Poems in my Heart
Some of my poems are not printed
Never spoken, never heard
In my memoirs only written
And to recite them is a sin
Pleasing to some, will hurt a few
Not recite them is best to do
Now in my heart they're deeply etched
My mind and thought could not erase
They will forever there exist
Until my time do them delete
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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These Poems These Songs This Beauty This Life
THESE POEMS THESE SONGS THIS BEAUTY THIS LIFE
These poems these songs this beauty this life-
All that I hear inside me
And have heard from others
Through years of listening-
All that I take with me inside
As if it were forever mine
The songs I have learned and love
The poems I recite in my soul
Without even trying to-
All this like the dust
Like the air
Will vanish when I go
And the song of my soul
Will be
As blank as the silence
Of a page never written on.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Very Long
To the children of the world
I'll recite a poem very long;
I'll sit down, end of song.
I'll recite a poem without end;
I will, till the end.
I'll recite a poem very long;
Now if you'll excuse me, so long!
I'll recite a poem without end;
I'll sit down, the end.
poem by Gilbert Pangyarihan
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Poems
Poems resemble little strains
of our childhood's distant past,
care to cry and smile with us,
when we feel them in the rain.
Poems are like little soldiers
ascending to a mountain high,
singing a longing ode to nigh,
of what our silences express.
Poems hurt your hands in cold,
as north winds blow in Winter,
inside to commence and linger,
when old acquaintances unfold.
When loved forms annunciate,
in verses that were kept pure,
and pictures our loves ensure,
in misty solitudes necessitate.
In poems words become drops,
a dispersed mizzle in October,
dormant are in a closed folder,
as we recite them on sea docks.
There with ocean foams explode,
carrying our childhood's dreams,
as all winds recite them to brims,
and to our wraiths that fly to bode.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Real Poems I Recite
I RECITE A REAL POEM
I recite a real Poem,
The Poems I write are something else-
My Deepest Soul
My most Ironic Self.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Best Beginning
the time for losing
is not a waste of time
the time for rethinking
is a chance for finding
what you have once written
you read again
there will be changes
something shall be erased
sometimes you pretend
that there is Nothing
Only to find what Everything
means what Someone really is
Churches fall into shatters
Governments are not that kind
Schools perhaps have mis-educated
a lot of us
We do not exist for the work alone
Or the money
We exist for the breathing and
the walking and the daily thinking
We perhaps must have miscalculated us
Our Potentials overlooked
Our Talents and Time all wasted
We perhaps have not known what Us mean
There is a time to erase and undo
This is the time to Unload and Delete
Tomorrow morning after a Nigh's
Good Sleep
We go back to the Basics
It is the Waking first and then
The Breathing
Then everything shall be new
Without any name at all.
That i think must be the Best
Beginning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On This Journey Recite Me A Poem
on this journey
recite me a poem
come closer to me
let me smell your
warm breaths
let me feel your
plump breasts
let me touch
you as you
recite the words
as i hear your song
let me be with you
on this journey
to your inner self
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Quiet Narrative On Romance
For love, we seek to find a way,
To leave and travel to another day.
And may that day bring some peace,
With a bunch of long-stems for the feast.
The feast is a means to escape,
The person whom you wish to drape.
Across the path from which you tread,
Better known as your bed.
Blood, red romance and suffocate me why?
For love is the means to make you fly.
Read and recite the great poems might,
The poet’s heart is for the fight.
Peace, time and free love,
Are the lovers past dove.
From whence you go, you’ll find a way,
To keep you heart and steal away.
For time is your guest, you’ll never know,
Your mind is forever on the go.
The peace of mind you seek,
Will eventually be yours to keep.
But this will take all of your soul,
So dig in deep just as a mole.
There will come a time,
When heart and all will be mine.
So when this time comes to pass,
Fear not, it will surpass.
All that is good and gone,
Will now be drawn upon.
To make and take the final stance,
You must cast your mind from romance!
poem by Graham D. Fandrich
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The Town Poets
They have the ticket draw for the football club
But never a poets hour at the local pub
'Twould seem that cricket and football are the in thing
And horse racing at the back end of the Spring
But of course the Town poets have their own poetry night
On saturday evenings at the bowling club rooms their poems they recite
The local lovers of poetry their night out enjoy
To watch local favourite poets such as Rina, Kate and Roy
Reciting their poetry and strutting their stuff
It cannot be said of them not quite good enough
Quite talented poets the tops of the Town
Young poets in their thirties who dream of renown
And recite their poems in the rooms of the bowling club
Whilst it's a different scene at the Town's biggest pub.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Prophet
Oh Prophet Muhammed
You are the dear one to me
There was always faith in you
And you made the people see
What an honest man you are
And you’ll always be the one
What a great heart you have
That shines like the sun
They have hurt you
And given you names
But as clearly as we all know
That these are terrible shames
They’ve even drawn pictures
And put a fake man
They’ve even written about you
As much as they possibly can
But who will believe in all of this
And who will claim that it is right
With gods grateful and powerful will
He’ll destroy all of their sight
Oh prophet we believe in you
And followed you along
Because your heart and your words
Will always stay where they belong
We love you oh dear prophet
While the birds flew
And after we recite your name
We say… Peace Be Upon You.
poem by Marria Attar
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Discovering Shakespeare
‘From you have I been absent in the spring.’
The words of Shakespeare have a truly lovely ring,
But, when I was younger, by his words, I was bored,
And his words, written on a page, by me, were ignored.
Now I’m older, I can see that his famous words,
Are actually among the loveliest I’ve ever heard.
