have to join me
Stand back and watch my show
And you thought I couldnt dance
And you thought I couldnt dance
Thought I couldnt dance
Hey, watch me prance
Lets make romance
Thought I couldnt dance
You gotta take a chance
If youre gonna learn to dance
And you thought I couldnt dance
And you thought I couldnt dance
Theres a lot of closet dancers
Just dyin to come out
They dance alone inside their rooms
With the music way up loud
And I know you thought I couldnt dance
But I guess I sure fooled you
It just goes to show you never know
Whos wearing dancin shoes
And you thought I couldnt dance
Im full of surprises
And you thought I couldnt dance
Its too late now
I cant slow down...cant slow down
Oh, feel the heat
From these dancin feet... cant slow down
And you thought I couldnt dance
And you thought I couldnt dance
Repeat...
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Touch
For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.
The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.
And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand - just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.
The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.
Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Brephos
Although it is easy for one to think, it is not always easy for one to write
Not all thoughts can be expressed into words, nor should they. Rousseau said in his solitary walks or was it his confessions? That his most beautiful thoughts died in him as quick as he thought them and how he at the time wished he had a pen in hand to write them all down. Those thoughts are dead, but perhaps those same thoughts are born in others written down somewhere in all of infinite time. Some thoughts like some lives are not meant to be born. The seed of this thought, watered by my serene tears, germinates in my soul as I write this letter. Still I can't find the words to express its beauty, its paradox, its mystery. The seed germinates but no plant is born, no flower blooms. For every child that isn't born, for every thought trapped in the moral order nature's thought; the ineffable, the unborn, the unknown, I hope one day you find expression and tell the world what you are and what beauty really is—To eloquence that never speaks, to thought that never thinks, to life that never lives, in my heart you speak, think and live.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Lost To Discover
lost to discover
i silently stayed silent without talk
snaking through the silence of thought
as i stayed silent without walk
as i stood amid the roar that caught
me for a moment in matter than lot
in my hand the grains of sand i got
through my fingers and hand
as i thought,
how shall the solemn song be sung?
how shall my burial rite be done?
who shall cry for me when i last gone?
whose life were then than now?
what really matters to man than now?
why fear death upon our eyes,
but love to shine upon our eyes?
.. i thought
without talk,
the memory of then emerged
from the night around me
and searched
each corner of life around me
but found me drenched
in many than known about me
like the flowers that matched
the one in my heart to surround me
.. as i thought
silently without talk
i lost to discover beyond desire
i searched narrowly the lines in dire
they hold a treasure, thirst and hunger
scarcely begun to word my lips without anger
and still silent, i thought for a longer
more time than mine with urge,
what did i not express?
how am i not drowned?
i still frowned
to think as i stood to a ground
of thoughts and proud
to do more than then on my ground
i silently stayed silent without talk
snaking my mind,
through the silence of thought
a thought i lost but last to find
and picked myself up to walk
shaking my time
to walk on the next thought
and said to mine,
do more now than then
o' dear abandoned one in thought
opn26112012/0832
poem: 'i lost to discover'
book: 'the mind and the science of life'
book no.13 of 2012
>>
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onalethuso petruss ntema
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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We – Not We
My joy and your joy don’t go together,
My thoughts and your thoughts touch slightly.
My hand, your hand – they will meet never,
My dreams want to kiss your dreams lightly.
Your words bloom in my heart like flowers,
I’d like to pick them and not to suffer any longer.
There is my heart and yours in the scattered showers,
My love and my hope - I have to smother them.
My island is so lonely; my flag waves on the pole.
You should have it at heart and come to comfort.
But I had a look around and didn’t see a soul.
Your ship can’t still find the inaccessible port.
My joy and your joy don’t go together,
My thoughts and your thoughts touch slightly.
My hand, your hand – they will meet never,
My dreams want to kiss your dreams lightly.
poem by Jolanta Gradowicz
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A last love poem
A last love poem
~
Breathless I lay sleep deprived
In a wonder of thoughts of you
Your beauty has imprisoned me
My heart subject to a fools fancy
You are there in my silent smile
Like a little glint in my eye
You’re the nervous feeling
That holds inside of me
That beautiful, beautiful dream
Were I to hold your hand
Your fingers held in my own
And lay silent beside you
Just looking face to face
Being lost in your eyes
Then falling for your smile
How I would love you
My thoughts are not my own
For they all belong to you
Now I have found to my own cost
That loving you hurts to much
So I shall try to say goodbye
The loss from my heart
Shall be lost from my mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Thinker
How long are my thoughts alive?
Only until they move on.For new ones enter my mind each day
and the old ones are gone.
The simpler the thought,
the longer the stay.
Complex thinking is not for me.
I simply push it away.
I wake up sleepy
with eyes still closed
but my mind comes alive with thought
and then I am exposed
to multiple thoughts that surface again
and I've not even started my day.
Sometimes I wish to be thought-free
but I know that's not my way.
For thinkers are edgy, never complete
until a thought's on their mind.
And so I've learned to accept these things
and let them slowly unwind.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Writings Of A Writer
When my life is in despair
Against the wall I stand
And out the window stare
Towards the soft clouds
That seem to drift over head
Then in my mind a thought
Buds and blooms into an inspiration
My hand reaches out for papers and pen
Then as thoughts materialize in my mind
Words to describe it become frequent
Then with pen in hand and paper against the wall
I begin to describe everything my mind saw
Things of beauty, things grotesque
Moments of happiness, moments of stress
All captured within an inspiration
After a moments thought
And put down on paper
As a poem, book or a song
After it has been manipulated into shape
Within all the tenderness it can get
The format is laid out and the final closing set
(date written unknown)
poem by David Harris
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Thoughts Whirling
The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind
poem by Persian Khushi
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Thoughts Whirling
The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen?
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind
poem by Persian Khushi
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Nothing
Nothing has entered my mind today,
nothing to write about.
When this happens I cringe in fear
that the words have all died out.
Surely, there must be something to say
that's just a thought away.
I'll sit patiently with pen in hand
and try to convey
how I feel when nothing comes to me.
My spirits get so low,
that all around me I feel cold
as the page stays white like snow.
Just one thought is all I need.
That's not too much to ask.
One little thought to contemplate
that I can take to task.
Aha! I've got one on my mind.
I'm no longer in doubt.
I shall write about nothing.
For there's nothing to write about.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Ode for Johnny Bravo
I don't know how to write an Ode
but you inspired my fingers to type.
I don't know who the hell you are
nor who the diapered baby with the arrow is
But I saw you around on Monday
and passed close to you on Tuesday
On Wednesday I almost crashed into your
Parked poem in lot number five
Thursday was strange, you were different
and on Friday you were back again
Saturday Poem by Bravo scares me
and on Sunday it melts me again
So, I just said to myself
This Johnny Guy deserves a poem
Not written by his own state of mind
And he'll probably laugh and say
Hey you, that poem sucks..
But I don't care about that,
I call it an Ode and so it is
On Valentine Day, he'll get his
usual applause from the unknown crowd
And the day after, drunk with fame
He'll just settle back and write
something different again and again
poem by Loreta Muskardin
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