En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Swim Submerged

FLYING flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down his
shovel, and writes, writes, and
writes,
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me muddled spirits,
and write the words with your
own red blood,
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up, with her freind
plath, and they both begine to
write, write, and write, yippee,
says the words, for these words
will end up in a paper back book.

poem by David Gerardino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Explodes In This Poets Mind

flying flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down
his shovel, and writes, writes
and writes.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me the muddled spirits,
and write your own words
with your own blood.
flying flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up with her friend
plath, and they both write, write,
and write with their own blood.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me these muddled spirits,
and write with your own blood.
Flying flocks travel in flight, and
a poem explodes in this poets mind,
and i write, and write, and write,
and on this white paper, my blood.

poem by David Gerardino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Must

She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.

poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Love Letter

She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her

She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing

She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come

He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written

Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.

She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events

The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy

For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.

This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.

It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.

He writes one late at night
to remind him
to get up in the morning
and one in the morning
to remind him to go to bed at night.
It is estimated he writes
quite a few hundred memos everyday.

His house is filed with little bits
of yellow paper stuck up here and there.
He couldn’t watch TV
even if he wanted to.
There are s many memos on it
you can’t see the screen.

One day his pen ran out
and no memos he could write.
He couldn’t even write a memo
to remind himself to buy a pen.
Then he found a pencil
and shouted that will do.

Now he is able to write memos to himself
to tell himself what to do.
As far as I know,
he hasn’t written a memo
to remind himself to sharpen
the pencil once and a while.

28 February 2008

poem by David Harris
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Dottie Writes and Cries

Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.

Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.

She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.

She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she sucks the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.

She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.

She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.

She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal's page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.

A bird song, she cocks an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.

She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.

She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.

Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.

She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Was Nothing Left To Write

THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO WRITE

There was nothing left to write
Everything had already been written
And was being written over again and again
By thousands elsewhere-

There was nothing left to write
And nothing new to say -

And no need for anything he had to give-

It was over for him as a writer
Whether he accepted it or not-

No one would ever need or want anything he could do again-

And so when he despite all this still wrote

It seemed to many simply pathetic-

The obsessive reflex of an already lost soul-
Who wrote and wrote and wrote
Who writes and writes and writes

Who cannot stop
However senseless all he does, is.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I don't Write a Poem

I don't write a poem
but sprinkle my heart
on white papers.

I don't write a poem
but kiss flaming words
on the lips of volcano.

I don't write a poem
but croon a lullaby
for drizzling lids.

I don't write a poem
the poem writes me
and sets me free
from the life engulfed
by mirages.
@@@

poem by Madhav Sarkunde
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I Write And Write And Write And Write

I WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE

I write and write and write and write
I write and write and write and write
I write.
And all this writing and all these words and all I am
Forever unheard.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Write

Write, keep writing lot
Write, write before you forget
Write, make it as reminder
Write, write before words disappear
Write, for you to contemplate
Write, write before your mind changed

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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A Message Here For All You Poets

The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.

The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.

The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.

A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic Queen or King.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Once Again I Write...

This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
I write to save my sanity.
I write to ease my heart.
I write to cleanse my soul.
I write to feel alive.
I write to keep my mind strong and my thoughts clear.
I write my words of sorrow, despair, pain, and love, as well as words of wisdom.
I write so that one day someone will truly know me.
This paper, this pen is once again my inspiration.
It is the inspiration to what I see.
It is the inspiration to what I hear.
It is the inspiration to what I feel.
It is the inspiration to the art I create.
It is the inspiration to what I draw.
It is the inspiration to the love for my daughter.
It is the inspiration to the love for my husband.
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
Once again I write to say thank you my timeless friends.
Thank you for saving me time and time again.

poem by Sara Jo Andrews
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A Poem Written By A Confessed Bipolar (her Name To Be Revealed Upon Her Permission)