Until recently, I couldn’t recite a Shakespeare speech,
But, slowly, line by line, myself, I did teach.
Of his work, I love the rhythm and rhyme,
As it makes it much easier to learn each line.
Being able to recite a short speech, I felt proud,
As I had never performed any of his work aloud.
I was really amazed at what I’d been able to achieve,
And now, from my mind, his words will never leave.
When I feel low, in my mind, his words I recall -
They lift my mood, just as I am about to fall.
I didn’t understand any of his stories before,
But with each day that passes, I’m learning more.
I now understand about the characters and the plots.
Over the last few months, I really have learnt a lot.
Helena from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream, ’
Is very like me in character, or so it seems:
She’s sensitive and cautious and likes to think things through,
And that description can pretty much be applied to me to!
Prior to my Shakespeare Bronze exam, I was full of fear,
But it proved to be one of the highlights of my entire year.
It’s been one of the best experiences of my life to date,
And to take my Shakespeare Silver exam, I just can’t wait.
If only Shakespeare was alive today, he would see
Just how much sheer joy he has managed to bring me.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Gratis Et Amore
for the poems that i have written
and which you read
by heart, i bless you with a prayer for luck
for another year
for the poems which i have not written yet,
i wish you a longer life, so you may read them
when they become finally written
for the poems i have in mind and which i will not write
i wish you patience i wish you some prayers
may these poems realize their worth
may they decide to become truths
with you i pray that God may be also kind
for those still unspoken
and may God bless your mind
may they open up like tight buds to become the flowers
of the world, the sun to warm them, the rain to shower them
may these poems live and linger
may they be like grass always unswerving to grow and cover everything
alive and loving.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Same folks poor audience
Some poets assembled to recite
Their poems among themselves.
Each read with utmost enthusiasm.
Back home, they put into bin others’
Same feathers flock as poor audience.
10.10.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The New Widow
Candle red as requiem
Words burn forever
Out the city door there is wings
Take your place on the stage
Find your face amidst the rage
Don Juan separates sex from love
Covered in silk consciousness
Hades waits like the prowling lion
Her lovers are masks
Her mirror of greedy self destruction
Now evening has come to the land
Everyone is living in a opium dance
Manipulated like a bouquet of roses
Her opaque smile like a barbiturate spell
She wants to be my horizon
The dead wait patiently for her kiss
Some can only chase and capture
Recite the angst dreams beneath the metallic
Recite the sphinx mind of morning’s pain
Recite your cryptic love like a bird in flight
You run from me like you run from life
Can love heal or is that a child’s rhyme?
Steal the attention like a Chloe of Paris
Who are you or is that question gone?
Her beauty is dark like a polished moon
Earth Goddess with spells like castles
No soul mate, no rings, no bridesmaids
Postmodern fragments desperate for sanctuary
Idols of Ashteroth’s wet incantations
Islands like severed dreams
Intimacy has left her conscious mind
Chasm of the soulless new women
I am something from the past
Autonomy replaces order
Religion of self
Freedom the relentless pursuit of pleasure
Black silk stockings with 6 inch heels
Heart cut off from the sea of Spirit
New myths of sexual fulfillment
New culture of genocide love
The moment like a monument of collapse
Pastels gone like a child’s first kiss
What hurt you so bad? Was it incest?
Was it rape? Was it unrequited love?
Thick make up dressed in black
The times bury the soul alive
Her arms of empty tombs
Her arms can never hold me
Like a new widow who has buried love
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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All Is Fair In Love and War
you're always on my mind.
your memory haunts me,
it hurts me inside.
You found your way to my heart,
you hurt me so deeply,
That everyday is tears me apart.
You found what you wanted,
You took what you could get.
I've put forth all my effort,
I gave you my best bet.
You act as I am nothing,
Yet I should give you my all.
This love really hurts,
It was a hard fall.
I want you forever,
I want to give you my best.
Yet I get nothing in return,
You make me feel like a pest.
You're only there when you need me,
And id never let you cry alone.
But I do just that every night,
Damn your heart is like a stone.
I've done all I could,
I've given it my best.
I sure as hell can say,
You've really put me to the test.
Now I'll just walk away with my A plus,
And let you hurt over the rest.
P.S.-
Maybe after some time,
You'll look over this rhyme,
And see that all is fair in love and war,
Then you'll hurt alittle more.
poem by Lover Girl
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0047 Ode to the Goddess of Punctuation
I sing of punctuation....'What? ', you say,
'I've never heard a sonnet on that theme! ';
and thus this modest goddess, clothed in grace,
performs her holy task; unheard, unseen,
except in trivial printed marks (- like this -)
punctilious editors put in - or erase;
yet, she's the Sherpa to the mind's high bliss
who leads our thoughts to peaks of silent praise;
immortal consort of the god of speech,
handmaid of mind, bestowing measured pause
between each thought; their silent truth to reach
by resting mind in mind's divine true cause.
O worship her, her power so great and blest,
whose shortest silence, wildest mind may rest!
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Poem Is Always With Me
THE POEM IS ALWAYS WITH ME
The poem is always with me
It waits inside.
And when it wants to be heard
It asks me to write it down.
Sometimes I say it,
Sometimes I hear it within myself silently,
Sometimes it goes away
When I go elsewhere for a while.
The poem is always in me
But sometimes it goes away
And is lost forever.
How many poems have I lost?
And how many poems have I never written down
That I should have?
And how many times have I written down
What is not a poem for anyone,
Except for the one who seems to need
A poem inside
All the time
So much?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Is Restless In Me
THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME
The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts
Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.
poem by Francis Duggan
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