Max Strong, Some Notes
maxie, the poems are there on a silver platter
you do not even have to read them
you are not called upon to understand each word
(thought each is carefully chosen
to suit a mood, a value, an image
to appear logical and relevant
reverent and working hard to appease
some emotions like a cool fan
to go with hot summer or a hot tea
for the rainy day under the thatched
roofing of the mountain hut)
there are no hours reserved in the making
of a poem, but i accept there is a broken dam
a leaking reservoir of feelings wanting to
be free and claim even a whole village,
bizarre thoughts of a catastrophe
but it need not be that, could simply be
a beehive where each day each worker
goes to the flowers and get the nectar
for their queenbee, for the colony
sweet labot sweet reservoir of words)
by then, on an impulse a poem is made
a quick flash of light, like thunder and lightning
i close some windows i open some
i slam the door i close gently some
it is simply unpredictable like some
(oh yes, they have said it before)
like a candle that melts itself and
then like tears they always take shape
on the side of the body-this poetry
always going for something unplanned
unscheming to the least, it just flows
like thoughts after a nap, like the imaginations
of a child dreaming his eyes anchoring on
that mountain with fog and mists.....
some clouds taking shape on the horizon
brooms, witches, princess, rabbits,
UFO'S or some flower-clouds
the face of God, the face of the one you love
don't sweat it out, they mean nothing
but by then, when you read them like
you are not thinking, the thoughts come
like angels like some prophets with
drops of fire landing on their foreheads
serendipity, aha! aha! there it is
your face in the mirror, like a ghost that you see
passing by and then suddenly gone
you cannot even believe that it is there
was it there? convince yourself, there was not any
except your mind, there was a lapse of memory somewhere
a leak of disbelief, but you swear there was really
someone, there was this white thing this face
a ghost, you swear there was something in that poem
and you read again, but you are tired, so much pressure
has been put to understand, sleep now, do not waste your time
it is precious, and this one does not deserve a minute
of your comprehension, a second of misappreciation...
what was there? nothing, i assure you, there is nothing
but just a ghost wanting to pretend that it is real
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
When You Read This Poem
when you read this poem
silently like a prayer written
on the wall
of an ancient structure
and then when you pause
upon a word and begin
to ponder
like ' what is this poem really
trying to say? '
or ' does this poem have in some
way something to inform me
or touch me
or simply waste my time? '
rest assured this poem has
made you phrase some questions
not about you
or about me alone but
whether you believe it or not
this poem has become
a bridge between us
taking the shape
of a rainbow between two islands
and in a moment before you
begin to figure it out
or even know it
it is gone like a sigh passing you by
without any significance
and not worth remembering
but once
after you have read till the end
once there was this poem
and it seems to have no meaning at all
except a task
a journey that you have taken
arriving at nowhere
and giving you the essence of nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I could have done other useful things than writing a poem
Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,
What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips
I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me
Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers
I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers
Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem
This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?
When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem
Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Could Read My Mind
If you could read my mind
If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
bout a ghost from a wishin well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free
As long as Im a ghost that you cant see
If I could read your mind love
What a tale your thoughts could tell
Just like a paperback novel
The kind that drugstores sell
When you reach the part where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
But heroes often fail
And you wont read that book again
Because the endings just too hard to take
Id walk away like a movie star
Who gets burned in a three way script
Enter number two
A movie queen to play the scene
Of bringing all the good things out in me
But for now love, lets be real
* I never thought I could act this way *
And Ive got to say that I just dont get it
I dont know where we went wrong
But the feelins gone
And I just cant get it back
If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
bout a ghost from a wishin well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
But stories always end
And if you read between the lines
Youll know that Im just tryin to understand
The feelins that you lack
I never thought I could feel this way
And Ive got to say that I just to get it
I dont know where we went wrong
But the feelins gone
And I just cant get it back
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If You Could Read My Mind
If you could read my mind
If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
bout a ghost from a wishin well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free
As long as Im a ghost that you cant see
If I could read your mind love
What a tale your thoughts could tell
Just like a paperback novel
The kind that drugstores sell
When you reach the part where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
But heroes often fail
And you wont read that book again
Because the endings just too hard to take
Id walk away like a movie star
Who gets burned in a three way script
Enter number two
A movie queen to play the scene
Of bringing all the good things out in me
But for now love, lets be real
* I never thought I could act this way *
And Ive got to say that I just dont get it
I dont know where we went wrong
But the feelins gone
And I just cant get it back
If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
bout a ghost from a wishin well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
But stories always end
And if you read between the lines
Youll know that Im just tryin to understand
The feelins that you lack
I never thought I could feel this way
And Ive got to say that I just to get it
I dont know where we went wrong
But the feelins gone
And I just cant get it back
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Wanted My Poem To Be A Real Poem
I WANTED MY POEM TO BE A REAL POEM
I wanted my poem to be a real poem-
I have read and studied and memorized
So many real poems-
I wanted my poem to be one of them
Which others would read and feel and memorize
And make their own –
We want and we want and we want
And who are we with all our wanting?
