Word Are Cats...Purring, Hissing
Writing is dangerous...for words follow commands....
If they choose.
Cat Words, scratching claws sharp, with meaning,
Or jibberish, or half-written, haltingly.
And the Cat arches metaphors
And the Cat purrs simile
And the cat eats alliteration...
If the Cat isn't sleeping, dreaming
Style as scurrying mice...caught, shredded,
Eaten.
Words vary in color, breed, longevity, softness...
And when Cat Words pet us with enough years...
They lie curled by our fireplace
Of Life,
Watching for our last line...
Disappearing with us
Onto the pages
Of Eternity.
poem by by unknown author
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Related quotes
Beware Words Written
words celebrating what is written
beware allure of beauty in words written
seek instead words thoughts not written
words not written thoughts not written
themes not written which need to be written
the importance of the unwritten demands writing
important world needs consciousness needs writing
urgent global necessity issues demands needs writing
actions resolutions policy change harmony restoration needs writing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Words Sometimes Take On A Own Meaning
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and sometimes they are sharp and painful
as if there is much more to words
as if a kind of secret knowledge hides in them
that are sometimes something moving.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
but somehow words can at times miss things
and are sometimes dependent on feelings
as if there is much more to words
when through it all love brings a kind of bonding
and so you and I are attractive to each other.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and daily a bond develops between us,
while you become more considerable to me,
as if there is much more to words
you constantly live in my thoughts,
while love becomes real through words.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
as if there is much more to words…
poem by Gert Strydom
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Words
Words on this paper
Words in my head
Words while I'm texting
Computing
Unsaid
Words between people
Words on the phone
Words upon words
Even when I'm alone
Words from the Bible
I question
Don't mesh
Words from pornography
Making them flesh
Words with flat letters
Written in black
Good words and bad words
You cannot take back
Words that are shallow
Words that are deep
When they're too many
They put me to sleep
Words that I'm writing
And rhyming you read
Whatever I'm saying
There's prolly no need
Words from the alphabet
Words that can't be
When you are blind
And it's Braile that you see
Words that are worthless
And said on the fly
My words or your words
Are most likely lies
Words in a sentence
Wise words or fair
The only words earnest
Are those said in prayer
Written by Sara Fielder © 2011
poem by Sara Fielder
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lip Service
Words inspire and words destroy
Words conspire and words annoy
Words spread freedom and words detain
Words believe them in sound refrain
Words of passion in words misleading
Words without action are words without meaning
poem by P.R. Prosper
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To the Departed
The starkness of white upon the green
The paper is crisp. Crisp and clean
A rustle of wind- a flutter of pages
Words written down- never to be seen
by the departed- by the intended
Written fast and hard with tears that blended
together with the words- together with the thoughts
together with angst that was politically rendered
Before the year was through- an Asian demise
the half expected telegram had given rise
to broken hearts and broken lives-
Broken promises and all that implies
The sliding of fingertips over etched names
with the aim to lay to rest any or all blame
And all along that black granite wall
step after step, you’ll find the same
Loving mementos laid gently down to rest
for those who have been loved the best
White letters lay upon green grass
to confide, beg forgiveness and perhaps to confess.
to the departed- to the intended
Written slowly and haltingly with tears that blended
together with the words and together with a wish…..
God..if only one day sooner the war could have ended.
poem by Julie Dant
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Words
Unutterable words have been spoken by the man in front of me,
Fools sway, in institutions and in parks, with drink and joy.
Words are hastened in speech, in writing by the professions,
As professors teach new skills only to move onwards in life.
To keep skills requires luck and charm for words are great
When attached with meaning, the same education to succeed.
Words carry a blessing on a path we fix in our heads and minds,
Books are written, volumes are printed, for the health of the nation.
poem by Naveed Akram
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On The Wings And Claws And Beaks Of Poetry
lame, i walk on the crutches
of poetry,
wingless, i put on the feathers
of words,
i get these beaks
of metaphors
to feed upon
the richness of meaning
i am a hundred birds
on a hundred wings
i have claws and beaks
and eagles' eyes
on the flights
of the madness of poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Working on the value of words
Working on the value of words
~
some words require more
more than being spoken
written, read or listened to
some words need feeling
given their own soul
a touch of emotion
some words fall easily
across the page
or off the tongue
like a catchphrase
meaning almost nothing
words without value
spoken to be heard
said and not listened to
or written and missed
all without feeling
give words emotion
soul, fire and life
give words value
work the next line
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A panorama with arches…
Arches, arches, arches
Arches of lips, palates, eyes, eyebrows
Arches of hearts, minds, kisses,
Indignities, obedience’s,
Arches of dreams, skies, stars, waters
Arched bridges that make me easier to reach you
More quickly than one single arc
Arched of words, that goes so smoothly
When they fly in arch style between us
Arches under sustained bridges of our love
And, I get thirsty oftentimes for them…
Vasil Marku 2012
poem by Vasil Marku
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And So I'm Writing...
