Graffitti Artist
I blame the graffitti artist
Whose stolen swollen words
Emblazon me with rage
Paper walls torn
Page from page
Limbs discarded
Unwanted bodies
Cluttering the stage
'War made art'
I blame the graffitti artist
For sticking in the boot,
Making the 'literate mute'
For whose red passion tongue is rage
Slashed splashed
Marked on a concrete stage
No finer lines
No asymmetrical
Dialectical
Speaks speech louder
When seen
Across a half abandoned railway bridge
Broken brick and stone
Naming a homeless home
For dereliction vagrant vagabond
'Home sweet home'
The unwished unlonged
Blood letters
Burn on bridges
RAGING OUT THEIR FEARS
To deaf eyes
Blind travellers
Speaking speech
To speech
To the nobody
Unseen
Who hears
Who hears?
PREACH!
Yvette m Smith june 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Related quotes
Poem
This poem is a gift
Free words
Under the stench of a barbed wire world
Flowers that live on
After the flowers have been blown from the graves
In the midst of war
These words are a gift
A balm for the poor hungry mouth
To feed on
After the nightmare of carnage
Of lines written in blood
On broken walls
Where fathers and their families lie
Still and swollen in unmarked plots
These words are a gift
They are free
Washing the wounds
Making speech live on
Even after so much darkness
They are the lightness
Bringing light
yvette smith june 12 2009
poem by Yvette Smith
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Rubbish Tip
At the rubbish tip they place their words
Just on the edge of
Surreal and absurd
A gold leafed edge
A lettered page
At teh rubbish tip
They stage
Their acts in
'THREE PARTS SCENE ONE'
Then you arrive
By stage door three
With a broken heart
All at sea
With the rythmn
Of the words
They left you to say
Can't see the wood for the trees today
At the rubbish dump
The hungry sit
Wide eyed
Death in their mouths
Waiting to eat
The bread of the words
The crumbs from a table
Of rotten verse
Yet still they come the blind and the dumb
Sit up and write
Recite it all night
Without a pause
Or space for 'applause'
READ THE PAPER!
It makes more sense to believe in
The tablod lies
Than live in a world of man made pretense
Take your tongue from your cheek
The fibre glass from your eye
BETTER NOT TO SAY A THING
DON'T TIP THE WORDS FROM YOUR MOUTH
TO THE PAGE...VOMIT BREACHED
just stay silent
Let the rain fall one more time
It's a sign of the times sell fast stories
Falling of dirty ink presses
distresses on paper
OUR DAILY BREAD SPOON FED!
ANGUS HAM STRINGS
poem by Yvette Smith
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Fatigue
Tired today
Almost a reed broken
Worded out from speech
Finding a peace
In hung silence
And these are all clouds
No dreams tail
There is nothing to reach for
But this, in this moment
Loved out of love
Tired, yes I am tired of 'I love you'
You, who must listen
You, must you love me?
Unseen I walk beside you
Must you understand?
More than a measure of breath
A day spent with empty hands
Must you know me?
How can you know?
All that is missing in the spaces
Between today and tomorrow, ?
And another year passes unseen,
And the universal parent is waiting,
Yes he is always waiting
To take us home
To take us back
To a time when we were living without want,
Only knowing we were loved,
And that is all,
And that is that!
yvette smith 26.1.09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Vaanii
Vaanii
You spoke of ‘vaanii’ as that speech
that follows true perception
with exact expression
in that glorious inner sound
that’s followed into action..
intrigued, I took the dictionary from the shelf..
and it speaks of music..
like - I hear from memory -
that roadside stream accompanying your walk,
whose music – ever changing,
ever a continuance of the same –
speaks of its source among the wooded hills;
speaks of the beauties that it passed;
and of its destiny, in merging with salt sea;
as Saraswati, goddess of wise speech,
protected now within the deepest stone;
that music that the head hears and obeys in reason;
that music which the heart hears in the voice;
that music dancing in the graceful action:
unmistakeable as truth, it has a name:
vaanii.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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No Speech
O.k. ready to take off
Do it slow
Im living on the bottom
I got to go
Five little fingers
Grabbing at the glass
Gone, those days
Now Im running
Up and down in my cage
Too late to defend, Im buried - insane
Dont you know theres more to life than to win
Are you that kind of stereotype?
