(2/1/2014 3:09:00 PM)
meets ink it highlights,
little things that don't matter
society into rich or suffering,
oblivious all are the latter
confronted with random,
puzzle pieces to be connected
is like a jigsaw,
except the end result is the unexpected
Like a ripple,
on the surface
let unfold through us whats meant to be
waters below watches,
peacefully, true love is let free
by limits put on our existence
empty, engaged but
to perciece is our substance
Blindfolded we are,
in life, hidden from our eyes,
our pure true power within
That the world,
is just our mind
which creates, suffers from and plays in
And it drains,
our spirit that we dont
grasp with our fingers
on the door, control isn't gone,
yet anxiety lingers
we wont open,
conditioned to block
Out the light,
has always been the key to the lock
limitations on life,
minds came together and insisted
is short yet
time endless so we have barely existed
rules and regulations
to give life and death importance
use time and get
presumed born lacking self acceptance
regardless of the human
races, the planets great fatality
It is our
mind that keeps
on dreaming, circling this reality
involvement in ever
changing surroundings unrefused
within the already
present power and strength, confused
We keep on
living a dream we're unaware
we're in, sleeping is our waking
our known, is just us mistaking
isn't ours, each going
rouge fighting in battle alone
mind created when a path
was already laid out in stone
in the unknown, not the dream which is fake
all night then
to dream again, never choose to wake
forgetting the truth
inside that we have known
remember all in life,
all we become attached to or are shown
yet has already been and died
self is before,
time and space had its title, meaning or divide
love using our lives
here to express, engage and pursue
we and all life crave,
a unity and not to be split in two
(2/1/2014 3:11:00 AM)
| Read 1 reply
In my opinion, you need interaction to write powerful poems. This poem is in response to LP's poem 'Blowjob By The Tracks'. Whether this poem is autobiographical or not is a matter for creativity. One should never question the motive or the background for the poem. Just allow me to make a statement on this matter of 'paid love'. Men look for love in the most unlikely places, but women find it everywhere, and help themselves to it. Many might disagree, but such is my observation of the difference in the genders and their quest for that be-all of existence. If I can hold on to one thing before I go, I would choose that person who has shown me the utmost example of love - without boundaries and definitions, no commitments, no measures, just the pleasure of being together. If you have found such a person - hold this person tight, he/she is the one.
By: Doris F. Cornago
What do you know of love
Something that is peddled
As wares on a side street
by perfumed women in tights
and low cut bodices - their
dead eyes fastened on bread.
Or the course one takes
Upon seeing a new face
Meeting eyes in a crowded room
a nod of understanding
hurry out of the room
before somebody senses.
An excuse from boredom
A rubbing of flesh
A grapple, a cry of pain
She has mistaken you
for somebody more gentle
Now she is screaming poison.
We are strangers from start
we pretend we need love
to unmask others, make them
conform to the person we want
In our utter ignorance, love
turns from unmasking to deception.
Tawfeeq Hasan Khan
(1/30/2014 4:49:00 AM)
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I think that a poem should be like a dirty ocean whose depth cant be seen but can be felt only if you dive deep into it.
(1/28/2014 2:28:00 PM)
i think just flow with your feeling n write whatever you feel after all poetry is flow of feelings......
(1/28/2014 7:00:00 AM)
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Writing poetry is the life-breath, respiratory system and a going on process.
Gangadharan Nair Pulingat
(1/27/2014 8:44:00 AM)
I am very much interested to read and recite poems and trying to understand its meanings the poet supposed to understand by the reader. I think that poems beautifully created by the poets of eminence is really worth to social awakening in every sphere of life and making the reader so enthusiastic for societal obligations in right sense. Be it sorrow, enviornment protection, nature, river and any subject is so much interesting when it comes as a poem for an interested reader. Poets and poems are the real connectivity link for international human relations and humanity at large I think.
(1/23/2014 12:44:00 PM)
Hey, I'm inviting you to check out my site The Poet Society.Net. (http://www.thepoetsociety.net) . Also if you have any suggestions or comments on the site, you can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. CHEERS! ! !
PS: Keep writing ;)
(1/22/2014 11:00:00 PM)
@ JC: The lines were good, but honesty was lost in alien words. Good poems are those which wish to connect with the least difficulty as possible. I dislike smoke-screening and pretense, but a full view of what's what is most appreciated by all. In simple understandable English like a good movie that makes you run or walk, depending on the cue.
(1/22/2014 10:55:00 PM)
@ Metamorphh: Yep. Rhymers are best in my opinion. They give poems that melodious quality that makes you feel welcomed by the poet. It is like sitting side by side together and going on the rhythm of bodies closely touching, rather than being pushed recklessly behind by the other, as some poems do. My poem is also somewhere in this page. See if you like the easy rhythm of waves rolling in and out.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
(1/22/2014 8:52:00 AM)
While I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry, I particularly like writing rhymers. Creating within the strictures of rhyme I find to be challenging, exhilarating and just plain fun. So, a little challenge, maybe?How's about something a bit abstract?Here's my offering, and looking forward to seeing what you've got...
Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.
So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.
An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.
All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.
The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
(their sh*t’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .
The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
the whole yawning yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
(from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)
The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.
The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
t’was God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .