A poem to my student Claire
Education is forever
a path to wisdom
Blue, yellow, red
color disguises to some,
it's difficult to understand
But there you are
on that poor wooden table
studying the certainty of the future
Sitting on a green plastic chair
of hardship, torture and uncomfort
Small cubicle glass
a size of a box
prisons all possibilities
of exploration
To little for a space
to venture the world of surprises
Learning with a cheerful eyes
unafraid, unceasingly open
every afternoon with a cup of coffee to suffice
The absence of the warm from family
you asked to be filled by a mother, a teacher-
that is me.
I'm surprise because you made me write again
a poem, I so long forgot.
poem by Hazel Calumarde
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Miss Loo
When thin-strewn memory I look through,
I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,
Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,
Her nose, her hair -- her muffled words,
And how she'd open her green eyes,
As if in some immense surprise,
Whenever as we sat at tea,
She made some small remark to me.
It's always drowsy summer when
From out the past she comes again;
The westering sunshine in a pool
Floats in her parlour still and cool;
While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,
As into piercing song it breaks
Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar
Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar;
And I am sitting , dull and shy
And she with gaze of vacancy,
And large hands folded on the tray,
Musing the afternoon away;
Her satin bosom heaving slow
With sighs that softly ebb and flow,
And her plain face in such dismay,
It seems unkind to look her way:
Until all cheerful back will come
Her cheerful gleaming spirit home:
And one would think that poor Miss Loo
Asked nothing else, if she had you.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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I Am Too
I AM TOO TIRED TO WRITE A GOOD POEM
I am too tired to write a good poem
I am too cold also
I have been out all day in the cold and the rain
I have been doing errands since early in the morning
I babysat for four hours in the afternoon
I went out again in the cold and rain to buy a few groceries
I tried to write and could not
I read and overate a few times
I tried to write
But I could not
I am very tired now
A poem should not be a simple clear description of one’s own mood at the moment
I am too tired to write a good poem
But I try to write
And this is the result
A poor poem indeed.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE PARENTS I HAD AND HAVE
I am grateful for the parents I had and have
They are still with me
I miss them
Sometimes they appear in my dreams
When I am walking I think of them
I see them at various ages of their lives
My father young tall strong
My mother smiling kind warm in strong middle age
My father bent on his way to the senior citizens
My mother in a wheelchair no longer even half herself
Or in the pictures of them in their youth
As I never saw them in life
I think of them and miss them
Their dreams their loves are in me
Yesterday I was with a great – grandchild of theirs
Who they never have seen or will see
How happy that smiling calm child would have made them
Life is difficult and long and filled with loss and blessing
How I will love and miss my parents always
How they still live in me
And hopefully in what comes after me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
When the lamp is lit
I can see myself in the glass.
poem by Ronald Shields
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The Problem With You
is that
you are too normal for a man,
what normal is, i define it
you are too formal
like a chair
there are other chair possibilities you have not tried
for instance
having only one foot
and still be proud to stand as a chair
on a chain of possibilities
the problem with you is you rhyme like their poem
and you become just like them
a factory made word
another boring mechanism
like a wooden panel without beauty
without the
aha! or
what is this? is this man? is this a chair?
is this a poem?
try something else
wobbling, whirling
a tornado, you haven't been one yet
a storm, an eye
a vacuum, an eclipse
a waste basket, a moon let
a planet, a sunrise without light?
do not just be stanza
be a word misspelled
be an error uncorrected
be a dog with feathers
a pink niche, a broken pen
an expelled meteor
a fallen angel.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Room Where We Accidentally Meet
it is no surprise
on a white color you pass by and
stop
where i in black
takes an ample glance at you
and i too
stop
to savor our presences
and i steal a gaze at you
in the same manner
that you do
i do not know your name
or from where you come from and where
you are going
neither do you
know me
but our eyes are too gentle for each other
like kittens
too kind for each others fur
licking
each paw and body
deja vu
perhaps, in our first lives we were lovers
why do we have an unknown language?
we desire each other
now
we sit on the chair beside a table
our hands grapple
for warmth
we understand
we know what to do
we know where to go
we know we do not last
forever
and perhaps
in another time frame
in another world
we shall be
together forever again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Morning Poem Did Not Come
THE MORNING POEM DID NOT COME
The morning poem did not come-
So this is the effort of an afternoon poem,
Warm and sun- filled and relaxing and deep and waiting.
