The Art of Letters
My brain is without thought and is vacant,
and there is nothing coming to mind.
There’s not even a blank canvas to write upon,
it’s as though I am mentally blind.
I’m tapping random keys on my laptop
I’m so unimaginative and tense.
A pattern is emerging from the letters,
but does it really have to make sense?
poem by Tex T Sarnie
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Facing a Blank: Part 1
I sit here facing a blank
and it is perhaps one of the hardest things I do
to see before me an expanse of blank things
to decide how I should fill them in
there is everything to encompass
for all the world to see, itself looking back
a mirror wouldn't do,
because the truth merely hides behind mirrors
it does not look out through them.
every random thought that I notice out of the corner of my eye
has its own appeal and appeals to me
to use it to fill the blank spaces.
To every random thought I look and in them I see the world
every one of them looking out at me and crying
for recognition and redemption
and the blank spaces agree that this is not what I should put down.
So I sit here still, facing a blank.
poem by Poet Dragon
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A silly poem about keys
Keys can open doors
they can lock you in
keys on a piano
but not on a Violin.
Keys to a safe
inside a vault
keys lost again
well that's your fault.
Keys on an old typewriter
and on a modern laptop
keys stolen by a thief
to break into a shop.
Keys hang on a keyring
or on a fancy chain
but how on earth can you
dropp them down a drain?
Keys for this and that
a key lying under the mat
having to rush to the Vet
it's been swallowed by the cat.
So I'll end this poem now
and try and get my key
I dropped it down a drain
oh stupid and silly me!
poem by Kevin Halls
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The canvas
The canvas
~
This blank canvas before me
Laid out in pristine white
Where only the illusion of lines
Break the unparalleled possibility
Dare I take my pen to it
To scare forever its page
To pen the impossible thought
In verse and breath captivated
That only the mention of a word
Touches the heart and soul of man
Painted into eternity
Upon the canvas stained
No longer innocent, pristine
But touched by the mind
Whose eyes looked upon
A world as they chose to see it
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Blank, Numb, Floating
it is 1: 55 a.m.
i hear the rain falling
she is fast asleep tired of the demands of her day
i leave her and she takes the pillow for me
i turn on the light
and see this room of books and paperworks
i turn on the computer
i am feeling nothing and i am floating like i am but a spirit
i am numb and i am feeling so dumb
i see this blank wall
i am feeling so empty
i look at her again
she utters words in her sleep and i will not wake her up
i lay my hands on the keys
run my fingers on some letters
there is nothing to write
in particular but there is something to run my fingers on
this feeling
this attempt to imitate the sound of the rain in letters
to put the motion of the rain to put its smell
to be wet and to have the rain run over me
all over me all over me all over me all over me
blank, numb, floating and wet
this is the poem now
at 2: 03 a.m.
it has gained finally this form
and scent and motion and color
that you have never seen
or felt the way
i do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Want to Be Where the Palm Trees Are
I want to be where the palm trees are,
Upon some sunny and sandy beach,
I want to be away from it all-
Out of touch and out of reach.
I want to lose myself in the sea
Or rest upon some moss covered rocks,
To roam about-wild and free-
Away from the crowds, schedules and clocks.
I want a blank canvas to paint anew,
I want a blank page and a childlike mind
To sit on a hilltop with a scenic view,
To see the world to which I was blind.
May 30,2008
poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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Here I sit with my paper…
Here I sit with my paper, my pen my ink,
First of this thing, and that thing,
and t'other thing think ;
I Then my thoughts come so pell and
I mell all into my mind,
That the sense or the subject I never can find :
This word is wrong placed, no
regard to the sense,
The present and future, instead of
past tense,
Then my grammar I want; O dear!
what a bore,
I think I shall never attempt to
write more,
With patience I then my thoughts
must arraign,
Have them all in due order like
mutes in a train,
Like them too must wait in due
patience and thought,
Or else my fine works will all come
to nought.
My wit too 's so copious, it flows
like a river,
But disperses its waters on black
and white never ;
Like smoke it appears independent
and free,
But ah luckless smoke! it all passes
like thee
Then at length all my patience entirely
lost,
My paper and pens in the fire are
tossed ;
But come, try again you must
never despair,
Our Murray's or Entick's are not
all so rare,
Implore their assistance they'll
come to your aid,
Perform all your business without
being paid,
They'll tell you the present tense,
future and past,
Which should come first, and which
should come last,
This Murray will do then to Entick
repair,
To find out the meaning of any
word rare.
This they friendly will tell, and
ne'er make you blush,
With a jeering look, taunt, or an
O fie! tush!
Then straight all your thoughts in
black and white put,
Not minding the if's, the be's, and
the but,
Then read it all over, see how it
will run,
How answers the wit, the retort,
and the pun,
Your writings may then with old
Socrates vie,
May on the same shelf with Demosthenes
lie,
May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato
be sage,
The pattern or satire to all of the
age;
But stop a mad author I mean not
to turn,
Nor with thirst of applause does my
heated brain burn,
Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar
combined,
My letters may make some slight
food for the mind ;
That my thoughts to my friends I
may freely impart,
In all the warm language that flows
from the heart.
