Silence Isn't Enough
Silence is not enough -
We speak and write
To be human-
We cannot simply be empty inside forever-
Our words give us life
And we must try them
Otherwise we die inside.
If I do not write
I somehow do not live-
If we do not speak to each other
We somehow are not human.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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For Whom Do We Write?
for whom do we write?
for us, we beg the world
to know what we are in the realm
and bounds of our words
our sadness & madness
our longing for love
unrequited our desire to
taste what passion is
that which the bed cannot
speak that which the
blankets cannot fully give in
to warmth and
lust.
for whom do we write?
we write for those passions
those explosions of suppressed
feelings long kept inside the steel
boxes of our hearts
we write for those lamentations
of love rejected and those
dreams that simply die
even before they were born
for those eggs
that never became chickens.
forgive me, but i write
because i have nothing else to do
about my life
forgive me for exposing the
truths
about us, this existential angst
lost in the labyrinths
of the empty
shell.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Go Slowly To The End Of Your Own Life
GO SLOWLY TO THE END OF YOUR OWN LIFE
Go slowly to the end of your own life And do not remain there in silence
But speak continue to speak
Beyond the grave
As if you never died
Or never could die
And as if your life
Is a giving to others
Of words and thoughts
Others were helped by your giving.-
Write on beyond all and forever
Write write write
And never die.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Silence Is Not Enough
SILENCE IS NOT ENOUGH
Silence is not enough
The human needs words and sentences
Speech and meaning
Silence and waiting in silence
And loving silence so much
Are not enough
Even the longest silence is not enough
We need to speak to another person
We need human hearing
Living in the silence of our own lost selves is not enough
We need to be heard and be listened to
And to speak in a world where there are listeners
Who know how to reply.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Written By A Confessed Bipolar (her Name To Be Revealed Upon Her Permission)
I write because I can
I write because there are so many things to be written.
I write because I can make a painting without a brush and paints in my hand.
I write because I can capture the moment without having a camera.
I write because letters and words are the only recipe I know how to cook.
I write because I want to read what I’ve written.
I write because I’m used to speak in silence.
I write because I have a story to tell.
I write because I want to strip off my flesh and live as a pure being.
I write because I can record my “voice” without having a recorder.
I write because it’s like a cup of coffee, it keeps me awake
I write because I want to live even when I do not exist.
I write because this is my throwing stones when I’m frustrated.
6/11/09 at 4: 42 PM
I write because I can flaunt my being when I don’t have clothes to show off.
I write because this is like making an encyclopedia to a coloring book.
I write because it’s more effective than my lithium medication.
I write because I’m tired of carrying these baggages on the road.
I write because I’m tired of talking too much.
I write because it’s a healthier diversion than smoking.
I write because it’s more therapeutic than analyzing my problem.
I write because I want to paint a thousand pictures with words.
I write because I can put colors to the letters and make a rainbow of words.
I write because it’s the key combinations to my hidden vaults.
I write because my ball pen is my best friend in the darkest nights.
I write because it surprises me with what I am capable of thinking&doing. 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because I like that ideas are popping like pop corns.
I write because I can wander in the adventures of my own world.
I write because I have to cleanse my collection of memories of an old home.
I write because like a mirror you need to do a lot of reflections.
I write because I want to fight the battle of life.
I write because I wanted my little voice to be heard.
I write because I want to run from the insanities of the world.
I write because pictures don’t talk.
I write because it helps me connect the dots when I look back in my life.
I write because it brings me back to my crib of silence.
I write because it makes a buzz to other bees in my beehive.
I write because unlike my bike my destination is limitless.
I write because I want to become an inspiration without extinction 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because like strumming of the guitar, it vibrates in my soul.
I write because I love to write.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Notes From Freedom's Heart
i spend a lot of my time writing
about freedom, dignity, and equality....
using a lot of different forms, just
trying to be heard....
but i've come to the understanding
that whether i write it, sing i, play it
on guitar, paint it, dance it, or write
it on signs and march it.....
doesnt matter!
what matters is whether i live it!
when i can look into another human being's
eyes and not see color, gender, religious
or political idealogies, or sexual preference...
when i know that their mistakes and failures
are my own... that there is no difference
between us... that we have the same needs
and desires... and that we need each other.....
when i'm willing to listen, to offer a hand up, willing
to work and walk beside of (not in front of!) ....
when my thoughts, words, and actions reflect a deep
reverence and respect for all that lives....
when my choices validate humanity.....
when i can see without judging... when i'm
willing to speak the truth at all costs....
to give all that i have, and all that i am,
regardless of the risk....
when my own life matters less to me than
the lives of those i come in contact with....
when i'm willing to stand up for what's right,
for compassion, and for hope... even if it
costs me my own life....
then, and only then, i will have become
the poem i've tried all of my life to write...
then and only then, i will have become
fully human.... and will have answered the call
that we all have....
will i continue to write? yes!
but day by day, moment by moment....
i'll keep working!
will you join me?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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Young Poets
You speak for the lakes, the trees and the birds
You say what they'd say if they had the words.
Make PEACE and be proud, choose well every choice
Speak HOPE and speak loud, you are Nature's voice.
Speak with respect now, for jungles and streams,
Speak for all wildlife and dream giant dreams.
Speak with great courage, speak up and speak out,
Write with a whisper or write with a SHOUT!
Stand up young poets for clean air and rivers,
Free verse or lyric; your message delivers...
Truth to the future citizens of earth,
Speak of your freedom your friends and self worth.
Speak for tomorrow and though you're still young,
Speak for the Forest, your pen is her tongue.
The world waits to hear your songs still unsung
Words posses power, you can write the wrongs
Teach us and lead us with Poems and with songs.
Speak now for nature, for trees and for birds,
Defenders of Earth choose carefullly your words!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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Another Night Alone
Alone again tonight
In this empty time
The sound in my head
The sight leaves me blind
I'll write a million words
I'll sing until it hurts
How far could this be
Until it's seen
How long will I let this go
I can't stand to spend another night alone
I stare at the empty walls
I speak
song performed by by Sr-71 from Now You See Inside
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0008 A Love Poem in a New Old Language
Wilfrid Chin Sue says that poetry
is about ‘about’, and thank you Wilf
for that, and thanks too from us poets all
to e.e.cummings for reminding us
that lurking in the words between
the words we give most value to
like nouns and verbs and adjectives
are the words that hint,
about the presence of the subtle
so here’s a love poem about your about
because when it comes down or up
to it, it’s all about just what’s about
you – like the scent you loved to use
which brought and brings
you into an empty room
and the things you left about
which speak of you
more subtly even than your scent
and your near… ah yes, your near…that's never far from me
and your around
that made eyes light up, with life and joy and love
and your between
which I shall not speak
(about)
and the because of our true together
which I could write (about) endlessly
because of its endless, its inexplicable,
its because
which reminds me of your beyond,
which I would not write (about) in case
I wept, or failed, or failed and wept
oh so many other, being one
but most of all
I miss your
around
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet
Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...
and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;
or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…
write as if it were only yesterday
that, in an air crash, all your family –
parents, wife or husband, partner, children, and best friend,
had lost their lives; write as if,
were you not to write,
your heart would break forever, or you would go mad...
write as if you’re writing somewhere
where there’s no such thing around, as ink;
you’ll have to use your own blood in the pen,
so use it carefully; so red, so living,
look at it… so beautiful, so precious,
and so solemn – use it carefully, don’t spill a drop…
write as if you’re borrowing every word
from the very centre of the universe, where suns and gods are made;
and need thus to account for every word
with your whole life, no less; know that every word
must be given back, cleaner, stronger, brighter
with your own power, than when you borrowed it;
write as if every poet that ever lived
is leaning over your shoulder, so that you
can feel their breath upon your neck as they say
‘Tell them all that we would tell,
but cannot now; tell them all of this’…
this, now, is how you must deeply be and speak;
write as if you are the only being on earth
who can tell them this; as if tomorrow, if tomorrow comes,
you shall visit them every one, at home,
and look them in the eye; write as if
you love them more than they will ever know;
write as if you were offering to live their lives with them;
write as if you were a force of nature in yourself:
as if whatever earthquake, hurricane or flood might do,
whatever law or love may greatly do,
whatever gods or men can speak, in fullest force,
this you may do, because the sound of poetry is such;
yes, write ‘as if’ – but know you really write ‘because’…
write as if – no, write because –
you know that only poetry can tell
all, that must be told, and must be known;
and as all hearts melt in the heat of your own love,
be in no doubt – and see that all are in no doubt too –
that life was never, never more serious,
never more glorious, than it is right now;
write all this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To Write About The Tree
to write about the tree and the sun
how do they ever stand each other?
