Mick takes it seriously!
'Hell, i read in bed, on the train, or walking
down the hall, don't you? ' Mick said.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
Celia was on the barcalounger
in the den watching a soap on TV -
Days of Our Lives sounded like.
'Books of Tennyson and Keats not my cup
of tea exactly, nor do I fancy them circling
overhead either - bleeding dangerous, that!
Sure, I puzzle over rhyme and meter, simile
and metaphor - shit! I went to college, too!
Can't hardly get that stuff out of my head!
I've bayed at the moon when I drink enough -
the curse of the Irish, right? But no dancing,
please! not in this neighborhood!
Celia is my idea of beauty, though a bit long
in the tooth, like the old Lab sitting with her -
they both shine with the patina of age,
know what I mean? They're the poetry
of my life, and I write about them both
in many guises! Say, is this Valentine's Day,
or am I sappier than usual! '
I agree with Mick all the way.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Crafting Poems
'Yeah, it's a craft that you learn on the job,
don't you think? Like a carpenter learns
the ins and the outs of his trade.
It's not just puking up your guts,
spewing feelings left and right
like some demented jamoke! '
Mick said, holding the magazine
open so that Celia could read
what he was pointing to.
'Oates says here that writing
is a craft, it's not an experience
like an emotion, ' Celia said.
'You know, Mick, some folks
think that you're the author
of these poems that Malone
has been writing using you and me
as characters in an ongoing epic
poem. They identify you the character
with the same name as the author
as one and the same person -
Have you noticed, Mick? '
'That's my thought too, though we are
the very lifeblood of that narrowback's
epic poem in the making, as it were -
like a fancy cabinet handcrafted by
an expert woodworker in his shop!
Neat simile that, eh? ' Mick quipped.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vote for Obama!
'Vote Obama! The past is history! Vote Obama! '
Mick applauded as he reached for the drink.
We waited for Mick's acerbic comment on
the heroic figure of our time.
'No, I'm serious. Read some of the opinions
expressed by other poets on this site about
poetry! Gush and emote, let it all hang out!
If you disagree, they ask if Chicago is still in
America? I suppose that means that in our
republic of drivel and pychobabble,
anything and everything goes, right?
That killer in DeKalb on St Valentine's Day
might have been a gentler, milder man
if only he had scribbled his drivel on
reams of paper, like you and me, right? '
Right you are, you Irish dinosauer!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I don't work, I'll be sitting on the couch watching TV, eating popcorn and getting like a cow.
quote by Celia Cruz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Celia
Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen.
How cruel Celia's fate, who hence
Our heart's devotion cannot try;
Too pretty for our reverence,
Too ancient for our gallantry!
poem by Alexander Pope
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Mick
Mick loves sports deep in his heart
Of his whole life; footy and soccer play a major part
Playing and watching gives him a high
Especially when his team kicks a goal or scores a try
In AFL the Sydney Swans or the Red and White
Are forever the favourites in his sight
Mick has loved Middlesbrough English soccer team or Boro as they are known
Since from a child; he has grown
In NRL Mick is happy to see West Tigers roar
As this is the side that he barracks for
Total satisfaction Mick always finds
Through Sports of all kinds
poem by Rose Angel H
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What is METAPHOR, anyway?
Quiet down, class
Mick wants to lecture you
about one of his pet subjects
METAPHOR
in poetry and verse
What's an analogy?
Is it a comparison? Of how many things?
How are they alike?
Synonyms - image, symbol, trope, figure
of speech, simile, allegory, correlation,
likeness, personification
You know these things?
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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My Shit Poetry
I would much rather stare at a blank page
Than read the shit poetry I write. Everything is
Lost in translation, coagulated
And dry, I write this. A formulaic
Thought is forgotten and skewed, I can't
Explain this. Head in my hands, anger through
My veins, despair and aggravation, this
Is what my shit poetry creates for me?
Or is this despair and aggravation why
I write this shit poetry of mine?
poem by Ryan Sanders
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Watching For Pa
Three little forms in the twilight gray,
Searching the shadows across the way;
Two pair of black eyes, and one of blue --
Brimful of love, and of mischief too;
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
May, with her placid and thoughtful brow,
Beaming with kindness and love just now;
Willie the youngest, in anguish did lay,
Stealing sly kisses from sister May,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Nellie, with ringlets of sunny hue,
Cosily nested between the two;
Pressing her cheeks to the window pane,
Wishing the absent one home again.
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Sitting by the window,
Watching for Pa!
Now there are shouts from the window seat;
There is a patter of childish feet;
Gaily they rush through the lighted hall --
"Coming at last" is the joyful call.
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Standing on the doorstep,
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Watching for Pa!