Hark! futurity calls! it loudly
complains,
It bids me step forward and just
hold the reins,
My excuse shall be humble, and
faithful, and true,
Such as I fear can be made but by
few
Of writers this age has abundance
and plenty,
Three score and a thousand, two
millions and twenty,
Three score of them wits who all
sharply vie,
To try what odd creature they best
can belie,
A thousand are prudes who for
Charity write,
And fill up their sheets with spleen,
envy, and spite,
One million are bards, who to
Heaven aspire,
And stuff their works full of bombast,
rant, and fire,
T'other million are wags who in
Grub-street attend,
And just like a cobbler the old writings
mend,
The twenty are those who for pulpits
indite,
And pore over sermons all Saturday
night.
And now my good friends who
come after I mean,
As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined
with a dean,
Or like cobblers at mending I never
did try,
Nor with poets in lyrics attempted
to vie;
As for prudes these good souls I
both hate and detest,
So here I believe the matter must
rest.
I've heard your complaint my
answer I've made,
And since to your calls all the
tribute I've paid,
Adieu my good friend ; pray never
despair,
But grammar and sense and everything dare,
Attempt but to write dashing, easy,
and free,
Then take out your grammar and
pay him his fee,
Be not a coward, shrink not to a
tense,
But read it all over and make it
out sense.
What a tiresome girl! pray soon
make an end,
Else my limited patience you'll
quickly expend.
Well adieu, I no longer your patience
will try
So swift to the post now the letter
shall fly.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Half Full
I'll write these words.
I'll write more tomorrow.
Will they be read by anyone,
does it matter either way?
I am reading them,
and that goes to prove that they've been written,
that my mind is not blank.
I have sympathy for the blank-minded people.
Although I'm sure,
they would sympathize with me...
if only their minds were not blank,
And they weren't just content to be.
poem by Edward Veilleux
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Laptop Laptop
laptop laptop laptop
I pray that Miroslava’s
laptop laptop laptop...
arrives soon so she may
have a much much much...
better better better...
day day day every day
this each day I pray
may your laptop arrive today...
to ease extra toil pressure
you have too much to do
and I worry worry worry...
about you too much pressure
accumulated emotional worries
seems sometimes to plague you daily...
review score manyfold
blessings of your happier life
time for Miroslava; to yourself; to be nice...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Blank
Blank pages, blank lines
Blank heart, blank mind
Blank feeling, blank soul
Blank high, blank low.
I dont know why
You just cant see
That all you've ever known
Is the blank side of me.
Blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I could thank
I wish I was blank
I'd write a letter to you
And there'd be nothing to it
I wouldn't hem and haw
On just how to start it
I wish I was blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I could thank
I wish I was blank
I wish I'd stand up straight
I wish I'd said things different
I wish I'd said nothing
Things would be so perfect
I wish myself to keep
I pray my soul to sleep
I wish myself away
I wish I was blank
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins from The Aeroplane Flies High
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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If Given The Keys
If given the keys to unlock,
A flowing of bestowed opportunities...
Is not believed to be the responsibility kept,
By the ones handed those keys...
Who can not accept,
That the action done was precious?
And they lose the keys kept with no sense,
That reflects an appreciation...
But just an expression of a thoughtlessness?
Why bother to give someone like this,
Time to make excuses?
Or address their foolishness, period!
'Back this thing up,
And get me outta here! '
I thought you said,
You were going to leave them...
With another set of keys?
'Maybe you didn't 'get it'...
But that's what they were anticipating I would do.
And I had a change of priorities,
The moment I was given a look of impatience.
Let's go!
Enough time has been wasted here.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Invaders Of The Heart
Words and music by rick nielsen
(its rolling)
(oh, wrong song)
(its rolling)
Invaders of the heart
Are messin with my mind
Invaders of the heart
Can make your heart blind
Invaders of the heart
Are drivin me insane
Invaders of the heart
Are playin with my brain
I cant see anymore
Now Ive gotten tunnel vision
I cant be anyone
I just got no direction
I cant see anything
But I dont need glasses on
I cant think anymore
Im just a nervous wreck
Invaders of the heart
Are messin with my mind
Invaders of the heart
Can make your heart blind
Invaders of the heart
Are drivin me insane
Invaders of the heart
Are playin with my brain
I cant see anymore
Always buckle under pressure
I cant be anyone
The slightest thing will set me off
I cant feel anything
Im on pins and Im on needles
I cant think anymore
Ive lost my appetite
Invaders of the heart
Are messin with my mind
Invaders of the heart
Can make your heart blind
Invaders of the heart
Are drivin me insane
Invaders of the heart
Are playin with my brain
(take it, rick: 1, 2 ,3, 4, 5, 6 ,7 ,8 ,9 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32...)