is it the need? is it the love?
i cannot really write about it.
i always see them there as i sit under the tree's shade.
as i scorch myself under the sun's heat.
i could have written about the unfolding to the red flower
and the wonder of the grass.
i am helpless now.
i am addicted to something else inside the room.
on a dim light. on a warm bed.
do not say a name. do not mention about the shape of
the human body.
yes, it is. and will always be.
the human anatomy speaking about itself.
love is not a word there. it is a view. it is a touch.
it is beyond what is good and what is wrong.
it is the silence. it is the swallowing of what we are.
it is the rubbing of skin. until the universe
ejaculates what it keeps.
until the earth reveals what is in that womb.
it is the unreasoning of life's rules.
it is merely the flow.
nothing else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Speak With Kindness (Or Do Not Speak At All)
speak with kindness,
or do not speak at all.
speak not of judgement,
you are not the judge.
speak not of salvation,
let your living be your scriptures.
speak not of scriptures,
let your actions be your holy book.
speak not as apostle or teacher,
speak as a human being.
speak not of god,
then god will speak through you!
speak not as a man,
for you are woman too.
speak not with hateful malice,
for love does not work that way.
speak not as a prophet or seer,
speak as compassion made flesh.
speak not of morality,
speak of connection.
speak not of authority,
the tree and the leaf have just as much.
speak not of holiness,
for all that lives be holy.
speak with kindness...
or do not speak at all!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Write And Write And Write And Write
I WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE
I write and write and write and write
I write and write and write and write
I write.
And all this writing and all these words and all I am
Forever unheard.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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John of Forde, His Exculpation
What I say and what I write
may seem to you – may seem to me –
as foolishness and folly; for
I talk of boundless things, and of infinity;
which by their nature, are beyond
the human mind, the human pen;
should I then not and never speak of such?
Or are these boundless things
just what mankind should talk about –
seeking the laws of atoms, or of space, only
to find the boundlessness yet further off
than men of yesteryear believed?
and if I talk and write – beside those things
invisible as once the surface of the Moon –
then, of the boundlessness of love - which is yet bound
into Creation’s very substance – and
those other boundless things which seem to us
to be Creation's - even the Creator’s - very nature…
then my exculpation is but simply this:
the motive force for what I write,
the theme of what I write, which is
my boundless love for you, for all,
demands, must win, forgiveness
from Boundlessness itself…
there is no more, there is no less
than love, which is true boundlessness.
[adapted from Sermon 43 of John of Forde,1145-1214]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Words
Yeats so simply stated
' Words alone are certain good. '
And to the great poet
So highly rated
I try to listen, as I should; Yet
Being an untrained novice
Such as me
With verdant hopes of much improvement
- oh that I would -
I beg to slightly differ with W. B.
And offer here my humble opinion
- if I could -
Good certainly is not words alone,
For without humanity
To read and to write
How would they ever become known?
- For without the good of people
Who of these words would care
Ever to be heard, or even shared?
No, the good does not alone from words arise,
Rather from human beings
Whose entire story
Such words do attempt to comprise.......
- Words written in this time
May even the way
To a distant future find,
But not on their own
And never alone.
For it takes people's
- hand's to write
- eye's to read
- heart and soul to understand
The purpose, and the need.
Let it here be shown
Words alone
Are not the only good,
They need human beings
To give goodness and life
To their reason and meaning
For they are merely the vehicle
By which man's true good
Is found and understood.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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I Had No Poem /I Had Nothing In Mind
I HAD NO POEM
I had no Poem
I had nothing in mind
Darkness in the world
Darkness inside.
I tried to think
I could not write
Darkness in the world
Darkness inside.
I repeated my theme
Again and again
Darkness in the world
Silence, no friend.
I try and I try
I need to write
A Poem is for me
A sign of Life.
What will be?
Will I ever know?
I write these words
Dawn so slow.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Em 3
about you
what shall i say about you?
ah, i prefer my
silence
this is my cure about
you
yes, my silence
it shall speak about
you my silence
my very own silence
to speak about your
long silence
now we are at peace
in our silence
both shall speak about
us yes our silence
our marital silence in
the silence of our bed
the root of all our
troubles freud say is in
the silence of our beds
two beds now
four meters apart
speaking in silence
the silence of the house
and the chairs
and the staircases
and the carpets and
the ticks and the
empty glasses or those
cold coffee and
frozen butter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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