En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Always Moving On

the past
is just a set of some
grammatical errors
which i do not
wish to correct
because they are understood
to mean
what you think
too is right
but is too tired to
comment
or change

one does not have
the time to go
back and
fret and
edit
because there is so much
to write
to put into the concrete pavements
once again
to choose and
discard
to begin again a new
sentence
putting the first word on
paper
bulbs lighting
a new day
sun rising from the
east
and then suddenly
as you look again
on the screen
and look out to the
window
it is another sunset
and it is
too beautiful to speak
or write

there is no jutting down now
it is just plain
gazing
your hands on the table
all pens up
and you surrender to
such ending

it is too beautiful to behold
and then
at night some other dreams

let the letters then
reorganize themselves
let the errors
reorder what should have been
or
ought to be

now i am moving again
into another depth
another milestone

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A beautiful thing called YOU

How to write about a beautiful piece of God’s writing
I mean what is there to edit?
Did God leave room for improvement
Oh I see, he did leave some for comment
And praise and Glory to value

A Beautiful thing called you
Unmatched in splendor

A beautiful thing named you
That only God` s description could equal the importance

A beautiful thing called you
That only the angelic can understand

A beautiful thing called you
Whose creation was inspired by the divine

A beautiful thing called you
That the universe handles with care

A beautiful thing called you
Whose shape was sculpted by His own word

A beautiful thing called you

How do I begin to describe it
Is it by letter
Oh I see holding it is better
How do I own it
To praise the glory and the value

A beautiful thing called you
Oh I see, God knows better
The value the Glory and the praise

No, He revealed it to me
But still I cant
Bear the praise the value and the glory
That flows from those eyes
The ear the nose and the belly

I looked through the key hole to see the sky
I saw heaven`s 1 2 3 stars shy
HE opened the door of your heart
Behold the millions that were hidden
Now I know
How to Praise the glory and the value of a beautiful thing called you.

poem by Didier Sixte Kahungu
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Aspiring to greatness

Some choose to write by candlelight
and some compose straight on the screen.
Whichever way to you seems right,
that is the way it’s always been.

In days of yore you chose your quill,
made sure the ink was close to hand
Before your parchment you could fill,
then sprinkle it with silver sand.

A pencil is my chosen tool
I scribble quickly on my pad
and then transfer it as a rule
to my computer: I am glad

to see it appear on the screen.
Neatly displayed in black and white
the font I use shows crisp and clean
Then I will edit and put right

whatever errors I have made.
Correct the meter and the rhyme.
The final draft is then displayed
. Re editing does not waste time.

It is a task you must not shirk.
Though I’m afraid that many do
and thus do not present their work.
as perfectly as they ought to.

It is entirely up to you
to show that you are willing to
do everything that you can do
to prove you’re fit to join the few.

Whose poetry will still be read.
Like the great poets of the past
In years to come when you are dead.
Whose golden words were meant to last.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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When The Pen Sits Beside A Paper Doing Nothing

there is this time of the day
when you sit and stare and think about nothing
and so the pen merely places itself idly
on the table beside a paper
bland and blank

there is this emptiness that does not even speak for itself
you cannot write it
you cannot also write it off away from you
no one speaks there
except your thoughts

somehow you want to remember love
it smiles at you
and then you spell the word regret

always, and as usual,
it comes late, makes you chew a memory
it is bitter
and of course, like what they do, you spit it out.

to where it lands, a beautiful flower grows

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Errors

there will be always errors
my errors
not yours, even your errors
shall be mine
for there will always be errors
that is too normal
for our lifetime
too short to be erroneous
but always real
too real to be touched
too exciting
to be always noticed
and too numb to be affected
by their
hypocrisies

you too? oh my, why?
don't you like to be the most normal
bird with only two wings
to fly?
how can you use a third wing?
to see with the third eye
aren't you funny to see
on this third
excess?

come, let us feast on these errors
drink these glasses of errors
be filled and vomit with errors
defecate these errors
and be empty again
after having learned so much
to become the
newest genius in this town

of errors.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Do Not Correct Mistakes … I Play

it so happens that
i post a poem with some errors
not of feeling but of
grammatical lapses and she is afraid

that people may begin to belittle me for such
unforgivable simplicities of
mistakes unaccounted

but i tell her even beforehand that i am
always unapologetic
even unkind
or indifferent

i am a person who does not go back
to review
and correct errors

i laugh at them knowing that they have deceived
me into such a corruption

somehow life is like that
we rush to get out of a door only
to find the wrong key in our hand
and we are having a hard time
opening that
which we closed
and we cannot enter anymore
except when when we break the door &
open it forcefully
with a hammer

the noise is painful
having to break in
your own room with locks forced open

like an invasion of your own
body destroying it
breaking your heart or
bones
tearing your skins apart
or slicing some flesh
because you made a mistake

i like lapses,
errors are not supposed to be
minded at

life is like that
no crying for what is there already

sometimes
i don't even solve puzzles
i let them be their own problems

as i sit on the sands
watching the sun
set
feeling the cool winds when the
world starts to lose
its light
and surrender all its arms
to the power of
darkness

and when it gets too dark
i begin to play again
like a child left by mother
abandoned
by father

under the moon under the rain
and all alone.
i like it when i listen
to the bliss of my own wild
laughter

