For Years I Thought Each Word And Sentence- Sacred
For years I thought each word and sentence - sacred
If I had written it down it must be saved-
Now the piles of pages lie mostly unread
They will never be seen by anyone
Most of what I have done will be
Time passed and unremembered-
Will I be able to save some small part of this
Select the best of it?
A small part has been published
And now I post more –
Will any of it be cared for?
Is another question-
Most of what I have done
Writing that is passing time
Forever to be unknown much less remembered-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Is Nothing Sacred
If a love as strong as ours
Couldnt make it all the way,
Can anything make sense at all?
If a love so deep and true
Couldnt stand the test of time,
Then mount everest could slide,
And jeruselem could fall.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
I can hear the final words
Every sentence that was said
Dont know what turned our lives around.
It doesnt matter who was right,
Theres no justice in a dream.
Never thought a heart could break
Without making any sound.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Our love was as certain as the dawn,
As solid and save as any love could be.
Our love was the star you wished upon,
And you thought that I saved you,
Couldve sworn that you saved me.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Work of Many Years
The work of many years
Lies in piles
Hidden from my care-
Years of effort
On pages most likely
Never to be read-
I don’t have the courage
To confront it
And try to save it all-
How much hope and effort did I give to those pages
No one will ever know?
How much of my life has simply been wasted
And will be thrown out in an hour as if it never were?
For years now I have been running away
From work done years before -
This poem too is a small escape
That will not save a single page
Of all I have done before.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Lost Lines And The Lost Pages
THE LOST LINES AND THE LOST PAGES LEAVE NO TRACE
The lost lines and the lost pages leave no trace
There is no way to recovery
It is a one – way journey after all
Those who had hoped to live forever by recording all that they have ever done
Have been painfully surprised by the disappearance of the universe
That Asteroid that landed in the heart of all we are
Or perhaps that chain of violence in which our own Ugliness did us in
Or perhaps some other manufactured artificial virus
Or who knows what and why
There is simply too much future Time
Not to die at some point in it
The lost lines and lost pages are small and insignificant
We are in all we are also
Small and insignificant
Why God made us and what God really does
We will never truly understand
Small is all and we are smaller even than the smallest part of any thing
Nothing is and nothing was and nothing will be
Only now in the silence
As I anguished write this
Not believing wholly a word I have said
I wonder again why God made me
And if and how and what and why and where
We are all just not anything real or good or true or beautiful or love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Small Anonymous Word
A SMALL ANONYMOUS WORD
A small anonymous word
A word of praise-
How much this can mean,
To the lonely writer.
Writing far away and unseen
Forever to be unknown?
A small word of praise
How much it can mean?
Thank you my few readers
Whoever
You are.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Unread Words
THE UNREAD WORDS
The unread words
I have made with my life-
Once piles of pages -
Are more and more letters on a screen
‘saved’
on disks and on keys and even ‘online’-
where they go on being
(perhaps deservedly)
neglected.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Well, It Worked For Me
First thing I say each night
is
I am my own Lover;
my own best friend.
At first it was words
I did not mean
but over time
I could fill in detail
from little things
that happened each day.
Something positive to celebrate
no matter how small
a smile
a thing small but done
a sincere feeling
given and received.
Busy, I was
saying to my self
each night
building
the person
I want to become.
I added to this
just a small dream list
and acted as though
part of it was true
or coming true
and I found
done each night
my part wish
part recognition
of my small things day
could make part
of my small dreams
also come true.
