All Homeward Bound...
there is a poem that looks like a map
the syllables are trails
and there is a word that sounds so
striking
and you equate it with the 'x'
where the treasure
is supposedly found
and you keep it in your mind
always figuring
'x'
'x'
'x'
what is really 'x'?
as a treasure you mistake it for
the usual gold,
the usual finds that pirates steal from ships
and keep in secret places
sometimes under the sea
sometimes in the desert but the marking
of the cactus is gone
the poem has a lot of them
but do not be disappointed
for i am no pirate
i steal none from innocent ships
no galleons
nothing about search and visit stuff
in fact, it is not a map at all
it is a park where children play
and where we figure out what next to do
we wait for a while and then we go
yes, to home.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pondering Pirates
PONDERING PIRATES
Edward Iacona
There has remained a fascination
That has lasted through the years,
Of pirates, ships and the treasures
Of those adventurous buccaneers.
It is very obvious in these times
That pirates are still quite popular
In films and books and games and such
But not the real ones in Somalia.
We also pay them homage
With 'Talk Like a Pirate Day'
So salt yer speech me hearties
And add 'Arrgh' to what you say.
There are pirate costumes for Halloween
Some will buy them and some will make them.
But a real pirate would not ask for treats
He'd just threaten you and take them.
There are the Pittsburgh Pirates
And to further what my case is.
What could those pirates possibly steal
Except for a couple of bases.
There are Neuveau Pirates of today
That have no need to prowl the seas.
They can be found in the local laundromat
Selling inexpensive DVD's
Still some laud the life of pirates,
They will act so and admire it
What always puzzles me is that,
Why do they desire it?
Back in the day a real pirate
Had not much which to aspire;
Rare promotions, no paid benefits
And no security on which to retire.
For all the riches that they stole
Which was a considerable pile
What good did it really do them?
I don't think it changed their life style.
Yet thoughts of pirates still surround us
Be they fiction, real or on a line of scrimmage.
But, no matter how one thinks of them,
It took Disney to change their image.
poem by Edward Iacona
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When we were primary school children
When we were primary school children
my mother read treasure island to us
and I could see long John Silver,
walking nearer without a leg
and the tumultuous sea
and pirates
and their treasure
stayed long with me.
At school we daily played with marbles
and performed tricks with yo-yos
and bragged about our pigeons
and between rugby and cricket
and friends and the girls
life performed daily miracles.
Today that world
is long gone
and if children steal fruit
or play rough
like children do,
the police are called in
to investigate something
immaterially small
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Night When My Poem Was Stolen
that night when my poem was stolen
i looked up the sky and saw
the moon smiling and the stars winking
more beautifully than before
and i was wondering
the change
something must be special
about what i told them
my poem was stolen
the wind was in a hurry leaving
a message that i should have been angry
and should have reacted
the way other poets do
report the matter to the authorities
and file the charge
of intellectual thievery
i could have reacted like an angry man
deprived of a priced possession
but on the other hand
i, go beyond what others think,
i could be more kind
and understanding and more compassionate
to thieves
i ask: does he like the poem? does he love it
so as to steal it?
will he sell it? will he keep it throughout his life
and treasure it the way i treasure it too?
in the last analysis, that poem is not really mine too
it is God given, a gift during another birthday of
emptiness, another day of loneliness
and in fact, the poem was about a black rose
unfolding its petals on a very dark night
and then coming out of a crevice from
a deserted building and then found a way
to bloom one morning
but darker still....
all my poems, anyway, are written for someone
or anybody out there, lurking in the dark, looking for an opening,
wanting to drink the coming light of day, searching for their angels
of light and freedom and happiness
well, that poem that was stolen, could be intended
or meant for the thief, and so, i have come to the conclusion
that i might as well, finally,
give it to him
or her, i don't even know who that shadow was,
there was simply this shadow fading in the ward.
that poem now shall be my gift to whoever shall have it
in the future
i think, i know, how it feels now, to really give, even if it hurts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Those who steal from private individuals spend their lives in stocks and chains, those who steal from the public treasure go dressed in gold and purple.
