What is poetry?
lets take a thought
twist it around
write it down
make it rhyme
keep it up with the time
these words are feelings
thrown into a story
made to share
then maybe compare
poetry is something we change
make it our own
pick it up
break it
rebuild it
possibly kill it
poetry is everywhere
in the things we read
the songs we hear
it is constantly there
poetry is my therapy
i write to explain
i read to understand
i post to share
i hope you care
poetry is like water
always going somewhere
changing
rearranging
but somehow always the same
twist it around
write it down
make it rhyme
keep it up with the time
these words are feelings
thrown into a story
made to share
then maybe compare
poetry is something we change
make it our own
pick it up
break it
rebuild it
possibly kill it
poetry is everywhere
in the things we read
the songs we hear
it is constantly there
poetry is my therapy
i write to explain
i read to understand
i post to share
i hope you care
poetry is like water
always going somewhere
changing
rearranging
but somehow always the same
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
i didn’t read
your poem
my eyes saw a thing behind the words it screamed and
nails and hands and face and screaming and
a small tiny knife because stanley is dead
dead
rip my stanley
i dont want to think too much because it kills
not me the other one
i kill and kill and bleach my cerebellum
who wants food
not me
why would i want to eat
what good is food to me
yes,
that’s better
your poem
my eyes saw a thing behind the words it screamed and
nails and hands and face and screaming and
a small tiny knife because stanley is dead
dead
rip my stanley
i dont want to think too much because it kills
not me the other one
i kill and kill and bleach my cerebellum
who wants food
not me
why would i want to eat
what good is food to me
yes,
that’s better
"Evolution of Expression"
I vividly recall my first time, long ago, in the 70’s, I touched it, rolled it around in my fingers and let it pour out onto the paper with it’s well lubricated tip. Yes, it was ecstasy, my very first time writing with a Pilot Pen. Oh not just any Pilot Pen, but an extra fine tip Pilot Pen. Yes, yes, YES! I can still feel the smoothness of it’s ink as it came out of the tiny, prickly point. I was not prepared for what was to happen to me that day and so many days after that. I knew I could never go back. My pencils were never again to break their points in those cast iron behemoths attached to the counter top of the classroom window sills.
Never again were those graphite bleeding sticks going to make the heel of my hand turn shades of grey by the end of the day. From that POINT on, I was going to be faithful to my new lover, to only use Pilot for as long as we both shall live. And soon I discovered that office supply stores existed where one could buy Pilots in bulk, yes, many, many pens, all in a box.
But even as I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, there was something even more incredible that awaited my discovery. Pilot made them in GREEN and PURPLE and RED and BLUE!!!! OMG in Heaven! COLORS, so many COLORS. I was never so unprepared as the day I discovered COLORS. I bought them by the box-fulls, saved my lunch money, my ice cream sandwich money, my garlic stick money, yes, you heard me right, my Leonzo’s Pizza Garlic Stick money was sacrificed for a rainbow of Pilot Extra Fine Point color pens by the boxful.
And if not for these amazing instruments of artistically
creative writing tools, I might never have written my first poem.
So there I was, alone in my room, afraid my mother would walk in my room and catch me rolling one around in my fingertips, making it pour my passions out onto the page.
Fortunately, she never discovered my little secret.
But then a terrible thing happened one day. I was standing outside the Ramada Inn in Saratoga Springs, NY, waiting for the members of the WHO to arrive after the concert they had performed in Glens Falls. I learned from a friend who was a stage crew member, and the son of the local concert promoter, that the band would be staying there. So there I stood, waiting in great anticipation for my heroes to step out of their
Limousines and grasp in their hands my favorite, most loved tool of all my writing Pilot Pens. Each member arrived in a separate Limo. First was John Entwistle, as I bowed humbly in his presence, holding out my finest Pilot Pen for him to use while signing a handwritten copy of my book of poems. It was a sweet moment as he took it in his hand and scrolled his signature across the page. I watched in pure happiness as his name appeared beneath the extra fine point of my pen, YES, MY PEN!
