The Poet Walks Slowly
THE POET WALKS SLOWLY
The poet walks slowly
The dream of the world surrounds him
As Light.
He stops to write
And the words open up happily,
As if the morning and the fresh breeze
Were all there need be
Of God’s Soul.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Man Walks Slowly/ When He Has Nowhere Special To Go
A man walks slowly
When he has nowhere special to go-
A man walks slowly
And has the time to look around
The flowers, the trees,
His own memories his dreams-
He walks slowly
And enjoys his walking-
Who knows how much longer
He will be able to go on walking?
He walks slowsly
He has nowhere special to go-
He enjoys the morning light
He is at home with the world and happy-
He walks slowly
And is at home wherever he goes-
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Man Walks Slowly To His Own Grave
A man walks slowly to his own grave
And whether he stops or runs,
A man walks slowly to his own grave
wherever he is,
whatever he does,
A man walks surely to his own grave.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He Walks Without A Poem
HE WALKS WITHOUT A POEM
He walks without a poem
There is no poem in his mind
No poem in his heart.
But the idea of a poem
The dream of a poem
The daily task of a poem
The justification given by a poem-
He stops and writes these words down.
All around him
the morning light sings songs
of the things
of this world.
A poem perhaps?
Perhaps not?
I
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Walks Alone In The Night
THE POET WALKS ALONE IN THE NIGHT
The Poet walks alone in the night-
He is happy.
The Dark has a certain Beauty-
The Light has a certain Beauty-
The Sky has a certain Beauty-
The stars.
The Poet walks alone in the night-
Beauty.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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An Old Man Is A Tired Man
AN OLD MAN IS A TIRED MAN
An old man is a tired man
His song is a quiet song
He walks slowly
Wherever he goes.
Yet the Night he walks into says to him,
‘There is Light here too’
And the Relief a Breeze may give
After too sunstrong days.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If You Are a Poet
If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.
To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.
To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.
To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.
Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.
To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Morning Light Is Here
THE MORNING LIGHT IS HERE
The morning light is here
Hope is here
I try to think and to write
Slowly slowly
A few words come.
What have I done with my life?
What will I do with this day?
When will the real poems return to me
Have they forever gone away?
The light is blue and white
The day is here
The fear so deep deep in me
Is slowly fading –
God, if You do not move me now
Will I remain a loser forever?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Song Of Spring
The Spring comes slowly up this way,
Slowly, slowly,
Under a snood of hodden grey.
The black and white for her array,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Where is her green that was so gay?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Unto a world too sick for May,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Where are the lads that used to play?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
She has no heart for holiday,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
The trees are out in Heaven they say.
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up our way.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Poet
a poet knows nothing best than a seer, nay neither
touches like a magician nor prays like a monk, yet!
feel the tremendous heart that breathes and sees the
oozing shadow of the light, a poet lives
Oh! what wonder! each word exists where
every poet has come to paste, as the world
turns its page every color the pen refreshes
as the poet begins to tell, every feeling makes it
to fulfill, though in every edge there is always some
sad stories that everybody could feel and relate
a poet always wins in every ink of a pen, there is
always pain, turning others' gain, the end
holds on to reign, and the heart of the immortal fight
has just begun, transcend beyond it rainbow's
plain, wherein every poetry the dying soul comes
to raise the wonderful surprises of life
as the fulfillment has gone, and every one's dream
has achieved and the poet now wishes to repose in the
lamp light grave the pen it lays, leaving the world to
be freed watching my hand to flee
wish me luck; the time has to come, where my day is
counted in the pen everyone is perfected and my
moment is for you to remember that in very write our
soul leads us to be upright and every way is alright,
and now haggle me to know that I am a poet at the
end of my life
a poet in a shining armor of light.........
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am More A Poet
I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER
I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-
God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-
It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Overwhelmed
THE POET OVERWHELMED
The poet overwhelmed
By the momentary beauty of the world –
Stops -
And writes his little lines
In the Morning Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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SHADOWS OF AUTUMN {A Poet's Dream}
Shadows that haunt me in autumn
Memories of colours lost to winter
The Douglas Fir......forever green
Keeps the forests from the barren
and desolate winter...
Shadows tail the whispered winds
November's fickle breeze....snaps
Fresh images, for the Poet's mind
Reclusive me, i write my stories in
silent attitude...
Shadows that vision harvests death
Tips of golden leaves, turn to brown
Morning dew is masked in first-frost
I watch it all, by a window, in a room
of Donne and Poe...
All i need is my paper...and isolation
To feed by yen, for the abstract buffet
I bother no one..... harbour no secrets
I'm about words 'n tales from the dark
side of fiction...
For a Poet i am not- and will never be
Poet's paint a canvass, of open doors
Into the passions 'n perils of their lives
And they do it oh so well...'tis God-Gift
Still i write.....
And, the shadows of Autumn, haunt me
They scream and bleed poetic promise
Like the gold that Robert Frost inspired
While captured, in the autumn shadows
of a Poets dream...
(September 1st,2007)
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Unto The Other
What can a poet do for you?
Open up your heart
to let the sunshine through.
What can a poet say to you?
Words so powerful
to put your past in review.
What can a poet give to you?
A moment of prayer
to make you feel brand new.
What can a poet make alive in you?
A picture of your soul
as it comes into view.
What can you give the poet you read?
The chance to reach you
with something you need.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poet Should Be
A POET SHOULD BE
A poet should be
A spring day
a morning dream
A source of Love-
Help to others
A poet should be
Kind
And
Quiet
And leave the reader
A little bit of light
Gentle Happiness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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