quote by Cato the Elder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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on the 26th of July
i will have a room
at the Waterfront Hotel
Room 302
i will be alone
and will not
tell you
that i am there
it will be a big surprise
for you
unless you read this poem
today
there is a promise
in my words
each syllable has
desire
this poem shall be
a poem of passion
for us
this poem shall
not lie
this poem shall wait
for you
this poem shall
give you
so much pleasure
i have taken
already the element
of pain
and disgust
this poem shall see you
and you shall
not be disappointed again
yes, davao on a big day for just the two of us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jonas Psalter
Written by dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by james young
When captain jonas psalter
Sailed his ship to sea
Anne bonny kept him company
The skull and crossbones flew
Above the ocean blue
The captains men where a pirates crew
The ships they sought to take
Were of the spanish main
A gift from ferdinand of spain
And though you rob and kill to find your dream
Your crimes are hardly what they seem
Tortuga held the treasure of a thousand kings
So jonas planned to steal everything
Two hundred men stood guard
Around the fortunes nest
But psalters steel slew all the rest
And when the smoke had cleared
And bloody bodies lay
Everyone could hear the minstrel play
Woo woo jonas psalter
Youve captured every prize
There is to dream of in one life
And so we wonder why
We found you in your bed
With that bullet in your head
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem Writes Itself
A poem writes itself
I merely follow
As it leads me
through the shadows
A poem seeks itself
And the light
I'll surrender …I write
A poem finds a way to be heard-
I try to remember each word from my
mouth to my ears to my hands
Then, to the world's
A poem finds a voice
I become, pen and paper
A poem makes a choice
I, the ghostwriter
poem by Sonya Florentino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Story Of A Search For A Poem
A man went in search of a Poem
He searched everywhere he walked
He searched inside himself
He searched inside the poems of others
He searched and searched -
And what came to him were fragments of many poems
And he thought perhaps that they themselves were the poem
But they refused to be satisfied with themselves-
So he searched for a way to put them together-
But in searching came upon more fragments
With each new fragment totally re-ordering those that had gone before-
So he thought ‘I went looking for one poem but found many
Perhaps there are only many poems’
And he began to write them down
And felt at times that he had found many poems
But always too he knew he had not found the one-
So he searched and searched again
And could not find the Poem-
He is still searching
And does not know where the poem is
Sometimes he thinks it is hidden in the many already written
But he does not have the eye to discern it the heart to feel it-
He now is surrounded by poems-
They are everywhere-
But he still cannot find the One Poem which is the Poem for him
The Poem which is his Poem and his Poem alone-
He says he is still searching and will search to the end of his days
But he is old now and soon may be too weak to search
And so the Poem he seeks the one he has longed for all his life
May never be found
Though he goes on searching still.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do Not Steal
Do not steal another’s name;
Do not steal your neighbor’s fame;
Do not steal next person’s house;
Do not steal someone’s spouse.
Do not steal one’s money;
Do not steal someone’s honey;
Do not steal other’s labor;
Do not steal things from neighbor.
Do not steal another’s job;
Do not steal from poorer mob;
Do not steal next man’s limelight;
Do not steal another’s might.
Do not steal another’s health;
Do not steal your neighbor’s wealth.
Do not steal next person’s praise;
Do not steal from human race.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-20-2008
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Pirate Hooks
My craving lands like a pirate horde
grappling onto my fleeing ship
swinging on ropes
til they board
in critical numbers
large enough
to overwhelm
my resistance.
They all have the same face
and while my sword is sharp and swift
I'm soon overcome by desire mixed
as pirate laughter rings
throughout my ship
reminding me of what
I like about pirates
and their lust.
For pirates
live on the edge,
laugh low in the guttural throat
they shiver my timbers;
my attraction bursts.
They make me love the pirate life;
unsafe
and a little rough;
but trading off there
smothering boredom
and life freed
from correct complacencies.
Humm.
Who has not inside
a secret pirate heart?
Who would not like to swoop down
and grapple life from stilled ships
and drifting hulks, startle complacent faces
and make off with Life's Treasures?
Who would not choose
life over death?
My Hearty?
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death, Is A Pirate...
Death, Is A Pirate
Who, Plunders Our Treasure
In Stolen Lives
And Grief, Without Measure
Death, Raids The Waters
Of All Humankind
Death, Is The Thief
Who Treads Our Time
His Cannonballs Blast
Dreams To Oblivion
His Skull and Crossbones
Raze Horizons
Death, Sails The Seas
Of All Mortal Beings
The Dreaded Sea King’s
Patch-Eye … Is Seeking
And Boot-Leg To Loot
Our Lagoons Of Love
Death Is Looking To Fill
His Deadman’s Chest Of:
... Gems Of Light
Jewels Of Laughter
The Family’s Gold and Silver …
Death, Is After
Death’s Salty Water
Crusts Our Ships’ Hold
Anchors Our Hopes
Plunge Cutlass To Souls
… Divides ill-gotten-gains
With Greedy Hands
As His Shipwreck Spoil
Reach No- Man’s-Land
Death, Is A Pirate
Who Takes Great Pleasure
To Turn Our Riches
Into Buried Treasure
But An Admiral Of Mercy
With The Flag Of The Son! ….
Will Blow Death’s Fleet
To Kingdom Come!
And Barricade Stronghold
With A Mighty Command
To Unearth The Wealth
Of The Lost Treasure Island
* * *
Death, As A Pirate
Was Put To Rest
By The Almighty Admiral
His Name, We Bless
Written & ©: 5/24/10
By: The MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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On The Lam
‘I'm going away today, ' he said,
‘I'm going away for good! '
We looked at his suitcase, neatly packed,
‘We don't really think you should! '
‘It doesn't matter a fig to me
Whatever you want me to,
I said that I'm going away, I did,
And that's what I'm going to do.'
The wife looked beat, admitted defeat,
And stalked back into the house,
While I sat down on the garden wall
And stomped on the odd wood louse.
‘So where do you think you'll spend the night
When it comes to the end of the day,
When the Moon comes up and the lights go out
And the Wolves begin to bay? '
He sulked, ‘I'll be on a pirate ship,
With Long John What's-is-name,
I'll sit right up in the Crows Nest
Spotting the ships on the Spanish Main.'
