No Sense
The day has been going and story of life is just fading away since my life has no certainties. Nothing is really known and I am just penning few words. I am not sure as to why I am writing things even though sense is far away. Feeling of proper sense is nowhere near as I am just in a senseless world where finding the right answers is really difficult to do. What have I written and why?
poem by Rohit Sapra
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A Senseless Night
Do not know what is going to happen with my life?
Really, I have no idea and all that I can say is that I know nothing
It is late at night and I am just typing words on the keyboard
Trying to make sense by joining these alphabets
What do these alphabets mean?
Why am I trying to pen these words together?
Sense, what is the sense behind it all?
Basic meaning of it is what?
Actually, it is senseless
I have just gone berserk and that is all I know
Is there any sense behind these words, I do not know
Sensibility has lost its identification
A senseless night awaits me.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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Life Is An Adventure In Writing Words
Life is an adventure in writing words
It is going out alone and finding them
Beyond where the ordinary mind and life is
It is seeking them in difficult and strange places
And discovering the most complex and beautiful of them-
Life is an adventure in writing words
Sometimes simple
Sometimes with the words themselves forgotten
As thoughts pursued through them-
The adventure goes on
My mind goes on
My life goes on
Words go on
On and on and on and on
Until we stop.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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With a mini series you can give the story a proper sense of pacing, a proper sense of closure.
quote by Garth Ennis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You'll Reach The Peak Of That Literary Hill
Who is to say which poetry is best?
How can it possibly be defined?
Which type is superior when put to the test?
All variations are surely entwined.
Strong words written stand the test of time,
Whether in poetry or in a good song,
Some will just flow whereas others will rhyme,
That doesn't mean either is wrong.
You may hate the words or the rhythm of a tune,
The content will still make you think,
Is the writer a genius or perhaps a buffoon?
With either there's always a link.
Some tell a story just like a book,
The written word can play games with your heart,
When you read one line common sense is forsook,
From that poem you don't want to depart.
It will get you talking that much is true,
You'll condemn it or proclaim it is great,
In some cases the reader may well want to sue,
You can guarantee it will open up a debate.
Who are any of us to judge each other?
Yet critics have the power to destroy,
Freedom of speech is what they smother,
Slagging off others they seem to enjoy.
Constructive critique can improve what is written,
Regardless of it being good or bad,
But senseless censure can leave one bitten,
It can even drive some people mad.
If you want to depart from the madness of life,
Then writing can be a great tool,
It can lift you up and rid you of strife,
Enjoying what you create is the rule.
Some of the time you can please them all,
There'll be those you never will,
As long as when writing you're having a ball,
‘' You'll Reach The Peak Of That Literary Hill ‘'
What He Gave to Us
I wanted to do something different today
I didn’t know what to do, or even what to say.
I had a feeling deep inside- that made me
Want to scream “ I’m alive”.
I looked around at all the beauties of the earth
And thought about all my worth.
That I was born with all five senses
That the lord had given to me.
The sense to Touch a delicate flower
The sense to Hear a bewitching hour
The sense to Smell what s in the air.
The sense to Taste the juices of a pear
The sense to See the beauty of a pearl
There is another sense that they don’t say
Such as Feelings- of love, to wipe tears away
Feelings cover all aspects of life
It can make things wrong or things right.
Feelings of passion and despair
Of compassion from one who cares
Bitterness, anger, hate and sorrow
Even those make life worth while.
There is so much that we must be grateful for
For GOD has opened all the doors.
He knew that we needed all these things
To make our lives complete.
But there was still something missing
What good was all these senses
If we didn’t have the main sense.
The sense to think and rationalize
All that he had given
That was the thing that would really
Make life worth living.
(08/10/11)
poem by Louis Rams
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Beware Words Written
words celebrating what is written
beware allure of beauty in words written
seek instead words thoughts not written
words not written thoughts not written
themes not written which need to be written
the importance of the unwritten demands writing
important world needs consciousness needs writing
urgent global necessity issues demands needs writing
actions resolutions policy change harmony restoration needs writing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Fear My Own Silence
I FEAR MY OWN SILENCE
I fear my own silence
I fear the end in life in writing
Before my life has ended-
I force myself to go on
I feel my own inadequacy
I feel I am writing poor lines.
