Busy Lives
When someone says 'do telephone', she telephones
When someone says 'please write', she always writes
When someone says 'pop by', she excitedly replies
that she will, and what is more, she always does.
But the world is perverse in its behaviour
and most people find her eagerness quite strange.
When she telephones or writes or dares to visit;
they're most put out or dare I say, enraged!
She ponders on her life and their behaviour
she feels so very lonely and so sad.
She popped in yesterday to see a neighbour.
They said, in callous tones, 'go get a life'.
They chat amongst themselves and they condemn her.
They say, 'Well you know her, she's not quite right',
but in their hearts, they know, of course, they've failed her,
their excuse is that they lead such busy lives.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Related quotes
Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy
For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.
This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.
It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.
He writes one late at night
to remind him
to get up in the morning
and one in the morning
to remind him to go to bed at night.
It is estimated he writes
quite a few hundred memos everyday.
His house is filed with little bits
of yellow paper stuck up here and there.
He couldn’t watch TV
even if he wanted to.
There are s many memos on it
you can’t see the screen.
One day his pen ran out
and no memos he could write.
He couldn’t even write a memo
to remind himself to buy a pen.
Then he found a pencil
and shouted that will do.
Now he is able to write memos to himself
to tell himself what to do.
As far as I know,
he hasn’t written a memo
to remind himself to sharpen
the pencil once and a while.
28 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Reflections 101
he writes not because
he wants to be read and
be understood
got him wrong really
he writes because he likes
to live
life writes upon himself
and so he writes upon life too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Disturbing Behavior
Disturbing behaviour on the common front;
She wants perfect behviour out of everyone
She's got a bone to pick with you
And you don't know what to do;
She says your cheating days are through
And you know what you can do
Impropriety got the best of me
Impropriety wrote my destiny
Disturbing behaviour on the common front;
She wants perfect behaviour out of everyone
Outrageous behaviour convinces everyone
We want perfect behaviour out of everyone
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He's A Man of His Word
He contemplates life
In general who people are
Or what things are
What is it all about?
He likes to learn
From those of us
With knowledge
Of the here and now
And of the past
He taps away
At his keyboard
As he reads
As he writes
And discovered
To his knowledge
That it helps him
To be a better man
His words are immaculate
Even words I've never heard
But when he writes his poetry
It has meaning to each word
The man is so humble
On what he writes
On what he feels
And on how he preserves others
And their words
I bow to thee Kevin Patrick
Who is a man?
Of his every word
poem by Kaila George
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An Old Man Waits For a Poem To Come
AN OLD MAN WAITS FOR A POEM TO COME
An old man waits for a poem to come
How many poems will come
Before he’s done?
An old man writes and writes and writes
He will write
To the end of his life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Written in Black Ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her story
Her experiences
Her life
Written in
Black ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her sorrows
People she lost
People who are gone
Written in
Black ink
She writes for
Days and
Days
Until
At last
Her masterpiece
Is finished
Her eyes Begin to
Close and
Oblivion Takes hold
And when she
Awakens
Her story will be written
Written in black ink
poem by Autumn Winds
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A Saying We Hear Often
A saying we hear often like father like son
It is only human when all is said and done
That the boy models himself on the behaviour of dad
More often than not for the good than the bad.
Though few so few ever grow into a sage
Good values by people learned at a young age
In behaviour the son the dad does imitate
One might say from life we get what we create.
The son mostly models himself on the father what more proof does one need
That by good or bad example one only can lead
Though on some occasions this has been proved wrong
The bond between father and son mostly strong.
I'm not into human psychology so don't ask me why
Like father like son in most cases apply
Without a good father the child in life may not succeed
Good role models in their life every young person need.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A good journalist is not the one that writes what people say, but the one that writes what he is supposed to write.
quote by Todor Zhivkov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Behaviour
The fulcrum of my behaviour is life,
Fortune forced its tentacles, conniving
And banishing the very layer I existed in.
The reality faced me in the head of affairs,
Our tails longer, the balancing act was tremendous
And very berated when we fell into the depths of the ocean
Of life.
The fulcrum or pivot was down where it lay-
Life was deciding behaviour, the very act.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Cat Poem - with discussion
I must not write a poem
because I want to write a poem.
I must try to write the poem
when the poem has to be written.
Yes but what if my cat dies?
Yes, what if my cat dies
and I know my cat lived a
good and honest life
I can write a poem?
I can can’t I
I can have a cat poem can’t I
Life of an honest cat and that
Yes I know, I said the cat was honest
but I didn’t say that I was, and
I lied about the cat
________________________________
Discussion:
The poem begins as a slightly
finger wagging exercise in telling
people not to write just because
they want to write a poem - it must
be DRIVEN by the poem's insistence
on being written. The poet is
unable to sustain this arrogance
hence the cat. Then, using the
cat as an excuse, writes the poem
but in the end has to admit that
the cat was just a device to break
the rule outlined in the 4 opening
lines. (Secretly of course the poet
believes or at least hopes that the
poem is good enough to excuse itself
and be allowed to break the rule.)
But of course it isn't
poem by by unknown author
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Their Kind Of Books
You are somebody's wife and now,
Somebody's husband is using you;
But, is this what you call love? !
