Something so ordinary can be poetic
Something like
NO PARKING
Is poetic to me
You are a soul
Lost to this
Town of indifference
And you have
Been roaming
Around in your
Old car of a
Soul and you
Want to rest
And think
And what they
Say is
NO PARKING
That is actually
Poetic
Or shall we say
THIS WAY TO THE RESTROOM
Oh that is really
Poetic signifying
Relief that in this country
There still exists A WAY TO
A way a path a footpath
for someone lost
someone wanting to empty
Himself like a heavy cloud
Wanting to empty
Its accumulating heaviness
Like your urinary bladder
Looking for a restroom and
Oh heavens
This is the way to the rest room
This is the way to the heavens
Where I can just
Have the freedom of pursuing my happiness
Of a simple poetic pee
So this way to the rest room
Is a feeling of relief
It is a feeling of relief and poetry is just like that
You look for a way to unburden yourself
A way to this and that of relieving your
Urinary bladder your poetic urinary bladder
Discharging a discomfort
A heaviness of unwanted liquids
Which you have accumulated
In time
And you hold your thing in the manner that you
Want it held and in the process that you want it done
Without anybody looking
Without anybody saying you this is the proper way to pee
And no other else that can make your pee wholesome
To prescribed rules
And you point it to the big basin of a bowl
You pee
You have just discharged a discomfort
With all the images of
THIS WAY PLEASE TO THE COMFORT ROOM
To your comfort zone
Because you have been in such a discomforting fit
In complete release
You feel relief
And that to me is very poetic
THIS WAY TO THE COMFORT ROOM PLEASE
when all you want in life is to pee
On that instance
that moment is the best poetry
To the lines and verses of a person
simply peeing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Almost Poetic
It's almost poetic
The way you speak
It's almost poetic
The way you think
The way you sleep and dream
It's almost poetic
The way I feel for you
It's almost poetic
The way we argue
It's almost poetic
When we say goodbye
Not knowing the next time
We'll see each other
You are the curved line
And I am the dot
That creates the question mark..
And it's almost poetic
If it were not so pathetic.
poem by Jeremy Rascon
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The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost
THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST
The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.
I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.
Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?
Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Do Not Feel Very Poetic Today
I do not feel very poetic today-
And now I make that feeling the ‘subject’ of a poem-
Once Poetry seemed to be confined
To certain more sublime subjects -
But in our time
When every Form seems to expand to take into itself its opposite
Poetry makes itself of the non- poetic also -
There is no subject apparently
Which is non- poetic
Once a poem is written about it-
I do not feel very poetic today
And these plain and unbeautiful lines
This awkward presentation
Is what I am capable of
Poem or not,
I have written it now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0026 To live in poetry
So often, poets
with their poetic eyes,
ears, minds, hearts, souls,
record actions that
are already poetry or poetic
in themselves
or so it seems
which makes it easy
for poetic poets to write
poetic poetry
as when I watch you
poised so still, sitting there,
your face against the light,
painting meeting sculpture,
still as any animal,
still as any goddess
roaming the cosmos in your mind
seeking, ballpoint poised,
the answer to some hidden
crossword clue
living in poetry
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Where Am I?
from a stack of papers
and folders inside my room
i take the chance
of taking my
rest in the comfort room
thinking about
an unfinished poem,
i have stored
so much urine
in my bladder
to feel the
flow
of poetry when
i pee.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Faraway Solitude
after four days
the floors ceased talking
about me
the bed is a sleeping
cat
and the rest room
has found
a friendly urinary bladder
the drapes are kind
to sunlight
scattering flowers
on softer hands
things run smoothly
now
like an automated
machine
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reading the poems of Billy Collins
When did you last turn the pages
of a book of poems as if it were a novel?
and how could a Poet Laureate ‘rejoice’-
as they say in flowery poetic language
in the name of Billy?
and it’s not so much reading
as being with: as if you’re in the same
room with him: he’s over there in the recliner,
self-contained but friendly; he may
say nothing; or make an inconsequent remark;
or launch into a fantasy; or say
something unpretentiously profound..
it doesn’t matter now. You’re in the same room
with him, just being.. he’s not making a poem
like you hold a glass up to the light
and polish it; he’s not even selling ‘being’
like some New Age guru; he’s not asking
anything of you.