I write because I can
I write because there are so many things to be written.
I write because I can make a painting without a brush and paints in my hand.
I write because I can capture the moment without having a camera.
I write because letters and words are the only recipe I know how to cook.
I write because I want to read what I’ve written.
I write because I’m used to speak in silence.
I write because I have a story to tell.
I write because I want to strip off my flesh and live as a pure being.
I write because I can record my “voice” without having a recorder.
I write because it’s like a cup of coffee, it keeps me awake
I write because I want to live even when I do not exist.
I write because this is my throwing stones when I’m frustrated.
6/11/09 at 4: 42 PM
I write because I can flaunt my being when I don’t have clothes to show off.
I write because this is like making an encyclopedia to a coloring book.
I write because it’s more effective than my lithium medication.
I write because I’m tired of carrying these baggages on the road.
I write because I’m tired of talking too much.
I write because it’s a healthier diversion than smoking.
I write because it’s more therapeutic than analyzing my problem.
I write because I want to paint a thousand pictures with words.
I write because I can put colors to the letters and make a rainbow of words.
I write because it’s the key combinations to my hidden vaults.
I write because my ball pen is my best friend in the darkest nights.
I write because it surprises me with what I am capable of thinking&doing. 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because I like that ideas are popping like pop corns.
I write because I can wander in the adventures of my own world.
I write because I have to cleanse my collection of memories of an old home.
I write because like a mirror you need to do a lot of reflections.
I write because I want to fight the battle of life.
I write because I wanted my little voice to be heard.
I write because I want to run from the insanities of the world.
I write because pictures don’t talk.
I write because it helps me connect the dots when I look back in my life.
I write because it brings me back to my crib of silence.
I write because it makes a buzz to other bees in my beehive.
I write because unlike my bike my destination is limitless.
I write because I want to become an inspiration without extinction 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because like strumming of the guitar, it vibrates in my soul.
I write because I love to write.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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One Waits For A Poem One Cannot Write

ONE WAITS FOR A POEM ONE CANNOT WRITE

One waits for a poem one cannot write-
And writes a poem one does not want to-
And dreams them both with longing for something else.
And writes and writes
Poem after poem
Until one does not know
Where the poem is,
And whether one is a poet at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote A Poem I Could Not Write

I wrote a poem I could not write-
And then when I tried to write it again
Could not write it again -

Poems written and not written
Words and more words
What do they mean?

Paradoxes and games with words
What do they mean?

If there is Beauty in the language
It is one thing
But words just to hear themselves think,
Why should they mean ‘Remembrance'?

Oh Words oh Questions oh Darkness oh Life-
Let me write myself to the grave
Believing at least
That poems too even when they can be written
Have their small unhidden meanings.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I want to write a poem.

I want to write a poem,
But don't know on what to write that poem.

Should it be like the one Kenn Nesbitt writes,
or should it be like the one that Emily Bronte writes.

Should it be a serious one with no fun,
Or should it be funny with amusement of tonne.

Should it be an Acrostic poem,
Or should it be a Haiku poem.

Should it be on a relationship,
Or should it be on Titanic ship.

Should it be Educating,
Or should it be just on something.

Should it rhyme and take alot of time,
Or should it simply unrhyme.

Should it be long like a Novel and never end,
Or should it be short and quickly end.

THIS THINGS WILL DRIVE ME CRAZY........

poem by Rabia Javed
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A good journalist is not the one that writes what people say, but the one that writes what he is supposed to write.

quote by Todor Zhivkov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Many People Have No Poem

SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE NO POEM

So many people have no poem.
No one writes of them and for them,
And perhaps it is not important to most of them.

But for the few who need and want a poem
And cannot write a poem of their own
Shouldn’t there be someone to write for them?

I have tried to write for a few
But not that well either.

Who will write for them?
Who will listen for them?

God Maker of all Poems and Silences,
You Alone can save us,
The makers of poems
And those who are only listeners.

God You Alone-Write their names for them.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Happy Words To Love 2011

Kee writes to you,

My dearest,
Happy new year for you to be blessed,

you writes the best

really blessed if writes from the heart....

You penned few lines on my our book

The harvest of god and prayer words on dreams
Somewhere, you keep my heart and its burns

a kiss of your words....

To see no further than ……
And now our psalm
And a smell of fiery word in this poem

your writes little is the best....
I love our greatness in its charm..
happy new year to you dearest

Sincerely wish happy to all, loves the fiery words in our poems
Kee thampi

poem by Thampi KEE
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Concrete

Dedicated to I.B. and K.L.

I rode with you in the city
and in my mind I was sleeping on his shoulder
the time to smile has passed for us
it’s gone, it’s but that doesn’t mean it’s over

I have said I loved
so many things, so many people in my life
my soul aches to this day to find
some truth inside those empty lies

but there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end

I walked with you on sidewalks
in places I had never seen
I trusted you with my heartfelt words,
my predictions, and my dreams

I have said I needed
so many things, so many people in my life
I hope that one day I will find
some truth hidden beneath the strife

and there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end

does nothing matter?
will nothing last?
can’t something be in the future
instead of in the past?
can’t I just breathe in
familiar air
in a familiar place
so I don’t have to wonder where?

there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end

can I hold on to anything?
are memories enough?
you write in the concrete
what is love?

poem by Jade Leven
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