Undefined Poem
Undefined poem...
A vague comment
as what the word meant
to the one who reads
and did not discern
what the writer wrote about
as if to imply rudely
that the acrostic
was empty.
But please...
As you read again
and again
till you have dig deeper
the messages between the lines
maybe you'll find things more real
than those empty lines in the phrase.
Like life itself...
Undefined as it seems
but if dealt accordingly
may contain meaningful views
as the rainbow that shows
amidst the misty blue sky
after the storm subsided.
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Two Word Lines
I write
my pain
and its
just another poem
its just
the same
all the heart ache that goes onto this page
only takes me back to the place where I await
behind the curtains of an empty stage
the pain
I write
I wrote this
I locked my own cage
I threw away the key to he that did see me rage
and still
I write
yes still
I fight
hoping that I might find something you feel
because these two word lines are just rhymes
when I say them back they aren't real
I'm sick and tired of talking about better times
forcing things like a relationship two people don't really want
a mum and dad staying together for the sake of the kids when the love is really gone.
Look at this back and see my two word lines
see my two word lines
are one.
poem by Daniel McCann
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The Riddle Of That Small City (For Singapore)
in that small city
i promised myself
i can take whatever it is
in one day
whatever it is
is still actually undefined
and what is undefined
is always exciting
for it amounts to
anything goes
what falls on my head
like a Forest Gump feather
in that small city
is always welcome
and what was undefined
and what was so exciting
was finally
done
you'll never know what it is
because you have read this
to understand and best
understand the undefined
means you never have
to read whatever it is
it is after all
undefined and yet
i must assure you
it will, and will always be exciting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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111
The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poet Without A Poem/ Empty and Desperate
A POET WITHOUT A POEM
A poet without a poem
Empty and desperate
Forces a few lines
As way of reviving himself.
The lines lead to other lines
A poem begins to come.
The poet hears his hope as he writes
And then when there is a poem
He just rests happily
Knowing he is alive again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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390
her name is marjorie and she locks herself in a room
for seven days
to make a poem, weaving her dreams, folding an emptly
paper
to make her crane, carefully, folding distances between the seasons
as she gathers wind
and fire
she takes a plant to survive and water it
care, she must care
lest she too dies
she opens a window one day to let her crane fly away
pure
& empty, the crane unfolds its wings as she watches
her years go by
like the way she wants some things to be unclear and undefined
because they are simply meant
to be that way, like the way that i try to confine her
in my frame of mind
she is and she will be, always, pure and then empty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Is Always Another Poem
THERE IS ALWAYS ANOTHER POEM
There is always another poem
Waiting to be written.
But when it comes
Who knows
If it is Real
Or not.
Our dreams and our life too
Come to us
Unexpected.
Do we know
In our heart of hearts
When they are real
Or whether only
Empty lines
No endlessly rewriting
Will redeem.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Keep It Goin'
CHORUS
Someone's got to keep it on going
Just as long as there're folks who haven't heard
So you can count on me 'cause He's showin'
That there're so many ways to spread His Word
CHORUS (three times)
undefined
undefined
More...
[Close]
[Close]
Find Old Friends
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Always Read Between The Lines...
pause between
some lines and read
the void
pause some more
and breathe
let the void simmer
let every empty space
sink deeper
find something of weight
and substance
like a word that you wish to expand
and live there for a while
sow the seed
and let it spread like a vine
that is how a good idea
is born
and then see the morning sun
bringing you
some strands of light
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Have I Lost The 'Visionary Gleam?
HAVE I LOST ‘THE VISIONARY GLEAM?
Have I lost the ‘visionary gleam’?
Did I ever have it?
Is Death ‘luckier than we’ think
Or ‘lucky’ at all?
How supreme can a fiction be?
And whoever really has drunk ‘the milk’ of paradise?
Why should a rose be sick or dead?
And why should ‘patience to prevent that murmur reply’?
Who said ‘The glory of God is davka in dappled things?
And what kind of fool compares what he builds to what ‘birds build’?
Can a skeptic be a poet in a real way?
Can poetry be read by those who doubt the truth of its lines?
Wasn’t he who said beauty is truth and truth beauty dying and lying at the same time?
What does it mean to steal a line of someone else‘s great beauty
And turn it into one’s own petty gripe?
Poetry is better served by the real thing,
Than by pastiches and parodies
And skeptical borrowers
And fake rivals in anxiety of influence-
One can take from the vast book of the living dead
The most treasured lines
And betray them into irony and silliness-
Yet those lines out-top the little later commentators
And make me wonder why I exercise my mind
In vain exercises like this
Instead of trying to write the true poetry-
‘Life is real life is earnest and the grave is not the goal’
Here he lies where he longed to be, home is the sailor home from the sea and the hunter from the hill’
Master of my fate, captain of my soul?
Do not take the lines literally
Read them with love and understanding
When they say something meaningful and beautiful to you
Hold on to them.
A poem is a poem for a that
Even for the wee slick cowrin beasties.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The tempest
I saw the Lord God fishing
while we were sailing
on a stormy sea
and gigantic waves were crashing
while He cast His lines in
landing here and there
and later landing almost everywhere.
The lines of God were blue-white
hitting the ocean and some the boat
and while the storm ripped, tossed us
to and fro
that ship almost came apart.
