Normandy - Lost in Translation
Lulled by bells
of cathedrals and cattle,
my mind turns left
down a road out of town,
probably lost
so far from Paris
pollution and I think
of something worth
writing, give up
the best seat
in the house and slink
off to a corner
for a pen, quickly,
before the words jumble
like a license plate number
after a hit and run.
I always write
alone, like an injured
animal afraid
that if I hesitate,
that speeding car
might back up and return
to finish me off.
poem by Lori Boulard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Public Animal #9
Me and G.B.
We ain't never gonna confess
We cheated at the math test
We carved some dirty words in our desk
Well now it's time for recess
Old man waitin by the monkey bars
Tradin all his ball cards
And they promised him a gold star
And they told him he could go far
Hey Mr. Bluelegs
Where are you takin me?
I'm like a lifer
In the state penitentiary
If I keep my nose clean
I won't get my eyes shined
But I'm proud to be
Public Animal Number Nine
License plates are runnin
Out of my ears
I'd give a month of cigarettes
For just a couple of lousy beers
Or even a bottle of
Real cheap wi-hine
But that's the price you pay to be
Public Animal Number Nine, Number Nine
Hey Mrs. Cranston
Where are you takin me?
I feel like a lifer
In the state penitentiary
She wanted an Einstein
But she got a Frankenstein
Yeah, I'm proud to be
Public Animal Number Niiiirrrrrgh
Public Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Number Nine
Number Nine Number Nine
Number, Number Nine Animal Number Nine
Public Animal Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Numbergh Niiiirrrrrgh
Public Animal Nurrrgh Nirrrgh
Errrrrrrrrrrrgh
Public Animal Number Ni-yine
Public Animal Number Ni-yine
Public Animal Number Number Nine Nine
Public Animal Naaaaaaaagh
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No One Can Stop Us To Write
and they must know the reason why,
simple enough
we are writers and our essence is to write
for writing's sake
nothing aimed nothing gained nothing lost
we write because we are here
and we are here because we write
we write because if we do not
we no longer become ourselves
we lose our salt we become just like any
flesh, rotten, infected with bacteria
foul, and finally become just dust
on the corner of the road
we write and we keep on writing
because we are
we do not need the praise
or the condemnation
we do not need an audience
or an empty space
we write because we are
that is our essence and no one can stop us
except perhaps when the word is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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White Rose From The Atlas
Now Paris
Is washing its eyes
With August rain
Paris is now
A woman
A Babylonian bride
Her wedding
Is set on Christmas
I hear youyous in Paris
And emigrants cheering
And applauding
To welcome
These eyes of marble
This is your day woman
You will hug
Another man
A Parisian
Black-feet
Who does not respect
The rain
In my little house
There are many essays
And poems
Some I do not feel I need
Some are not mine
They are still
Standing up
The way I left them
This morning
The fireplace is silent
Like a grandmother
Who knows when she should talk
Too many books
In different languages
Agitated
Like me
Even your journal
As you left it
It still keeping
Its preferred place,
Its blue color
And the smell of your burned desires
The first December snow
Is falling in a rebellious motions,
It is embracing the town’s big avenue
And dancing with the last falling leaves
Against its will
This is not very important
The town is not
My town
I am an emigrant too
Time in my house
Is yellowish
It creates its own dunes
Just to get lost
This is trouble my house’s door.
Before you left
This town
I drew a plan
To settle and colonized this town
I planned to build
Another Paris
A barbarian one
So you can take me
With your eyes of the Atlas
Through its streets of marble
And to our Andalusia’s house
Then we go
And visit mosques
Churches
And temples
To wash our souls
With the town’s walls
And gates.
Now
And after you left
I burned all the plans
The town’s saltiness is all that remains
And the smell of your burned desires.
poem by Atef Ayadi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy House
There’s a house on street with a K, it’s beautiful during the day.
House in city with words Worth and Lake,
it’s east of Dixie make no mistake.
Kidney shaped pool out back, fenced in yard with mango trees with
birds that go yack.
A tiki bar in the left corner behind the pool, people party there, have
fun on the stools.
Now 2 bedroom to left of living room, then there’s kitchen to right
brand new.
Great family room to the right, really large and spacious, can have fun
at night.
Now comes with a washer and dryer all for price of $1,400.00.
Owner should negotiate, or might go under.
Check out Option to Buy, it might go fast, that’s no lie,
To help you save time and gas, I will give you number so you can act
fast.
561-222-2222 is the number to call, do it today-get on the ball.
