An Early Morning Greeting From Her(e)
an early morning greeting from her thru tx mssging
though abbreviated
is still long and she asks that i as the philosopher
poet share
to her some of my insights for the day
i have nothing to say really,
tess, silence is wisdom too
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem To A Poets!
the poet see crooked
and talk weird too
like a drunk
perdition in his insane!
No one can understand a Poet
Just you and me, like poet we are
The poet say 'Dr. Jivago'?
It means like a movie? No
it means my love for you! ! !
Or he asks yourself, Am I Evil?
No, he does not evil
I am in silence, affirm the poet! ! !
In silence never he will be
BONG, kick the can! ! !
WAR
AAA
RAW
in silence he is!
Trapped in a tower
a terrible place
just for one second to rest
like almost all of us
He said' I gone'
but gone like no one
gone with strenght
strange and revolutionary Poet!
No one can understand a Poet
Just you and me, like poet we are! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Morning Silence
Sitting in the early morning silence
that hasn’t filled with
the approaching days gloom.
That time when the mind
has a chance to run free.
The early morning silence
when no one is around.
The intrusive world has not
invaded our space with idle chatter
from sources that surround us
making up our daily lives.
The early morning silence
we need to activate our mind.
You sit in the darkness
just before the dawn appears
enjoying the solitary that is temporary stillness
brings to your ears.
The early morning silence
when no one is around.
16 September 2010
poem by David Harris
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Tess The Labrador
Elevator floor numbers are going to ground floor,
elevator door opens with Mr. Call and Tess the Labrador.
Tess begins to sway quick to the East,
I think it’s a ghost she wants to meet.
Mr. Call motions her to walk to the left,
they walk by the inter coastal which is to the West.
Now Tess is a rescue dog who Mr. and Mrs. Call saved,
they adopted her in Illinois and she has been with them till this day.
She is a little older now but her eyes still can see,
she is still very strong with lots of energy.
Tess is of many different breeds,
she is short and stalky, but still has good knees.
She has a little white on her chest,
she likes Allen’s dog Madison the best.
Tess will be the last dog out for a dog the night,
Mr. Call doesn’t mind he gets along with Tess just fine.
Written By Suzae Chevalier On December 24,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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0365 Poets and One World
The poet's world and the philosopher's
may seem to be in aim, and truth of act,
so different; the poet offers us
fine dreams of heart; philosophy, fine fact;
and yet, both spring from knowing nothing's known,
and wishing knowledge for its own true sake:
the poet seeks a truth in worlds his own;
philosophers seek paths which causes take;
yet both, in knowing their own ignorance,
are moved by wonder at the world they share -
the beauteous laws of this world's governance;
the universal heart and mind seen there:
poetic truth and love of wisdom spring
from wonder at the one in everything.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Am Just a Poet
I am just a poet.
A philosopher of sorts.
One who cohorts with others...
With common ideals as if at sport.
I am just a poet.
Observing those in an environment.
Trying to make sense of activities done.
And why some are done without consciousness.
I am just a poet.
Blessed to have what I do as a gift!
And living each moment to understand more of life.
As I share this point of view through the poems I write.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tess The Labrador
Elevator floor numbers are going to ground floor,
elevator door opens with Mr. Call and Tess the Labrador.
Tess begins to sway quick to the East,
I think it’s a ghost she wants to meet.
Mr. Call motions her to walk to the left,
they walk by the inter coastal which is to the West.
Now Tess is a rescue dog who Mr. and Mrs. Call saved,
they adopted her in Illinois and she has been with them till this day.
She is a little older now but her eyes still can see,
she is still very strong with lots of energy.
Tess is of many different breeds,
she is short and stalky, but still has good knees.
She has a little white on her chest,
she likes Allen’s dog Madison the best.
Tess will be the last dog out for a dog the night,
Mr. Call doesn’t mind he gets along with Tess just fine.
Written By Suzae Chevalier On December 24,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Why Me?
When the hopes are hassled
And relationships are rattled
Naïveté asks, why me?
When wishes are whacked
And dreams are dashed
Naïveté asks, why me?
When fantasies are fettered
And blessings are battered
Naïveté asks, why me?
When desires are demolished
And ambitions are admonished
Naïveté asks, why me?
When temptations are traumatized
And passions are pulverized
Naïveté asks, why me?
Strangely,
Naïveté with influence
And naïveté with affluence
Never asks, why me?
Naïveté with name
And naïveté with fame
Never asks, why me?
Naïveté with health
And naïveté with wealth
Never asks, why me?
Naïveté with fiefdom
And naïveté with wisdom
Never asks, why me?
Naïveté with beauty
And naïveté with booty
Never asks, why me?
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know
A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Roly-Poly Lover
I have a roly-poly lover
and her name is Two Ton Tess.
When she hugs me,
she squeezes me half to death.
It is like getting a hug
from a giant grizzly bear.
Her muscles are as big as Popeye’s
with the spinach she devours.
When friends ask me why I date a sumo wrestler
I simply reply. She is my Two Ton Tess,
my big, big lass.
Last week she stopped a locomotion
as she bent over on the tracks.
When the conductor asked what she was doing.
Tess quickly replied
I lost a penny somewhere and I was looking for it there.
She had the reputation
of being the strongest girl around
and I will vouch for that.
She was and she still is
and when she put her arms around my neck
if feels as if I am on the end of a hangman’s noose.