This is a poem between times more interesting than itself.
The light is so great now.
But this too is a poem of little or nothing to say
Of afternoon emptiness after morning emptiness
On a tired tired day.
Once I thought I would write poems which would make immortal
Those I love.
Now I write poems to keep myself going.
This afternoon I am extremely tired
But if this is poem
Or even if I only think it is
I can have a rest
Before I face the evening.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In The Small Park Aza Rd. Rechavia Thirty- Five Years Later
IN THE SMALL PARK AZA RD. RECHAVIA
Thirty- five years
Have gone by
I was alone then here
My family in America
Lonely and beginning in love.
Here now
In official old age
And not tired
My children far
And worried about-
I do what I did then
Write a small poem
And pretend
I am making my name
An eternity.
The cars go by as they did then
A few cats, one child in the playground
Across from me a flag of Israel on a standard block building
Seen through the yellow- green happy color
Of the morning trees.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Three Wishes
Son, what will you do
If you are given three wishes from God?
The teacher stares at the 13 years old student
With a deep sigh
Adam’s tears roll back
His eyes as sharp as a razor blade
Glancing at Mr. Cool
Not a word spoken
He picks up his pen and starts to write
He folds up the written piece
And hand it over to the teacher
One condition applies
The teacher should read it when he got home
Adam is a gifted kid
Born with silver spoon in his mouth
The only son in a family of four
Before he goes to bed
With a deep breathe
Mr. Cool reads the note
My first wish
I want to be an orphan
I want to feel the suffering
I want to feel the painstaking
So that when I grow up
I’d know what hardship is
My second wish
I want to be blind
I want to feel the darkness
I want to feel the gloom
I want to feel the beauty of the world
Without looking
I want to feel the agony of the world
Without seeing
My third wish
I want to be the richest man on earth
I want to share my wealth with the poor
I want to help the homeless
The jobless
The education less
The family less
The loveless
If there is any fourth wish
I want the three wishes
Granted to me by God
Mr. Cool’s tears roll back
He goes to sleep
With a smile
poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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Colors Passing Through Us
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.
Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.
Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.
Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.
Yellow as a goat's wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.
Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.
Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.
Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors' buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.
Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other's arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.
poem by Marge Piercy
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Judy and You and Chagall
What did you think
of the Chagall postcard print
I bought you?
Judy asked as you both sat
outside the Fox Inn
I pinned it on my wall
you replied
and stared at it every time
I entered the room
thinking of you
she sipped her drink
her eyes searching you
her hair tied behind
in a ponytail
so I gathered
by your letters
she said
putting her glass
on the small wooden table
I missed you
you said
I went to London
while you were away
and saw you
in every girl I saw
even at the ballet
at the opera house
she looked at her glass
I was only away for a week
she said
it seemed a year
you said
you inhaled the cigarette
you were holding
taking in her hair
and eyes and how
her lips moved
as she spoke
Florence was fantastic
she said
I picked out
that Chagall print for you
in one of the art galleries
who did you go with?
you asked
friends
she replied
male or female?
both
she said
you inhaled the cigarette again
and thought of the first time
you kissed her
how the moonlight
shone on her face
as you moved her around
you mustn't be so jealous
she said
I have to see others
who was the guy?
Henrik
she said
you imagined her
and this Henrik
making out
in some Florence hotel
his hands touching her
I thought of you
every moment
you said
that's sad
she said
why?
you said
because no one
should think of another
that often
she sipped her drink
and looked around
at the evening sky
how was Florence?
beautiful
she said
like you
you said
I am like Shakespeare's' lily
she said
as it withers
she added
I see
you said
and you studied
her hands as they lifted
the glass to her lips
the fingers
the skin
the way they held
the glass
did you read my letters
when you got home?
you asked
yes
she said
every single one
my mother said
I must have besotted
some poor soul
and you thought
of the Chagall print
and how you had sniffed it
for traces of her scent
and remembered
your mother's words
nothing is given forever
things in this world
are only lent.
poem by Terry Collett
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Choose Your Color
I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?