Who am I with all my wanting?
One more dreamer
One more ambitious person
One more lover of poems
One more writer of poems
One more wanter of real poems
Who writes this poem
For others
who dream like me
of writing real poems.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How the poem is treated by you
My instruction is very simple
Take the poem and read it
Casually in your room, do not
Force yourself to understand it
Just read it and tell me what
You feel,
Be kind to the poem
Like inviting it for tea
With just the two of you
As you sip
Let the poem drift like
A cloud and let it take
Its shape
Be compassionate to the poem
Let is cry for itself
If it settles for tears
And all you can do is
Just wipe its face
With your handkerchief
But you are cruel and so
Indifferent, you slap the
Poem with your right hand
And tell it straight
That you do not like it
That way it has successfully
Puzzled you
Then you leave the poem in
The rest room
It feels that it is a tissue
Paper fit for something
So ordinary waiting for
What others usually do
Wipe their anus after
A poo.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Could Read My Mind
(gordon lightfoot)
If you could read my mind, love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old-time movie
About a ghost from a wishing well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free as long as Im a ghost that you cant see
If I could read your mind, love
What a tale your thoughts could tell
Just like a paperback novel
The kind that drugstores sell
When you reach the part
Where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
The hero often fails
And you wont read that book again
Because the endings just too hard to take
Ill walk away like a movie star
Who gets burned in a three-way script
Enter number two
A movie queen to play the scene
Are bringing all the good things out in me
But for now love, lets be real
I never thought I could act this way
And Ive got to say, I just dont get it
I dont know where we went wrong
But the feelings gone and I just cant get it back
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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rAT 1
IF you read any of my poems
do not think that i am in there.
if you think that i am in there
you will lose yourself
you will be like a stone dropped
in the middle of the ocean
thinking that i am part of the corals
or that i assume the shape of the
shark
or hitch upon a sperm whale
and then you expect that i can take
you to places
No. If you read any of my poems
think that it is not me in there
but someone else, like a rat
or a pig, or a dog
the one that looks for something else
you know what rats look for
cheese, you know what pigs look for,
left-overs, you know what dogs look for,
the bone
then if you have finally finished reading
the poem
try reflecting light from the mirror under
the bed
and see if there is a face inside it
try pondering
or try not even thinking about any of those
that drifting cloud resting upon the shoulder
of the hill
or the sun shining like a king
or the moon cool upon the marshes
savoring the peace of the night
upon the river's face
now, you are here
there is nothing in there except those
feelings.
and you know of course what feelings are.
because you are one of them.
cool air, silent sighs, heart beats,
rushes of red blood on your cheeks
the angry word, the proposition of solitude
the pat on the shoulder
and then the drying of tears
and too
the unstoppable laughter
the smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0095 The title of this poem comes at the end
If you’ve read
136 poems
by one poet
in, uh, an hour plus,
which is a stupid thing to do
normally
to any poet
and insulting
if you think that way
at least when you do this
you get an aftertaste
of a sort – you get
tired beyond boredom, or
the guy has only three things to say
again and again or
he’s posing as a poet or
subtly unloading his negativity
or his hatred for life or
exploiting your emotions or
even more subtly pleading
for your sympathy
but no
I don’t feel any of these things right now
I just feel
a huge huge love which
somehow isn’t
just focussed on you and
I’ve even tried to set against this
cold lit-crit sorta thoughts
but no
I see you as a man
who looked the ordinary
in the face
and didn’t want to alter it and
asked nothing of it but was
contented in a way
beyond definition that
I can understand
would piss off anyone
with ambition or
so-called American values
although many of your poems
are the stuff of ordinary Americans
in the bar chatting about life
over a beer in B movies
but I’m thinking that maybe
this is the way God sees the world –
‘this is what you’ve made
of what I gave you and
so be it’
I’m a little scared too
that if I met you face to face
unexpectedly with that
wise beat-up face like a
thoughtful ape I might
recoil or something
and be ashamed afterwards
but I hope not
I just hope that
somewhere deep down
you loved yourself
as much as so many people
and you can read them here
love you
for real
and as is
the title of this poem is
A Homage to Charles Bukowski
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poem To Be Heard
A poem to be held
a poem to be fed, with words stronger than the ancient
spirits.
