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Sumairupoetry Jul 2019
take my pen.
write your own conclusion.

~

take my pen.
scribble your own miseries.

~

take my pen.
jot your own formalities.

~

take my pen.
scrawl your own elegy.

~

take my pen.
compose your own poetry.

~

take my pen
scribing is no use for me.
Leo Janowick Mar 2019
My fingers fly
  across the keys

trying to compose
  my thoughts to please

For you, my dear,
  my lovely Wife

The woman I chose
to call my Wife.

My heart is yours
to have and to hold

forever dear,
  as we grow old.

I Love You.
Compose with me here
Lyrics oozing honey
Enchanted sweetly words
All light and sunny, stars and moon;
Orchestrate with me here
Winds tinged harmony
Melody and tune, heard
All along the fields gold of noon;
Sing with me here
This love song we wrote
That we keep writing on
Come lows and highs the notes
Together - in duet.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?

One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
aisha Apr 2018
people like me write
poems and prose
composing
lyrics and stories
about people like you

even though you
don't deserve
to be
put down
in words
and
be remembered
in history
TS Jul 2017
How it hurts to know, to see
that I won't ever have the words flow, like you, through me.

My sentence structure, lacking
thoughts toss upon the sea, the sail we're tacking.

There is no passion to my words,
just novice, vice sent to up to the birds.

My strong desire, though, is meek
to dance with words until my hand grows weak.

Please be patient whilst I learn,
to write, to feel this wistful nocturne.

-t.s.
Star BG Jun 2017
To write, or not to write
that is the question,
as I stand at pedestal of my oak desk.
The moments fine to take the plunge.

To scribe, or not to scribe
that is the question,
as deep breath grounds my poet's heart.
The moments grand for starting new.

To scrawl or not to scrawl,
that is the question,
as fantasies grow inside dreams.
The moment is lined with adventures.

To compose, oh to compose
is the answer,
as energies of heart leads on,
and manuscript-like boat floats gracefully.

Floats to be christened
inside waves for a lyrical birth.

Floats, to be christened
inside waves for a lyrical birth.

StarBG © 2017
Playing with idea of choosing to write or not write
I carry an umbrella again
and find gigs to play
when soon my adherent of veracity
does connect mood with a thread
here her snooty wish now verbosity
and fill nights with vicissitude
that can still cling to virtual attitude
with a quasar if I can compose near
as a constellation tout direct ties there
though multitudes from clouds of authenticity
and ridden with adversity only good as Columbus
while a homespun manicure of bliss
will stiffen stations with thine air
and stake canvass in this future sound.
Pauline Morris May 2016
You can not see because of the light
It is way to bright
Let the darkness soothe your sight
Relaxe, stop your fight
Let the darkness end your blight
Welcome in the coming night
Make you forget the worlds snakebite
That left you feeling so contrite
In the darkness your fears you can smite
Let the darkness left you upright
Find your wings and take flight
Then you will be able to indite
And sing through the skys like a meteorite
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