Say you saw sign in West Palm Beach, owner will give you directions,
won’t preach.
Hurry, couple coming today, they might take it away.
Don’t tell them I sent you, for secret surprise might come true.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Animal House
Morning is breaking with death on the street
Driving downtown in a red corvette
The daemons and satans are creeping around
La nights are madhouse nights
The murderers - are heroes
Theyre speeding all over the town
And justice - is drunken
Im tumbling upside down
Im a madman
Living in an animal house
Im a madman
Living in an animal house
Living in an animal house
Rockers in concert are serving the bible
Praying in public is getting a habit
For selling out everything seems to be right, oh yeah
The sunset is crowded with tramps passing out
Theyre sleeping - in trash cans
Theres witchcraft in everyones eyes
Satans and daemons
All dressed up in suits and ties
Im a madman
Living in an animal house
Im a madman
Living in an animal house
Madman - going crazy - living in an animal house
Im a madman...
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Poet Time Travelers
I thought of it all day and well into the night
That for you a poem I would write.
What words can you use to describe a person
You’ve never seen.
Then a realization came into my mind
I’ve been writing them for a very long time.
Every time we write about GOD and his begotten son
The words flow freely and never left undone.
So it matters not if it is sight unseen
We write about everything- it’s a poets dream.
Poets go into worlds never traveled before
Seeking all that GOD has made
And come back with knowledge that they’ve gained.
Into the realms of mystery, love, excitement and fear
So that with you these words they could share.
They see the realities of today
The dreams of yesterdays
The future of tomorrows
And the pains and sorrows.
They are the time travelers of the mind
Their eyes are open - they are not blind.
So when you read what they write
It’s because of this time travelers insight.
So to my time traveling co-poets, this I must say
I am proud to have traveled this road with you
Into the minds of man, and writing
The stories that they all understand.
poem by Louis Rams
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The power of words
Sometimes when you had
an idea for a poem
you didn’t jot it down
and let it be
to fade away into the naught
as if it really didn’t matter
or your words had lost their power
or was there a hidden fear,
something that you didn’t
want to talk about
or something that you didn’t
want to appear,
something that you were afraid
would kill your luck
or disturb your thoughts?
When we spoke at times
you would sarcastically say
go and write a poem about it
and I wonder if you really
didn’t care about writing
or just not about me
or was it jealousy?
Sometimes when the words
of a great poem came to me
you would demand that I immediately
do something for you
to proof my love
and not give me the opportunity
to capture the sacred words.
Yet, as time went by
and I had to leave
the words came back to you
and great verses appeared
and you said that I could string out
poems to the nth power
and wanted me
to write great messages as well
and I was afraid that card like lines
would kill the magic of words in me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Secret House
There’s a house on street with a K,
it’s beautiful during the day.
House in city with words Worth and Lake,
it’s east of Dixie make no mistake.
Kidney shaped pool out back,
fenced in yard with mango trees with birds that go yack.
A tiki bar in the left corner behind the pool,
people party there, have fun on the stools.
Now 2 bedroom to left of living room,
then there’s kitchen to right brand new.
Great family room to the right,
really large and spacious, can have fun at night.
Now comes with a washer and dryer all for price of $1,400.00.
Owner should negotiate, or might go under.
Check out Option to Buy, it might go fast, that’s no lie,
To help you save time and gas,
I will give you number so you can act fast.
561-222-2222 is the number to call, do it today-get on the ball.
Say you saw sign in W Palm Beach,
owner will give you directions, won’t preach.
Hurry, couple coming today, they might take it away.
Don’t tell them I sent you, for secret surprise might come true.
