Writing And Talking...
there is nothing to write
for the meantime that i am chatting with you
there are lots to say and share
it is different on this sphere
we are more human
on this openness for
talks... no motives, no direction
just for the sake of
having someone to talk to
and then perhaps from there
there will be more metaphors to find
more poems to compose
more words
more of us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphors
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS
Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors
Bare and stark and original
Quiet and sleeping and still
The soothing poems the calming poems
The poems that even in the middle of the night
Let us sleep.
Let’s leave the poems without metaphors
And go back to the simple words
And let them say all they can by themselves
Until they become metaphors too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Money Talks
(myles goodwyn)
Published by northern goody two tunes, ltd./capac - ascap
I work so hard just to get along
Before I know it, all the moneys gone
I do my best just to make headway
And save some money for a rainy day
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk
I find it rough just to pay the rent
Before I know it all the moneys spent
I work hard and toe the line
And learn to take one day at a time
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, lets talk
We pay our taxes just like they say
And man it hurts to give the money away
A penny saved, a penny earned
You do your best, and you still get burned
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
I work so hard, just like you (just like you)
But someday thingsll change
If money can talk, this is it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't write poems
I don't write poems,
I drink them like wine,
I become tipsy
with each coming line.
I don't write poems,
I breathe them like air,
I become so happy
when each one I share.
I don't write poems,
I live with them;
they prolong my years,
they are as true as I am.
I don't write poems,
I weave into verses
sadness, joy, tears,
prayers, love, curses…
My poems talk and sing,
Sense of living they bring.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
26th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ars Gratia Artis
i will say this
and i will say this
again to you
it is for art's sake
that i write
not for the rating
not for popularity
that is why i never
go on campaigning
that you read me
i do not advertise
no gimmicks
just plain writing
because i just feel
like doing it
words come and
i welcome them
they ask to be written
and so i have to
write them
art must be for art's sake
words are written
and poems are posted
because they are here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Talking.... (Who Listens?)
even the silence of the night talks,
small children talk in their dreams;
old people talk staring out windows...
trees talk shedding leaves,
empty buildings talk to ghosts;
dead bones talk to the wind...
the wind talks those who mourn.
the hungry talk to their oppressors,
the prisoner talks to the walls.
the desperate talk to the noose,
lovers talk with simple touch.
soldiers talk to their fears,
the unborn talk to our decisions.
the moon talks to the night,
and the night talks to the dawn.
the soul of man talks,
and calls it god.
the conscience talks to the heart.
death talks to the living....
who listens?
who really hears?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All I Can Do Is Write Poems
ALL I CAN DO IS WRITE POEMS
All I can do is write poems
I have nothing else to say-
Only what Poetry alone can give
The expression of the soul
The deepest feeling we have
Whatever is in us and hurts the most
And needs most to be said.
All I can do in pain is write poems
But when the gladness comes?
When the happiness returns?
I will try too to to find words
For what is unsayable.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poems Became Metaphors
The poems became metaphors-
They took off like meteors,
They turned into shimmering white almond tree beauty-
They danced-
They went home
They became sick and died-
They did everything a human being and a non- human being could try to do -
They were nothing and they were everything-
They turned the sky white and blue on its darkest day
And made the nights green-
Oh they were something else the poems when they became metaphors-
And still now,
They are rising up and going deep into a different universe,
No one not even the most quiet eyes can ever fully dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Money Talks
(lead vocal - john miles)
Money dont grow on a money tree
The more you take the less for me
Money dont buy what you really need
It make an iceman cry, a stoneman bleed
But when you get right down to it, no matter who you are
It rules your life like a virgin queen
One day you might get over it, but in the meantime
It rules the world likea green machine
In the bank, in a box, money talks
In the black, on the rocks, money talks, money talks
Money dont lose in the money game
It drags you down like a ball and chain
So money dont come with a guarantee
It make a fool of you, it make a fool of me
But when you get right down to it, no matter what you say
It ties you down but it can set you free
Some day you might get over it, but in the meantime
It burns you up in the first degree
Moscow, bangkok, money talk
Park lane, boardwalk, money talk
But when you get right down to it, no matter what you try
You deal the cards, give the wheel a spin
One day you might get over it but everybody knows
Its heads you lose and its tails they win
Dont have too much to show for it, thats the way it goes
You roll the dice and they cash you in
Pinball, jukebox, money talks
Redskins, white sox, money talks
Billboard, cashbox, money talks
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Astha's Poems
Naughty naughty little bro
Black as a black crow
Don't know where he would go
To read astha's poems, oh! No,
Lots of poems you would be tired
Would feel like on fire, get inspired
Poems with true and lots of feelings
Long as a distance of floor and ceilings
Would try to write poem like she do
Won't be able to, so would say, screw you!