His lines thundered in sizzling the water
where they fell
running up through the pitch black clouds
and no gale force wind, no raging storm sea
could deny His will
while His lines
with thundering flame came in
and I looked up into that howling sky
with rain bashing against me,
wanting to see Him
and heard the sea scream
in its anger, saw the torrent wind
ripping the sails to shreds
and the storm died down instead
with a great rainbow
against the horizon up ahead
and His lines were all gone
and I didn’t see one more
and the boat set a new course
to reach the shore.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When You Read This Poem
when you read this poem
silently like a prayer written
on the wall
of an ancient structure
and then when you pause
upon a word and begin
to ponder
like ' what is this poem really
trying to say? '
or ' does this poem have in some
way something to inform me
or touch me
or simply waste my time? '
rest assured this poem has
made you phrase some questions
not about you
or about me alone but
whether you believe it or not
this poem has become
a bridge between us
taking the shape
of a rainbow between two islands
and in a moment before you
begin to figure it out
or even know it
it is gone like a sigh passing you by
without any significance
and not worth remembering
but once
after you have read till the end
once there was this poem
and it seems to have no meaning at all
except a task
a journey that you have taken
arriving at nowhere
and giving you the essence of nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poem As Conversations
a poem for ramona
and a poem for jean and a poem for candice
and a poem too for yuri
and a poem too for emma and another poem for hannah
and another poem for allan
and the rest of the clan
they are but
conversations sticking to my mind
and through these poems
i replay them
and you think these are not poems at all
precisely, these are conversations of the living
the living word
the word that still cohabits with us
we let them out from our mouths
but you do not wish to recover them
did you mean them all to be said
with the terms and conditions of truth?
i am recording them
and i am replaying them through these lines
i look where truth
lies
i find some and keep them
and these are these
on these lines
a poem for you a poem for the world that we all make
what we say is what we get
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That poem
It was a day much like any other.
Too many letters to open right now;
The phone pipped and bleeped and hissed
as it recorded too many requests
to read here, go there, answer these questions,
be interviewed;
why did you write this poem,
did you mean – ten lines
of prosaic speculation follow, about some mere
two words; wouldn’t this poem
be better without the last two lines?
please read my poems and
return the manuscript with
your extensive comments…
(the invisible PS reads ‘I’m just
as good as you, and younger, and, moreover,
more in touch’…)
the occasional face peering
over the gate; once every few weeks
a stranger boldly knocking at the door
so sure the poet would be glad
to meet a fan, unannounced,
eager to tell them what their
poetry really meant…
his fame, like some dark aura
which he would have craved, in those days
when he rose early, wrote for hours
to preserve his sanity, before he went out
to that job which made him miserable – his fame
now pressed around, demanding.
It was a day much like any other:
a poem might come, life
might flow; flow down, flow through, flow out..
Dusk and a sigh and a laying down of pen;
should today’s lines go straight into the overflowing bin,
or be returned to tomorrow, in the fresh of day -
there seemed to be something there
around coffee time that morning,
it was going somewhere…
Years later, this poem, found in his
random papers when his widow
paid her last gleaning respects to the genius
which she loved less certainly
than she loved the man –
this poem would be pounced upon,
chewed, spat out with discriminating pride
by literati – look, our idol has his feet of clay..
shall we measure his greatness by his failure
or feed our envy and our self-regard?
No. Sit here, in his chair; take up his pen;
put that poem in front of you;
be there, on that day like any other
when no sublime inspiration came;
yet, work was done, somewhere, innerly;
know that;
love poetry.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Who You Are To Me
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Read These Lines This Morning
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines that are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
i, who is nothing to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Interactive
I write some lines and you read each word
A word excites you and you take it up to
Seed your fields where you grow your own
Shrubbery of words with tendrils climbing
I look at your garden of words and there is
This word growing into a flower attracting
Me I pick it up this sensual flower and I
Seed it in the lines of my mind now another
Bunch of words like ripe grapes I take one
Swallow it and savor the taste of its sweetness
More lines of words in my throat sliding
Through the lining of my esophagus so smooth
Going straight inside the veins leading to my heart
Sweet, so sweet I could have written the usual
Lines of “ I love you, I miss you” but I couldn’t
There is this roadblock, this writer’s block
The lines stopped, the words are stunted
I stutter, I retreat to my eyes, to see
The face of this woman I love, her eyes
Are gentle, she smiles at me, and waits
For this beautiful silence that gives her life
You stand there, looking for a hint, another
Word to seed the lines waiting to be written.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Faces
I cant read faces but i can read yours;
I know it when youre sad or happy,
not through your smile but through your eyes;
and the lines of your forehead,
and the lines of your cheeks...
they tell your secrets and then mystery unfolds.
The beauty of your chin...and the lines of your lips,
they tell me of something that hasn't been told.
Sometimes you laugh, but you're empty inside...
sometimes you frown, but your heart glowed with pride.
Sometimes serious, but your face
has something to hide.
I know coz your eyes tell me everything,
everything within your soul.
You have so many faces...
and i wonder if the world knows.
I wonder if they can read them,
or see what you conceal..
I wonder if they can see your mysteries...
secrets to steal.
And i wonder if they can look into
your eyes like open doors.
I know i cant read faces...
but i can read yours.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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