Popular Posts
-
The club today voted to send Dan Simmon's poem as our submission to the Commuter this week. Can You Tell? by Danny Earl Simmons I...
-
By Turtle Shell This is one of the November 2 meeting's First Lesson poems. ------------------------------ What I Wish I'd Le...
-
So much of our lives we spend with an internal monologue our only company grinding at the loneliness inside. But don't worry, it'...
-
by Turtle Shell "Look at this, this brilliant kid Made a masterwork, our genius did." A perfect grade, brings pride galore. Y...
-
Oh hey, here's something I probably should have linked to a couple weeks ago: It's a book! That's right, the Words & Pictu...
-
Ages go and history flows ever repeating and growing. Common mores get wound up and disdain, then relax, relearn to empathize with a lyr...
-
There have been a couple more Commuter articles about us lately. Last week they published a piece called You Could Be Next Year's Poet L...
-
* Choir concert o Feb 22: Deadline for poetry submissions o March 10: Choir concert * ...
-
A thought An inspiration Inhale... A mad dash For pen, paper Holding... A napkin or scrap A pencil or crayon Scribble madly... Exha...
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