And thousands who view poetry with suspicion
sigh with relief; take up his latest book
and glance at him there across the room
with a half-smile that somehow reflects his
just being Billy Collins. No, not even that;
just being.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My Mind Is In a Poetic Meter
Lit with verse and profound imaginings.
Clear of limits and in boundless flight.
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Fixed within rhythmic thoughts combined.
And racing to attach themselves to the proper lines.
Picked with a selected taste to find,
Just the right mixture to release at the right time.
To capture a comprehension that is mutually shared.
And creating an understanding that before was not there.
Until it was produce to seduce,
To make aware.
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Lit with verse and profound imaginings.
Clear of limits and in boundless flight.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Fixed within rhythmic thoughts combined.
And racing to attach themselves to the proper lines.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Picked with a selected taste to find,
Just the right mixture to release at the right time.
To capture a comprehension that is mutually shared.
And creating an understanding that before was not there.
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
Can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
Can you can you feel it?
My mind is in a poetic meter.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I sleep Poetry
Last night I wrestled with poetry
As if a lion wrestling with its prey
I sleep poetry
I dream poetry
I walk poetry on thin line ropes
binding together steeply slopes
I make love to poetry like a new catch
On heat waiting to be let loose from its latch
So out of ten if I am bad, take a pen
And give me a score of five or a four
I constantly make love to poetry
With dramatic grammatical metaphors
The root of my poetic hunger
Is I starve myself a bit longer
In sleep I twiddle my poetic lines
Sharpen them to be as fine as a riddle
I sleep poetry
I drink poetry
Not just to quench my thirst
But to differentiate amongst
Good, Better and Best
There shall come the day
I have to say
When I will definitely call it a truce
When I have run out of poetic juice
2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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It Is Poetic And Prophetic
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
'I see the holes in shoes.'
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
'Those shoes have not been used.
Since many are afraid of walking.
But talk about nonsense,
They choose to do.'
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
And...
It could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
'Lips flap flip flop so much.'
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
'Flipping lips lick ears to touch,
With venom spiced and nothing nice to say...
Yet quick to pick from empty pockets.'
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
'Woe goes the mogul to spend from thieving.
Wishing to steal more.
To take and not to give.
Or...
Sympathize with those begging.'
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
'I see the holes in shoes.'
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I guess nobody really reads poetry that much
Sometimes I ask
This question if the people out there really read poems?
A laundrywoman for instance
Does she even read? Have I told her that there is poem
For laundry soap and how her laundry can be magical?
Or the carpenter, does he ever know that poetry exists
As he hammers the nail on the stairs or puts the walls
Of the house that he is making? Is there a certain beat
In the strokes of his sawing the wood from a newly cut
Tree? Is there something sentimental about his pencil that
Cuts the exact plank of wood to make the railings of
The veranda?
And what about the garbage collector? Is there poetic
Sense in the smell of garbage that he collects early
Morning of the day?
Or about a friend who spent so much to move to
Some places in the U.S. or Canada or New Zealand
Looking for a dream for a greener pasture in foreign lands?
Well to tell frankly I write a lot about them, this laundrywoman
This carpenter, the garbage collectors and friends who give up the
Hope of finding a good life in my country?
I guess I have the right to ask, if they ever read the poems
About them?
I guess I have to ask if there is really poetry in what they
Do and what they dream and what they worry about?
I drink so much coffee to extend my nights to reach
A certain poetic significance about some uncertainties
And the meaning of all these which may not be
Magical, poetic, which may not after all
Be, in the most plain sense,
Readable.
Sometimes, I go outside this room where I am thinking
About them and write about them and just sit there
On a rocking chair looking far to the boundless sea
And I ask, sometimes, do they really read poetry?