‘But what if a cannonball takes your leg
And chops it off at the knee,
They've got no doctors on pirate ships
Out in that terrible sea.'
‘Well, maybe I won't, ' he faltered,
Maybe I'll go to the Hemlock Inn,
And sup on the stuff that pirates sup
And get me a mug of gin! '
‘I think it's rum that you're thinking of,
And that's some terrible stuff,
It causes your head to twirl and spin
‘Til your ears come falling off.'
‘I'll ride on a double-decker bus,
I'll do what I want to do,
Nothing you say will change my mind
I'm not going to live with you! '
‘That's sad, I'll just have to eat them all,
Those humbugs up in the jar,
And the fairy cakes that your mother makes
While I'm looking up at the stars.'
‘That's it, I'm going away, ' he said,
‘I'm taking off on the Lam.'
‘Be careful the police don't pick you up,
They turn little boys to jam! '
He headed off to the first Lamp Post,
Then stopped, and swivelled to see,
If I was following with my eyes,
But I'd turned my gaze to a tree.
He took another few faltering steps,
Then turned and wandered back home,
‘I thought I'd stay for the fairy cakes,
I'm not quite ready to roam.'
The dog came out and he bounded up
And they played around on the lawn,
I called out, ‘Mother, the pirate's back,
His ship was lost in a storm! '
30 November 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is Not A Confessionam Poem
This is not a confessional poem
I confess that I have written this
Not a romantic poem
Under the watch of the archangel of Blake’s vision
A l=a=n=g=u=a=g=e= p=o=e=m=
A loaf Of poem a gallon Of words a pint Of letters
A so-so go for broke poem
So so son and so said
An acrostic poem
None near Aim to be called
Mindfully toward the Eternity of the thing
An epitaph poem
He lays David E. Patton
Never one to believe in heaven
So when he dies he did spy
A free verse poem
A sonnet poem
A know it all poem for the masses
This is not a minute poem
A didactic poem
A tongue poem
A villanelle poem
A sestina poem
An epic poem
A quinzaine poem
A rondelet poem
This is not a rondel poem
A cascade poem
A trijan refrain poem
A tanka poem
A taridet poem
A quatrain poem
If I lie this is not a list poem
To pin upon the sky
Set before the poet’s eye
I confess that I have written this
But this is not written to deceived anything but what is desired by the greediness of the eyes
This is not the growth of breath focused on the words with their mindful meaning stalled by the stack of sounds held in the syllables
This is not a sijo poem from the land of the morning calm
I confess that I know not what this is but all that it is not of what it would be forgot in the mispronounced want of the bony wants of the skin bag of my self
This is not the not of a poem trying to be born from the keyboard’s click and the memory of my hands
This is not an every man poem to understand it dose not caters to the common man
This is not a poem about Gods caught up in my mentioning of them they have taken their holy toys and gone home till the kingdom will come only the prelists priests are left to protest their secret order for getting into a heaven where nothing changes nothing like the rot of earth that feed upon the rotting of the living
This is not a this is not poem all that I have said can be washed away with the rain of your brain this poem can not save can not heal can not trill you into action
This is not a solitary crowed poem a cut-up poem feeding off itself
I have written it but it will not tell me what kind of poem it seem to be
This is not a poem to make you rough or pure or proud or increate your intellect to beguile the world with its new found wisdom
This is not a poem to set you free from the common drudgery of your day to day life it can not fend or feed you with the not of its substance can not set you to dance naked beneath the full moon can not fill you up with the pleasure of the pen
This is not a poem that seeks to befriend it has no mouth to consume you no hands to caress you no tongue to lick the words from your tears
This is not a haiku poem
A testimonial poem
A neither Ballard nor ballade
A limerick an ode nor sonnet
A terza rima
A villanelle a terzanelle or pantoum
This poem can not go on forever it finds its not end in your mind the time is spent and I believe that this is not the end of this poem
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fleeting Mind
The brilliance of my fleeting mind
Chimes like voices in foreign caves
It chimes in time - takes me where Im going
Alone my fleeting mind is knowing
Believe it when I pin it down
And thats not hard to forget
With my hands upon my knees
You will steal from my fleeting mind
Remember all our words they are just smoke rings in the rain:
Thats just a poem in brilliant places
But poets, they are too grim
They steal like party thieves from crowded rooms
To rhyme their homes with better places
The brilliance of their minds
Will seek with never knowing
Alone my fleeting mind is knowing
Believe it when I pin it down
And thats not hard to forget
With my thought like sifting leaves
I believe in my fleeting mind.
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm board
A poem is being written,
I'm writing it because I'm board.
You shouldn't awe-stricken,
in fact this poem should be ignored.
This poem has no purpose,
other than to waste time.
Like the word carboxymethecellulose,
or the word cryptocrystalline.
I could probably do something more interesting,
as I'm just screwing around.
Though writing a poem is quite addicting,
and a better waste of time could not be found.
poem by John Gleeson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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