1. One
I am trying to find my poetic rhythm.
Pen my flow of thoughts.
Words running through my mind,
Ideas running through my mind.
Incoherent, Scattered and disjointed
I am trying to make words and ideas one
Create a world of words, in this world of chaos
Words running from one end
Ideas running from one end
On a path of collision
Ideas and words unite, one
One, the beginning
One, the universal beginning
One, the number of the gods
One, my first poem
poem by Anand Dixit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
I'm running but to where?
Running, running
There is nothing lef to do.
Running...
Away from my tears
Away from my pen
Running to know who I,
am.
Running
But you, don't know what,
You're,
Running from.
Running in circles
Going nowhere.
I'm saying Goodbye
I am runnning away.
Never stop runnning
Words running throught,
My mind.
Running away,
Like the coward,
Like him
Horrible words
I am running and runnning,
For you.
I m running but to where?
I can't believe
That I've put up with you lies.
Im running from the past..
Running out the pain.
Running with out you.
poem by Maria Luisa Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm Running But To Where?
Running, running
There is nothing lef to do.
Running...
Away from my tears
Away from my pen
Running to know who I,
am.
Running
But you, don't know what,
You're,
Running from.
Running in circles
Going nowhere.
I'm saying Goodbye
I am runnning away.
Never stop runnning
Words running throught,
My mind.
Running away,
Like the coward,
Like him
Horrible words
I am running and runnning,
For you.
I m running but to where?
I can't believe
That I've put up with you lies.
Im running from the past..
Running out the pain.
Running with out you.
poem by Bikramjyoti Kashyop
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I think I am too interested in my own ideas to copy anyone else's, but I find that other people's imagery, the flow of language in the outside world, games with words, and ideas about relationships are all most important to me.
quote by Margaret Mahy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Times I Have
At times I have happy ideas,
Ideas suddenly happy, in among ideas
And the words in which they naturally shake free...
After writing, I read...
What made me write that?
Where have I been to find that?
Where did that come to me from? It is better than me...
Shall we have been, in the world, at the most, pen and ink
With which somebody writes properly what we here jot?...
poem by Fernando Pessoa from The Collected Poems of Álvaro de Campos (1934)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Running...
Running4Christ.
Running to race.
Running to live.
Running to stay fit.
Running to find myself.
Running to save lives.
Running to heaven.
Running for Christ.
Running for faith.
Running for Love.
Running for God.
Running for Life.
Running for Records
Running for Russia.
Running Till The End..
poem by Joseph Fuller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Idea
An Idea can change the world, how many
things can be done from an idea, every piece
of object was an idea, sense the beginning of
time idea was the first thought created in the
mind, an idea is what surround’s every being.
But an idea is still only an idea and it can't be
felt, you cannot touch an idea or kiss it, or hold it,
ideas do not bleed or feel pain or love, an idea
cannot be seen or heard, its created in our thoughts,
but then again an idea can become real. An idea
can be what ever you which it to be, an idea can
be destructive, an idea can be brilliant, I've seen
people get killed in the name of ideas, ideas,
we walk around with a little
light bulb blinking in our thoughts, ideas.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kill To Breathe
Completing life with cold blank eyes
My final thoughts race through my mind
With some brief visions of what's to come
Is there a light, it is just done?
I'm running away from what I can't explain
A new location, strange vibration from a different time and age
On a trip, in a dream far away, forgetting the preceding day
I'm being chased, can't move
I'm running in place
Running away
These endless days
The words were said, but I can't hear these voices in my head
Am I running away
Can't move, I'm running in place
song performed by by Unwritten Law
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Power of Ideas
The power of ideas are immeasurable
They are the hidden treasures which lies
Deep within each and everyone of us
When we take the time to mind them we will find
That they are more precious than diamonds
Ideas which may seem insignificant
Has tremendous power within them
They are the genesis the initiation the foundation
Of all invention and everything which
Is created by humankind
The power of ideas are immeasurable
They have got the power to move mountains
To overcome any obstacle and to make
The seemingly impossible possible
Ideas are the levers which moves and the axis
On which the world revolves
The power of ideas are immeasurable
The power of ideas...
poem by Anthony Shurland Phillander
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mood
I'll simply be out shopping,
or just going for a run,
when words and phrases hit me,
and a poem has begun.
Sentences and lots of words,
go running through my mind,
and i know if i dont write them down,
my thoughts leave me behind.
So quick hand me some paper!
Just please give me that pen!
If i do not write this down soon,
the words will go again.
poem by Holly Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Written Word Rules!
At the idea of poetry, some people seem to scoff,
As they consider it is an art form only for toffs.
They may think that the concept of poetry is boring,
And that it will leave them fast asleep and snoring.
There are all types of poems: modern and classical.
There’s something for everyone: it’s not boring at all.
The lyrics of songs are poems as such;
They often rhyme together very much.
People like to sing along with their favourite songs,
So why does the concept of poetry feel so wrong?
I’ve only started writing poetry in the last few weeks,
And, I have to admit that I thought it was just for geeks.
But, now I can see, that whoever you are,
Everyone has the potential to go really far.
I have to admit, I much prefer
The written, to the spoken word.
At night, I lay awake tossing and turning in bed,
With random thoughts running through my head.
By my pillow, I keep a pen and note pad,
To jot down any thoughts, which I’ve had.
At the top of the page, my thoughts I jot,
And I always plan out a really rough plot.
I like to include words which have a nice ring.
Words, like these, into my poetry, I like to bring.
I continually go through the alphabet time after time,
Searching for useful words which, pretty much, rhyme.
In simple terms, my ideas, I always like to express;
Complicated and fancy words, my mind doesn’t posses.
