Selecting A Reader
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.
poem by Ted Kooser
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Related quotes
Selecting a Reader
a striking title
she stops flipping
her painted nail
edges onto the page
the fan tries to turn over
the clouds, the smoke
trail, swirl, twirl,
her city heart calms to
country words
a brook in deep jungle
crystal clear water
treking, swishing,
tinkling,
through a landscape
she wishes to be a part
a hypnotic song
soothing a loneliness
a disturbed soul
below the big Ssh
in the bookstore
the silent brook
does its job
outside the city buzzes with traffic
well, it is time to take a holiday
she tells herself
and plonk the book goes back
to the shelf
she swirls past the counter
and slowly walks out
like a jungle brook
her bracelets tinkling
the bookstore as calm as she has come
inspired by
Selecting A Reader
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
'For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.' And she will.
Ted Kooser
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Golden Moon
The money is the Planet’s Wheel.
Into the mud the money binds the human’s Will. The money is Survival's drill.
The money diggs in our heart relations dirt, or Separation, which is "emotion's bill." The money is the dust.
With money covered our Life and Path. Sometimes, the money serves (in stead of oil) as "Diplomatic honey."
The money gives the Power to sinner and to swami. The money is the NEED.
Without money we are the Soul's zero, "Human's meat" indeed. We wish the money night and day.
The whisper ‘money’ make us forget the smile; blessing of pundit, the pray. The money is the Dream: "The Golden Moon"
Without money we are in Life useless wave: "balloon." Conclusion:
"Without money, I am the sand on Ocean's shore,"
concluded Poem "Golden Moon"- the Poet Lebishor.
poem by Leonid Rotshtein
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Chuck Negron Of Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron who I did meet
is really sincere and really sweet.
Chuck wrote "Three Dog Nightmare".
almost like one of Razel's "Frightmares"
It's about his drug addiction
& his word of hope
for anyone addicted to or strung out on dope.
I told him I wrote'Poems of
Inspiration and Recovery'
People who read them
can feel better with discovery.
My poems have words in them
like the word "pray".
These poems along with his book
where on display
in Hazelden Ctr. that very same day.
Chuck did sign my book to alias Suzae
Now buy it on Amazon or at
your local bookstore
it's worth every penny
and then some more.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 2nd 2011
www.suzae.com www.suechevalier.com
www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Woes Versus Rues II
One on one, against and with each other
What's a bottle of alcohol?
"Brothers are bound to each other…"
I listened carefully, the smoke lifting
"Because they are bound by blood, "
I listened carefully, remembering everything
"tethered by compulsory empathy."
I listened carefully, the whiskey sweating
"I do not want that..."
I listened carefully, the sweat soldering down
"I want to be your comrade."
I listened carefully, the echoes rupturing painfully
I have never asked:
"What is a comrade? "
poem by Norman Santos
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I like your books
In the betting line the other
day
man behind me asked,
"are you Henry
Chinaski?"
"uh huh," I answered.
"I like your books," he went
on.
"thanks," I answered.
"who do you like in this
race?" he asked.
"uh uh," I answered.
"I like the 4 horse," he
told me.
I made my bet and went back
to my seat....
the next race I am standing in
line and here is this same man
standing behind me
again.
there are at least 50 lines at
the windows but
he has to find mine
again.
"I think this race favors the
closers," he said to the back of
my neck. "the track looks
heavy."
"listen," I said, not looking
around, "it's the kiss of death to
talk about horses at the
track..."
"what kind of rule is that?"
he asked. "God doesn't make
rules..."
I turned around and looked at him:
"maybe not, but I
do."
after the next race
I got in line, glanced behind
me:
he was not there:
lost another reader.
I lose 2 or 3 each
week.
fine.
let 'em go back to
Kafka.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Intimacy
I hear people say, "I love my iPhone, "
Or, "I love drinking a Starbucks coffee."
Sometimes: "I love my Versace cologne, "
And also: "I love having this money."
I hear people say, "I love my Walmart, "
Or, "I love the drive-thru at Taco Bell."
"I love my TV. It's state of the art."
"I love the shoes that Nike has to sell."
I hear this: "I love American Idol, "
And, "I love a nice, cold Budweiser."
"I love medicines such as Demerol."
