Poetics 7....
the words of passion
keep me alive
each syllable is a red
corpuscle
the phrases are
taking in commas,
more of them
are making life a little
bit suspenseful
hang in there
hold more hands
these commas
grip and stay cool
like a poem
heartily written
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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She Needs Years To Make A Poem
i am not surprised with what she just said
to make a poem of her life
she needs years and years
perhaps a hundred years
if need be to make the best poem
of her life
her words are days and days
her stanzas her dwelling place
her commas and punctuations
her naps and long hours of sleep
her poem is her life
she lives inside it
she breathes every word every letter
and when she reads it when it is finished
she speaks her last, hounding silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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Love Always
Love without commas
no death dealing pauses
to romance
caesurae suspended
and held in abeyance
for deep flowing love
to have room to unfold
gentle blossom so strong
it survives to unfurl
after the storm of riotous living
and pours a new landscape
for I and I
i and i to inhabit
combining like good food
to something nutritious
feeding cells
feeding love
feeding life
u and i
lowercase
and completed
i and u
mirrored backwards
and forward forever
a thread tightly woven
from Source
love without commas
or conditional clauses
no demands no refusals
just wide open ocean
to play in
rejoice in
love undone
and expansive
i and i unconstrained
deconstructed and molded
into something that lives
our love
without commas.
poem by Midnight Clarity
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Poem Versus Prose
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Enough with your predicates
And your subjects
In this poem you will find
No commas and semicolons
This poem
Is armed with rhythms
Stanzas and shifts
This poem has no end
There are no colons
In this poem
Your prose is replete with nuances
This poem echoes
The plight of the oppressed
And dispossessed
In your prose I find parentheses
This poem speaks of life
Your prose can be edited
Cut this poem and it bleeds
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Prose has pauses and hyphens
Prose comes to a stop
This poem plugs images
Even in your head
Prose deals with fiction
And nonfiction
This poem can be heard
It can be felt
It speaks of hunger
Of hopelessness
Homelessness
It speaks of a bitter reality
You do not like this poem
poem by Buxton Shippy
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A Poem Written In The Sun
A POEM WRITTEN IN THE SUN
A poem written in the sun on this cool day
Has comfort and warmth and light
And the pleasure of being alive-
It is a poem of simple Hope and Happiness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Was Destroyed By Its Own Words
The poem was destroyed by its own words
And could not be written-
The words were not good enough
The words were not exact enough -
The poem nonetheless wanted to be
It waited in longing for other words-
Other words came
But they were not the poem either-
The poem it appeared
Was never to be -
The poem disappeared
Before it could be written
That poem forever is not
And in its place only these lines
Barely a poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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One Last Letter
writing one last letter...
not sure who it's to
- dont think it matters!
the words are composed of
the things i've done... both
good and bad.
the commas are for my mistakes,
-Lord, we're gonna have a lot of commas!
mistakes both of omission,
and commission...
the periods are for the times
i gave up, quit trying,
lost my way...
but the body of the letter
is filled with hope....
hope that sees things as
they are, and still believes...
i dont have to sign this letter,
it looks, smells, and tastes
like me...
i'll put this letter in the mailbox,
addressed to occupant,
to whomever gets it...
address unknown!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Get A Grip
I see it on the tv, its playing on my mind,
Everything I see has got something to do with killing my brother.
Just another mind game? or maybe its a sign,
When the child with a gun holds it up to the head of his brother.
Well that aint nice. gotta get a grip, gotta get a hold on life,
Gotta get a grip cause youre gonna slip, yeah.
Somebody tell me, where did we lose?
Wheres the point that we lost the control to live with each other?
Mister politician, searching for a lie.
Whats the truth? will the youth find the proof for a revolution?
Cause that aint nice, gotta get a grip, gotta get a hold on life
Gotta get a grip cause youre gonna slip, on ice,
Gotta get a grip, gotta get a hold on life
Gotta get a grip cause youre gonna slip
Gotta get a hold of the situation, gotta get you into my life,
Gotta get a hold and get it moving.
I cant tell you what you need to know its up to you, oh yeah
That aint nice, gotta get a grip, gotta get a hold on life
Gotta get a grip, cause youre gonna slip, on ice,
Gotta get a grip, gotta get a hold on life
Gotta get a grip cause youre gonna slip.
Gotta get a hold of the situation, gotta get a hold on life,
Gotta get a grip and get it moving,
I cant tell you what you need to know, its up to you, oh yeah.
Dont your blood run cold, dont the sorrow show,
Hold on tight to what you have.
See it in your eyes, dont it make you cry,
Get a grip and shake the can.
Get a grip, yeah, get a grip, yeah, get a grip, yeah,
Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip, get a grip, get a hold.
Get a grip on life, get a grip on life, get a grip on life,
Yeah get a grip.
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem
THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-
I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-
A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written
THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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4 Shorts
4 Shorts
In Paris
Somewhere in Paris alone
Watching rain change empty streets
To glistening black veins,
He stumbled.
From the hour and the Pernod.
Now finally, he thought,
I am a poet.
In Sacramento
Hitched from hell with an old farmer.
Slow truck, cold beer.
“Where yah goin’”
I paused. “Home”
“where’s that? ”
I paused again and thought.