How could you? ? Write so nice and good
So astha continue your writings you really should…
poem by Sushanta Rokka
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I Wrote A Poem I Could Not Write
I wrote a poem I could not write-
And then when I tried to write it again
Could not write it again -
Poems written and not written
Words and more words
What do they mean?
Paradoxes and games with words
What do they mean?
If there is Beauty in the language
It is one thing
But words just to hear themselves think,
Why should they mean ‘Remembrance'?
Oh Words oh Questions oh Darkness oh Life-
Let me write myself to the grave
Believing at least
That poems too even when they can be written
Have their small unhidden meanings.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write Poems For Poets
I WRITE POEMS FOR POETS
I write poems for poets
Our situation as poets-
The longings the feelings
We so need to express-
The love of language-
The hunger for recognition-
The frequent rejection-
The kind word of a reader that moves-
Poems for poets
We as we each are
All so different-
And we as we share
Words and worlds
We hope to have read.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Humanity
Everytime I walk down the street
I see lots of idiocy
Lots of hypocrites
Lots of ignorance
Lots of people polluting the street
With lots of litter
When I talk to people
They bring up facebook and twitter
I'm like 'Can you talk about something else? '
This is all people talk about these days
All I hear is celebrity gossip and drama
No one knows how to have fun
Everyone's forgotten how to have fun
I hate society
I hate most people
I wish the human race was extinct
I wish the world would just end
At 4: 19 In The Morning
the mosquitoes are already full
and bound to rest and reproduce their hundred eggs
i wake up. there is something to say.
there are lots of things to do.
i am having a hard time to decide
what 's first, what's next,
then i write this one. this one is different.
it is about a question. it does not demand
an answer though. it is about 'why i am always doing this? '
why i am hooked
to sit down and write again
those that do not really point to a direction
this scatters me like dust
as i try to gather dust again
the fingers run again. some words keep coming.
i wonder. Do these words have meaning at all?
keep going, the words say, keep going.
we will tell you as soon as we arrive there.
it may be about nothing at all. just keep going.
carry us. we will tell you later.that is the catch.
keep going. just keep going. who knows
there may be something out there.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Plainest of Plain
No matter how many poems I write
I can’t impress you
The love that I write
The love I express
The love I try to show you
You just don’t see it
So let me tell you
In the plainest of words
No metaphors
No similes
Rhymes
Or complex descriptions
Only the plainest of plain
It’s been you
From the day we collided
You been in the depths of my heart
Pumping your love through me
I know it’s you I want
You I need
You I love
The only other way to prove this to you without words
Would be to slowly kill myself
Only to show you how much it hurts to be without you
I may not be your first crush
I may not be that vampire you like so much
Or the werewolf
But I’m something they’re not
I’m real and here for you
You won’t find anyone else like me
So now you can see what I feel
Hopefully now you truly understand
So now when I see you next (and to quote the Beatles)
Maybe “You’ll let me hold your hand”
Written: March 24,2010
And to any Twilight fans yes I referred to Edward and Jake.
poem by Ryan Collins
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A Monochrome Poem
IT will talk about
an absence in the same manner
that he talks about it
when you are together
about a job about to come
when
he does not know
but for the meantime
he stays with you
for support
he once tells about a woman
who jumped from atop the
cathedral
hitting her head on the
lamppost below
not only sad
but horrible
brains scattered on the pavement
blood spurting like
a fountain
so much self-inflicted
violence
one thinks about the noise
of the monochromatic life
outside the window
thinking that there is someone
there that you know
who like you
also looks for life
a job that did not come
the decision to come home
but when
that i do not really know
with you
for the meantime
everything is still on the meantime
we wait
hopefully for something not
as violent
not as horrible as
the cathedral story.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poems Went Away
THE POEMS WENT AWAY
The poems went away.
Nothing inside.
An empty will for poetry
Forcing words on the page,
Words without music
Without resonance
Without great implication
Meaning.
Write, write, write
Lest you die.
And the words themselves
A kind of desperate uphill catching of breath
On the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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We Live Poems We Cannot Write
WE LIVE POEMS WE CANNOT WRITE
We live poems we cannot write-
Words of beauty that sometimes come suddenly
And disappear before we think to transcribe them-
Indescribable perceptions that move rapidly within us
And are gone before we can even be fully conscious of them-
We live poems we cannot write
Worlds of feeling there are no words for-
Our lives are pervaded by unwritten poetry
And our strongest Will and most determined Memory
cannot make pages of it all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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