And, "I love my internet provider."
Yet, one thing I don't hear is, "I love you."
Saying that is too intimate to do.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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I changed his face:
I did it like M.L.K,
I changed the nation's face!
Riding in a public place
Saw me, he had a harsh tense
I took out a $ 50 bills
And the white man smiled
He was enchanted
He was delighted
Gave me a little "yes, Sir! "
Here is your receipt"please"
And have a nice night "Mr."
He did not stress up
To make the cops came up
Keeping people lined up
Instead, his eyes popped up
His lips straightened up
His face changed
His voice nicer
His attitude friendlier
Even his manner, better
His color became brighter.
I did it like Oprah Winfried
I did it like Michael Jackson
I did it like Michael Jordan
I have been accepted as equal
I have been seen as normal.
Money made me white
Money gave me right
Money put in me power
Money lifted me higher
Money bought me respect
Money called me: " Money"
Money said to me: hi! Money
I said back: "hello! Money"
Money is Power and Respect.
No matter how I did it
For sure I made it
In his face I saw it
I felt like a heavy weight
I felt like an airfreight
I felt like all my bodyweight
Have been lift up from me
Now I am free with no fee
Now I can live with no fear.
This is my story
I wrote a paragraph in history
I had my taste of victory
I did one thing for humanity
I changed his face, I have my relief
I showed my money, I sent him free.
poem by Dieury Dumas
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Revolt In The Ranks
I have just spent one-hour-and-a-half
handicapping tomorrow's
card.
when am I going to get at the poems?
well, they'll just have to wait
they'll have to warm their feet in the
anteroom
where they'll sit gossiping about
me.
"this Chinaski, doesn't he realize that
without us he would have long ago
gone mad, been dead?"
"he knows, but he thinks he can keep
us at his beck and call!"
"he's an ingrate!"
"let's give him writer's block!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!& quot;
"yeah!"
the little poems kick up their heels
and laugh.
then the biggest one gets up and
walks toward the door.
"hey, where are you going?" he is
asked.
"somewhere where I am
appreciated."
then, he
and the others
vanish.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
poem by Spike Milligan
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The Penitent
I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"
Alas for pious planning—
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep—
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!
So I got up in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by—
I've been a wicked girl," said I:
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
I might as well be glad!"
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Money Power
Money is the need of life
Everyone loves this, either mother or wife
Yes, it is very lovable-
Why not, as it gives us respect and make us able
We can buy every precious thing
And some say, if you have money only then have "Honey"
We can by-pass any law and order-
Using money and speak louder
But money cannot replace truth
Yet it can hide it on mysterious earth
It cannot make us to sleep
But it can make us to weep
Money is the dust of our hand
Which will be washed away when we wash hand
Money can make us respectful
But it cannot make us truthful
Money should not be treated as everything
Or we will miss truthness of worldly things
Everything should not be done just for some money
Or we will miss love of others, which will make us funny
Earn money don't pride of it
Love money don't do crime for it
Or God will make distance from you
You are his only son, is the truthest true
Money is not life but life is money
The tour of life is very "Turny"
Humanity is the first duty of ours
Search for truth and get success in yours Life's Tour
poem by Shashank Dwivedi
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Lead "me" to "me
What is this place?
Where have I reached?
I stand infront
The mirror,
As a stranger
Stares back at me.
Do I know her?
Have we met before?
Why do I see in her traces of' me'?
Or is this…
The new ‘me"?
Do I like her?
Brazen she stands…
Her hair wind swept,
Her eyes, wild
No longer windows
To the divinity of her soul.
But her smile has
Traces of "me".
That strange
Devil in "me".
As I shudder in peril,
Where have I reached?
Its miles and miles of mist,
Paths untread,
Lonely beings.
But…
Its this mysterious "me"
Which terrifies my soul.
Did I ever want to be
"her"?
Do I have a choice?
Is it too late to decide,
Revert, run back?
Where did I lose the "me"
I was so proud about?
Pray, give me your magic hand
Do lead "me to"me"…
For without "you" holding "me"
I remain not even "me"
Daddy…
your little 'ai'is all lost
Please lead "me" to "me"….
poem by Anjali Kakati
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The Australian Slanguage
"Tis the everyday Australian
Has a language of his own,
Has a language, or a slanguage,
Which can simply stand alone.
