Woken From My Sleep
I awoke in the early hours,
between one and half past four.
My poet head was back again,
and I wrote like never before.
Page after page was covered,
paper was strewn everywhere.
Even though I felt exhausted
my mind didn't seem to care.
I thought my head had finished
and so returned to my bed,
but when I touched the pillow
sentences again filled my head.
I went back into the spare room
and penned as fast as I could.
My bed pulled after each poem
so I returned like all poets should.
In the end my mind became weary,
it repeated line after line.
Counting sheep was very similar,
it was definitely sleeping time.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Blank Page
Blank page leave me be!
Blank page please stop taunting me,
reminding me of what I have failed to do.
Oh how I long to fill you,
to take up your very last line
with creative, riveting lyrics of mine.
Blank page stop harassing me!
I wish to show you my thoughts,
desires, emotions and all.
How difficult it is to answer your call.
Blank page how sweetly you whisper
tempting my pen to caress your paper.
I immaturely expect the verses to flow
then I realize that my thoughts are much too slow.
Blank page so often you defeat me
teasing and challenging until hours later
all that is left is the tiny dot
where my pen merely touched your paper.
poem by Shaqueena Celestin
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The poetess, the moon...and the woods Pt1
A tear traced a path on her cheek in the moonlight
As her lips brushed the brow of her sleeping child
She stood still for a moment, with eyes closed tightly
Corners of lips pulled up… in a winsome smile
Strode heavily to the open window
stared out into the woods, soft lit by the moon
Then with a sigh pulled down the window
And quietly tiptoed out of the room
Glanced in at her husband, long asleep in their bed
And in her mind gave him a kiss on the top of his head
Then sat at her desk and finished her poem
Sat back and reviewed it… one last time
It was about her life… and about her home
And about the glow of the woods in the moonshine
She nodded her head… as if in agreement
With the words that she had carefully, composed
Her finger touched “enter” with determined intent
Then her whole body slumped in repose
From the corners of her eyes, she saw the moon rise
Oe’r the woods from out of her window
A teardropp fell softly to her desk as she stood
And walked through the door for the very last time
She looked up at the moon and then strode into the woods
She had posted her last poem…her very last rhyme
poem by David Whalen
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From A Poet To A Poem
From a poet to a poem
These hands performed artistic ink work
So delicate and flexible like a plastic fork
From a poet to a poem
These hands deciphers my mistress inner beauty
And her magical physical appearance
With these hands her intellect was portrayed
While the tears of ink resembles
The gentle flow of her tender, love and care
From a poet to a poem
Through the work of my hand,
The notion of love from the top of my head
Is wandering amid the lines of my page
From a poet to a poem
A heart to a page,
From emotional to physical
Hands made it possible
And now she knows
That through these hands I'll continue to love,
Care, speak and embrace her
poem by Leonard Webber
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No Poem In Here
this is a blank space reserved for an obituary of a dead poem
prose claims a space though in another glossy page.
plese turn to the next page
those non-poets like me please transfer to another room
this place is for dead poems for those who killed living poems this page this space is reserved for all of them.
we non-poets are moving out to another empty page
about to be added, if you can wait, mr. poet...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gagged
upon this page
a very important poem is
written
but the writer
fears
that it is not appropriate
for all of you
and so this page
was once
a place of that very important poem
that could have
changed the lives of some
lonely people
said poem
is deleted
it is inside my head
and it is
screaming.