He kindly handed my pen and book back to me with a smile on his face. It was a beautiful moment for me, but was to soon be outdone when Roger Daultry got out of the next Limo. Just as John had done before him, Roger took the mighty pen in his fingers and signed his name in my hand written book of
poems. It was indeed a sweet moment that lingered until the final Limo arrived. Within it’s doors, behind windows too dark to see beyond their reflective surface was a man of such
greatness I nearly peed my pants. The man who wrote TOMMY and so may masterpieces of rock-n-Roll. OMG the anticipation!
I prepared my pen, taking off the cap and placing it on the back of the pen so his majesty would not be bothered with such a mundane task. I opened my book to the place I wanted him to sign and as he stepped out of the car, I asked him, “Mr. Townsend, may I please have your autograph?” He looked at me for a brief moment and I feared he was going to say no. But alas, he reached out, took my Extra Fine tipped Pilot Pen into his majestic fingers, looked at the pen, as if to acknowledge my fine taste in pens and began to write his name into my book of hand written poems, when it happened. OMG, no dear lawd, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!, The extra fine tipped Pilot Pen ran out of ink half way through his signature. My heart stopped, yes, it really STOPPED! I thought I was dead for a moment.
Only my panic infused my blood with enough adrenalin to restart my heart and allow me to think as swiftly as my mind was able. I reached out without a millisecond of delay, grabbed the pen from his hand as he looked at me with a startled expression. I wildly shook the pen and made a quick line on a piece of paper in my hand to be sure it would once again bleed on the page of my hand written book of poems, and YES, thank the lawd, it worked once again. I reached out, put the pen back in Pete’s magnificent fingers, but gently, and as he looked at me, still expressing the look of surprise, but slightly laughing, and continued on with his forever lasting signature. A moment in time I will never forget.
It’s interesting to note, you can still see the impression on the page where his signature ran out of ink just below his finished name.
Afterwards, I had time to reflect on the happenings of the event. I began to look at that pen with disappointment. It nearly let me down at the most important time of its life. In fact, I no longer saw it as alive. It was just another pen among hundreds of Pilot Pens I had. When I got home, I placed it in a drawer with a dozen or so others just like it. They were all mixed together and I could not tell them apart aside from a few red, green and blues. I don’t know what ever happened to that pen. I may still have it in a pen box with several of my old pens I kept after they ran out of ink. Or it might have been thrown away by my mother, who was always rummaging through my things and throwing out my stuff when I wasn’t looking.
It wasn’t long after that when I started using a typewriter and later a computer to write my poetry. Gradually pens lost their allure and now it is extremely rare when I put a pen to paper and even more rare when I use a pencil. Still, I have so many fond memories of those extra fine point Pilot Pens that it brings a smile to my face when I see someone else writing with one, or pass the stationary section of a store and look up to see them still hanging there, being sold to this day, those extra fine point Pilot pens, ahhh yessss, the memories are oh so sweet...
(JJ Johnson)
I vividly recall my first time, long ago, in the 70’s, I touched it, rolled it around in my fingers and let it pour out onto the paper with it’s well lubricated tip. Yes, it was ecstasy, my very first time writing with a Pilot Pen. Oh not just any Pilot Pen, but an extra fine tip Pilot Pen. Yes, yes, YES! I can still feel the smoothness of it’s ink as it came out of the tiny, prickly point. I was not prepared for what was to happen to me that day and so many days after that. I knew I could never go back. My pencils were never again to break their points in those cast iron behemoths attached to the counter top of the classroom window sills.
Never again were those graphite bleeding sticks going to make the heel of my hand turn shades of grey by the end of the day. From that POINT on, I was going to be faithful to my new lover, to only use Pilot for as long as we both shall live. And soon I discovered that office supply stores existed where one could buy Pilots in bulk, yes, many, many pens, all in a box.
But even as I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, there was something even more incredible that awaited my discovery. Pilot made them in GREEN and PURPLE and RED and BLUE!!!! OMG in Heaven! COLORS, so many COLORS. I was never so unprepared as the day I discovered COLORS. I bought them by the box-fulls, saved my lunch money, my ice cream sandwich money, my garlic stick money, yes, you heard me right, my Leonzo’s Pizza Garlic Stick money was sacrificed for a rainbow of Pilot Extra Fine Point color pens by the boxful.
And if not for these amazing instruments of artistically
creative writing tools, I might never have written my first poem.