And a "dickon pitch to kid us"
Is a synonym for "lie",
And to "nark it" means to stop it,
And to "nit it" means to fly.
And a bosom friend's a "cobber,"
And a horse a "prad" or "moke,"
While a casual acquaintance
Is a "joker" or a "bloke."
And his lady-love's his "donah"
or his "clinah" or his "tart"
Or his "little bit o' muslin,"
As it used to be his "bart."
And his naming of the coinage
Is a mystery to some,
With his "quid" and "half-a-caser"
And his "deener" and his "scrum".
And a "tin-back" is a party
Who's remarkable for luck,
And his food is called his "tucker"
Or his "panem" or his "chuck".
A policeman is a "johnny"
Or a "copman" or a "trap",
And a thing obtained on credit
Is invariably "strap".
A conviction"s known as "trouble",
And a gaol is called a "jug",
And a sharper is a "spieler"
And a simpleton's a "tug".
If he hits a man in fighting
That is what he calls a "plug",
If he borrows money from you
He will say he "bit your lug."
And to "shake it" is to steal it,
And to "strike it" is to beg;
And a jest is "poking borac",
And a jester "pulls your leg".
Things are "cronk" when they go wrongly
In the language of the "push",
But when things go as he wants 'em
He declares it is "all cush".
When he's bright he's got a "napper",
And he's "ratty" when he's daft,
And when looking for employment
He is "out o' blooming graft".
And his clothes he calls his "clobber"
Or his "togs", but what of that
When a "castor" or a "kady"
Is the name he gives his hat!
And our undiluted English
Is a fad to which we cling,
But the great Australian slanguage
Is a truly awful thing!
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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A Poetry Reading At West Point
I read to the entire plebe class,
in two batches. Twice the hall filled
with bodies dressed alike, each toting
a copy of my book. What would my
shrink say, if I had one, about
such a dream, if it were a dream?
Question and answer time.
"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,
and gave his name and rank, and then,
closing his parentheses, yelled
"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give
me a headache when I try
to understand them?" he asked. "Do
you want that?" I have a gift for
gentle jokes to defuse tension,
but this was not the time to use it.
"I try to write as well as I can
what it feels like to be human,"
I started, picking my way care-
fully, for he and I were, after
all, pained by the same dumb longings.
"I try to say what I don't know
how to say, but of course I can't
get much of it down at all."
By now I was sweating bullets.
"I don't want my poems to be hard,
unless the truth is, if there is
a truth." Silence hung in the hall
like a heavy fabric. My own
head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Matthews
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Leaving
Tears on flushed cheeks,
stomping on the floor!
Her little hands are clenched as fists
her eyes are looking sore.
Mother's making sandwiches,
adds delicious filling
little blobs of salad cream,
these are really winning.
"So your going, " mother says,
"Have you any money?
I've made a lovely lunch
there's cake with fruit and honey"
Little girl is silent
takes the sandwiches
then goes out the front way,
still with rolling tears.
Sitting on the front step
she eats her picnic there
with teardrops in her eyes
and dirty fingernails,
then creeps around the back,
waits by the back door
asks mum very sheepishly,
"is there anymore? "
"You'd better come back in
and dry those weepy eyes,
there's fish and chips for supper
and the pudding will be nice."
poem by Ruth Walters
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I Met a Seer
I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
"Sir," I addressed him,
"Let me read."
"Child -- " he began.
"Sir," I said,
"Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Aye, much."
He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me. --
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Another Acrostic ( In the style of Father William )
"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."
poem by Lewis Carroll
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Contact
Ive got a lump in my throat about the note you wrote
Id come on over but I havent got a raincoat
Have we got contact
You and me?
Have we got touchdown
Cant we be?
Ive got contacts in my book and in my eyes
My good connection on the telephone never lies
Have we got contact
You and me?
Have we got touchdown
Cant we be?
Ive got a list of the people I have known
Im never alone on the end of a phone
Have we got contact
You and me?
Have we got touchdown
Cant we be?
Ive got a lump in my throat about the note you wrote
Id come on over but I havent got a raincoat
Id come on over but I havent got a raincoat
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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