Ti's a poem to be read by all.
A poem that beats the heat of temptation away.
It's power in every single word attracts the moonlight.
A poem, a light in the dark wilderness.
A poem that is just needed and leaves the audience
speechless.
A poem that comforts a sad soul.
Read to me a poem
when I'm cold.
Read it to me till I'm old.
When I'm heart broken, a poem, a love, I'd want.
A poem, a victory through lives endless battle.
A poem an epistle to mine heart, and every written word
in it is heard.
A poem, about royalty, about Kings and Queens
and how they live in luxury.
A poem, a song about sweet heavens.
Read me a poem and slow my heart beat down.
A poem with a tasty flavor, I'd want to hear.
Read me a poem that explains how Nelson Mandela
conquered his fears.
A poem that can describe how Martin Luther Kings
felt when he fought for freedom.
I long to hear it,
Therefor read me a poem,
to be heard.
poem by Marlene Rashidi
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A poem for you...
I write a poem for you today,
to get a place in your heart for ever
A poem that could tell you my love for you
I write my poem with emotion and affection
for you to understand my deep thoughts for you
A poem to love and a poem to understand its soul
A poem to enjoy and a poem to understand its happiness
A poem to think and a poem to understand its way of life
A poem to learn and a poem to understand its content
A poem to sing and a poem to understand its melody
A poem to cry and a poem to understand its sorrow
There are poems I have written but this is specially for you
The poem could tell you how important you are for me
There are words comes out freely from my mind to write poem
but there are no words to find my love for you
Those words can not missed as I miss your love today
Let me have all those words put in to my heart and
say I love to write a love poem for you
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright ©2004 Ravi Sathasivam
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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133
when you read a poem do not expect too much
when you read a poem do not expect too much
from every word
my words too falter and fall short
of strength like the runner who always wins his sprint
and now in his worst state
mourns for his knee
which is broken
my images too wilt like some red roses that
a lover offered once to his true love
but now deserted
and looks at them in the state of dryness
when you read this poem do not therefore expect too much
this is just a sigh
looking for an opening in the crevices of an understanding heart
this poem is just a mirror and you will be the face who must
give your smile
the light from the window shall provide the glimmer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
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About the War Poem
This poem is about
The impossibility of writing
A poem about the war
Now don't go getting disappointed
You probably know everything
You really need to know
About the war
There's nothing more a poem could tell
Than what's in the lines of the dailies
That you read between so carefully
Nothing I could show you
That you haven't seen already
In your nightmare dreams or when
Your eyes are open
Nor could I shed enlightenment
On all the things we may not be
At liberty to mention
The silent tortured prisoners
Assassinations, smears and lies
And all the secret crimes
You know are passing by
There are some more events of war
Give me a minute to recall
I'm a little sleep-deprived
I learned with snakes and scorpions
Don't threaten them or step on them
It works with all kinds of people too
I know there is no other side
Everyone is born a child
The other side is only in the mind
I hear justice is on our side
It's somewhere here apparently
Check in your back pocket for me please
Well if it could, the poem would claim -
Before the subject's forced to change -
That peace is firmly on our side
Peace, well there's a useful thought.
I'm sure that we all could run with that.
This is no more a poem
About a poem about the war.
poem by Frank Bana
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The First Poem
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
The words I love you
written by this beauty's tongue
turned a heart rosy red from a somber blue
and made me burn for my heart was wrung.
The first poem I ever read
is the first poem I ever said.
On her poetic lips love words refined
and shaped a sonnet on her flesh defined
On those lips I read a poet's song
And knew it was there my lips belonged.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I love you, I love you
What does it mean?
These words said, to start anew
something pure and something serene.