I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing
May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing
May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing
May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing
Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing
May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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No ideas but in things
the snake is always a snake
and the scorpion cannot promise the frog
that in the middle of the storm
at its back, it will not bite
they will die together, but that is not enough
fear for being what they
to each they are,
the weeds are weeds and writing
is writing as always,
words that are words, come and speak, and mouths
will always be mouths,
sleepless are we at times on this
endeavor to understand
what lies beyond this
crap, metaphors of stones not reconciling
with roses
tattoos of the arms of a jilted lover
i am composed.
i compose to thing to things
not words, not to think to think
but things
as they are
as they were
forever.
still trying
what this saxifrage is all about
it splits.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Many Can Teach Few Can Write
many can teach and be good teachers
some even aspiring excellent teachers
but few can image write wondrous words
who are now waiting among
those who have words worth writing
words waiting to be written?
writing will cost much
demanded much
then will cost yet more
a small fortune in wages
wages spent not made
still to be spent and yet
accumulative cost is nothing
for there are hunger hearts
minds waiting for these words
looking even searching
for quest sought words
therefore it matters not
if for a specific poem
or passage paragraph
only a few or one is searching
these thoughts
are important
still must be written
some of what we write
even much of what we write
is of no prime importance
but that small portion
which is important
that tiny potent seed
which is important
must be written
translate many can translate
some even translate
almost perfectly precise
but those writing
original thoughts
are far more precious
and their words
will also in their time
be sought after read
but there time is not yet
that which is not
written cannot
be read
therefore write
write
and write well
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Follow Me
You’re hanging over a precipice,
looking down; you know you are going to fall.
At the last moment, a hand grasps yours.
A stranger whom you cannot see.
Slowly they haul you from your fate to be.
Their face you still cannot see,
but their words echo around you,
come on my brother follow me.
Foot holds come one at a time,
safety is now assured.
Slowly you move upwards,
one-step at a time along the way.
At the top the stranger is waiting,
his face blocked by the sun.
His voice is gentle and serine,
come on my brother follow me
You climb to your feet and follow,
as he begins to lead the way.
In his footsteps, you follow,
each and every day.
You learn things with every step.
You learn to have humility,
with everyone to you chance to meet,
a lesson well learnt and greet.
You still hear his words,
come on my brother follow me,
you still have a lot to learn,
and I have little time to teach thee.
You follow him through dangerous paths,
but no ill falls upon you.
You follow him until your dying day,
and into the next life to.
And, all the time his words,
they seem to follow you,
come on my brother follow me.
You walk where he walks,
and see what he sees,
and when its time to part,
his words are still with you,
come on my brother follow me.
poem by David Harris
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A Man Wrote Because He Had Nothing Else He Could Do
A man wrote because he had nothing else he could do-
Even when the writing lost its Meaning
He had no choice but to go on with it
Until the Meaning came back-
And in his quiet sadness and obsession
And in his pain and loneliness and rage
And in his putting all his feeling in his words
One small echo of redemption sometimes perhaps came
Which said:
Somewhere else there is a Universe with or without words
In which whatever you are or do is responded to by 'Yes'.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Spoke To The Heart
many will read
few will comment
written words provoked
no response
in heart of emptiness
no answering echo chimed
perhaps these probing words
were not written to you
perhaps your faith
was still fledgling
unable to leave nest
to venture forth
upon world adventures
courage to take wing
was lacking
it was not your time
words never spoke
to your heart
perhaps they were not
written to you
perhaps you never
opened minds eye
perhaps you never will
perhaps this is not
your life purpose
perhaps to lead is
not written upon
enlightened soul
is not an aspiration
also born are those
who must follow
who must serve
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Silence Between
the silence between
words being written and read
seduces the mind to think
thoughts of creation anticipate
the blank canvas of the mind
which mirrors the open soul
calling out to listen
to the sound of pen upon paper
a mind at work
is a beautiful thing
and in writing seductive
words flow into sentence
a verse crafts itself
to be seen, felt
all in the aftermath
of the silence between
words being written
words being read
poem by Matthew Holloway
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In Loosing Control
Your translucent metaphors
Make my blue words to become
Seeds of a mirrored thinking.
My words need your metaphors to scream,
While emerging from their painful cage.
They need to be washed
Again and again
In the Light downpour.
My words need to be loved, sweetheart,
Their mad escape happens
Sometimes, in haste.
You can make them to get out
By being so well
Mixed with hate and pain.
My words may bite your lips
In a love kiss, baby.
My words need the blood of your love.
Moreover,
They need to breathe your love
In loosing control.
Your words are leaves,
Sometimes,
Being carried off their knowledge to spread
Inside of me
For changing something-
Your very red, orange and yellow words,
Preceding the white silence of our winter.
Your words, my love,
Can become icy cubs slipping into my hot mouth
To kill my silence.
In-between dark and light,
In our secret dawns,
You make me miss their sweet touch
Inside of me
In making them to be
Love.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Smacked
Kept pocketed and it's deep,
Those feelings so hard to reach.
And then with no warning shown...
They're seen unbelievebly,
To rattle as if in battle...
To match!
And...
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
Kept pocketed and it's deep,
Those feelings so hard to reach.
And then with no warning shown...
They're seen unbelievebly,
To rattle!
And...
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
Finding...
No time to rhyme,
When...
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
Finding...
No time to rhyme,
When...
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
Kept pocketed and it's deep,
Those feelings so hard to reach.
And finding,
No time...
To rhyme,
When...
Smacked like a cat attacking,
With claws at the end of paws.
And scratching right back,
Ouch!
And smacked with the claws out.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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