I don’t remember where I said.
I lied for some reason quickly.
The sunset that night
Changed hot valley clouds into
Into old buildings and alleys. I think
I cried.
In Narvick
The snow pressed a white face
To the window and Hot white wine and
Cinnamon sticks stirred and let me forget.
A while anyway.
I am walking fire. I burn
Inside waiting with smoke hot.
I am never dark. The smoke of my breath
Is frankincense
And I am transparent
The Death of the Cameo
Or
I am frightened by Transition
Woman,
No more commas.
Commas are pauses
For a breathless moment
Suspended
A slight eddy of Time
And then you move on. No more commas please (I can’t take it)
I will seek and find you something new.
An exclamation point!
And for me a question mark.
And in the middle of the night we will switch
Love, no more commas
poem by Stuart Welch
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Lifeblood
Another night in a succession
Thinly glued with beer and wine
Its a precarious profession
Every day at work sees your heart on the line
Maybe I should have gone to business school
Or gained myself a respectable trade
Or stayed in childhood where the shade keeps you cool
Making my living selling lemonade
But running through my veins
Are the words and the refrains
As if they were my lifeblood itself
And you know I cant stay alive on the food of 9 to 5
My dreams are just old picture on the shelf
Oh yeah
I remember the folks said give it a try
Or youll never know who you might have been
And just remember nothing is the end of the world
Until the world comes to an end
Still theres a point to this philosophy
(when you take a look inside)
Of taking a look at who you are
Still sometimes all I have to help me see
Are all the mirrors behind the bar
But running through my veins
Are the words and the refrains
As if they were my lifeblood itself
And you know I cant stay alive on the food of 9 to 5
My dreams are just old picture on the shelf
Oh yeah
But running through my veins
Are the words and the refrains
As if they were my lifeblood itself
And you know I cant stay alive on the food of 9 to 5
My dreams are just old picture on the shelf
Oh yeah
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A composition in a ricefield
The white herons
Are commas
The carabaos are periods
An eagle flying over my head
Is the head note
The trees are the margins
And the fences
The nipa huts
Are footnotes
The rice field is one big
Pad of paper
And so this is the composition
Of a ricefield
Commas on top of periods
Two head notes will do
Four footnotes
Can make a story of a village
My hand is always the ampersand
And I think
Like there are no carabaos on this pad of paper.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Full stops and commas
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the middle of a rain storm or a lovely cup of tea.
Some are marked as commas, some as asterisks
I bet you've had some commas, take stock and think a bit.
A colon is a long pause for something that I treasure
such as a special friend, although it's hard to measure.
Apostrophe's a hiccup for something that I've missed
and if it's you I'm sorry, for sometimes I'm remiss.
Full stops are very sad for that's when someone dies
and though we know it happens, it startles hearts and minds.
That's when my heart stops beating for just a tick or tock,
I stumble and I falter, a colon stops the clock.
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the pausing of the traffic or the falling of a leaf.
Without some punctuation life's meaning would be less,
you may give this some thought, (in brackets would be best)
poem by Ruth Walters
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Modern Day Poet
I am the modern day poet you know
that must make words that easily flow.
For to just present words that ramble on
is to yield forth words that soon are gone.
They're gone from the listener and reader too,
who cannot reason or cannot view
how the words just seem to sit on a page
allowed to sit and yellow with age.
Words must be caressed and also thrive
to take on rhythms which come alive,
alive in the memory that through the ear
has taken it in and holds it dear.
And so in each poem I have my say.
And so in each poem my words do sway
back and forth like a front porch swing
giving my poem a magical ring.
I never allow dullness to come into play
for then my poem will be thrown away
into the piles of poems never read
because they're too hard to keep in the head.
So over and over it's become my style
to enchant the reader for a little while,
making them remember the lilting rhyme
that got into my head one word at a time.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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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
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Taking A Glance At You
taking a glance at you
is poetry in itself, by itself and for itself.
there are words in my eyes
they speak in silence. They long to tell you what i feel.
there are hands on my lips. There are fingers there.
They long to go near you and kiss your lips too.
i see you as words too. Your eyes are images of my
own happiness. Your lips are shaping the shapes of ships
and they have sails to take me away to ecstacies.
i feel you as words of love, and lust and desire insatiable.
my fingers want to read every syllable in your face.
you have always been my poem.And there are so many of you
in all of them.
words, and images, and ecstacies. faces and compositions.
i love all of them. And this time i take a glance again.
at you. this poem. this is you. Believe me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is My Poem
This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.
This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.
This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.
This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.
This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.
This is my poem of open-ended freedom.
This is my poem breathing life into motion.
This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.
And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..
poem by Patti Masterman
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The Poet Is Looking For Love Deep İn The Night
sometimes you may find
sincerity to a poem as to
the date when it is written,
the hour particularly tells you
that a poem is written when
everyone in the house is
fast asleep, and
that someone
cannot sleep, because he
has to write some words for
someone, who
too, cannot
sleep,
not really because they
are insomniacs, much less
vampires looking for blood,
but perhaps someone
who is
looking for love, even in the
dark, even in the wee hours
even when love
is no longer
there, even when the night
is dead, even when there is
no one alive in this world
to tell him that he is alive
and must by all means and
at all cost, deserve to
be happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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