I sense it would make more sense to stop
I should stop
I can’t stop
I need to write
Even if my writing is only the scribbling of an amateur fool who has wasted his life in words and more words
I write this now in the darkness before the morning has begun
Will I walk to Shul this morning justified?
Or do I know these lines now too
More of the same self- indulgent nonsense
No one needs but myself?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Senseless?
senselessly
make sense by being senseless at times
we all need that
to realize we are not what we are after all
we too are what we are for what we are not
senseless and
numb
senselessly why worry about sense at all?
bipolarity
flesh and spirit
mind and matter
brain and brass
don't you worry
take some beer and smoke
watch what happens to the world
in conflagration
of senseless thoughts
loafing is the work of another genius
when the mind simply drifts like a butterfly
on a windless day
shopping for petals in the garden
of no-man's land
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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I start with the story, almost in the old campfire sense, and the story leads to both the characters, which actors should best be cast in this story, and the language. The choice of words, more than anything else, creates the feeling that the story gives off.
quote by Donald E. Westlake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing is making sense of life. You work your whole life and perhaps you've made sense of one small area.
quote by Nadine Gordimer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If this country can’t find its way to a human path, if it can’t inform conduct with a deep sense of life, then all of us, black
as well as white, are going down the same drain… I picked up a pencil and held it over a sheet of white paper, but my feelings stood in the way of my words. Well, I would wait, day and night, until I knew what to say. Humbly now, with no vaulting dream of achieving a vast unity, I wanted to try to build a bridge of words between me and that world outside, that world which was so distant and elusive that it seemed unreal. I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that
gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human.
quote by Richard Wright
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sonnet 2
my mind's eye from outer eye remove.
make senseless the argument of sense
that beauty not subject to sense prove
nor object to time that takes you hence.
then, mind from eye withdrawn,
in dark, sense may shine bright
and mind itself your beauty form,
forming mind to your illuminate.
but not thought's sense to hear
nor sense of mind in sense feel,
dimensional sight and intelligent ear
bereft of mind from mind would reel.
no war between your feature and form
exists except in eye - that does harm.
poem by Doug Bentley
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Part Of Life
That old genius Mr. Einstein
Though his knowledge was immense
Did not have all the world's answers
But he had a lot of common sense.
That Don Quixote of La Mancha
So passionate with his solutions
Fought the windmills with bravura
Yet he suffered from delusions.
We cannot have the ready answers
Cure every ill that this world holds
But each of us can make life better
Let's do our part, let respect unfold.
This world will always have some trouble
That's part of life we all have to face
But each of us must be responsible
For all our deeds as one of the human race.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Since I Have Felt The Sense Of Death
Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have borne its dread, its fear—
Oh, how my life has grown more dear
Since I have felt the sense of death!
Sorrows are good, and cares are small,
Since I have known the loss of all.
Since I have felt the sense of death,
And death forever at my side—
Oh, how the world has opened wide
Since I have felt the sense of death!
My hours are jewels that I spend,
For I have seen the hours end.
Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have looked on that black night—
My inmost brain is fierce with light
Since I have felt the sense of death.
O dark, that made my eyes to see!
O death, that gave my life to me!
poem by Helen Hoyt
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Everything rhythmically organic is true. Everything, which results from the proper feeling for rhythmically organized spiritual units, is true and alive — alive within itself. When we lose the sense for such true beauty we lose our natural sense for the rich flavor of life, which is the basis for all inspirational work.
quote by Hans Hofmann
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Open Book's Monologue Part 4 Bookkeeping
Regular written books or a regular written novel
Could sell
But each copy would essentially be the same
And the words stagnant, unable to change, in a sense lame
Because they cannot move or rearrange
They just never change
But I guess even though I'm an open book that's where we differ
My words do change, and my past is rewritten
When my memories become hazy or hidden
Suddenly I've changed my past, said something different to her
Or him, or supposedly done an action that never did occur.