So over time
I could become
not only Someone
but I could be
the kind of person
I was looking for.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I Walked Last Night In A District I Lived In For Almost Twenty Years
I WALKED LAST NIGHT IN A DISTRICT I LIVED IN FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS
I walked last night in a district I lived in for almost twenty years
I came back after being away for a time
To visit an old and ailing friend
The streets were empty and lonely as they often were then-
I thought for the first time I understood how lonely the district itself is-
‘A lonely district’
I wondered how I managed to live there all those years
And how anyone still manages to live there-
I looked up at the sky and wrote in my mind a small poem of a kind I wrote many of in my years there
I remembered teachers and friends who had lived there
No longer of this district or any district on earth
I wondered how life goes and how from so many years so much life has been lived without having any place in my memory
I felt as empty inside as the district without
I did not have to wait long for the bus
And relieved inside it I put my heart to home
So many years had been lived there
I remembered taking my small children to the playground there
Now they thank G-d have children of their own
Oh the years go by and the life we have lived in them largely dies
Forever to be unknown again-
I put my heart and mind in a different direction
And began to do what I always do – not think of the district again
Life is this mystery and question we live through and never wholly possess even as we are experiencing it
How long before all will be gone for me
Including the district I live in now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Small Gaps In Creativity
real writing
demands real time
course work
never allowed
full time employment
never allowed
artistic development
real writing
part time artists
produce part time work
part time pieces
of genuine artistic souls
to produce artistically
but a few times
to only create properly
but a few times
in work recent months
is curse of part time
artists who felt right
but a few times in months
the rest of the time
was racing gaps
small time windows
of opportunity art time
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Am Only One Small Name In A Universe
I AM ONLY ONE SMALL NAME IN A UNIVERSE
I am only one small name in a universe,
Of billions of names-
I am only one small bodily being
Where there are billions of billions-
I am a beginning and an end,
As all living things-
A speck in vast spaces whose specks are uncountable-
No one or nothing need save me
No one or nothing need remember me
No one or nothing billions of years hence
Need smile because I was here.
I am so small I need never to have existed-
I am not even here now,
Whoever is writing this
Lost me a long time ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Uncertainty Is Too Much With Me
UNCERTAINTY IS TOO MUCH WITH ME
Uncertainty is too much with me
And question too much of what I am
Fear is with me so much
And anxiety also
I am not the best example
Of what a pioneer or patriot should be.
I have gotten through it quietly so far
With many blessings given by God
And help from family and friends -
I am a small person really
With great literary ambitions
Never realized-
A kind person when convenient
Not bad not great
Fearing a war and our destruction
Knowing I am not the one to save us
Praying to G-d for help
And knowing G-d does not always answer-
Writing and writing
And trying in my own small way
To help those near me
To do my part for all of us.
A little man in a promised holy land
Praying the Jewish people
Will not know another disaster.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Something More
there is a part of me in you,
in every move you make,
every thought you think,
in every sleepless night...
there is a part of you in me,
in every time i do the right thing,
every gentle and good thought,
in everything i believe...
there is a part of us in God,
and a part of God in us;
that cannot be seperated
and still feed the flame of living.
there is a part of love, and the whole,
written by our destinies.
you and i, and something more,
that words cannot define.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Writing Saved My Life
WRITING SAVED MY LIFE
Writing saved my life
It makes me who I am-
Without it,
I do not want to be.
Writing is me.
But what I have written
Will it say a word to the final Forever?
Does God want or need it?
Has it really helped anyone?
I can be forever the being I am
But what will this mean,
If it does not help you?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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One Small Step
So many people
Need to go so many miles
How do we move them
To where the answer lies
Reach out to the ocean
Beyond the stars that shine
Weve got to take one small step in time
If we are the dreamers
Then the world must be the dream
Driven to question
All the things weve never seen
We search the horizon
Looking for a sign
Weve got to take one small step in time
One step beyond
All our hopes and our passion
There is the light of the universe flashin
All that it takes is one leap of faith
One small step, (one small step)
One small step in time
Deep in the darkness
(deep in the blackness)
Theres a wind that never dies
(theres a wind that never dies)
Out in the vastness
(out in the vastness)
Theres a road across the sky
(a road across the sky)
Out there is the reason
That we were meant to find
Weve got to take one small step in time
Weve got to take one small step in time
(one small step, one small step)
One small step in time
(one small step, one small step)
One small step in time
(one small step, one small step)
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The World Is Vast
THE WORLD IS SO VAST
The world is so vast-
There are so many things and people in it -
We know there are more stars than people,
And so many times more people than we will ever know-
We know a small part of everything there is
And even that changes
And we know less and more with the years -
What we are is a surprise sometimes
But even then we cannot understand it-
How great God has made the universe or perhaps all the universes
We cannot know –
From our small time in our own small time
Let us love life as best we can
And live as well as we can,
Before our little time in the vastness of time passes
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Nothing Is Being Done
NOTHING IS BEING DONE
Nothing is being done-
Time is passing-
What will be?
Will I do nothing for the rest of my life?