I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?
(August 16th,2006)
poem by Christopher G. Turner
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Look at this!
I saw a flower and it was gray.
I noticed the sun was out of the way.
Clouds were in its way.
But then it got sunny again,
and the flower was blue, purple, green, yellow,
clear, and yellow.
It was a pretty flower.
I looked at it and I told my mom that she should come and see
the beauteful flower and she thought that it was too.
The flower was very very very very very
very very very very very very very very very very
very very very very very
very very very very very pretty. And I looked and I looked.
And this is a very long poem,
Like a long day of thinking of good ideas to write this
really really really long poem.
Good-Bye forever!
The Next Poem
this is the next poem that i am telling you about.
it wants to tell you something, but not in secret really,
i am open, and i like open fields, like open ideas
wanting to embrace and be embraced by the world.
absence too, is open. The open arms wait for the coming
of absence. Absence is a wide space wanting to be filled by
love, and love is elusive, and love is unresponding to the
emergencies we are in.
but let me not talk about it. Let me tell you and take you back
to what i have started. I like the mirror in the living room broken
into a hundred pieces, all in the name of love.
i like to have as many mirrors as i can have. Tiny broken pieces.
I will take one. And all i want in this short life that we have,
the life of a fruitfly inside that experimental cupboard,
or that transparent cellophane, let death come.
i have this piece of broken glass. I want to reflect my light.
Do you like it? I want to reflect the light of God, do you like it?
Take it for what it is. Each piece has a reflective index of its own.
The face value of things. Do you like it?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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just how right I am
I just can’t understand
how it is that
the world can’t understand
how right I am
and how wrong it is
OK, we’ll excuse the world, for the moment,
since it is far removed from my person
and my mind
so it can’t really be expected to understand my
unfailing rightness:
just how right I am and how just I am;
but the family, my family –
no, not the family of man
but the damned family of mine, my blood and bones and skin –
I can’t understand for the world of me
why my own family
that eats at the table with me
can’t understand
how right I am
and wrong they are…
just how right I am
and how just I am…
Look, I can understand about the world
but I just can’t understand
how the family….
I mean, this is where the family is important
for if the family can give me
just a little support –
just a teeny-weeny bit – I mean how much
does it take
for the family to see
how right I am
and how wrong the family is.
Is that really asking for too much?
You see, I’m sure you can see,
if only the family could agree
the world itself would see
how right I am…
But what is to be done?
prophets are never accepted
in their own home
and so in their own family too…
and so perhaps the truth lies in this cliché…
still, if one looks at it clearly,
I just can’t understand
how it is that
the world, which includes that silly family of mine,
can’t understand
how right I am
and how wrong it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Do You Think It's Alright / Fiddle About
(Pete Townshend)
I used to know everything about you
But today when I tried to point you out to one of my friends
I picked the wrong girl again
Don't see you in the crowd anymore
I think it's you but I can't be sure
You're wearing disguises
Occasionally a girl surprises me
When she turns out to be you
Wearing disguises
I don't think you want me to see you ever again
And today I saw you dressed as a flower bed
Last week you had a wig on your head
Directing traffic in the street
And your shoes were too big for your feet
You were wearing disguises
Occasionally a girl surprises me
When she turns out to be you
Wearing disguises
[repeat first verse]
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Journey
Today was the day.
That my path was made clear.
The sad reality is.
That you are not here.
I will go down my path.
And continue my quest.
With the eyes of my Father.
It is he who knows best.
I am sure there will be problems.
And my heart will be tried.
But the road to conviction.
It is narrow, not wide.
So the choices I make.
Must be true to the One.
Who has loved me forever.
And gave us His son.
In this world I'm alone.
In His world I am not.
If I can have but one thing.
I'm glad He's who I've got.
He'll help me through trials.