Written by Christina Sunrise on May 27,2011
www.christinasunrise.com www.suzae.info
www.puppetpoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Final Confessions II
These were my confessions
(A message to God)
The light begins to fade
(It’s time to go)
Back into the shadows
(That hard black fog)
Where darkness has its way
(God rest your soul)
Nothing left to tell you
(It’s all been said)
No more songs to write
(This silent Fall)
Nothing left to offer
(The well’s been bled)
From a shadow’s waning life
(Who lost it all)
Take my words and hold them
(Don’t be afraid)
Place them near your heart
(And heal your pain)
Shadow words will kiss you
(And heal your pain)
When your world turns dark
(Don’t’ be afraid)
And I kiss you
Kiss you
I kiss you in the dark
poem by Catman Cohen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Creases
Falling to pieces
Fold up in creases
Baron trees bending with breeze
No wonder they have no leaves
My mind is a waste land with not thoughts
No thoughts than can hold my attention
Staring at the sky
Thinking if only i
Now i have a thought
No its gone again
Okay just relax and think again
Time to clear my mind
Think of a better time
Well they are a distant memory now
So have i succumbed to being alone to long
Have all my thoughts and emotions
Packed up and gone
Have i been lost from reality way to long
Is it to late to start anew
Can i return to the person i once new
This void i have deep in me
Its not of lost love cause i choose to be free
So what is this void that is emptying me
Maybe my life has gone stale and old
Needing something new excitement to take hold
I know i am just a number
A number in this game
What number am i
Are there numbers the same
Is there someone out there just like me
Seeking the answers of what they should be
Time will tell
Is there enough time to discard this shell
Shell of a life i have been living
Always waiting for a new beginning
How dose that happen how do i start
Where do i enroll how do i take part
Live life to the fullest enjoy every day
How can you do this when you dont know the way
My days are of writing and writing how i feel
Is there nothing left to write about
Nothing more to feel
Public Animal # 9
Me and G.B.
We ain't never gonna confess
We cheated at the math test
We carved some dirty words in our desk
Well now it's time for recess
Old man waitin by the monkey bars
Tradin all his ball cards
And they promised him a gold star
And they told him he could go far
Hey Mr. Bluelegs
Where are you takin me?
I'm like a lifer
In the state penitentiary
If I keep my nose clean
I won't get my eyes shined
But I'm proud to be
Public Animal Number Nine
License plates are runnin
Out of my ears
I'd give a month of cigarettes
For just a couple of lousy beers
Or even a bottle of
Real cheap wi-hine
But that's the price you pay to be
Public Animal Number Nine
song performed by by Alice Cooper from School's Out
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Will I Do Today And What Will I Do Tomorrow?
What will I do today and what will I do tomorrow
And what will I do for the rest of my life?
Write and write and write
Until I can no longer write –
And even if this writing is never known?
And even if this writing is wholly lost?
And even if this writing is not really worth very much?
And even if it is known only a little?
And even if others are highly critical of it?
And even if it seems vanity of vanity and only vanity?
Write and write and write
To the end of my life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bells Of The Evening
Bells of the evening, o sing to my love
Tell her I miss her, my own turtledove
The streets of the old town are covered with rain
I think I might never know true love again
Im lost with no road signs to guide me
A slave to my whiskey and dreams
Bells of the evening, o bells that I love
Ive got some feelings I long to be rid of
Im not one to ramble; Im not one to boast
Though I had one lover more lovely than most
She was a country girl born to be free
Who took to the city by chance there to find me
Bells of the evening go pealin
Im down here listenin to you
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her, that Im lost and so lonely
Bells of the evening, your sweet sunday sound
Reminds me of the redwoods and moss covered ground
So if I should wander on back to the coast
Tell her to remember its her I need the most
Im caught by the minstrels misfortune
Of being forever displaced
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her; that Im lost Im so lonely
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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I Drive Like Shit (Not Really a Poem)
I happen to be a terrible driver.
I’m not purposely aggressive
Nor have I ever expressed road rage.
I just happen to be absent-minded
And I have no sense of direction.
When I was seeing a certain lady,
I would drive to her house,
And then if we went to a restaurant
Or a movie theater in her neighborhood,
I’d give her the keys and let her drive.
She didn’t seem to mind.
But since she drove,
I never learned the directions
To any of the places we went,
Even though we mostly went
To the same restaurants and theaters,
I’m just that oblivious.
One day coming home from dinner,
She says, “Do you know where you are? ”
I replied, “Right here with you.”
“No, ” she says, ” If I made you get out of the car,
Would you know how to get back to my house? ”
I answered quite honestly, “If you did that,
And we were only two blocks from your place,
I might never find you again! ”
Thus my since of direction.
I’ve always enjoyed going to rock concerts,
Which often requires me to drive into downtown Detroit,
I’ve been doing this all my life,
You would think I knew the city like
The back of my hand but no such luck.
When friends are with me, I’m normally fine:
They’ll tell me, “Turn right, Uriah, ”
“The light has turned red, Uriah! ”
“Slow down, Uriah, I just saw a cop.”
Any number of helpful suggestions
Usually proffered in a vaguely pleasant tone.
But when I’m by myself, I’m dangerous:
I’ll accidentally run red lights,
I’ll miss important turns,
I’ll make crazy U-turns in a vain attempt
To remain on track and not get lost.
I honestly scare myself sometimes.