A small poem is being written-
Am I alive again?
Any lines even bad lines are better than none
When one can do nothing-
Am I writing a poem?
Is something being done?
Or am I simply fooling myself
And doing nothing as I have always done
And always will do?
Or have I really done something?
Is this nonetheless a small poem?
Perhaps I have written something real in my life
Perhaps
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Hero And The Theif
I'll play the part of the hero,
You play the role of the thief.
With sword in hand
I take my stand.
I take my stand right here.
You played your part
And stole her heart
While the hero goes away.
But I'll return
To save the girl
When I come back some day.
I walk the longest road
Past castles and through time.
On my way home I'm coming
To save the world I left behind.
Years gone by as time fades away.
I'm longing for the day
That I return
Knowing that I've earned
To see her smiling face.
You've played your part
And stole her heart
While the hero was away.
Now I've returned
To save the girl
Banish you from today.
I've played my part as the hero
You've played your role as the thief.
I've saved the girl
And saved the world
The hero and the thief.
poem by Ricky Perron
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The Earth Is
(graham russell, michael sherwood)
Theres a man with the smallest of worlds in his hand
And a tear fills his eyes as he tries to hang on
Holding his world together
Theres a girl in the other half of the sky
And shes wondering why her planet should sigh
Dont you want me round forever
The earth is too small to be divided
Sunrise, moonfall, deep in the heart
A part of everyone
And we cant wait anymore, the time has come
And those who need something more will feel the sun
Were sharing one
The earth is too small to be divided
Sunrise, moonfall, deep in the heart
A part of everyone
And we cant wait anymore, the time has come
Youve got your foot in the door
Get through somehow, break through somehow
The earth is too small to be divided
Sunrise, moonfall, deep in the heart
A part of everyone
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Small Time
small time, you call it small time
writing
is small time, there is no money
in writing, like a
politician, look at him, he does not
write, someone writes for him
and he gets the prize
the money
the pot
the jackpot
and look at you
you keep on writing
and writing
and writing
oh la la
poems, fit for a woman
her limited mind
her gullibility
her passion for words and words and words
her imagination
and look at you
poor man, poor, poor, poor
what you give
to this world, what are you giving to this world
it is not even a flower
just a poem for her, and you claim that you are winning her heart?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Can Be Written Anywhere, Anytime
A poem can be written anywhere, anytime-
A poem can be written too early in the morning
While waiting in Talpiot for ‘Rami Levi Supermarket’ to open-
It can be written in one’s head in a frozen Army barracks in Beit El
Or in a small room on Rav Berlin St on an old Smith- Corona
In the first happy years of one’s marriage-
It can be written for years from Haganah St. in French Hill
In the family years and the lonely ones
It can be written walking by the sea in Tel Aviv
With small children in hand-
It can be written on the same shore years later when one’s life has been broken
By Love’s desertion-
It can be written in old age on Rehov Shahal in Givat Mordechai
As one takes joy from the birth of one’s first grandchild-
A poem can be written anywhere anytime-
I have been writing my poems in Israel
For more than half a lifetime-
May those too
Who come after me
Read and Write Poetry here.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Futility
Dusting my books I spent a busy day:
Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread,
but modern volumes, classics in their way,
whose makers now are numbered with the dead;
Men of a generation more than mine,
With whom I tattled, battled and drank wine.
I worshipped them, rejoiced in their success,
Grudging them not the gold that goes with fame.
I thought them near-immortal, I confess,
And naught could dim the glory of each name.
How I perused their pages with delight! . . .
To-day I peer with sadness in my sight.
For, death has pricked each to a flat balloon.
A score of years have gone, they're clean forgot.
Who would have visioned such a dreary doom?
By God! I'd like to burn the blasted lot.
Only, old books are mighty hard to burn:
They char, they flicker and their pages turn.
And as you stand to poke them in the flame,
You see a living line that stabs the heart.
Brave writing that! It seems a cursed shame
That to a bonfire it should play it's part.
Poor book! You're crying, and you're not alone:
Some day someone will surely burn my own.
No, I will dust my books and put them by,
Yet never look into their leaves again;
For scarce a soul remembers them save I,
Re-reading them would only give me pain.
So I will sigh, and say with curling lip:
Futility! Thy name is authorship.
poem by Robert William Service
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