His wisdom I'll earn.
I will follow His path.
Then the truth I will learn.
So onward I venture.
I hope you're close behind.
And you join in on my journey.
So the truth we can find.
I hope we find it together.
And not on our own.
But I will see you in the future.
When we're finally home.
For our journey here's short.
And one day it will end.
I will enjoy it much more.
If it's with my best friend.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Patty’s Mother Earth Coffee House
With happy smile and calming effect,
Patty at Mother Earth Coffee House is humble yet.
She always has a listening ear, she is honest, she is sincere.
No other coffee house is quite like hers,
for it has a warm heart, like Mother Earth.
Patty’s Mother Earth coffee house is quite unique,
it has a Earthly feel with gypsy mystic.
In the year 2007, Jim my friend who came along with me
visited Les Beans at the time and met warm hearted Patty.
I was once on stage with Razel at Patty’s place,
She’s a puppet with 2 evil eyes on her pale felt face.
Even Razel knows Patty’s coffee café,
is for connecting with people- having Fun all in one day.
Zoey the cat is a regular on cushy chair, sleeping, you can still pet her cat hair.
Patty has open mics with singers, with a Friday comedy night.
Performers feel comfortable on stage for Mother Earth has soothing light.
With colorful parrot and paintings on the wall,
even the bathroom is cozy, perfect not too small.
So when you are in the city of Lake Worth,
Please visit Patty at her coffee house Mother Earth.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on October 5,2011
www.puppetpoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Disguises
I used to know everything about you
But today when I tried to point you out to one of my friends
I picked the wrong girl again
Dont see you in the crowd anymore
I think its you but I cant be sure
Youre wearing disguises
Occasionally a girl surprises me
When she turns out to be you
Wearing disguises
I dont think you want me to see you ever again
And today I saw you dressed as a flower bed
Last week you had a wig on your head
Directing traffic in the street
And your shoes were too big for your feet
You were wearing disguises
Occasionally a girl surprises me
When she turns out to be you
Wearing disguises
[repeat first verse]
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
Wearing disguises
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem To Change The World
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
A world with barbwire fences
Try to cross and you get stuck
You get pinned and you can’t come back
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would take those barbwire fences down
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
With spotlights that blind rather than show the way
You have to look away
With spots in your eyes you cannot see
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would turn those spot lights away
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
Airplanes that get you there if you can pay the fair
If you’re poor, you will work hard but go no where
Those who fly, are they thankful to the sky
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would make this world fair
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
What is worse is war
And it is over there, where we send our children
There is nothing here but fear
Ya
I wish I could write a poem that make that no more
How much longer will the birds and trees
have to put up with our dirty breeze
All the water in this world
someday none of it will be safe to drink
If I could just write a poem that would clean up this mess
poem by Roger Harkness
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Like No Other...Mother
Mother...
Mother, who gave us her heart...her very soul.
Mother, who's understanding never wavered.
Mother, the one who dried our tears.
Mother, she lead us to the path of His Love.
Mother, who washed our cloths and cleaned the house.
Mother, who instilled confidence in her children.
Mother, who walked us to school.
Mother, who loved us like no other.
Mother, who quelled the anger within us.
Mother, who drove us to all our practices.
Mother, who never forgot our special occasions.
Mother, who protected her family, as a lion to a cub.
Mother, who always supported our father.
Mother, who scrimped and saved for our daily needs.
Mother, who was always the last to eat.
Mother, who was always the first to rise.
Mother, who cared for the animals.
Mother, a love that knew no limits.
Mother, who forever placed her family, before herself.
Mother, who was grateful, for every passing acknowledgement.
Mother, whose eyes shined, when she heard the words,
I love you mom.
Mother, who always saw the good in us.
Mother, who always taught us to never, never, give up.
Mother, who instilled in us, to be better.
Mother, who made us believe, we could accomplish anything.
Mother, mother...mother, you were like no other.
Mother, you will always remain, in our
hearts, in our deeds, in our thoughts,
in our lives and in our prayers.
Surely, beyond the stars, there's a special place for Mothers.