I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What They Will Say
Some times, I wonder if I write for the future.
That may seem like a strange statement to make.
Forty-three years ago, I wrote a poem
that at the time no one wanted to know.
Now it is my best-loved poem
read by countless people around the world.
Thirty years ago, I wrote two poems
and each one won me an award,
but at the time I wrote them,
no one wanted to know.
All of which makes me wonder
if what I wrote in my yesteryears
that then none wanted to know.
Could they all be popular now?
Today I started collecting and retyping
short stories I wrote twenty years ago.
At the time, publishers and agents
didn’t want to know.
Now twenty year on
I am wondering what they will say.
24 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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Favourites
Authors are funny creatures
whenever we write.
Most of the time
we don’t like what we’ve written,
but there are occasions
when we will write something
that we really do like,
then we hate
letting that fledgling out of the nest.
I’ve been writing for more years
than I really care to admit,
and yes, I have my favourites
among all the writing I’ve done.
A novel called Blind Tiger
has never left the nest
and a short story called
The Man Who Was Always Late,
again never seen by anyone.
However is saying that,
there have been a couple
I have actually let go.
Both were originally song lyrics,
which I’ve turned into poems.
One I actually sang in a concert at one time
with the curious title of
I’ll Take All The Blame.
The other has really done me proud,
it has reached the dizzy heights
of the top 500 poems here.
It was only released
because I felt it was the only good thing
I had at the time
and is called
Just Beyond The Sunset.
I loved it when I wrote it
on a merry-go-round
some forty odd years ago
as I looked towards the west
at a setting sun.
Now it is the best-loved poem I have
with another fifteen others
adding it to their favourites as well.
26 December 2007
poem by David Harris
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Necessary Artistic Deletions
deleted approximately fifty good draft seed poems
not because they were bad but because were too good
each could have born fruit to ten twenty thirty poems
this would take days a week a few weeks writing out
in total months a year a year of full fool time writing
time gap economy denies artistry an extensive write out
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Wrote A Poem I Loved
I WROTE A POEM I LOVED
I wrote a poem I loved
But I could not rest content with it.
I had to write another poem,
And another poem.
And in the writing of other poems,
Some of which I also loved.
I lost the poem I loved.
Essentially I am a writer of poems
And not their possessor.
I possess many poems of others,
But somehow mine, I cannot.
However I love them
Perhaps I really believe
None of them good enough
To be worthy of such love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If I Can Go On Writing Poems
IF I CAN GO ON WRITING POEMS
If I can go on writing poems
I will be happy-
If I cannot go on
I will lose something of myself-
I wonder how long I will be able to go on
Days? Years? How long exactly?
I write happily now
A poem I know I can post-
Without that I might be less happy about it-
If I can go on writing poems
This will be a sign I still have hope in life-
When I am stopped or stop
Will it mean I am finished
As a person also?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Unsent, Unsaid
Unsent, Unsaid
A favorite song plays in the background,
Every lyric reminding me of you.
Conversations running through my head,
So many things that I wish you knew.
Every time that you brought me happiness,
I just never quite knew what to say.
I was afraid to say the wrong thing,
Thinking it would make you go away.
Every night I did the same old thing,
I wrote poem after poem on my bed.
I love you written a hundred ways,
Because of fear, they were never said.
The stack of poems stands tall.
Not one ever made it to you.
You simply walked away from me,
And a love that you never knew.
If only I would have taken a chance,
I know that you would still be here.
At night I still write you many poems,
Only now the ink is mixed with tears.
A growing pile, never ceasing,
Never signed, never read.
Painful letters engraved in papers,
Unsent, unsaid
poem by John Samson
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A Linda Song
Music: Barry Manilow
Lyrics: Enoch Anderson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He never wrote a song for Linda
He wrote as though he lived alone
He wrote of dreams that end
And of sad brave men
Inventing worlds he'd never known
But he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
Loved him back to life
When his luck ran low
But he never wrote a Linda song
He nearly broke his heart at writing
Linda kept him from despair
Standin' by his side
through the hungry days
But he hardly seemed to see her there
And he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
The one real thing in his crazy world
And he never wrote a Linda song.
When the bills piled up
He couldn't pay
He couldn't dream no more
So he hitched a ride and he rode away
And he left a note for Linda by the door
By the door
When times got rough he'd phone her
Once or twice she took the call
Then she changed her number and she turned her head
And Linda never looked back at all
He'll never write a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
All he knows is no one understands
And he never wrote a Linda song
No he never wrote a Linda song
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Did I Know
Little did I know forty-two years ago
when I put pen to paper
after getting off a fairground ride
at sunset that day.