Well, Friday I was going downtown
To meet a friend
To see the singer Pete Yorn
Who was playing at St. Andrews Hall.
I’ve been there any number of times,
But I get lost every single time,
You might as well be setting me down for the first time
On the streets of London or Paris!
St. Andrew’s Hall is on Congress Street,
I drove straight to Congress easy as a breeze,
I was all proud of myself.
But Congress is a one-way street
And I was several blocks pass St. Andrew’s.
I had to turn onto another street, loop around,
And come back. Simple, right?
I kept turning from one one-way street to another
Until I was thoroughly lost and frustrated.
Congress Street seemingly vanished in mid air.
I pulled into a parking lot with an old white guy attendant
Who looked like a street-wise gypsy,
And I say, “I’m lost, I’m looking for St. Andrew’s Hall.”
The old gypsy gives me simple instructions
But I never really pay attention to anyone
Even if they’re trying to save my life,
But I thought I had the gist of what he said
And went about my way.
Several more bad turns, I’m lost again,
And I wind right back up at the same parking lot
With the same old gypsy.
Again, I say, “I’m lost.”
This time, the old gypsy sounding perturbed
With me for being stupid, says, “Listen, dog,
I told you to turn left here, at the next light
Turn right, and go four blocks.”
I’m off to St. Andrew’s again and I’m thinking,
If I don’t find it this time, and I wind up
In the old gypsy’s parking lot again,
I think he’ll kick my ass!
I’m not strictly offended with the idea
Of a guy ten years my junior kicking my ass
For looking at his girl as if
She were a delicious ice-cream sundae,
But I think my pride would be wounded
If an old man kicked my ass for being lost!
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I've lost track of the number of people who want to be writers but never actually write anything. Talking about writing, dreaming about writing, can be very fun, but it won't get a book written. You've got to write.
quote by Laurell K. Hamilton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Have Lost My Way Again
I HAVE LOST MY WAY AGAIN
I have lost my way again
Soon I will find it with words-
My writing has saved me inside-
But in the world
It has not changed much.
I write these words
And already
Some peace and freedom
Return to me.
But what do they mean to you?
And why should they?
You have your own dreams to contend with
And your own life to make a mess of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Greengage Jam
I'm a jar of Greengage Jam
And I'm upset because of a remark made by a man
JJ is his name, he's tall, good looking and funny
Because one day he said ‘I love the taste of sweet honey'
Well that for me is not what I expected to hear
Not when only this morning he called me ‘dear'
We would always meet for breakfast at around 8
And before he picks me up and spreads me on his plate
He'd carefully pop my top off and look inside and say ‘wow you do look yummy'
And take a mouthful with a spoon that quickly disappears in his tummy
With a smile he'd then put me on his shoulder so he could hear
These loving words - ‘thank you my dear'
But this time, before he could put me down to finish his tea
I shouted loudly - 'Marry Me, Marry Me'
To which he promptly and calmly replied - ‘let's talk about it later'
And quickly put me back in the refrigerator
Now I'm just another pot of jam left in the dark and cold
Somewhere deep at the back alongside an out-of-date cheese with lots of mould.
poem by JeanJacques Evendon
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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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The Black House On The Corner
I passed by that house everday,
wondering what lurked inside of it,
was their some kind of ancient evil inside,
or a normal family that we never saw,
a house of macarbe,
it was painted black like the devil's sin,
it was surrouned by devilish-looking,
figures that stood outside on the line,
was also surrounded by a black pointed fence,
rumors of the devil himself living there,
the devil in the flesh,
satan living on my street corner,
The black house on the corner,
can't you see it,
you must walk past it everyday to,
dosen't your mind wander,
when you walk by The black house,
don't you to know what lays inside of the house,
maybe a ton of dead bodies under the floor boards,
a madman butcherd up his family,
could that be true,
or are our young minds racing again,
with impure and insane thoughts about,
who or what lives in the black house on the corner,
the black house,
painted with the devil's sin,
We were told to stay away from the black house,
that so many evils lived inside of it,
but us being kids we didn't want to live,
we wanted to see what was inside of the black house on the corner,
But we are to afraid to go forward,
we are to afraid to step through the gate,
and walk up the beaten path to the door bell,
it looks so old and so evil,
The black house on the corner,
we shall never know what evilness,
or what macabre force resides within,
the black house on the corner,
whatever you do,
don't go into the black house on the corner,
stay away from,
the black house on the corner,
it holds so many evils,
the black house on the corner,
poem by Robert Rumery
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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