The Subways Of The Subconscious...
you post a poem
it is not that you believe in the integrity of the site,
or the blog, you do not even attempt to find out
who are there and what causes are they supporting
you make a poem
because the words are there
and you do not even choose which word to use
whether this rhymes with this
or not
it is just a matter of a word coming out from your fingertips
and then
they are there
no filtering of meanings, no sifting of significances
it flows like a river, it runs like a creek, it settles on some ponds
it rains, and then it overflows
and you make it run again like a flood, over reaching
carrying all driftwood and all lost things
you go under bridges, you even go on top of canals
the words are terrible
now on the streams of consciousness and then under
the commands of the the subconscious
actually you do not know what is happening
your hands are merely riding on a wave
your sight relying on the ripple
you do not even feel that you have wings
but Of God you Swear
you are flying
the clouds pushing your heels
into Space into the sleepy emptiness.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Do Not Post Your Poem Here
Do not post your poem here
Unless you've something worth a say!
You must not waste a space like this,
For space can waste away!
Do not post your poem here
With words which make no sense!
Be careful when you post it here
That you use the proper tense!
Do not post your poem here
Just to fill a space with words!
A poem should be well thought out,
Was it meant to be absurd?
Do not post your poem here
If in cliches you would write.
A poem should be fresh, yes sharp -
You'll know when it's just right!
Do not post your poem here
Just to see yourself in print.
You're wasting others time you know
With such, self centred stints!
I wil not post my poem here,
This one does not exist,
But did I tell you at the start
That I'm a nihilist?
poem by Joe Hughes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Rhyming Flu
It’s 1: 15 A.M.
I’m sitting here in bed;
I want to go to sleep,
But rhymes are in my head.
I just came upstairs;
I was just on the com,
Working out a poem;
For Ainaa to recite in the morn.
The problem with rhyme and I;
Is that it starts and never stops,
Remember it’s one o’clock;
But rhymes still pulse my thoughts.
So I’m writing this very rhyme;
Hoping my rhyme runs out,
But such a hope’s impossible;
When my rhymes are as abundant as trout.
I know what you all are thinking:
“This rhyme is simply a gimmick;
This boy’s not really sleepy,
He’s wide awake with this limerick.”
“This story of sleep is really;
Just some tricky plot,
To make you think he flows out rhyme;
Like water from a cracked pot.”
But, nay, it is true;
I’ve got the rhyming flu,
I’m hoping that by writing this rhyme;
All my rhymes shall be through.
Aha, I know the cure;
The medicine’s no longer obscure!
To end this awful rhyme;
I need a word that does NOT rhyme!
I’ve heard of the word before;
It’s like English’s Achilles heel,
No matter how hard you rhyme;
Its un-rhyming-ness is an iron veil.
Touché now rhyming flu;
This word I give to you!
Try rhyming the word ‘month’
…Ha-ha, you can’t now, can you! ?
The rhyming flu has left me…
I can feel it leaving my mind…
Ahhh… I am so relieved…
The clock says it’s now sleepy time...
…zZzZZZ
poem by Warren Chan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem Life
what is...
a poem...?
some word
speaking...
some word
crying...
some word
trying...
some word
hitting...
some word
danching...
some word
loving...
some word
colling...
some word
lifing...
some word
loughing...
all the words
are poem...
feel free
your heart free..
love free
to write+ speak...
with freee...
making a poem
life your style...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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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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The f word and me
The other day we discussed reasons
why people use
the magical f word.
a Young woman is of the opinion
that it’s because of a lack of imperfect language,
where a person’s vocabulary
lacks other words to use.
I think that there are many more other reasons
to slip in everywhere
and that vocabulary
has very little
or nothing to do with it.
One thing that can incite it
is exposure,
where people hear it
hundreds of times
every day
like in an army.
Subsequently without intention
it becomes part of your conversation
and your own vocabulary,
without drawing any attention
with yourself.
The word f is a power word
that give colour intensity
to the meanings of other words
and it can underline, emphasize
or lift some out.
You can also use it as a word
that has many meanings
and use it like a good shifting spanner
that shift for meaning values.
This word can also
be almost any word type
that gives bigger power
to other words used with it.
The thing that really matters
what others read
in the meaning of my words
and if I loose integrity by using it.
There are times
my mother wants to catch a fit
when I use the f word
and not from the meaning
of my words,
but from the negative context
that can be drawn with the word
and the easy transfer
of the word on children that hear my dialogue.
[With thanks to Skymaster, whose article inspired this poem.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Can Sense It Coming
I can sense it coming
I hear it from within
The words are here
A poem-
But whether what I feel as a poem
Is a poem
Is another question-
Words come
Perhaps they are only prose -
Not every sound which comes from within is beautiful
And not every word I wait to hear is a poem-
Should I stop here
Or is this already enough for now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Word Is Just A Word
a word is just a word
and it may come from somewhere else
from a very far place
because a word like a bird has wings
and it has feet and it may hover
on my hair and make a nest there
like this poem
and that poem of pain and that poem of joy
and that poem that you have read and
made me the man crying in pain inside those lines
for a poem is just a poem
and it may come from somewhere else
from a very far, far place
about someone else
because a poem is like a bird with wings
with feet and with feathers and it may hover
inside my heart
and make a house there
and i am there too
emphatizing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Between Our Own Realities
between our realities
are the waters of privacy
and for one who does not flow
like what others do
the ripples of misunderstanding
begin to behave as whirlpools
in our minds
the banks of the rivers are far
and we who desire the harmony
of the clouds and their mirrors
begin to build the bridges of words
and symbols
between us now is this poem
and if you have been with me
upon the graces of time and
the courtesy of space
there could have been more to
this poem, and to those words
because between the emptiness
of air, something like a beating heart
a warm hug could have done better.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Physical Poetry
The physics of poetry
is best explained in a mind experiment
in the construction of this very poem.