Its no time, theres no time
Theres nothing I could answer
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
But I want to get home
Let me free, this is not my home
Put away your flashing stick
Dont try to get closer-through my head
Give me a little bit more of your own
A little more, dont wanna be
Anybodys clown
Too late to defend, Im buried - insane
Dont you know theres more to life than to win
Are you that kind of stereotype ?
Its no time, theres no time
Theres nothing I could answer
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
But I want to get home
Let me free, this is not my home
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
No speech
As long (as) I get nothing
But I want to get home
Let me free, this is not my home
song performed by by Fuel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Players
The summer leaves in autumn fall
covering grass and garden walls.
A passing page on life’s stage
soon forgotten as the next season calls,
a circling unforgiving tide
that carries with it our passing lives.
Players are we upon the stage
of life’s ever turning page.
We live today and pray for tomorrow
that we may again grace the stage
of its next passing page.
And so life goes on
from birth and beyond
as players on the stage of life.
23 June 2009
poem by David Harris
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Scribbles On A Page
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
back of a yellow notebook
torn pages out
let me go home
God!
let me go home
Scribbles on a page…
scribbles on a page…
my little black writing pad
bent cover-spine
let me go home
God!
let me go home
(i think i need a break)
(i think i need to sleep)
poem by Michael Romero
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Home And Love
Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I'm sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love.
Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
Which of the two were best to gain;
Home without Love is bitterness;
Love without Home is often pain.
No! each alone will seldom do;
Somehow they travel hand and glove:
If you win one you must have two,
Both Home and Love.
And if you've both, well then I'm sure
You ought to sing the whole day long;
It doesn't matter if you're poor
With these to make divine your song.
And so I praisefully repeat,
When angels talk in Heaven above,
There are no words more simply sweet
Than Home and Love.
poem by Robert William Service
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Compulsion 6
you say you will not do it
never again
this sickness this sickening thing
inside you
you smile
you breathe
your stomach begins to deliver a speech
this cannot be
denial, denial, denial of the natural color of your hair
one that blends
with your skin
one that speaks the words that your tongue
has been keeping
the one that you hide
and pretend it is not there
it grows
and becomes big and so visible
you knife it out
never shall it heal
this wound this life
this is what you are
and ever shall be
forever, and yet you keep it hidden
funny, because they are all seeing it
and speaking about it
it seems, you are the only one
mute, deaf, blind and so dumb
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Murder is a Colorful Thing
Red is the color of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Orange is the color of her stained shirt because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Yellow is the color of her shirt before it was stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Green is the color of her stomach as I cut her tummy open through her once yellow shirt stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Blue is the color of the happy sky while I cut into the green of her tummy through her once yellow shirt now stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Violet is the color of my swollen face from crying under the blue happy sky while I cut into the green of her tummy through her once yellow shirt now stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Murder is a colorful thing...
poem by Tamara Buengener
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Sonnet XLVII: Broken Music
The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling's speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open ears,
That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound sea-shell's low importunate strain,—
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved! and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Broken Music
The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling's speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open ears,
That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound sea-shell's low importunate strain, -
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved! and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The life of a Poet
The poet listens
the poet hears
he writes down
all his fears.
He observes things
that others don't
going to places
that others won't.
Inspired by simple things
like a sound or smell
the poet has lots
of stories to tell.
Even when asleep
his mind isn't at rest
in fact this is the time
it's at it's creative best.
The poet can be a restless soul
his life reflected on the page
some verse can be sweet and mild
then full of anger and rage.
The poet can be mysterious
and write in a strange way
he will say Black is White
and that night is day.