Invaders of the heart
Are messin with my mind
Invaders of the heart
Can make your heart blind
Invaders of the heart
Are playin with my brain
Invaders of the heart
Are drivin me insane
Are messin with my mind
Make your heart blind
Invaders of the heart
(one more time!)
(okay, choice of lousy endings now.)
song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pink Laptop
One day I saw a pink laptop
So pretty it made my jaw drop
I dreamt about it for days
Scheming the different ways
That I might have it for my own
Although it's brand is unknown
I went back to the store again and again
Waiting for the day to come finally when
I'll get to take the pink laptop home
And burrow in my room with it like a gnome
I'll write my stories in it and play movies too
I'll live with it, sleep with it, and even take it to the loo
But one day I went back to the store once more
To my horror- the pink laptop is gone forevermore!
Some owner brought it home without my consent
Some forty thousand pesos he worthily spent
And with it he took my new bestfriend
And now the pink laptop is his - the end.
poem by Mavreen Rose
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Dear Casper
I don't know why
I can't seem to cope without you
My brain keeps telling me I need you
I sometimes wonder
if I suffered brain damage
From allowing you in my life for so long
I feel like I lost myself in you
And there seems to be no thoughts
Just incomprehensible impulses
It's like being mentally paralyzed
And I wander around in a blank haze
Unable to proceed for days
And nobody seems to care
Or comprehends what my problem is
All you can see is someone
Who is unable to help themselves
Killing The Mind And Time
Killing the mind and time. Mentally broken. Helpless in a cage full of rage. So many stages deformity. A slow and painful process. One day you'll remember nothing. Its better then the dark places you walk now. Be the strength when their should be none to be found. Everything is coming down. Killing the mind and time. A constant presence of a life that's rewinding. Undermining the logic of decades. Slow the pictures fade. Staring in the nothingness. Your body still here but your already gone. Play the guitar, play your song. To forget is so wrong. Killing the mind and time. I rather be blind. Then be one of the constantly confused. Words come out but they make no sense. The absence of the here now. You are asked, 'who current president is? ' They say j.f.k. This becomes such a horrible day. Killing the mind and time. This curse continues to get worse. The basic abilities go. Self deification. Public masturbation. No clue of the truth. A nightmare in which their is no cure. Yet its being constantly searched for. Million for the cause. But we are only able to slow it down. A pathalogical breakdown. Regrets that will stay in the back of my head. Put on my happy face cause you are not yet dead. Killing the mind and time.
-Dedicated to families who have someone who has had strokes, has vascular dementia, alzhiemers, or a similar brain condition which cause them to forget.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Physical Poetry
The physics of poetry
is best explained in a mind experiment
in the construction of this very poem.
As I write the question becomes
what is the word-next and its origins?
Now what word-next can be
is a question of probabilities;
since if I choose rhyme as my scheme
and since the words which will rhyme are finite
and not infinite
the only question then becomes
which one of these will I choose.
Now if I choose a word-next outside
rhyming
then I risk not making poetic sense
since writing a gibberish word,
or one not related to the whole,
would be judged word-next nonsense.
Now we ask who or what in the brain
is making these two decisions
is it me or is it something mysterious;
is it drawing upon the past and memory
or from an instantaneous present
or even perhaps from my future?
Or is it just random choices I make
without even understanding them?
But suppose it is something we call
consciousness which exists
in the brain-cloud of cells which
can with millions of possibilities
produce a entirely new idea
which by definition
can come to exist
like language itself
and produce something never before said;
and now is being compiled in the brain
in this very instant and brought into existence.
That is humans have with language
the ability to create sentences
which have never before existed,
spoken or written because some languages have
enough words in them to make these permutations
near infinite and hence new ideas possible therewith.
Suppose the same is true of the human mind
and human senses make possible from this
this exercise we call
the idea.
So beyond the physical aspects of the brain
there must be a non-physical aspect we call
consciousness, the spiritual, or whatever
word we choose as its name.
Now the other half of the transaction
is even more amazing:
I just made up a new idea
never been expressed before
and can talk to you about it
and given enough clues
it becomes something you understand
and you yourself can write
a poem about.
This must be trans-consciousness
which is now a double miracle
nobody understands.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Blank Canvas
A blank canvas waits every morning
as the sun begins to rise.
It waits for me to start thinking
of what today will be my prize.
Whatever it may be, I know
a new destination will come aboard
and my creations will be my guides to follow
to new adventures I will afford,
seeking and finding the colours and words
to fill in the emptiness of my blank canvas.
poem by David Harris
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Sonnet 2
my mind's eye from outer eye remove.
make senseless the argument of sense
that beauty not subject to sense prove
nor object to time that takes you hence.
then, mind from eye withdrawn,
in dark, sense may shine bright
and mind itself your beauty form,
forming mind to your illuminate.
but not thought's sense to hear
nor sense of mind in sense feel,
dimensional sight and intelligent ear
bereft of mind from mind would reel.
no war between your feature and form
exists except in eye - that does harm.
poem by Doug Bentley
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