it is a bad poem
claiming its own importance
if you know
conceit, pride, bias,
if you were once its servant
then you also have
that poem
in your head
it is screaming
and so i gag it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Little You & I
words by jason mraz & ariel quirolo
music by jason mraz
you close your eyes
you say goodnight in your own special way
you rest your head and you rest your mind
and there you go
there you go so fast, so fast asleep
there you are without a care when or where
but there you are I swear without a care where it is you lay
spiraling spaces tangled up in moments of touching time
trying to find some somewhere sleeping sideways
pockets full of nothing, head exploding from the mind
too much time for dancing in our hair
sister don't be shy between little you and I
mouths in line, tears beside
and we're gonna weep in between the sleep
until we float away into broken promises
too much too hard to keep
and we would sell our souls to the devil if he promised us hell
it's something we already know so well
and it's right on, right on the tip of our tongue
something big that has already begun
(something dead but not quite numb)
and I'm singing it
mouths in line, tears beside
and we're gonna weep in between the sleep
until we float away into broken promises
too much too hard to keep
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Outta Your Head
All the way back in history
how the girl thinks is a mystery
spent our lives cruising the bars
venus girls and the men from mars
So in all this time did you ever think do the girls sees red
when a man sees pink
and your best lovin is in the past and cause somewhere slow is nowhere fast
Your Outta your head
so out of your head
stay out of your head...
your out of your head
so out of your head
bricka bracka firecracker sis boom bah
here comes trouble in a push up bra
his style is sharp as a coffin tack
but out of your box and your way off track
your a mile away on a mental binge
your catasphrophe is of a lunatic fringe
your still put together its tit for tat
you say its all good but its more than that
Your Outta your head
so out of your head
stay out of your head.........
No out of your head
so out of your head
stay out of your head
So in all this time did you ever think think think think
Your Outta your head
so out of your head
stay out of your head.........
No out of your head
so out of your head
stay out of your head
song performed by by Abba
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Head
My head is 'whirring',
A poem is 'stirring',
Inside my mind
Which is resigned
To producing nothing
Except some 'cussing'.
My head is 'clanging',
A poem is 'hanging',
In mid-air somewhere,
And Oh, I do care
To get it out.
Without a doubt!
My head is 'lifting',
A poem is 'shifting'
About, and ready
To come out steady,
And with some luck,
Will not get 'stuck'!
My head is 'clearing',
A poem is 'nearing'
Completion now,
And now somehow,
I feel a conclusion
Is no longer an 'illusion'.
My head is 'delighting'
A poem is in 'writing',
Clearly written,
And now I am 'smitten'
With composing again.
Can I be 'SANE'! .
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0009 Favorite Poem
and you can’t remember much
about the first time you read it except
that it held you to the end, but most of all
this one line, which seemed to hold
the key to the whole poem
as if you were opening the closet of your mind
to bring out something which you knew was there
but instead something way at the back
called to you and you remembered
a moment from way back you thought
you had forgotten
and then you read the poem again
in company with the poet and
yes that’s it, and the two of you
became friends for life, almost
related.
So, now you’ve read all their poems,
feel some more than others but
as if you wrote them all in the same room
where you read them together
and you wait for their new book with
a sorta family pride
and like family,
you leave the poems for a spell,
grow up a little, then
come back to visit -
they mean more;
can it be,
you've both grown?
each time you come back to them
you carry them more close to you
in fact you feel that you could write
poems very much like theirs
as if you’d inherited, too,
the family gift
and though you wouldn’t of course
seek them out in person except
in a reading where you’d
have to share their warmth
with the rest of their extended family
but not say much since
you are a, well, close relative,
if you happened to be driving a route
not far from them, you’d detour,
park a little distance from their house,
but have it in your sight,
hope you might catch a movement,
wait a few minutes, then
start the car with almost a sigh
half relieved that you didn’t have to try
on their cautiously polite doorstep
to find words to say
you love them in their words,
which you almost wrote together,
lived them together;
love them like life itself,
love them
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Adrian (feat. Elvis Costello)
Adrian - don't you understand?
Fools like us are always dreaming.
And when you go to bed
And cover up your head
It's better if you try to stop remembering.
And the world is slowly dawning
To wake up to a new clear morning.
Some of them just half your age
Get written off, page by page...
Adrian don't you understand?
Fools like us are always dreaming.