I’m sat here, writing this poem, on a speeding train,
As thought after thought, floods into my brain.
I’m writing notes on a mini pocket timetable,
In any tiny blank space which is available.
In my handbag, I’ve got no pad, but I’ve got a pen;
My scribbled notes, I just hope I can comprehend.
I really must start carrying a notepad everywhere;
To forget all these thoughts I’ve had, I couldn’t bear.
When I’m thinking of ideas, I just can’t relax;
My mind seems to buzz to the absolute max.
I’m not far now from my final destination,
And the train is due to pull into the station.
On this subject, there’s not much more to be said,
So, I’m now putting this poem well and truly to bed.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A stranger to most, An open book for some
[He prides himself in honesty
Doing everything he tries perfectly
All except for modesty]
Dreams and ideas fly easily in the globe of his mind
As he is quickly entranced in some knowledge only he could find
He is the only person I know cursed with understanding
Also the only one I know who is rarely ever demanding
The only person who follows gods laws without realizing it
The only person who knows when to admit
His preaching’s of war are countered by his wish to exterminate the vile
His bouts of sarcasm are run over by his urge to smile
His blatant quick judgment is overshadowed by his quick thinking
His thoughts are never ending and never sinking
It sometimes seems like he knows it all
Like no whisper could ever escape his ever heightened senses
Like no one could truly walk the halls of his mind
Like his thinking has no barriers or fences
Sometimes he forgets I can’t keep up
As his mind swiftly races from green to the age of exploration
From the economy of East Timor to Lebanon’s situation
Always steeling a glance in my direction as I look on in admiration
As he mouths the words to “From Yesterday”
His features rearrange in perfect concentration
And I didn’t understand it until today
That the words are his perfect re-creation
As he goes on of how the school is a perfect place for a sniper
His eyes shine as if he can assure the future with a simple guarantee
Seeing everything he describes like a movie in my mind
So he won’t stop talking I make sure and disagree
He is confused more than half of the time
But not in the disastrous way you think
For in his mind ideas become sublime
And all unimportant matters shrink
He hates so many things that are
And loves so many things that could never be
His many ideas seem impossible
Though we rarely truly disagree
Sadly a poem must end, or else this could get long
Though I will tell you that since I met him, my life has completely twirled
Just as the words from that song
“On his face is a map of the world”
poem by Yaritza Florencio
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Raised From The Scroll
I'm running just like
The tears down my cheek and ink
on the tear-stained page
I'm running behind
But write looking forward to
Times that live in words
As a new dawn breaks
Life is breathed into the chest
Of words ‘til they wake
My sorrow they take
And settle my restless soul
Words raised from the scroll
poem by Argentine Tango
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Mind Always Turning
My mind is like a jet,
ideas I have, hidden away,
not thought of yet.
My mind keeps going, going, fast as a train,
only at rest stops, do I wait
my thoughts, are simple and plain,
of poetry, do I love
sitting down at my desk,
floating along, like a dove
to survive, and to live,
the words shall flow
and to the world, I will give
Poetry In The Closets
Poetry in the closets,
words are all stuffed away,
Open the closet door once more
so the words can say
'Listen friend and catch the thoughts
and make them come to bear.
Don't leave them where they can't be heard
for poetry takes you where
you fall in love with words again
like no prose itself can do.'
It opens your mind to brand new ideas
and then when you're through
you'll say
'Poetry in the closets
come out where you belong.
Take your proper place once more
beside each touching song.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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400th Mark
Completion of 400th poem was not great feat or mark
Many new ideas flashed in mind and worked as spark
Raising voice at roof top doesn’t make it worth while
No one will share ideas or walk with you for a mile
Over year and half ago I was virtually nothing
Only vague ideas of verses to translate as something
There was hidden fear that readers may reject
Still presentation of new ideas was only object
Nature was appealing when I went round
Something new was in offing and always found
Bird’s sweet voice and cool breeze were appealing
Mind was set up on it with earnest effort for revealing
It was so difficult to go in for poetic words
Sought the strength and blessings from the lord
World at large seemed so big and enterprising
Nothing could stop me from little writing
“Go to hell” or “never dare to call again”
Funny comments with abusive words main
I detested the weapon with its sharp edge
My be I lacked enough skill or knowledge
Many offered me with their kind comments
Advised to stand fast and not to lament
How can I be ungrateful to their advices?
I had to offer gratitude and only promises
Some one commented I was killing poems
Had no teeth, wisdom and lacked rhythms
I sincerely thanked them to improve upon
To write simple poems and simply carry on
New people, thoughts with old or new readers
They were by no means less than leaders
I was novice and had to act as learners
To gain and part with is the reality for beginners
I have followed simple theme and plot
It may not be up to mark or falling short
I may try to uphold values and ideas defend
Will not stoop so below to alienate or offend
How poetry does impresses up on mind?
What type of lessons or new things we find?
Poetry, I thought is the holiest approach among all
I enjoy its fruit when sit back and recall
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words are mere shadows cast by ideas. But the ideas they represent are real.
quote by Roy H. Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem That Is Not Good Enough
THE POEM THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH
The poem that is not good enough
Awkwardly fumbles from line to line
Does not hear its own music
Has none.
Its words are larger than its feelings
Its Ideas overwhelm its words
It proclaims a Beauty it cannot reveal.
The poem that is not good enough
Pretends to be a poem
It has birds and flowers and trees and winds
which are names alone.
The Poem which is not good enough
does not touch the Heart
has little Soul
puts everyone to sleep before they finish
beginning it.
A Poem that is not good enough
Just does not Live
And who am I?
And what are you?
And why are we?
Writers and readers of Poems
Looking for our own lost Eternity.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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