When witnesses balk and there is no vindication
Nor affirmation
It's hard to keep my memories truthfully
Call me a liar for changing them, but that's me
Bookkeeping is near impossible
Because rewriting my beginnings is possible
It's hard to remember what's fact or fiction
When this novel is just a fantastical rendition
Of what I think my life is or thought my life was
Not what it really is or really was
I think it's because
Those unhappy memories of the past ought
Just to be forgot
So I choose (o so subconsciously) to rewrite them
Only to find they've made my destiny
They've made me- me
It's funny that I write of bookkeeping
And changing the beginning of the book
When I feel so strongly
That such things are impossible for me
So in a sense this poem is a contradiction
But then maybe my changes are just my perception
Of my story because I cannot look back
So I guess I'm wrong... future and past are stained in black
Because as a book I could change what I think
Maybe even float not sink
But that's just my perception, because my story
Is actually
The Immutable tragedy
The tragedy of me
And past... present... future
They won't endure
One day pages will crumble to dust
But I think... I'll go first... Actually I think.... I think...
I must.
poem by David Knox
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Something
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet melody,
A rhythm that can be felt,
A beauty that can be read.
With words flowing like water over rocks,
Steadily without fault or obstruction.
A liquid in its purest state.
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet remembrance,
Like the scent of falling rain,
Or the memorable sound of a mothers cooing voice.
Something so memorable,
The slightest reminder sends you back to the exact moment,
Replaying in unbroken pattern of mind.
I'm writing in hope for something spectacular to happen,
For my words to form a feeling so deep they hurt,
For each image to be as clear as these words on this paper.
I want you to feel what I feel,
A feeling of lonely discontent,
Sitting alone in my own my own world, writing away.
I am writing this in hope for something to stick with you,
A message or a meaning that I've hidden inside a syllable,
A voice of reason that you have kept from yourself,
Silenced with the voice of your shallow desires.
A dream that you once had forgotten,
Lost in the darkness of the night.
I am writing this in hope for something to be brought to light.
Maybe a buried thought that you wish you never had,
Or an inner conflict that you hadn't noticed but feel tearing apart your skin,
Even an aspiration you promised to live up to but left to die.
Something so lost in the world of your mind,
Swallowed by deep chasms of thought and memory.
I am writing this in hope of telling a story.
The story of a world that can only be imagined in a dark room,
Hidden from the world and apart from anything else.
The story of a broken heart of a shortened life,
The story of the silent cries of a lost soul reaching for sanity.
My own story, perhaps, or even yours, is this your story?
I am writing in hope of making your thoughts and feelings dance,
A slow and steady music in the background,
Propelling your eyes left to right and back again.
Following the steps of each word,
The flow off each line and stanza.
An endless waltz with the reader and the writer, will you dance with me?
I am writing in hope of making an impression on your mind,
Maybe not an everlasting one, but even just a brief moment,
A moment of realization that you are now reading what I have written,
That for one moment in time our minds share the same space and thought,
Each word playing in our head the same as the other's.
Can you hear my voice, can you feel my thoughts?
I don't know why I am writing, or why I am writing what I am writing,
But I know that it has accomplished one thing,
It has given a purpose to something, if even just a piece of paper,
It has given worth to something that at one point was just a blank sheet,
Waiting for something to be etched into its surface, making it something.
I guess that's why I'm writing, I'm just writing; something.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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You Feel a Sense of Worthlessness
If those 'things' did not exist,
Would you still be who you are?
They have given you a sense of status.
And without them,
You feel a sense of worthlessness.
And you have paid a price to have them.
Even when they must be taken away...
They seem to stale with the commonplace of their use.
Taken for granted and has seduced...you,
Into shameless needing!
Like an appendage depended upon.
And you?
You try not to feel lost without them!
But you lay craving their use.
Feeling useless.
You can not do without them.
They are attached like a habit.
Like a muscle flexed.
They grow on you to affix themselves.
Like a missing leech recognized when absent.
However...
These taxing blood suckers have no feeling for you at all.
They are just things!
Things.
Things.
And yet those things...
They stay on your mind!
On your mind they stay.
And yet...those things?
If those 'things' did not exist,
Would you still be who you are?
Would you recognize yourself,
Without them?
Who are you anyway?
Do you know?
Have you cared to know?
If those 'things' did not exist,
Would you still be who you are?
They have given you a sense of status.
And without them,
You feel a sense of worthlessness.
And you have paid a price to have them.
Even when they must be taken away...
They seem to stale with the commonplace of their use.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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