The first words I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
Those first words she whispered into my ear
And in my heart, her poem stood near
Those are the most beautiful words one ever said
I love you, I love you, will live till its dead.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I read her lips, I love you, I love you..
now to sleep I go in love's sweet bed.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Birthday Candle
one-year anniversary poem
Birthday candle
One candle I claim
Twelve flames I stitch
One for each month
On this poem I frame
How lovely to dwell
In the breath of life
The Sun tolling
My morning bell
One year in the making
Verses in poetry
Dancing in thanksgiving
My spring glowing
These words yielding
Truth in meaning
Doors open wide
Spirit seeking
With gratitude and delight
I celebrate my
One-year anniversary
On all Poetry website
I never thought
My poems will blossom
When I began my
Garden of nought
Few fell by the wayside
Few on solid rocks
Some found rich soil
Affirm my faith inside
These feeder rains
Of Love and acknowledgements
Awaken dormant hopes
Nourishing my grains
Not everything I wrote
Had flair or panache
The few ones who shone
Made my heart float
Happiest of days
When I found my voice
To discover my pulse
To God be all praise
If I may celebrate
July 24th 2011
Launch of my footprint
Birthday of my nameplate
I have chosen a ghost name
'Leaking Pen' for my face
Its inks fed my first poem,
'A Poet's Anger' my claim!
Surprise! Surprise!
This first poem of mine
Turned out to be the one
Boosting my stock rise
Stubborn passion and thought
Will not deter my journey
Till I compose the Perfect poem,
Rescue my pen from distraught
Hands shake in the open
Invitation to celebrate
Hospitality's welcoming tent
A feast from a true Bedouin
I am not feeling quite right
Asking for gifts for my flight
I do envy each write
From Poets on this web site
Active seeing eyes
I thank you for your comments
To my poems messages
I value your praise
And for silent eyes
Who read my verses
Your loyal following
A blessing in disguise
I wished for a masterpiece
To declare my thanks
But the poetry's soul
No- Will -can force its release!
Happy birthday to all poets
Where the human heart dwells
I am but a single beat
In the drums of our chorus
poem by leaking Pen
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Multitasking, The Music And The Poem And Nothing
as i write this poem i am downloading music
copying them from the cd to
Windows Media Player for all these Bossa Nova Experience
Call me, A certain Sadness, The Trouble with Hello
The Shadow of Your Smile, Fly Me To the Moon,
NighT aND dAY, hEY lOOK aT tHE sun, HeRE'S a RAiny Day,
Put a LIttle Love Away,
Where is Love?
it takes time to choose the music to load and to check
if everything is proper and so
i also take a glance at poems
the First Fifty Famous Poems of this World
read some again
reviewing how does each word feel and fall and rebound in my
heart
i write some, well, i am not that really serious about what to write
i just write what comes to my head and when i think i ended
the making of this poem
i read what others write, not really admiring their wisdom
or style or what they write there as some trash
garbage, but just the same to while my hours away doing other things
i still read them, building this interest to know what this person who claims to
be a poet is driving at
some nails for hard wood, sounding like carpentry
well, i don't really believe that poetry can change this world
my world
of multitasking, hopping from one task to another, like
island hopping with my friends in this archepielago
from one white sand to another and taking some beers and
juices
these juices of the mind and of the body, lustily flowing from my thighs
as i wipe them and learn to live a pure life
from the perspective of the Holy Pope, oh well, i don't judge other people
and i simply forgive them
like myself, i am not so hard about myself, not even on poetry
since this is just fun
clean fun, writing
opps, another cd to copy now,
i will have
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, Paper Mache, Make it Easy on Yourself,
vINCENT, . Breaking Up is Hard with You, All the THINGS you ARe,
LIGHT My FIRE, Love is STRONGER far than WE
and CHopin and bEETHOVEN, AND iL dIVO
AND
AND OF course,
I honestly lOVE you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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18 Definitions Of A Short Poem
1) A short poem
Saves time,
2) A short poem
Saves time
For its reader, also.
3) A short poem is over
Before its read.
4) A short poem
Can be swiftly reread.
5) A short poem
Is a lightning flash.
6) A short poem
Is one metaphor only.
7) A short poem
Is less than nine words.
8) A short poem
Opens ones eyes
In the morning.
9) A short poem
May be a short prayer.
10) A short poem
May be a poem of a single word.
11) Poem.
12) A short poem
A small play on words.
13) A short poem
May be a single sentence.
14) A short poem is shorter
Than the definition of it.
15) It breaks up the icy sea within.
16) A chill down the spine.
17) There is no end
To making definitions of the short poem.
18) A short poem in Hebrew
Is shorter than than the same poem in English.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Need to Write
I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,
First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;
Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,
All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.
Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,
No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;
Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,
Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.
I know what sort of holiday would people like,
And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;
Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,
And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.
It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,
It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;
It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,
Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.
So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,
Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;
Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,
Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.
Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,
You might even end up, turning it into a song;
Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,
And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.
poem by Margaret Haig
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46
she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.
You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.
Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…
Words…words...
I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.
In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.
Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip
Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.
A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…
But be.
You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism
A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.
Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.
Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.
Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.
A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.
That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.
I, too, dislike it at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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