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Restlessness Of The Spirit

to chat after midnight
and to continue to read even
when the eyes begin to fail to see the light
to write
whatever comes to mind
another poem
recalling the past
mistakes uncorrected
a new word to redeem what the self lost
retracing the patterns of the usual
hands in surrender
fingers without thoughts but still moving to capture a syllable
fretting flitting
whatever
sleep that seems cruel to
dreams
this inability to choose to cease then i tell myself
i do not really know a thing anymore.
about you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If Only I Could Write A Beautiful Poem

If only I could write a beautiful love poem
I would write it special and only to you
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
So that we will forever remain so very very true
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
With more than a goodness like something new
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
Like the everlasting stay of the sky so blue
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
I would pray to God
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
I would work very hard for the Lord
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
With happiness the remain all through the year
f only I could write a beautiful love poem
Knowing that you will be very near
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
One so very very true
If only I could write a beautiful love poem
I would write it just for you

poem by Douglas Carter
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I Wanted To Write The Most Beautiful Poem

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
The one beyond any music I had known-
The one which would reveal the changes
in yellows and greens
spring sunlight whispered to the trees

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
The one which would tell the stories of all those I have loved and cared for-
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
As a poem of Kindness-

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
Of sublime and overpowering distance
Of stars when stars were dreams -

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem-

But I knew many other poems already written
Would always be far more beautiful than mine-

So I tried to write the most beautiful poem I could-

But the light outside
The world and its colors
The beauties we see and hear everyday
Said to me again and again,

'Walk more humbly with your God and do Justice and love Mercy also'.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I want to write something beautiful

I want to write something beautiful
something about the blue of your eyes
which carves my days every time they blear

I want to write something beautiful
to got something of the sorrow of the world
the lament of the winter wind
something of the dawn of sleepless faces
and something from an autumn morning rain.

I want to write something beautiful
without the fuss of the crowded streets
without the pain of the desperate people
which howl their agonies with clamorous laughs

I want to write something beautiful
as the dreams which come true
and as a fragrance of love
wet by the waves of a winter sea.

poem by George Tzouvaras
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Cacoethes Scribendi

If all the trees in all the woods were men;
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Wicked Postman

Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Unicorn 4

What is known, is known – known gently,
meekly, mildly, sweetly; that’s the experience
that men bring back who’ve seen that creature plain.
But since the unicorn grazes in all our minds and hearts,
each has his image. Poets love to write of that creature
as they picture it; but what of those who met it plain
in forest glade, upon the hills, or white amidst the waves?

It’s said that, then, some poets put away their pens forever or awhile,
despairing that their word-hoard holds no words
that can describe those things invisible which
that creature brings to the mind, when met;
some can no longer give it even a name
as if that very word can seem to falsify.

They’re asked, was it, just, beautiful? – and hesitate,
because what yesterday, was ‘beautiful’ is a different word
today; that creature shows them that a word
means what it does; today, ‘beauty’ has done more in them;
it speaks a unity which is not static – can do all things
as Helen’s beauty, so we’re told, could make a war from peace;
so beauty can make peace from war – as poets prove.

And so, those who’ve seen it plain but wish
to say no word that might be less than truth
find that its subtle magic guides their pen
so that they may write with that same ease
with which that creature lives,
write of any, and of all things.

And all who’ve seen it – who’ve seen it move
within the utter stillness of itself
as never before have they seen a creature move
and hold that in themselves, wish, wordless, to return
to be again in that creature’s still shared self-presence;
the wisest of them finally to find
that it may graze forever in the poet’s mind.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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To make something beautiful

To make something beautiful, I write word upon word in the evenings
I am thinking here and there
sometimes are lost in my thoughts in a labyrinth,
while I am trying to find the way to the right words,
an answer to the problems of life.

Sometimes the curtains of my study rustle in the wind
and I know my country is full of violence and murder
but to the surroundings I keep myself blind,
to make something beautiful.

I write through the night without being disturbed,
sometimes stare into the darkness of the window facing north
and even when the ink of my pen later on tints my fingers
I am still searching for words like an innocent child
who is lost between varieties of ripe fruits in an orchard,
to make something beautiful.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Poem Written By A Confessed Bipolar (her Name To Be Revealed Upon Her Permission)

I write because I can
I write because there are so many things to be written.
I write because I can make a painting without a brush and paints in my hand.
I write because I can capture the moment without having a camera.
I write because letters and words are the only recipe I know how to cook.
I write because I want to read what I’ve written.
I write because I’m used to speak in silence.
I write because I have a story to tell.
I write because I want to strip off my flesh and live as a pure being.
I write because I can record my “voice” without having a recorder.
I write because it’s like a cup of coffee, it keeps me awake
I write because I want to live even when I do not exist.
I write because this is my throwing stones when I’m frustrated.
6/11/09 at 4: 42 PM
I write because I can flaunt my being when I don’t have clothes to show off.
I write because this is like making an encyclopedia to a coloring book.
I write because it’s more effective than my lithium medication.
I write because I’m tired of carrying these baggages on the road.
I write because I’m tired of talking too much.
I write because it’s a healthier diversion than smoking.
I write because it’s more therapeutic than analyzing my problem.
I write because I want to paint a thousand pictures with words.
I write because I can put colors to the letters and make a rainbow of words.
I write because it’s the key combinations to my hidden vaults.
I write because my ball pen is my best friend in the darkest nights.
I write because it surprises me with what I am capable of thinking&doing. 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because I like that ideas are popping like pop corns.
I write because I can wander in the adventures of my own world.
I write because I have to cleanse my collection of memories of an old home.
I write because like a mirror you need to do a lot of reflections.
I write because I want to fight the battle of life.
I write because I wanted my little voice to be heard.
I write because I want to run from the insanities of the world.
I write because pictures don’t talk.
I write because it helps me connect the dots when I look back in my life.
I write because it brings me back to my crib of silence.
I write because it makes a buzz to other bees in my beehive.
I write because unlike my bike my destination is limitless.
I write because I want to become an inspiration without extinction 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because like strumming of the guitar, it vibrates in my soul.
I write because I love to write.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Write Erase Write Erase

this is what happens to this poem
when you have nothing to write
tonight....write, erase, write, erase

you are waiting
for an inspiration that does not come

you keep on waiting and then something comes
you write it, you think about it, you read it and you find nothing
worth the letter you assign to it
then you erase it and you are honest enough to admit that there is nothing
beautiful
not even a purpose, and then you write the word again, you ponder, there is
nothing worth its existence
there is nothing to grow in that word chosen
you erase it again, you write it and then there is this space of thinking,

what is it? you ask. what is it really?
it is this denial.
this negation of
what you are
that keeps you writing.

you stand by the window. Look out
the road. You see a dog, and it is howling again
to the moon
and to the wrong tree
it is barking.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Thousand

I've reached a milestone some might say
but to me it's just become my way
to pass my time with rhythm and rhyme
and deliver my thoughts to you.

When I wrote my very first poem
I felt I'd just been born.
I fearfully put my pen on the page
on an early morn
and my thoughts just literally flew.

It's become my way to have my say
about everything under the sun.
And now that I've written 2,000 of them
I still revere number one.
For it was my poetic debut.

Will I stop here and lay the pen aside
or will the ink still flow?
Most certainly I will write some more
for poetry to me is a rainbow.
It appears right out of the blue.

It's beautiful, mysterious
and filled with color.
So I accept the fact it's a milestone
but know that I'm not through.
I'll get up tomorrow morning
and write some more for you.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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I Write And Write And Cannot Write

I write and write and cannot write
Tiredness overwhelms me
To begin the day at three in the morning is not always wise
Nonetheless I write and write
But I cannot really write
I am just barely typing on-
Perhaps the morning will come soon
And I will wake
But for now I am tired too tired to write.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Do I Write

I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go

I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain

At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down

I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it

I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Beautiful Night

Beautiful night, how the stars, they so clearly shine
And the joyful moon how it mirrors back my smile
Oh, beautiful night, you're good to a heart like mine
Oh, beautiful night, you've made this long road worthwhile

Beautiful night, glow of the city behind me
Smile, I, with my heart at peace and my mind at ease
Oh, beautiful night, tranquility sets me free
Oh, beautiful night, I dream of moments like these

Beautiful night and all seems so right with the world
Questions come later; decisions, future doth hold
Oh, beautiful night, for now I watch the sky twirl
Oh, beautiful night, I wait for light to behold

Yet, in the stillness of evening I dream these dreams
That the beauty of this night is all that it seems

poem by Danny Speicher
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Paper And Pen

Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen

Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen

Can’t think of anything to say today
Can’t think of anything to do
Can’t think of anything to play today
Minds gone blank
Leaving me here, just sitting here
Listening to my hair grow

Paper and pen
Paper and pen

And I look towards you
For an inspiration or a word or two
I try but I find
Every road only leads me back to these lines

Paper and pen
Paper and pen

Paper and pen
Piano, guitar
I try but don't get very far
Paper and pen
Piano, guitar

Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen

Copyright Colin Coplin 1985 / 2010

poem by Colin Coplin
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