And when you go to bed
And cover up your head
It's better if you try to stop remembering.
Some of them just half your age
Get written off page by page...
And the world is softly sleeping
While your fears are in their keeping.
All the planet's making haste
To blow to bits in outer space...
Adrian - don't you understand
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bedtime Story
It was just after midnight and I’d been reading in bed for an hour
when a sweet sickly smell wafted in, which turned horribly sour.
Cursing, I got out of bed and opened the window some more,
which seemed to cause a draft that slammed shut the door.
I reopened the door much wider this time and returned to my bed,
a draught blew the pages losing the place to where I’d read.
The temperature dropped so I again got out of bed and closed the door,
and also the window slightly, but it was still cold, so I closed it more.
Large goose bumps formed along my arms as I got back into bed,
I picked up the book and tried to find the last page that I’d read.
It was warmer now, but I still pulled the covers up to my chest;
I found my page and carried on reading with keen interest.
The atmosphere in the room seemed somehow unusual and strange
with an unpleasant smell and sudden coldness change.
Above the top of my page I saw a movement at the foot of the bed
and I saw someone standing there, so I raised my head.
The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened and sent a shiver down my spine,
for a second I was speechless; it was an apparition the colour of lime.
Motionless he just stood with his face towards the floor with nothing to say,
his lifeless body sagged wearing a worn out coat that had seen a better day.
“Who the Dickens are you and what do you want? ” I nervously said.
He stared straight through me when he slowly raised his head.
His aged gaunt tired face seemed to stare far beyond my body,
so I turned to see, but there was only the wall behind me.
“Why don’t you answer me, ” I said, “are you unable to speak? ”
Then with a voice that was deep and certainly not meek,
said, “Oh yes I can speak when and if it suits me to,
but what makes you think that I want to speak with you? ”
“Well excuse me, you came into my room and stood by my bed
and you looked as though something just ought to be said.”
“You don’t mean anything to me, I didn’t even notice you
until you broke my spiritual flow, like all you living do.
I don’t think you living realise that restless spirits come and go,
we roam the dead space of time just as the four winds blow.
We didn’t ask to be here, abandoned to wander forever more,
we’re trapped and forgotten spirits behind heaven’s door.
And don’t bother to ask me how I got here because I don’t know,
I never harmed anyone when I was alive and that is truly so.
I freely admit that some of the spirits have become evil and sour
and like the living, insanity becomes worse by the hour.
You the living remind us of how it was when we were there,
but we are enraged by the many who abuse and don’t care.
It is possible that you could end up here in this dead space,
and then with me you’ll be wearing my kind of face.”
As I was about to ask a question he quickly faded out of sight,
the smell and coldness went with him into the night.
I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I know it’s true
and perhaps one day a similar experience might happen to you.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Goodnight And Goodmorning!
I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW!
We just spoke a while ago.
I can't tread alone.
I'm as bare as
an autum tree
Oh my love
keep me warm.
My love burns
Eternitly!
Good night my love...
Now, rest your weary head on my poetic pillow
Love
Almedia
I wrote this poem after my love returned from a 24-hour trip [November 15-16th]
And his response the following morning: I ‘ll title it "Goodmorning"
I remember that you quoted some beautiful feelings to me last night. Thank you for putting them in writing for me.
You know
I know
We know
Love is what we know
That is all we need to know.
