Popular Posts
-
I'm not just here for a visit This world is where I live Earth is where I keep all my stuff
-
Escape is such a thankful Word I often in the Night Consider it unto myself No spectacle in sight Escape — it is the Basket In which t...
-
You lived so much of your life without telling anyone, until one day when you couldn’t keep it in any longer, and then your world turned u...
-
Next Tuesday's meeting will be in NSH-209 again. Once again we have no prompt, but those who intend to submit a poem for reading at the...
-
I cursed the snow from the curved out well of an ancient fir having just landed in the one tiny place lacking enough snow to cushion m...
-
j?A! M!t(hE//'..... What did you expect? ....... What did you experience when you elated into the theater. This is what it's ...
-
by Mary Oliver Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one ...
-
by Turtle Shell In studying the difference between solitude and loneliness I'm wondering if grins are interludes and only this. I...
-
Hello all, The deadline for the "Words and Pictures" photo/poem exhibit poetry submissions is Tuesday, March 1 before noon. He...
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Emotions so great, burning passions withheld. No escape.
Attempting in vain, try, explain. To open our souls, agape.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible
Words, with no meaning. Myself fully expressed? Dreaming.
Poetry
An outlet, spirits breathing. Easy? Absurd, demeaning.
I sit and I write. Pure gold? Ehh, worthless. No purpose, meaning.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Improbable
Minds, simple third parties translating. Souls free? Ha! Still waiting.
Poetry
Poets are weird, strange, looney bin. From society, divided, Berlin.
No, I disagree, poets live among the ranks, mothers, warriors, Akin.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible? No, I refuse to give in.
Us who try, fruitlessly, to send our souls from our depths, apprehend.
Poetry
Beauty, we do not create. Release it from confines, we elate.
Lurking in all of us, a poet. Find him! Too masculine? Oh Ego. Deflate.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible still? No, Articulate.
Within your heart, sleeps ample love. But your soul’s in chains. Rise above.
Poetry
by John
--------------------
The poem I'm sending to the Commuter this week. I hope it's not too long (they say they'd prefer no more than 120-130 words, this one's 172).
Attempting in vain, try, explain. To open our souls, agape.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible
Words, with no meaning. Myself fully expressed? Dreaming.
Poetry
An outlet, spirits breathing. Easy? Absurd, demeaning.
I sit and I write. Pure gold? Ehh, worthless. No purpose, meaning.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Improbable
Minds, simple third parties translating. Souls free? Ha! Still waiting.
Poetry
Poets are weird, strange, looney bin. From society, divided, Berlin.
No, I disagree, poets live among the ranks, mothers, warriors, Akin.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible? No, I refuse to give in.
Us who try, fruitlessly, to send our souls from our depths, apprehend.
Poetry
Beauty, we do not create. Release it from confines, we elate.
Lurking in all of us, a poet. Find him! Too masculine? Oh Ego. Deflate.
To write what one feels, senses, loves. Impossible still? No, Articulate.
Within your heart, sleeps ample love. But your soul’s in chains. Rise above.
Poetry
by John
--------------------
The poem I'm sending to the Commuter this week. I hope it's not too long (they say they'd prefer no more than 120-130 words, this one's 172).
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment