Poets

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

At A Closer Glance

I saw a bunch of poets 
on a line 
at the Avalon 
in San Francisco 

They looked so tired 
So, I approached them 
then stated 
"you guys look beat" 

but, at a closer glance 
they were just stoned 

Allen was there 
with Corso and Ferlinghetti 
Bukowski was around the corner 
trading his wife for cigarettes 

again

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tags:

Ode to the Brooklyn Post Hanging on the Bridge

one little poem
can heal a hurt
one little poem
in the pocket of a shirt

a shirt that's ripped
with a spot of dirt
has a poem in its pocket
that could heal a hurt

a hurt can't heal
if a heart can't hear
the words of the poem
that create the cure

the cure for the hurt
it begins with a verse
but you need to read the words
so the cure can be heard

be heard all ye poets
check the pocket of your shirts
and speak of the poem
that can heal a hurt

a hurt can be healed
by the power of a verse
one little poem
in the pocket of your shirt

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About the Poets

 Who is a poet?

 

How to define a poet?


At times it seems so intricate,


As the rocket science of late!

 

 

A poet is emotional,


A poet is sentimental,


A poet is humane,


A poet is sane.


 

Some become poets, some are born!

 

The born ones have poetry inborn!

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tags:

Bukowski

I'm trying my hardest not to be a hindrence today,

It takes guts to be a Bukowski,

An Addonizio,

So eloquently they place their poison onto paper,

Like mad scientists gently dropping stimuli into a petri dish,

I envy their freedom of broken heartedness,

Their right to calamity,

I wish I could tell the whole world,

How fast my head is spinning,

How often I pick myself apart,

How quickly it all turns grey,

But I know my demons carry a great weight,

And I'm terrified of making a friend carry that burden,

What's to stop them,

From cutting that dangling string connecting my life raft to their cruise ship,

Leaving me to drift aimlessly in the sea,

As I had been urging them to,

On those lonely nights I let the drunken poetic rats,

Out of their filthy festering cages.

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What Kind of Poet am I?

Folder: 
Just a thought!

The things we write, some good some bad.

Depends on the day, whether happy or sad..

Some things we write are misunderstood,

The critiques weigh in, if it's bad or good.


I wear Snoopy bandaids to lighten the blow..

From pretentious poets who think they know.

I bounce words that rhyme from one to the other,

Most having meaning the synapse will cover.


I write for grins to help pass my day,

In hopes a smile will come your way.

Not everyone comments , so, I may never know it...

I guess in the end, I'm just a rubber poet' 


by Barry Anderson








 

 


Author's Notes/Comments: 

"What kind of poet am I?"

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Poem: Today's Great Undead Poets

Today’s great undead poets,
awash in the internet sea,
seek to fill the void of sensible emptiness
of our cyberspace world.
Following the heroic tradition of Man,
these daring individuals look to gain acceptance
through the expression of concepts.
Mirroring the virility and vitality of Life,
in defiance of critical naysayers,
the blankness of virtual paper
is scribbled upon with hurt, hope and ideals.
Writing styles and topics,
whether expressed in romanticized language
or the coarseness of profanity,
are brilliantly reflected in individualized glory
and authors bask in the personal satisfaction of achievement.
In the ever continuing flow of poetic thought,
today’s great undead poets
find treasures in the discovery of self.
 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

 

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

 

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THE WEIGH OF WORDS

THE WEIGH OF WORDS
                   Edward Iacona

 From the dawn of the written word
It soon became the norm
For writers in almost every tongue
Including ancient Cuneiform.

To describe the essence of love
And in literary ways to drape them.
So lover's may borrow a clever phrase
When their own words escape them.

Elizabeth Barret Browning
On one of her romantic days,
Decided to enumerate her love
As she counted all her ways.

It's in "Sonnets Of The Portuguese"
But I will tell you before you begin it
There is not a word about Portugal
That is anywhere within it.

She walks in beauty like the night
And at Lord Byron I do not scoff.
As I have heard love's often easier
When the lights are off.

Even Poe who is never cheery
Carried on about his lost dearie
Going on about his lost Lenore
While some poor Raven squawked, "Nevermore".

Burns compared his love to a red red rose
A most popular match by far.
That thorny flower is a common choice
But that is just the way things are.

Shakespeare's Romeo to his Juliet would tell
That a Rose called by any other name
Would have a similar sweet smell
And, with such words was fanned the flame.

Then it was Gertrude Stein who wrote
A Rose is a Rose is a Rose.
What she exactly meant by that.
I can only guess, "Who knows?"

And, one need not be Russian
To spread a little loving joy
By quoting some romantic Pushkin
To a darling ptenchik moi

From the face that launched one thousand ships
To the face on the barroom floor..
Alas, for the woman that I truly LOVE
There is no adequate metaphor..

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