My poet Lover,
Claude
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the spirit of Rumi - 67 - To Rumi
I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…
or if that’s too much to ask,
just a line somewhere, that I’ll watch
as it writes itself and know
that you, not I, write it
or if that’s too much to ask,
open an old book at
a page that smells just faintly
of attar of roses, and know that
Rumi read this page too
or sitting quietly waiting for a poem,
or after a poem, and there’ll be
a slight breeze for a moment
carrying the memory of a rose
from an old Persian species
mixed with the faintest scent of wild herbs
after desert rain
or if that’s too much to ask,
just the occasional memory
that you lived, and wrote,
and a poem comes to mind
as if you’re reading it first to a friend
and I’ll smile and look at
the rose in the blue and white vase over there,
neither of us caring about time
while your book lies open by the window,
the breeze turning the pages gently
as if it knew which poem to choose
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Downed
Words and music by rick nielsen
Downed, downed out of my head
round, round out of my head
Im gonna live on a mountain
Way down under in australia
Its either that or suicide
Its such a strange strain on you
Ooh, I got a mind
Over you its not the first time
Ooh, I got a mind
Rainbows crawling on a midday sun
But Ive been lucky youre the only one
Sundays calling, youll be number one
Its such a strange strain on you
Ooh, you think of jesus christ
You walk on water but dont bet your life, oh no
All you walk is a fine line
Its such a strange strain on you
Downed, downed out of my head
round, round out of my head
Too many people want to save the world
Another problem is it a boy or girl
Some say the weekend is the only world
Its such a strange strain on you
Ooh, Ive got a mind
Over you its not the first time
All you walk is a fine line
Its such a strange strain on you
Downed, downed out of my head
round, round out of my head
Downed, downed out of my head
round, round out of my head
(repeat to coda)
song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Adrian
Adrian - dont you understand?
Fools like us are always dreaming.
And when you go to bed
And cover up your head
Its better if you try to stop remembering.
And the world is slowly dawning
To wake up to a new clear morning.
Some of them just half your age
Get written off, page by page...
Adrian dont you understand?
Fools like us are always dreaming.
And when you go to bed
And cover up your head
Its better if you try to stop remembering.
Some of them just half your age
Get written off page by page...
And the world is softly sleeping
While your fears are in their keeping.
All the planets making haste
To blow to bits in outer space...
Adrian - dont you understand?
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem Without A First Line
for no real poem has a first line
any more than a real book
has a first page
it comes out of a dark lost forest
or a bright unknowing cloud
or an unbearable pain
so unbearable that even
if you wrote the poem on a piece of paper
and threw the paper away
it would ease the pain
or a childhood so miserable
that only a complete change of life
could recognise one single beautiful thought
or an astonishing moment
when you knelt and prayed
for the first time in your life
to a god you did not know
with words you did not understand
for they were not even words
or the moment when all the horror of the world
faced all the love and beauty in the world
and both were so taken aback
that they could only embrace
and later, speak
or a nowhere and a nothing
so stark that only poetry
without a first line
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetic tips — but read my lips
A piece gets writ not ere ‘tis penned,
Poorly or well, hailed or hollered,
To have tried is not to have sinned.
A good one gets born from no good,
Poorly penned better is than no poem,
Get started, fodder is someone's fond food.
A poet, howso good or great,
Has poor poems writ sans number,
Without one, no'ne can a good one create.
It sure does help— a theme of some heft—
Love always is as is death, destiny,
The canvas vast is; nothing need be left.
And yet beware, heftier a theme,
Deeper does lie the devil in details,
What surfaces from bottom is fine cream.
Let not thine pen every nut, bolt explain,
Go ‘head, say what ye do want to say,
Let readers weigh thine labour's pain.
Poetic forms a mere walking aid is,
But learn to walk with and without,
Discard as shackles— soon ere they seize.
A poet does not pen, paints an image
That walks a mile when words weaken,
And wobble O with years of age.
As poet, thou hast a heart thine own,
And it aches unlike any,
Only heads reap seeds by self sown.
A piece with no title to head,
Much like a nameless lost child is,
Lazily fathered, dies when not yet dead.
A poem needs but a thought, a pen,
A blank paper to paint,
But milieu a good Muse is— eight of ten.
Retire to woods, any a place is good,
Let pursuits creative be heart o'er head,
Create an island of solitude.
Even a limerick, dirty or dull,
A good fun is, as good a try,
Dangerous is a longish lull.
One perfect line in a long spell
Though makes it well worth a while,
It makes the rest stand out as hell.
Kiss not away the worst of thine shame,
Nor keep private demons off the page,
Keep an honest pen within prime frame,
And send thine babes to open world
O to put head and heart to test,
Cage is no place for a free bird.
Poetic lines oft do easy flow,
Putting every pea in a perfect pod,
Slog nor struggle, shame's not too slow.
If not a good one, nor e'er great,
Each can a better poet be,
Heed not thine head; let heart ‘lone let.
No promenade on a paved way,
A poem is new path to explore,
O not for long on it to stay!
poem by Aniruddha Pathak (2011)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pooh Bear learns about Enjambment
Pooh liked Autumn. Autumn means walking with a scarf round your neck and sometimes seeing your breath in the air like a silent conversation, and wet leaves underfoot and twigs going crackle or sometimes crack! which can be scary if you aren't holding CR's hand.
So here they are, walking together paw-in-hand down the path in Hundred-Acre Wood, and Pooh is humming a happy hum with words looking for it, rather like inquisitive flies that don't quite land on you, wondering if they should stay or not, and how the other flies feel if two of them land together...
'CR..' said Pooh, 'What's en-jamb-ment? ' It sounded like what happens when a wasp gets stuck in a honey jar, or perhaps a marmalade jar.
'That's a long word, Pooh...' said CR, wondering how to explain to a Bear Of Little Brain Yet Poetically Gifted, in the easiest way, when you're not too sure yourself...
'Well...' said CR at last, 'you don't really need it, Pooh, because your Hums all finish each line with a rhyme - so everyone knows just where they are....but suppose you get to the end of a line, and the line looks around like Eeyore does after a big mouthful of juicy autumn grass, and it can't see another line that wants to pair with it in a friendly rhyme.... then if you let it just go on being by itself - like Eeyore - and it's happy to be that way, if occasionally grumbly about it - that's called 'free verse'.
'So then you can just go on and on without thinking about when to stop... but then if you write it down so that other people can read it without getting out of breath, what 'free verse poets' do is like turning over the page of a book and wondering what's coming - like, is there a scary illustration on the next page, or a Surprise, or only a few lines and THE END - what these poets do, is to treat the lines the same way as pages, so that at the end of each line, you wonder a little bit more than usual, what's coming in the next line... instead of yawning and wondering if it's time for A Little Something...'
'I see..' said Pooh, in the way you do when you're a Very Polite Bear but don't really see, not yet anyway...
Then he remembered that poem by Rupert Somebody that CR had told him was an Extended Metaphor, which had that memorable line which the Poetic Bear could have written himself: '...and is there hunny still for tea? ...' though of course Pooh was always careful, himself, to have a line of hunnypots up there where you could see that the future was golden and hunny-coloured...
'CR...' said Pooh in that happy feeling when the brain seems to sorting things out for you, '...so if you wrote carefully in a book, '... and is there hunny still for tea? ...' you could write it with the first line
...and is there...
and people would wonder what you were going to ask them... or
...and is there hunny...
and they'd wonder, what you were asking about hunny; or
... and is there hunny still...
and they might be suddenly worried that the hunny had run out; or just
...and is there hunny still for tea?
which tells them exactly what you're thinking without making them think too much? '
'Exactly! ' said CR (though it sounded more 'exackly' because he was happy and excited) ' You really are a Poetic Bear, Pooh! '
And he squeezed Pooh's paw in a Specially Friendly fashion, and a hunny-coloured glow filled Pooh, as one more Useful Thing about Poetry was put into place...
And as they returned home for a Little Something, Pooh was humming a hum with words flying curiously around it, which would be his first Free Verse Hum With Enjambment which grown-up poets would read with that little extra interest, as they came to the end of each line, and know that it was written by W.Edward Bear Esquire, Poet...
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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