I guess, no one really bothers that much. They are busy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Paradox Of Poetry
The Paradox of Poetry
Is that every poem contains its own questions-
And that each question it asks
Is answered in another question
Raised from somewhere else-
The paradox of Poetry
Is that its meanings
Cannot be contained by themselves-
And so each paradox too
Bears within it its own ambiguity-
I call this a poem about Poetry
But in Paradox
It is a statement of Love
Which abstract as it is
Lacks poetic feeling
A non- poetic poem
Aspiring to be poetry too-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem At The Approach Of Spring
It's spring. I suppose I ought to be impressed
By snowdrops, daffodils and all the rest -
Quite frankly I detest
The whole goddamn scene,
I'm sick of every platitude
That betrays some soppy poetic attitude -
I'm feeling quite depressed!
The world is young again and green
But, what the hell,
I feel about a hundred years old!
Yes, I detest
The way the poets are so obsessed
With snowdrops, daffodils and all the rest!
I suppose you've guessed
I've lost my poet's interest
In life and growing things,
The way the blackbird sings
And builds its nest,
I am a man apart
And nothing will ever comfort my empty heart.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Poetry And I
Scars are poetic
Poetry tells the story
The whole was broken
The break is painful
Pain is sadistic
Sadness is poetic
Poetry is healing
Healing is helpful
Help is all I need
Need is what drives me home
Home is where air breathes
Breath is what makes this girl beat
Beat is what life's done
Done, was me giving up
Up was where I was headed
Up is where I'm headed...I think
Thought is what drills me deep
Deep is where my mind lies
Lies make my conscience sigh
Sighs make my guilt rise
Rise lifts me off the floor
Floors gravitate me
Me is sky-bound high
High is a pseudo haven
Haven is poetic
Poetry is my tunnel's light
Light, my journey's dream
Dream, my breath's pursuit
Pursuit, my happiness search
Search, my hunt for love
Love is poetic
Poetry is me.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Poetic Greatness
POETIC GREATNESS..
No one can know the potential, of a life that is committed to win; With courage - the challenge it faces, To achieve great success in the end..
So, explore the Poetic Dimension of Greatness, and believe that the world CAN be won; By a mind that is fully committed, KNOWING the task can be done..
Your world has no place for the skeptic, No room for the DOUBTER to stand; To weaken your firm resolution That you CAN EXCEL in this land...
We must have VISION TO SEE our potential, And FAITH TO BEPoetıc GreatnessIEVE that we can; Then COURAGE TO ACT with conviction, To become what GOD MEANT us to be..
Your voice alone possess the strength and the courage to conquer WHATEVER you choose; It's the person WHO NEVER GETS STARTED, That is destined FOREVER to lose..
Ron Poetry
poem by Ron Poetry
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A Freedom By Poetry!
Poetic freedom is the real freedom for human race;
The freedom they enjoy nobody enjoys in the world!
Free birds are the poets leading the world to freedom;
Nothing can stop the poetic spirit of human beings here!
Human life is incomplete without poetry in the world;
Poetry expresses the dreams, visions and imagination
Not only of the poets but also of the whole of mankind!
Poetry is also the criticism of human life in the world.
Poetry talks about the past, present and future for all;
Tells about love, life, Nature and beauty, a full knowledge!
Otherwise not anyone can gain that by any way in the world
And the place of poetry nothing can capture or replace ever!
Humankind is inspired by poetry for freedom to achieve freedom
And education for freedom can be imparted only by poetry ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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A Pen Gone Dry
Barren fields…empty places
Mind devoid of idea and rhyme
Sterile imagination…featureless faces
Webs in memories, frozen in time
Fingers flaccid, mind unwilling
Heavy lies this heart of mine
Creative forces not fulfilling
Empty flask of poetic wine
Dried up source of poetic spring
Used up store of poetic phrases
Emptied purse with untied string
Like worn out shoes and old frayed laces
Time away… might grow the field
Time away… might fill the empty places
Perhaps time will let the emptiness yield
To imagination…and full featured faces
Now...inkwell empty
Tear in eye
Pristine paper
Pen... gone dry...
poem by David Whalen
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Poetry; a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty.
quote by Matthew Arnold
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The relief is pleasure
Thirst demands; you drink water.
You get relief.
The bladder demands; you pee..
You get relief.
Relief by filling and emptying
Serves you alike
28.06.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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