So there I was, alone in my room, afraid my mother would walk in my room and catch me rolling one around in my fingertips, making it pour my passions out onto the page.
Fortunately, she never discovered my little secret.
But then a terrible thing happened one day. I was standing outside the Ramada Inn in Saratoga Springs, NY, waiting for the members of the WHO to arrive after the concert they had performed in Glens Falls. I learned from a friend who was a stage crew member, and the son of the local concert promoter, that the band would be staying there. So there I stood, waiting in great anticipation for my heroes to step out of their
Limousines and grasp in their hands my favorite, most loved tool of all my writing Pilot Pens. Each member arrived in a separate Limo. First was John Entwistle, as I bowed humbly in his presence, holding out my finest Pilot Pen for him to use while signing a handwritten copy of my book of poems. It was a sweet moment as he took it in his hand and scrolled his signature across the page. I watched in pure happiness as his name appeared beneath the extra fine point of my pen, YES, MY PEN!
He kindly handed my pen and book back to me with a smile on his face. It was a beautiful moment for me, but was to soon be outdone when Roger Daultry got out of the next Limo. Just as John had done before him, Roger took the mighty pen in his fingers and signed his name in my hand written book of
poems. It was indeed a sweet moment that lingered until the final Limo arrived. Within it’s doors, behind windows too dark to see beyond their reflective surface was a man of such
greatness I nearly peed my pants. The man who wrote TOMMY and so may masterpieces of rock-n-Roll. OMG the anticipation!
I prepared my pen, taking off the cap and placing it on the back of the pen so his majesty would not be bothered with such a mundane task. I opened my book to the place I wanted him to sign and as he stepped out of the car, I asked him, “Mr. Townsend, may I please have your autograph?” He looked at me for a brief moment and I feared he was going to say no. But alas, he reached out, took my Extra Fine tipped Pilot Pen into his majestic fingers, looked at the pen, as if to acknowledge my fine taste in pens and began to write his name into my book of hand written poems, when it happened. OMG, no dear lawd, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!, The extra fine tipped Pilot Pen ran out of ink half way through his signature. My heart stopped, yes, it really STOPPED! I thought I was dead for a moment.
Only my panic infused my blood with enough adrenalin to restart my heart and allow me to think as swiftly as my mind was able. I reached out without a millisecond of delay, grabbed the pen from his hand as he looked at me with a startled expression. I wildly shook the pen and made a quick line on a piece of paper in my hand to be sure it would once again bleed on the page of my hand written book of poems, and YES, thank the lawd, it worked once again. I reached out, put the pen back in Pete’s magnificent fingers, but gently, and as he looked at me, still expressing the look of surprise, but slightly laughing, and continued on with his forever lasting signature. A moment in time I will never forget.
It’s interesting to note, you can still see the impression on the page where his signature ran out of ink just below his finished name.
Afterwards, I had time to reflect on the happenings of the event. I began to look at that pen with disappointment. It nearly let me down at the most important time of its life. In fact, I no longer saw it as alive. It was just another pen among hundreds of Pilot Pens I had. When I got home, I placed it in a drawer with a dozen or so others just like it. They were all mixed together and I could not tell them apart aside from a few red, green and blues. I don’t know what ever happened to that pen. I may still have it in a pen box with several of my old pens I kept after they ran out of ink. Or it might have been thrown away by my mother, who was always rummaging through my things and throwing out my stuff when I wasn’t looking.
It wasn’t long after that when I started using a typewriter and later a computer to write my poetry. Gradually pens lost their allure and now it is extremely rare when I put a pen to paper and even more rare when I use a pencil. Still, I have so many fond memories of those extra fine point Pilot Pens that it brings a smile to my face when I see someone else writing with one, or pass the stationary section of a store and look up to see them still hanging there, being sold to this day, those extra fine point Pilot pens, ahhh yessss, the memories are oh so sweet...
(JJ Johnson)
Just sharing my thoughts on the subject matter...
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/160584-poetic-justice/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/160584-poetic-justice/
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
Poetry is waking to the smell of homemade biscuits hot from the oven....and you're too hungover to get out of bed and crawl to the kitchen table....
Anonymous
Poetry is running with scissors in front of your mom while laughing hysterically....
