On A White Bench
at the plaza of this town
fronting the cafe
where i am now writing this poem
i see a white cemented bench
beside a mahogany tree
three men are sitting
they are talking
and i cannot hear them
i am walled
by this glass wall
one wears a white cap
holding a radio
blue faded jeans
and rubber shoes
the second one
a brown subanen native
wearing a white shirt
with a political ads
to vote for mayor dong
the third one
already left before i finished this poem
i could have described him
but i fell short of time and sensitivity
i ask someone beside me
what these three men are up to
they are waiting
they are looking for a job on this hard times
when the price of rice has gone high
together with the gas
i know you want something more than this kind of write
did i keep you waiting too?
tell me did i keep you waiting too for something that you want me to tell you?
i have nothing to tell you
how does it feel to wait, hours perhaps, for something that does not come/
how does it feel to wait
for nothing? tell me, tell me, if you understand now, how is it to sit on a white
bench beside a mahogany tree, in the plaza, in front of an internet cafe
where i write a poem
and nothing nothing really happens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Waiting For Waiting's Sake
Waiting is more of a feeling than a state or being
When you wait it's not really time spent that weighs on you
IT's really the purpose or reason and the place you wait too
Waiting never is waiting even when it's 5 or 10 or 20 hours or more
It becomes waiting when you feel impatient
When you feel you can no longer wait
That is truly when you being to wait
And wait for waiting's sake
It always seems like more minutes more time
More time is what makes it weigh more, but it's a change
In emotion basically an enigma
It is not even what you do as you wait
If anything at all, it strangely is just the
Feeling. Consider when you simply stare at the
Clouds for hours, you wait and wait
Watch the clouds' gait
But not even a minute passes not in your mind
Not any second is wasted of left behind
But waiting 2 simple minutes is waiting
When you let emotions take hold
Even asked to wait another second is brazen and bold
So you see it is only that emotion
Only that feeling, desire for resolution and restitution
It's funny how we are not controlled by
States or circumstances
Mere happenstance
But rather we are controlled by character, emotion, our feeling
No state of the world can change them
It is only when
We allow our perceptions to change, it is only then
Circumstance even affects us, it only happens when we let it
And so I say when we wait and don't feel waiting
It is not waiting at all, no matter how much time
I realize I feel nothing, no sense of waiting not when I rhyme
I lose perception of time and so I have unlimited time
To write and write and write each and every single
Time I wait and even I wait for waiting's sake
poem by David Knox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Waiting And Wanting To Write Something Else
WAITING AND WANTING TO WRITE SOMETHING ELSE
Waiting and wanting to write something else
The spirit of poetry comes to me
It does not say a specific subject or theme
It has no meaning in mind for itself
But it sings in me
It calls to me
It says ‘now you have the music- let it flow’
And I write it down now
Not as if it is my poem or your poem or anyone’s poem
But only words which God is kind enough to give me
As God has given me so much else which I can be grateful for
A poem to You then
Who have so many poems
And need not my poem
Thank You God My Father.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem
THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM
There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -
There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-
There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-
And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -
The page suffers many methods and modes
But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
White Lie
One little white lie
One white lie surrounds us
One white lie wont stop the love
That I feel around us
Darlin, do you think about me
What I feel for you, dont you ever doubt me
You see the lock on the door
Of this heart, but you hold the key
I need the trust you can give
Is there something that you need from me?
One little white lie
One white lie surrounds us
One white lie wont stop the love
That I feel around us
Secrets, and the way we keep them
Between you and me
Promise well never need them
I can see something so true
No one else could ever see
And Ill never chance losing you
I believe my heart, I hear what its telling me
One little white lie
One white lie surrounds us
One white lie wont stop the love
That I feel around us
One little white lie
One white lie tears us apart
One white lie wont stop the love
Thats waiting in this heart
Thats waiting in this heart
Temptation leave us alone
cause I know youre always there
But white lies can weigh like stone
And in this world I hear them everywhere
One little white lie, ooh yeah
One white lie surrounds us
One white lie wont stop the love
That I feel around us
One little white lie, one lie
One white lie tears us apart
One white lie wont stop the love
Thats waiting in this heart
Thats waiting in this heart
One lie, one lie
One little white lie, one white lie
One white lie, one little white lie
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Life Art
Life Art
I want to write you a poem.
One that contains no verses
no words
how long it will be
I cannot tell.
It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun
a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword
I want it to be something
that you carry through your day
every day
I don’t know if I can write that poem
Or if indeed that poem can be written at all
So instead I am with you
Of you
And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem
Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook
But in the café
and in the street
At a table
In our bed
Every day we add another line
another image
another verse
and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem
That has ever been written.
poem by Andy Houlihan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
White Shoes
(jack tempchin)
I want em, I need em
And Im gonna go out and get em
White shoes
I know Ill feel better
When I slide down into the leather
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
I woke up from a dream
When I saw em in a magazine
White shoes
I said lou you gotta start new
And the first thing you gotta do
Is get some white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
You know he left me with the lonesome blues
Been hangin round too long with nothin to do
Yeah, he really made me pay those dues
But Im goin out on the town tonight in
White shoes
Well, I wanted em, I needed em
Yeah, and I went out and got em
White shoes
That new boy when I see him
Im gonna walk right up and meet him in
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes
Im goin out on the town tonight
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I don't Write a Poem
I don't write a poem
but sprinkle my heart
on white papers.
I don't write a poem
but kiss flaming words
on the lips of volcano.
I don't write a poem
but croon a lullaby
for drizzling lids.
I don't write a poem
the poem writes me
and sets me free
from the life engulfed
by mirages.
@@@
poem by Madhav Sarkunde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Monologue 1
it was only last night
that i noticed that there were
only two fireflies
lighting the mahogany tree
the other day
they cut the chico
for they need firewood
the little boy once told his mother
that a white fairy lives there
what is the point?
the white fairy owns the tree
and it is only the little boy who believes about this
the chico tree is where the fireflies
sleep in the morning
two fireflies have not accepted
that their dwelling is gone
now they entertain the illusion
that the mahogany
could still be the chico tree
in their own minds.
that is what the legend is.
and you may not believe it.
now that boy does not believe
in white fairies anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!
All I Can Do Now Is Write Another Poem
All I can do now is write another poem-
The poems are small,
And do not require the long hours and long years
Of the books-
Like the world as a whole
I seem to have a shorter attention span
And less patience-
A poem can be written and given a name
In minutes not years-
Though some would say a great poem
Takes the travail of years of waiting
And years of work-
But I did not say
‘All I can do now is write another great poem'
Perhaps I have in all the years of the nights never written one-
I can write the poems I write
My kinds of poems
In a fairly short time-
All I can do now
Is write another of my kind of poems-
Whether they be worth anything,
Or not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sketches For A Fine Day
actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today
a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged
does her assigned task in the street
gathering dead leaves
as i watch
it is a bright day
the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus
a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree
a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard
a young woman with short blue jeans
jogs along the green valley
the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon
like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
Poem After Poem After Poem
POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM
POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM
Poem after poem after poem
But a poem is not the way out.
Money is depleting
Soon I’ll be without.
How will I manage to live then
What will become of us all?
To write a poem is to do nothing
When the writing is on the wall.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the spirit of Rumi - 67 - To Rumi
I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…
or if that’s too much to ask,
just a line somewhere, that I’ll watch
as it writes itself and know
that you, not I, write it
or if that’s too much to ask,
open an old book at
a page that smells just faintly
of attar of roses, and know that
Rumi read this page too
or sitting quietly waiting for a poem,
or after a poem, and there’ll be
a slight breeze for a moment
carrying the memory of a rose
from an old Persian species
mixed with the faintest scent of wild herbs
after desert rain
or if that’s too much to ask,
just the occasional memory
that you lived, and wrote,
and a poem comes to mind
as if you’re reading it first to a friend
and I’ll smile and look at
the rose in the blue and white vase over there,
neither of us caring about time
while your book lies open by the window,
the breeze turning the pages gently
as if it knew which poem to choose
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Her Own Departure
Her own departure is a show.
a big bag hanging on her
shoulders, her left hand
holding a coin purse,
her right crumpling a
white handkerchief wet
with her tears.
she is crying. Her blue
blouse fits her fat and her
black pants are loose
like two shirts.
She wears her white rubber
shoes, sort of telling me
that she will be running
towards the place
that she will be hiding
for days.Or just towards
the airport. Or bus station
or port.
I don't really care.
She takes the ATM
with her, and the credit cards.
She does not tell me
where she is going.
She gives the hint that
it will be far away from
this cold house.
I am staying. I am glued
to this house.
I am silent and peaceful
now. I still have many things
to think and write.
My first poem after she leaves
shall be titled, 'Good riddance! '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
There Is A Poem Waiting To Be Written
THERE IS A POEM WAITING TO BE WRITTEN
There is a poem waiting to be written
I feel it inside me
I do not know its name-
It is coming now
Easily and gently
It knows it is here and is real.
It wants me to write it
It believes it will be
The poem writes itself
As Poetry.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Your Dog Dies
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
poem by Raymond Clevie Carver
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!