That what I was about to write
would be a crowning achievement
in my writing life.
That what I wrote would be read and used
in all the four corners of the world.
It would be used to compliment
photos, painting, and memorials
to those who had passed away.
A piece of writing
which would evoke so much in many.
For everyone who reads it
get their own impressions from within it.
Little did I know
more than any other of my work,
it would make my name.
Although I have written poems
for one reason or another
that have become favourites of mine,
Just Beyond The Sunset is a dream
and beyond that sunset
my dreams have come true
in a lot more ways than one.
For little did I know
what I was writing then.
21 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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It's For Me
Poetry for me, is just like breathing
I inhale Life and exhale poems
It's for me - I do the writing
No matter, if ever, comments come.
As chosen words come out soothing
Release the pained and burdened heart
I find relief in simply writing
Touching others with what I impart.
But always the joy is within me
The reading by others may truly bless
I'm grateful they read my poetry
But the writing is my true happiness!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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In Loving Memory
A long time ago,1976 to be exact
a friend said I should go along
to a writing class he had joined.
Therefore, I did and met someone,
who was to change my life.
However, I did not know it at the time.
For the first couple of years he was simply my tutor.
However, as the years rolled on,
he became my mentor,
and most of all my friend.
For every year, we knew one another
the friendship grew stronger than before.
Before I met Maurice,
he had published four novels
and I have every one.
He started with A City Called Holy,
next came The Splendour and the Havoc,
and then The World and the Flesh,
and finally Across the Frontier.
He also wrote plays,
produced, directed and acted
in them with his wife Peggy.
When I met him his books
were out of print,
but through the years,
I found them one by one.
After a friendship that lasted
over seventeen years Maurice died.
However just before he passed away,
he told me how his local library
had approached him, wanting to know
if he had any copies of his books,
as they only had one left.
He did not and felt sadly about that.
As he told me, I made a promise to myself.
Not matter how long it took,
or how much it would cost,
his local library would have,
those books of his they did not have.
More than ten years passed from the time of his death,
until I was finally able to fulfil my promise.
I collected through the years
the books the library was missing.
In January 2006, I presented them to his local library.
It was a way of saluting a special friend,
helping keep his name alive.
I did it because of the special gifts,
through the years he gave me.
His friendship, his knowledge and help
with my writing no one had ever given before.
Therefore, any success
that I may ever achieve
can be contributed to him.
A gentleman of words,
my tutor, my mentor,
and lastly a very kind and special friend.
(For the late Maurice Callard)
poem by David Harris
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The poems I love
There are poems that I envy,
poems that I admire and respect,
poems that simply sing to me,
poems that I puzzle over…
but the poems I most love -
they may be jewelled and adorned
with adjectives and adverbs,
similes and metaphors, (but
they must be enlightening, relevant,
making mind and heart to expand
in sheer exhilaration)
or they may be so quietly, humbly carpentered
that they say, I’m simply here to serve you…
but they all say to me with
shining eyes, as if
the world made new in that moment,
‘Yes, I was there!
Join me there! ’
and their ‘there’ is here and now
and as great as the universe
and the heart that yearns.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My birthday was different this year
As I was rummaging through
the file boxes my wife had left for me
in the garage
I found a yellow legal pad
scribbled with hand written poems
I had written one night
in a almost crowded coffeehouse
waiting for a poet friend from Chicago
to come up north to read
The poems talked about
how I waited and waited
before too long
several anxious poets
ran up to the microphone
not afraid to trip over themselves
share their delicate poems
about romance and almost romance
detailing having a job they don't like
and it seemed to me
they were also not liking much else about their lives
besides their job they didn't like
My Chicago artist friend as usual
was more then an hour late
which isn't bad considering Chicago
is almost three hours away
so most other places
damn, she would have been early
When I read the poem
I wrote about being at a reading
I didn't want to be at
I realized I was spending my birthday
by myself in a coffeehouse
writing poems
not making much eye contact
with people I didn't even like
although one of the poets
I think Francine is her name
came up to me during a break and said 'hi'
but she didn't remember my name
or knew it was my birthday
and a couple of days after my anniversary
or that I was getting a divorce
that poem I read
was a good sign of things to come
because this year
on my birthday
I woke up with a new friend in my bed
multiple orgasms for her to share
before having a nice breakfast together
of eggs, sausage, hash browns and italian toast
cooked on the George Foreman grill
and things didn't look or feel
the same again
poem by Oscar Mireles
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My companion
I don't know where I'll be,
when who ever buys my book to read.
I was just writing the date on my new
notebook, and these thoughts came to my mind.
