Writing

Treesongs

Do you -- do you know the reason they moan? 

Like abled creatures and beings, 
or the pullings tides, 
our watchful trees with too to move. 

They wish to enjoy the harvest, to dance in their fallen leaves. 
They long to sway and sing with the times of change, 
and to see the miracles of seed. 

But their roots are buried deep, 
and to be removed is defeat. 

So they sing their lonely songs 
with weathered bark and 
branches that reach for more. 

These are the reasons they moan.  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There was actually more to the poem, but I opted only to share the second half. Just a little something. At the time I was a rather interested in trees. Smile

What Kind of Poet am I?

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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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"What Was That?"

Folder: 
Just a thought!

People are people, they either write like they know everything...or know nothing..

Depends what you read at the time... In the end, all words run on and disappear...

Pages and thoughts stuck together, Titles smeared from coffee rings and time.

Your mind stained from perceived notions or useless banter. Trying to forage

a useable thought... Head shakes, jaws flap, trying to eliminate brain overload...

I need a "System Restore button!"




Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just some humor....If you don't get it...."Too bad so sad"Tongue Out

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What to write about?

Sometimes appears like the cloud a doubt,


If must I write, what to write about?


At times certain first-rate topics spring up,


As the smoke from the coffee-cup.


 

At times think I to write about anything,


Irrespective of something vital or trifling,


Writing on and on should matter,


Writing on and on is the motto ‘my dear’.


 

Now I know what to write about,


Now I know how not to give in to any doubt!

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A Painted Pony

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Just a thought!

Could you write "A Painted Pony", could you coin a lucid phrase?

Would your words be true, or misconscrewed, like reading through a maze?

When you enter conversation, does it start with Thee and Thou?

Do you shovel it so deeply, they wear boots and use a plow?

Sometimes it's good to throw in words like,"the" and "that" and "and",

"Easily not, may words come forth" when written in the sand!

Many things were written, "twisted verse" back in the day,

But the way they wrote was understood, cause' they even talked that way.

Now, this isn't the 1500's with a "Brooke or Painter" delight...

(Where Shakesphere "borrowed" most of his words)..To become a famous playwright!

So, choose your words for all to read, let your conscience be your guide...

"May all who attempt your assemblage of text, decipher far and wide!"







Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just came to me...no reason!...lolTongue Out....The Shakesphere part refers to "Romeo and Juliet"...

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On Writing (Just a Thought)

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2014

I seldom part my lips, people say.
I want to make it count when I do.
My pen bleeds words I don’t speak.
If I am anything
I am a writer.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There is nothing to writing. You just sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
~Ernest Hemingway

Written 12/16/14

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Language Quest

 

Language Quest

           by Odin Roark

 

To be at one with the words we write and read

Is to appreciate more than mere definition.

 

For does not a lexical feast banter the intellect

Akin to the salivary nature of hunger

When morsels of perceived gastric comfort

Trigger stomach sounds of flirtatious want?

 

Where is it stated communication is unequivocal?

What prevents the mind’s eye to free associate,

To carve tributaries of free-flow additions,

To make the valleys of verbal tundra inviting

For the reward of a peak’s thin-air high?

 

Oh to be open for fresh discovery,

To welcome the twists and turns

Every trail to learning’s higher reaches provides,

To look hopefully around the soft curve of every syllable,

The rock-like nature of strident consonants,

And the ever welcome foreshadowing of revelation,

Dedicated to reward aches and pains of tenacity’s patience.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

With so much to derive from a single word, is it not puzzling how little time is spent today with reading and writing of extended thoughts, ideas and observations beyond the 140 character pastime? 

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Sheer Poetry

 

Transparent thoughts

veiled in mystery,

flow

like vaporous silks

running between my fingers.


They glide along

effortlessly-

delicate chiffon,

touching my heart

with gentle airy caresses.


Soft, breathless breezes

billow aside curtains

that cover the windows of my soul,

admitting the passage

of fabricated light to circulate freely.


Diaphanous,

white laced dreams

course through the eye of the needle,

pinpointing where lives are sewn together,

binding the seams.


Delicate swatches

of see-through tulle,

bound with gossamer ribbons,

fasten frayed and worn edges,

with sturdy borders.


A crafting of a hand-woven

tapestry of my life,

embellished with my thoughts and dreams,

fragile and lucid

upon translucent parchment.



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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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