However, I love her,
my roly-poly lover,
my sweet Two Ton Tess.
poem by David Harris
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The perks of working in Japan are that you might go for two weeks every three or four months, so you do work an abbreviated schedule. But you really make up for the abbreviated schedule by how hard you have to fight, how much you've got to be in shape.
The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
quote by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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I Am More A Poet
I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER
I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-
God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-
It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Early Morning
(pal waaktaar/ mags)
Early morning
Eight oclock precise
I see the lonely august sun arise
Say you know
You will
Move me like you do
Out on the fields...
Im waiting the whole night through
Early morning, early morning, yeah
Ran the whole way
Down to the tracks
Through the doorway, then a last look back
Say you know
You will
Save me like you do
Out on the fields...
Ive waited the whole night through
Early morning, early morning, yeah
I climbed all the stairways
To find the rooftop clear
Got the shotgun lying with me here
Say you know
You will
Move me like you do
Out on the fields...
You know how it feels, yeah
Early morning, early morning, yeah
Early morning
Eight oclock precise
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Morning Cold Taxi
3:36, its cold, I know Im growing old,
With lifes best side on the downward slope,
Its in my own hands, I know Ill cope,
My girls with me and all my friends can see.
Here I am again,
Early morning cold taxi.
Early morning cold taxi.
Done it before, do it again,
Know from experience its not in vain,
Shes the best Ive had, I cannot see, what someone else can do to me.
Its a long way home but loves so warm, youll see.
Here I am again,
Early morning cold taxi.
Early morning cold taxi.
Early morning cold taxi,
Each time I do it, I feel so down and out,
Early morning cold taxi,
though my mind thinks strange Ill keep on, no doubt.
3:36, its cold, I know Im growing old,
One day well be wed,
This I know for its what she said,
Then no more will my mind be uneasy.
Early morning cold taxi,
Each time I do it, I feel so down and out,
Early morning cold taxi,
though my mind thinks strange Ill keep on, no doubt.
3:36, its cold, I know Im growing old,
One day well be wed,
This I know for its what she said,
Then no more will my mind be uneasy.
Here I am again,
Early morning cold taxi.
Early morning cold taxi.
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bow To Simplicity
you go to church every morning
model catholic of this town
you listen to the sermon of the priest
you take the body of Christ
in your body
somehow these matters give you
comfort and so you have no time to
ask for more answers
because there are no questions asked
anyway
in any way, you dwell in the comfort zone of
religion
you are not a philosopher with all the wrinkles
on his forehead
you do not envy all these
search for wisdom
you do not need it anyway in your everyday
morning existence
about those joys you claim you have
the contentment of an achievement
no wars
no confusion even in small matters about
real happiness
in some ways you smile
and by all means we think that you are the child of God
smiling to everyone
sometimes i envy you
as i tremble over my thoughts
grinding every bean of coffee
in the machine of my mind
hot temperatures here
like hell
are questions part of hell?
doubts and regrets
they come together
trying to hit me with their fists
me, the philosopher
still unable to hold the beautiful arms of an
answer
i talk within and there are many selves talking
within
you pity me
for thinking too much
on such a simple existence
as breakfast and lunch and dinner
that you serve on my table
and for which
due to my self-inflicted fever
on a trembling mouth
i cannot eat
and then
i decided to keep silence in the middle of this
turbulence
i wash my face
comb my hair
and face you
saying the words that i do not mean
just to please you
like
i love you and then you smile
and you do not bother
what wisdom is
nothing bothers you
what more? what more is there?
you tell me
there is nothing more between the two of us
not even space
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Christmas Morning
Listen to the children sing
Watch them dancing all around the Christmas tree
Waiting for the opening
Early Christmas morning
All around the world is sleeping
Little children there's no peeping
Wait and see what Santa's bringing
Early Christmas morning
Early Christmas morning
Icicles and breakfast cakes
Friends and family we will celebrate
Sounds that joy and laughter make
Early Christmas morning
All around and far off places
Angels waken smiling faces
Wrapping us with love and graces
Early Christmas morning
Early Christmas morning
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from Merry Christmas... Have A Nice Life
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the spirit of Rumi - 51: Beyond Artifice
Because I am a poet
and you are a poet
I would like to talk to you today
of how when My Beloved
smiles at me with that open smile
that asks nothing but the freedom
to express itself
then I can only think of
that white rose which this morning
took my breath away with its
innocent whiteness, its pure whiteness
with just a hint of a blush as if
it astonishes even itself
or I could speak of the white rose
which reminds me of
the smile of My Beloved
but in truth, the likeness
of these two becomes one
not in my poem but
in myself as I gaze with wonder
at white rose; receive
the smile of My Beloved which asks nothing;
and God, looking at me looking,
God who is all three of us
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Wednesday Morning Silence
At eleven O’clock in the morning,
I sit experiencing the stillness
of a Wednesday morning silence coming down.
It seems much earlier,
though the day is half done
after a fun filled Tuesday
that lasted long into the night.
I sit experiencing the stillness
and wondering in the silence
after the rain had come down.
The absent drip of raindrops
sounds like time ticking away
in the Wednesday morning silence coming down.
Sitting on my friends deck
as a cooling breeze rustles the leaves
in the silence of the morning
as I wait for everyone to wake
in a Wednesday Morning silence coming down
while I am on holiday.
poem by David Harris
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