Sometimes when I'm going over some
writing I see the date on the paper,
and it brings me memories of
how I felt at the time when I
wrote those poems,
Those notes, they have the flavor
of me. My intimate thoughts my most
saddest and happiest moments of
my existence.
My poems my notes my
stories and my hands, they are one.
One memory in all together.
The way my hands clinch my
writing my every move of prose.
I don't know who
Will want to read the writing coming
from a stranger a none-known poet.
From lonesome I, no one
knows who she is.
I cherish every letter,
word and phrase my hands have writting.
Because all of this has been to me a wonderful
companion of my lonesome life of appetence to feed.
Copyright©ElenaToledo2011
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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The Poet Prince
By day he wore a royal crown.
By night we wrote his poems down.
He wrote of justice, love and peace,
A future time when wars would cease.
Through vision, dream and prophecy
He wrote of wonders yet to be.
In time, his poems filled his room:
The left side joy, the right side gloom.
For life is both the sweet and sour,
And weakness till the time of power.
A prince must think such matters through,
To seek a sovereign point of view.
And so, while lesser mortals slept,
The prince, through poems, wisdom kept.
By day, by night he persevered
With revelations that appeared.
God said, 'Forget your crown of gold.
The world is ready to be told.'
The prince removed his crown that day
And as God's servant walked away...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Writing Of Many Poems
THE WRITING OF MANY POEMS
The writing of many poems
Has not been a weariness of the flesh
It has been by and large- a happiness-
What will happen to the Poems
Is another matter-
But the writing of them
Has given me life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Brandon: Our Love Dog
You'll never be forgotton,
my dear pal of ours
many years ago of
poems you inspired
me to write.
Seven Happy years
you were with us,
so much tender
loving care we
gave to you.
Brandon you had special
magic about you,
can't explain, somehow
when I touched you,
all of my pain and sorrow
went away.
You were our love dog,
no doubt you were loved,
by all, as you also loved all.
So many bad things happened
to you on our walks, three
dog attacks, but once just me,
still have scar on my hand.
Remember the day, you were
hit by a car,
that really saved your life.
We took you to the
vet that night,
ex-rays showed a
pin from surgery in
your side, that had
been lodged, if not
removed you would
have died from
punture wounds,
the pin should have
been removed long
ago.
It was placed there
before we got you,
so one bad thing led
to a good thing.
You had a cat friend down
the street, that loved
you also, she would rub
against you with so
tender loving care.
Brandon our love dog
so many kisses you
gave us.
you used to dare
us to get your
biscuit, you would stare
at us, when we
tried to get
it you growled,
this went on
and on, till
finally you ate it.
Sometimes you would
go to hall closet
with your biscuit
I didn't know
where you were,
as I walked by
the closet you
would growl, it
was so funny.
Moths you loved
to chase, you
ate them so
many, even wrote
a poem called
the moth hound.
One very sad day,
in our life we
took you to the
vet for very
last time, you were so sick,
food you once loved,
you now refused,
pain you had all
through your frail
little body.
On Friday night,
June 13,1997 you
had such a hard
time breathing
you had to sleep
sitting up.
Seven happy years
you were with us,
so much tender
loving care you
had for us and we
for you.
On Saturday June 14,1997
while most Americans,
were remembering flag day,
we were saying
goodbye to our
true faithful friend.
Amy and I waited
in that fateful room
with you, saying our
last goodbyes to you.
The Vet entered the room,
asked us if we were
ready, are you ever ready
to say goodbye
to a love one.
Seven years with us,
but only 30 seconds and
you were gone.
We touched you and felt
life leaving your
beautiful little body.
Ten years later,
we still miss you
little guy and
love you very much,
our very own
love dog.
wrote 2-14-07
Perhaps My Poems Have Already Been Written
PERHAPS MY POEMS HAVE ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN
Perhaps my poems have already been written
Perhaps it is all now senseless repetition
Perhaps I should just stop
And go on if I can to some other form of writing
God gives us what we have
We strive to go beyond ourselves
We can to a certain point
But then we have done what we have done
We can live a million years more
And write a million more poems
But what we have to write
Is done
Perhaps my poems have already been written
And small and poor and awkward as they are
Less than the truest poetry
They are what I have and am
Good-bye myself
I cannot go home.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote Many New Poems Now Long Forgotten
I WROTE MANY POEMS NOW LONG FORGOTTEN
I wrote many poems now long forgotten
Why do I believe any poem I will write now
Or in the future
Is better than them?
I am a man lost in the world of his own words
And the only way out I know
Is writing more words
Which too are added on
To the unending pile of the forgotten.
Tell me where this poem too will be
When I am in the ground?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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