You are somebody's husband and now,
Somebody's wife is sleeping with you;
But, is this what you call love? !
What kind of world is this?
Is this the kind of love or lust that you want?
What kind of garden of Eden is this?
Is this what you call lust or love?
Oh, what a shame! ! !
A lady sleeps with a president and writes a book about it,
A man kills a woman ans writes a book about it,
A thief robs a bank and writes a book about it,
A man sleeps with somebody's wife and writes a book about it,
A flirt sleeps with different people and writes a book about it,
A kidnapper is very successful with his or her acts and writes a book about it,
A woman kills a man and writes a book about it,
And so on and so forth as we seen in this world;
But, sin is like enjoyment to these people in this Garden of Eden!
And now, thier kind of books are all over the stores in this world for sale.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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There Was Nothing Left To Write
THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO WRITE
There was nothing left to write
Everything had already been written
And was being written over again and again
By thousands elsewhere-
There was nothing left to write
And nothing new to say -
And no need for anything he had to give-
It was over for him as a writer
Whether he accepted it or not-
No one would ever need or want anything he could do again-
And so when he despite all this still wrote
It seemed to many simply pathetic-
The obsessive reflex of an already lost soul-
Who wrote and wrote and wrote
Who writes and writes and writes
Who cannot stop
However senseless all he does, is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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So What Do You Expect From The Title?
the poet writes the title
first,
he is the messy kind
that writes
whatever comes first
even though
literally each word
seems not to be significant
to the next one
practically like strangers
coming together
inside a train
whose common ground
is only to go somewhere
else
nothing like
care, or affection
they merely stand there
and wait
and then take their
respective
exits
he writes: so what do you expect from life?
changing it later:
so what do you expect
from the
title? trying to conceal the essence
of his question
and then he keeps on writing
like a lost kid
looking for its mother
who seems to be very busy
with her own
kind of obsessive
compulsive shopping
and then you arrive at the
end line which says: hey why are you stalking me?
changes it later to
something courteous: do i know you?
are you following me?
do you like me? funny, but
sometimes it is true
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When his life belongs to a mysterious hand
He writes day & night
And erase sometimes.
Then writes again.
He drinks a lot and stops
When there is no funds.
Starts again when his wallet sounds.
He walked thousands of miles
But he feels still at the same place.
One day he spoke to an insect
It struggles to survive in a cobweb.
'Dear! How could I help you
When my life too belongs to a mysterious hand?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Bad Behaviour
I'm heading up to London, sat on a train;
The children, sat near to me, are being a pain.
Two are lounged lengthways across the seats,
And constantly pester their mother for sweets.
The girl, sat behind me, keeps on kicking my seat;
Their belongings are strewn around, far from neat.
The boy is so comfy, that he's removed his shoes;
Their behaviour makes me want to blow a fuse!
The boy happily drops sweet wrappers everywhere,
But, about his behaviour, his mother does not care.
Bored, the boy steals his little sister's teddy bear:
About her being upset, he simply does not care.
Now the children are running round and about;
The children, and their mother, constantly shout.
All three children are constantly whinging:
Their behaviour has me inwardly cringing.
On his seat, the boy, aged about eight, is now stood;
Their behaviour is a galaxy away from being good.
I can't believe the mother lets them act this way:
She really needs to keep their behaviour at bay.
This is not how these children should behave:
About their behaviour, I want to rant and rave.
At Clapham Junction, the family leave the train:
I celebrate inside, as they were driving me insane.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Grapes Of Gall
The grapes of gall is being out of control and,
You are intoxicated already on this love!
Oh life, where are the true people on this earth?
Unpleasantness,
Of the workers of the demons;
Obsessive behaviour will lead you nowhere.
Cry! and let me find a way;
Sing! and let me be your lover;
For, to refute to repent is like Nimrod's Babylon!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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One's Addictive Behaviour
To alcohol he lost his young daughter and wife
He says they were not wrong to walk out of his life
For addictive behaviour the price one must pay
And he is one person who sees it this way.
To keep on drinking alcohol the choice he did make
Though he knew in his heart that this was a mistake
He made the wrong choice with his marriage at stake
One's addictive behaviour can cause others heartbreak.
One's addictive behaviour can come at a huge cost
With abuse of health and broken marriages so much to be lost
An addiction of any sort is not a good thing
And the praises of addictive behaviour you won't hear many sing.
For the break up of his marriage his wife he does not blame
Though that he chose alcohol above her and their daughter does cause him some shame
But at conquering an addiction few seem to succeed
'Tis a human frailty the weakness of need.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Swim Submerged
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down his
shovel, and writes, writes, and
writes,
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me muddled spirits,
and write the words with your
own red blood,
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up, with her freind
plath, and they both begine to
write, write, and write, yippee,
says the words, for these words
will end up in a paper back book.
poem by David Gerardino
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My Heart Writes
Unending words flow through me
like streams of water-
My heart writes not to tell
the world Im broken,
that he should shed some tears for me.
But it writes to tell
the world my failures...
and that somehow
he would learn from them.
Broken words that know forever
flow through me like streams of water-
My heart writes not to show
the world I need him,
and that he should praise me more.
But it writes to tell
the world the lessons
I wish I knew before.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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