Standing on the doorstep,
Watching for Pa!
poem by Henry Clay Work
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No Expectations
(mick jagger)
Take me to the station,
And put me on a train
I've got no expectations,
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz)
Once i was a rich man,
And now i am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have i felt so like this before
(mick jagger)
Your heart is like a diamond,
You throw your pearls at swine
And as i watch you leaving me,
You pack my peace of mind
(lenny kravitz)
Our love was like the water
That splashes on a stone
Our love is like our music,
It's here and then it's gone
(mick jagger)
So take me to the airport,
And put me on a plane
I've got no expectations
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz & mick jagger)
To pass through here again
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry, That's What I Write
Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want
The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write
My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful
Perfect as can be
Poetry, that's what I write
Oh yeah baby
Poetry
Poetry, that's what I write
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I like
Poetry
Oh yes
Poetry, that's what I love
Poetry, that's what I write
Whoa
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Well, now read my poetry
Ooooh, oooh yeah my poetry
Read my
Love my
Poetry, oh yeah that's what I like
What I love
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I write
Yeah
2008 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
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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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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If it wasn't for Mick, the group would've fallen apart a long time ago.
quote by Mick Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Moon and The Old Willow Tree
Sitting under the silver light of the Moon
Leaning on the Old Willow tree
Watching as the world passes by
Reflecting on our lives
Watching the stars as they remind us of our hopes and dreams
Our triumphs and our loses
Wishing we could go back
To the days when
All
Was simpler
When our lives
Were filled with innocent
Bliss
But we cannot change the past
All that matters now
Is living
In this moment
Sitting under the sliver light of the Moon
Leaning on the Old Willow tree
poem by Autumn Winds
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As Celia With Her Sparrow Playd
As Celia with her Sparrow playd
She took a glass unseen
Her mouth she filld
& while he billd
She spirts ye liquor in
Usd to such sweet such rosy lips
He feard no treach'ry there
But love & such
Were too too much
For one poor bird to bear
Against ye Pretty fluttring fool
The Mighty foes combine
So down he Sunk
Bewitchd or drunk
By Beauty or wth wine
But ere left ye Chirping cup
& dropp'd the little head,
The folks who guess
What Birds express
have told me thus he said,
How use the various scenes of joy
at various times to reign?
Men kiss'd in one
They drunk anon
Then after kiss'd again.
But Celia shews short life to grasp
A double store of blisses,
While by her Means
A Bird obtains
At once both Drink & kisses.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Language Of Poetry Is Metaphor
The language of poetry is metaphor
And irony and ambiguity
And beauty-
Beauty is the language of poetry
And metaphor and irony and ambiguity
And irony -
Beauty is the language of metaphor
And poetry without beauty
Is like poetry without metaphor
Like poetry without simile-
Poetry is poetry
Like beauty is beauty
And metaphor, metaphor
And language language -
Ironically
Without themselves they are something else
Or perhaps another variant of themselves
Ironically.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0004 The world has lost the ear for rhyme
The world has lost the ear for rhyme.
It still makes children squirm with pleasure;
and from some witty pens and minds, its fireworks fizz;
so, after all these centuries of rhyme
and all the games of meter, dancing words,
should we now mourn its passing?
Have we lost the music of another world?
Instead, the easy unpretentious discourse,
sober, light, familiar, honest -
the world of daily, homely, shared sharp life,
that's now preferred. Not prose;
much more than 'chopped-up prose' as those may say
who think that poetry should be more visibly hard-earned;
- as if a human life set down in honesty
were not a poem in itself, unwrit;
'prose with enhanced consciousness' it's often now defined;
and consciousness - now that's earned, if you like...
and simile, and imagery, and metaphor - all the repertoire
of glorious poetry - they're all still here
to work their magic; if more played down, now,
unostentatious as T-shirt and jeans;
unostentatious as the beating, bloody heart.
And yet, when years bring tears
and time brings death and dying,
it's time for rhyme, to heal the heart
and charm away the crying.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ahane's Own Mick Mackey
In his Limerick had a name to celebrate
Ahane's own Mick Mackey was a hurling great
Assured of his place in Hurling's Hall of Fame
In death as in life his a legendary name.
So many great hurlers the way of time have gone
But the legend of Mackey destined to live on
He is proclaimed to be the best of his time
And he must have been great when he was in his prime.
Mick Mackey the hurler broad shouldered and strong
The man who was honoured in story and song
He inspired Limerick to many a marvellous victory
And very few hurlers were as great as he.
He was never found wanting when put to the test
Ahane's own Mick Mackey he was Limerick's best
One of the famed Mackeys the legendary Mick
He weaved hurling magic with his caman stick.
Of his prowess of a great scoring forward he left none in doubt
And when hurling people talk of great hurlers his name is never left out
And though from the land of the living he may be long gone
As a hurling legend his name will live on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Beach Chairs
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the setting sun
holding hands and reminiscing
how it all begun
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the ships out on the sea
holding hands and smiling
together we're meant to be
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching people walking past
holding hands and knowing
that our love will always last
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the waves along the shore
holding hands we realize
our love is stronger than before
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the changing tide
holding hands with happiness
to be by each others side
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the sunrise
holding hands with tears of joy
there are no more good-byes
poem by Joyce Ebrecht
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