Red Skies
that afternoon the skies are red
as tulips
the emotions however are like
stones
gray and dry
the world is sac-like
and one wonders
if music as a harmony
within the heart of
solitude
can still jibe
come to think about it
the active element
is still you
work it out then like
a piece of art
a sculpture of rivets
a canvass of smoke
a poem about chalk
and erasers,
diverse, reverse, collide
like water molecules
in sulfuric acid
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Whether you listen to a piece of music, or a poem, or look at a picture or a jug, or a piece of sculpture, what matters about it is not what it has in common with others of its kind, but what is singularly its own.
quote by Basil Bunting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chalk Dust
Chalk dust
Under fingernails
Scribble-covered chalkboards
white on green
Smoky air
From chalk filled erasers
Pounded in the night
Chalk dust on the breeze
Floating out of sight
(April 2004)
poem by Elizabeth Peterson
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The Poem That Comes After The Afternoon Nap
THE POEM THAT COMES AFTER THE AFTERNOON NAP
The poem that comes after the afternoon nap
Wakes the world
Is clear
Understands
Hears the answers to problems
It could not see before.
The poem that comes after the afternoon nap
Is a clear- minded Poem
A Poem of light
A Poem without fear
A happy Poem.
It has the answer
To the question
Yesterday asked
And tomorrow may make questionable again
A happy poem
Now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Acid Reflux Anyone
Larissa Schuster, she was the cause of her husband’s acid reflux,
In fact she had husband refluxed all over his body,
Her attitude for him did not come clean,
- that’s why she gave him an acid bath.
'So what’s to you, there nothing wrong with that',
she would have said,
'hydrochloric acid to be exact'.
Larissa Schuster was biochemist that used her balance of pH’s for murder.
She had to get rid of him,
she loathed him,
and she thought she would be free,
When her husband met the end.
Hydrochloric Acid is the same acid that we have in our stomachs,
But all the TUMS in the world could not have saved him.
Kind of gruesome,
to some,
- but not to her.
She will spend her life prison at taxpayer’s expense,
Too bad the gas chamber is outlawed-
Because the cyanide capsule is dropped to sulfuric bath,
She can be an experiment in the chamber,
Like she did to her husband,
She can feel her lungs melt and then justice will be served,
There is nothing wrong with that.
(12-18-2007)
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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Water Is Not Water
Just not wet anymore.
Won't work as a door stop.
Must have some water.
WATER-WATER-WATER-WATER
In the baby bottle, SMALL BOTTLE-ok.
Just thirsty.
Want some cold WATER? ?
We don't have any water.
CRY-CRY-CRY, tears are water.
BUT-there not wet NOW.
TEARS NOT WET - TEARS NOT WET.
ACID RAIN no pain.
ACID RAIN no pain.
ACID RAIN no pain.
DRIP rain drops - DRIP.
Clouds full of ACID RAIN.
CRY-CRY-CRY-CRY.
11/24/2006 Joe Poewhit
scribbleclub.com - defunct
JESUS SAVES
poem by Joe Poewhit
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I am a poem
I am a poem,
A rhythm, a line,
Elaborated in time.
I am a poem
A work of art.
Fragmented heart.
I am a poem
A piece of a whole
Measure of a soul.
I am a poem.
A fraction of a story.
A meaning, with a glory.
I am a poem.
poem by Josh Alfred
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The Poem of the Afternoon
THE POEM OF THE AFTERNOON
The poem of the afternoon
Long and drawn out
Does not know why it is written
And what its true name is.
It does not ask or answer
Remember or remain
It simply appears
And disappears
As if its writing
Were yet
One more way of
Just being in the world
And passing its light.
The poem of the afternoon
Does not know why it is
Or why it should be
But now that it is here
It looks out at the trees
Through the sun of its pages
And prepares itself to be read and reread
As if someone somewhere
Searches and sees it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Plastic Bag
I'm like a plastic bag blown in the wind,
Carried by the cutting razor of a gust.
Though I'm my moving, my soul's also been pinned—
I roll through the smog, dripping with disgust.
Carried by the cutting razor of a gust,
I fray on my fringe, my heart's dissection.
I roll through the smog, dripping with disgust.
It seems I've been fouled by an infection.
I fray on my fringe, my heart's dissection—
Empty emotions crumble from disuse;
It seems I've been fouled by an infection,
A rotten feeling: leaking and effuse.
Empty emotions crumble from disuse;
Malnourished, they wither and quickly spoil.
A rotten feeling—leaking and effuse—
Tars the beach of my thoughts in thick, dark oil.
Malnourished, they wither and quickly spoil:
The molecules floating in the fresh air
Tars the beach of my thoughts in thick, dark oil.
One wonders if one could still respire there.
The molecules floating in the fresh air
Disperse, dirtied in clouds of jet-black smoke.
One wonders if one could still respire there.
Now, it seems one is more lik'ly to choke.
Disperse, dirtied in clouds of jet-black smoke,
The sky fills with a blighted disease.
Now, it seems one is more lik'ly to choke,
Strangled by a swift, corrugated breeze.
The sky fills with a blighted disease
And all purity has fin'lly been thinned.
Strangled by a swift, corrugated breeze,
I am like a plastic bag blowing in the wind.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Acid-colored Winter Within Thy Heart
Acid-colored Winter Within Thy Heart
Feeding lies directly into Thy veins
A blanket of white lies covers Thy soul
An Acid-colored Winter blizzard wanes.
Thy heart is clouded with uncertainty
Confusion is pumped throughout Thy mind
Blurring Thy vision like a cold winter storm
Leaving sanity far behind.
Feelings of fear and pain alike
Sting like acid vapors swirling inside
What could cause this fear filled joy
Leaving my emotions bound and hogtied?
The very first time we kissed
Left Thy emotions torn apart
Leaving a helpless void inside
Like an Acid-colored Winter Within Thy Heart.
poem by J.R. Reynolds
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Upon the Fish in The Water
The water is the fish's element;
Take her from thence, none can her death prevent;
And some have said, who have transgressors been,
As good not be, as to be kept from sin.
2.
The water is the fish's element:
Leave her but there, and she is well content.
So's he, who in the path of life doth plod,
Take all, says he, let me but have my God.
3.
The water is the fish's element,
Her sportings there to her are excellent;
So is God's service unto holy men,
They are not in their element till then.
poem by John Bunyan
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Any startling piece of work has a subversive element in it, a delicious element often. Subversion is only disagreeable when it manifests in political or social activity.
quote by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Metaphor For Myself.....
early afternoon
i undress and walk towards the water
it is a gray moment
i wade into the water
it is clear
and i can see some fish and
sand at the bottom
i am alone
it is too peaceful away
from everyone
the water is lukewarm
derived from noon
and the shore is too private
to myself
the trees are still and the cottage
has an eye
staring at me from afar
i swim farther, into the depths
floating
there are no seagulls
a ship with a smoke shears the
far horizon
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lucky Chalk
Keep saving...Keep saving
Or...Not
Let go and make room
For the teachers
There's wisdom on the board
The clapping of erasers
Sprinkles, tattered, and worn chalk
Like advice and re-arrangement
Dusting all the desks
For the new class
Untill they graduate
Not everyone will
Those left behiend
Can clean the board
And gather the chalk gems
Lucky janitors
poem by Josephine Lauderdale
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The Poem Has A Music Of Its Own
THE POEM HAS A MUSIC OF ITS OWN
The poem has a music of its own
Without the music
It is no poetry.
My music
Faltering breaking slow
Wonders where it is going
And if it really sounds
As music should sound.
Once it was more easy to feel
The melody in me real.
Now I just do not know
So many sounds
So many words
So many claims of poetry.
Music music music
Where are you?
The sound from myself
Is only 'me' now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Nature/Diversity Without Dividing
Do you see how lovely and diverse nature is? Nature, as the great beauty she is in this photo, of a beautiful Bougainvillea flowered, potted plant and the love affair between the blooms and the delightful dance of the butterfly, seem to live in perfect harmony and love for one another.
They are different in species, yes, but harmonize in nature to provide a loving, ever-lasting love affair to propagate nature’s continued beauty. They are inherently diverse in nature yet strive to work together to benefit all who enjoy.
This is a beautiful statement actually to “embrace a benevolent spirit and heart for diversity yet without the complexities of trying to divide and conquer as humankind sometimes tends to do.” Why must we do that?
Can we not all live in harmony, love and peace? Imagine this, “diversity without dividing.” What a beautiful concept. Allow us to live in a diverse setting without contesting every move someone makes. Let us live as one.
poem by John Evans
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A Version Of Solitude
you feel like a leaf steady on a pool of
water,
around you is thick fog
and beyond is the haze of a misty morning
the house on the river bank is deserted
and the boulders of rocks are gray and hard
the grass is nil dipping its tongue on the shallow waters
ripples of the wind bring the shadows of shimmer
the mountains stand still
merely looking
this is my poem for solitude
yes, my own version of solitude when all else fail
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A reflective portrait
A reflective portrait
~
I’m a real piece of work
A Machiavellian self portrait
I could be the living abstract
Of my over complicated mind
While others try to work me out
Finding who or what I am
Beggars belief why they even try
I look away blindly into nothing
Trying to conjure some imagery
That I may weave in words
A poem of some or any worth
That’s what I do in my line of work
I crave emotions, explore them
I find sensations to abuse
I hurt myself to keep on living
I make little sense to anyone
Pride is complicated to understand
And comes at a high rate of interest
Interest I have little to share
Looking at my reflection, honestly
I’m a real piece of work
And yeah, I’m still me
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Dont Take Away The Music
Dont take away the music
Its the only thing Ive got
Its my piece of the rock
I new you were always there
You were my song
How am I supposed to bear it
Now that youve gone
Would you separate the words
From a sweet sweet melody
Baby would you take away
The music from a symphony
Chorus
Dont take away the music
Its the only thing Ive got
Its my piece of the rock
Dont take away the music
Everything else is gone
Dont strip my world of its song
Everytime you whisper love
My heart would sing
Now its silent like the phone
That never rings
Memories of loves refrain
Memories keep on haunting me
What are we doing to the song we sang
What happened to out sweet harmony
Chorus
Dont take away the music ooh ooh ooh (3x)
Chorus till fade
song performed by by 911
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope Of The Black Curtain
Beyond this black curtain
this veil of my window
on its sense of mourning
on the grief walled by the frames
of a house devastated
...clouds drift, a sail boat stirs its way
a man paddles it to a distance
the sun rises, all things move
all molecules collide
all atoms consistently collide
making me feel
everything is alive
i am, too, breathing still
despite.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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