As I write the question becomes
what is the word-next and its origins?
Now what word-next can be
is a question of probabilities;
since if I choose rhyme as my scheme
and since the words which will rhyme are finite
and not infinite
the only question then becomes
which one of these will I choose.
Now if I choose a word-next outside
rhyming
then I risk not making poetic sense
since writing a gibberish word,
or one not related to the whole,
would be judged word-next nonsense.
Now we ask who or what in the brain
is making these two decisions
is it me or is it something mysterious;
is it drawing upon the past and memory
or from an instantaneous present
or even perhaps from my future?
Or is it just random choices I make
without even understanding them?
But suppose it is something we call
consciousness which exists
in the brain-cloud of cells which
can with millions of possibilities
produce a entirely new idea
which by definition
can come to exist
like language itself
and produce something never before said;
and now is being compiled in the brain
in this very instant and brought into existence.
That is humans have with language
the ability to create sentences
which have never before existed,
spoken or written because some languages have
enough words in them to make these permutations
near infinite and hence new ideas possible therewith.
Suppose the same is true of the human mind
and human senses make possible from this
this exercise we call
the idea.
So beyond the physical aspects of the brain
there must be a non-physical aspect we call
consciousness, the spiritual, or whatever
word we choose as its name.
Now the other half of the transaction
is even more amazing:
I just made up a new idea
never been expressed before
and can talk to you about it
and given enough clues
it becomes something you understand
and you yourself can write
a poem about.
This must be trans-consciousness
which is now a double miracle
nobody understands.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Some Silence, Some Words
Today somewhere a mirror broke
And a music of end splashed in the pages of time,
Someone lost his meanings in the broken mirror..
And an unending silence flowed
Many things happen silently, , ,
How the silent weeping of the lost meaning wander in the depth of the night, , ,
I unveil the sea of darkness...i find only silence
And the music of the end keeps on splashing around
Life is all about some silence and some words…
Far away a poet was looking for words, .
And a poem was seeking for its understanding, ,
for the heart where words dwell with meanings, ,
As long as they both were away everything was all right...
And when they met, , ,
the poet lamented on the end of words of the poem, , ,
and the poem on the unending silence of the poet, , , , ,
poems are not about understanding....
poet is not about words, , , ,
In This World Of Infinite Words
IN THIS WORLD OF INFINITE WORDS
In this world of infinite words
So many poems have already been written,
Infinite poems in infinite words-
Therefore any new poem simply seems to cry out its own non- necessity-
Yet in a word in a voice
A whole world can be born and transformed-
A new poem a real poem
Can make us forget all the others
And make all the others live through it-
Yet who in this world of infinite words
Can write this poem?
And when will the next set of strangers names come
To show me that my words are nothing?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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Writting
When i feel lost lonely and have nowhere to go,
the words keep me company and im a loner no more,
Letters come together in my minds free flowing from my
heart,
Two letters one letter many letters make up words,
Long words short word
bring up sentences that form up,
my concious wades throught them picking seeking to join
short and long and make it work,
No rules to my word play anything u want can stay a
concortion a work of art,
Am lost in emotions,
lost in expressions,
pronouns adjectives and nouns,
Lay them straight,
hang them down they still are need a flow to make a sweet
sound,
The rhyme,
the time is put into consideration when iplay with all my words,
My best friend is my pen, my paper and my head there is no limit to what i can,
Its a poem am at it a work of art in progress i love the work
of my hands...
poem by Kennedy Musyoka
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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I Am Tired Of The Word 'Poem
I AM TIRED OF THE WORD ‘POEM’
I am tired of the word ‘poem’
‘Poem’ ‘poem’ ‘poem’ ‘poem and ‘poem’ again
Weren’t there stars before there were poems?
And won’t there be light somewhere else
when no one has words to say?
And in all the great Silence before and ever after
won’t there be the being of something real however unsaid and unknown?
And won’t ‘Poem’ and ‘poems’ too like all of us
Cease one day to be and never again know that they are?
All the immortals are mortal and their poems too
Silence before and Silence after
And no words forevermore.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
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Untitled 15
there is a mountain of words
an ocean of words
a continent of words
there is a rain of words
a flood of words
a river of words and true to their being words
they also disintegrate as syllables
on the other hand some form the clauses
conditions and terms
some make sentences and paragraphs
a world of words full of words
i am not a word and i am buried in a mountain of words
a sea of words i drown
a continent of words i am condemned to walk all the days of my life
too may words my ears do not listen anymore.
my eyes do not like to read anymore.
i like something not having to do with words.
what about a touch? what about a picture?
what about a kiss?
why don't people just make love without saying a word?
let us start touching the hearts of people
to avoid this war of words that lead us to our own perdition.
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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A Ode Poem To You
My mother gave me an ode poem, oh how I love that poem
The scene of her perfume on it, the picture of me in her arms
This letter I keep with me all the time, I love it so much I sleep with it under my pillow
To her nice hand writing, to the black ink she wrote in, she wrote until her ink went low
My poem is great, my poem is wonderful, to the white paper she wrote on it’s beautiful
To the green words of the title, my poem she gave me is the best
I love how she gave the lip stick print on the top of my poem, sad to say she's at rest
I will always love the poem she gave to me before she passed
To the words in the poem she gave me will always endure
Word by word my lovely poem is speaking to me gratefully
This ode poem was from my mom and for only me sincerely
I love my poem, oh how wonderful it can be
Its so wonderful do you want to read,
Take a look, take a look and you will see
poem by Twilight Simmons
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