The poet is an artist
but instead of paint it's the word
painters want their work to be seen
but poets just need to be heard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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A Home Song
I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Blank Page
Blank page was all the rage
Never meant to say anything
In bed I was half-dead
Tired of dreaming of rest
Got dressed above the state line
Looking for you at the five and dime
Stop sign told me to stay at home
Told me you were not alone
Blank page was all the rage
Never meant to hurt anyone
In bed I was half-dead
Tired of dreaming of rest
You haven't changed
You're still the same
May you rise as you fall
You were easy
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins from Adore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Running Towards The Fire!
we run towards the fire,
falling stars, sucking up the darkness.
what we want, what we need,
what we believe, who we are!
standing on the stage,
waiting on the curtain to rise.
i put my hands in my pockets,
and stare down at my feet.
the lights turned down,
waiting on the roar...
i realize without thinking,
'i just dont care! '
take destiny's stone statues,
and close forever's book.
there are no faces in the darkness
imposed by the self.
take my name from the page,
leave only blood and sweat!
take my face from the mirror,
and replace it with those....
who hunger and suffer,
who stink with need.
who are dying and homeless,
without freedom, or land.
stop the bombing, stop the killing,
stop the drilling, stop the hate.
let my voice be but a nail
in the walls that give shelter.
let my living be a bridge,
my passion a fire...
that warms and cooks,
and lights the weary night.
let my identity be this,
and nothing more...
the cry of the orphaned child,
the nipple that brings him home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Volcano Of Passion
As the passion builds inside, my heart beats faster
My mouth goes dry
My hands become clammy
My eyes widen in anticipation
Out comes a flow of words, a flow of meanings
A flow of thought and feelings
I can feel it growing inside me, waiting to burst out
I really just want to shout as the words flow out onto the page
Without any rage, just a desire, a passion
For my words to have their own stage
The volcano has erupted, the words flow
Yet when the dust settles, nobody but me knows whats happened
It's my very own volcano of passion
poem by Craig Piercy
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Quiet Please, There's A Lady On Stage
(carole bayer-sager & peter allen)
Quiet please, there's a lady on stage
She may not be the latest rage
But she's singing and she means it
And she deserves a little silence
Quiet please, there's a woman up there
And she's been honest through her songs
Long before your consciousness was raised
Doesn't that deserve a little praise
So put your hands together and help her along
All that's left of the singer's
All that's left of the song
Stand for the ovation
And give her one last celebration
Quiet please, there's a person up there
And she's been singing of the things
That none of us could bear to hear for ourselves
Give her your respect if nothing else
Quiet please, there's a lady on stage
Conductor, turn the final page
And when it's over we can all go home
But she lives on -- on the stage alone.
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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More Than?
more than speech reason
love contempt
A circuit of days
A round of drinks
A collection of letters
Words well said
More than a knee jerk reaction
An insidious reply
The automatic pen of an artist
A wave goodbye
Not waving but drowning?
A brain in a jar for arts sake
A fake tan a botoxed face
A stretch of words in a desert place
A name a place a star sign
More than a body in a bed
A closed eye
A doctrine on belief
An athiests reply
More than a grain of sand
A head full of dreams
A dandelion head blown into the wind
A particle of dust
A molecule of sky
More than, a you, an I
More than all imaginings
Oh what a piece of work is man
More, much more than this?
poem by Yvette Smith
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Light
It dazzles in a clear night
Made clearer still
By artificial rays
Making a path to guide us home
It is a beacon
A bright halo of hope
A candle of warmth and sentiment
It makes love sound heavenly
Makes our journey safe and full
As if it were a divine hand resting on our shoulders
Without it
The stars would dim and fade out
The sky fill with darkness
The lamp would retreat
Into formlessness
The sky would be lost to the darkness
There would be no sun
No moon
The soul would close up and die
Even noise or speech or sound
Would be senseless
detached and barren
All things living sleeping
Light
In the beginning there was light
All living things followed
And these were only the signs leading homewards
yvette smith april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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