"penman" poems
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]
when i start by name
perhaps in a flap of fault
exculpate my soul
for maximum rectitude
is the true fill of my heart
glory to the sons of Russia
Kudos to you all and your foremen;
Nikolai Gogol the master in the dead souls
Alexander Pushkin the effeminate poet
Vladimir Lenin who knew what was doable
Alexander sholenestysn the Siberian jail bird
who was on the poetic phone by five
Feodor Dostoyevsky the epileptic Karamazov
Maxim Gorky and Antony Chenkoy leave them alone
Ayn Rand the woman who shrug the atlas for we the living
Vladimir Nabokov the school master who asked for ***
from her student the adourous ******
Boris Pasternak the Muzhik like Leo Tolstoy
who wanted land beyond the horizon
for doctor Zhivago the **** peasant
or Vladimir Makayavosky who slapped the public
in the face of their capitalistic taste,
Glorified be you all you sons of Russia
your Muse is beautiful and erotically crazy
glory for your humour and your finer threads
with which you have woven for me my poems of dystopia
glory be to you all in the stark oblivion
of Leon Trotsky and his penman Leonid Brezhnev
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
A fond kiss
memories are made
of this.
when love is present
it is sheer bliss
Lips meeting
hearts racing
merging happiness
sublime moment
an action repeated
time after time
salivating prowess
an art practiced
by lovers
the starter
before the main
feast of melting
torsos entwined
followed by contracted
******** ecstacy
A fond kiss
memories are made
of this.
When love is present
it is sheer bliss.
© Andrew Penman 2012
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
Poetry, is not just
The rhyming of some words
It’s expression of a feeling
Which a heart shepherds
A rhapsody of heart and thought
Immersed in joyful bliss
Or dashed upon those rocks
Of agony’s abyss
Pictures made of words
Painted by a quill
Words that dance and twirl
At the penman’s will
The fusion of a thought
With the gift of soul
Emotions that are freed
Without any control
The sorrow of a heart ache
Set in rhythmic prose
The rhythm of true love
Which two hearts compose
Visions sketched in words
For everyone to see
Desires and their dreams
In hopes that they will be
The harmony of lyrics
A mind and heart have spawned
Set, in melodies of verse
To which, we all respond
BOEMS BY JA 413
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
There's a pit where my heart should be
And it'd **** me if you found out,
But I suppose there's no reason you could,
Not when the writing's this ugly.
I don't even have a doubt.
The marks that I got were accepted,
Except for the "two" in my scripting
"Untidy and dull. Short and fat,"
She wrote in perfect penman's art.
Well I didn't care too much for that.
And I watched them pass under the scope,
Fluttering dove feathers with delicate designs,
Learning what they meant, not what was drawn
In bronze or cream or scarlet masks,
Where all traces of blank spaces were gone.
But the mind learns what wasn't taught
And then the eyes can't help but see
The pretty slants of every letter and
The smooth curves between the words
That draw in the reader oh-so lustfully.
Without a care to what was written,
The mind befalls upon the neat,
Tidy, perfect, intricacy of handwriting.
And I could soon see for myself
That I lacked this very crucial feat.
And all my work became so obsolete.
My stories offered so much more, but THEY,
They had the notebooks with the colored cover.
The pages wrought to dust inside
But people tend to push that all away.
So my silken words in their ugly ink
Fell into the shelves without a trace.
All they wanted was to be seen
From inside, but now they're too ashamed
To begin the story with such a rotten face.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
Music is a life
lived
songs are dreams
still
to be
realised
Music is diverse
the people
its
melodies
Music and life
a duet
that thrives
within an
environment
of
harmonious
rhapsody
© Andrew penman 2011
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:06 PM UTC
I sit alone on the grass
fixated thoughts of you
my mother so bold
a vision of loveliness
a sight to behold
I miss your passion for life
through tales recalled
so much trouble and strife
combined with the joy
of giving me life.
I am walking in a meadow
of beautiful flowers
that whisper sweet melodies
carried away in the wind
captured by birds in flight
who serenade me well
into the night.
I will cherish the memory
of this day
when I saw your vision
in the light
holding it in my mind
until we are no longer apart
two spirits dancing
in a meadow of song
happily sharing one heart.
©Andrew Penman 2012
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 6:05 AM UTC
I often sit on my own
although never alone
my pencils make me smile
after scribbling for a while
I see beauty flow from
my inner core
a creative spark
fills me with glee
I am content being me
alone in a crowded room
characters bounding around
on the paper singing loud
a maddening crowd
making me proud
I often sit on my own
although, never alone.
© Andrew Penman 2012
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
invisible flight
paths, translucent truths
lines crisscross
parallel lives
parallel loss
masks and disguises strewn about the place,
meeting me, you would recognize this face,
don't look my age,
what can be seen,
is there any happiness that is not obscene,
is there any doubt in this poet's remorse,
too many lines,
only one life,
words on paper can not be deciphered,
not in code, who taught this boy to write,
penman-ship,
sank in plain view,
this is too easy for the lot of you...
wind gusting as weather digests,
any life form brave enough to venture,
out,
capital idea,
run in a thunder and lightening storm,
with scissors in your outstretched hands,
how is that again,
Eddie?
Didn't work for you?
Sorry this is not about October thirty first,
what a thirst,
For a dark brew,
cesspool stew,
pouring from the insides out,
don't believe what sounds,
words shaped like scalpels,
can do
shave your heart and soul,
down,
down,
why do these sounds,
have a voice that cuts like my own,
oh on a positive note, this too shall end,
tear a strip off there is nothing to defend,
with,
with,
no one to stand beside,
no one too trust at my back,
can't reach the bullseye to prevent the attack,
there may be rhyme
but no reasonable prose,
for if a dark cloud grew darker as it was over
a forlorn brow, upside down smile, caffeine,
fuelled fool spin doctoring, the story of a lifetime,
always forgetting the best part, no heart for
memorization, lazy man playing at this for real,
always a decade plus three hours behind,
write something happy with bunnies and frogs,
talk about love...
bring the lightening
hear the thunder,
face into the wind,
can't leave you all,
like this,
rain pellets feels
like bullets,
absorb every hit,
would put me on my
knees if the legs weren't so stiff,
like the neck,
not a question of pride,
I have none,
not one gram of self worth,
hope grains like a sandy beach,
dream streams like a rainbow arc,
sure,
am I okay,
I will be okay,
when the dragonfly returns my smile.
Holding on till spring.
Let there be spring
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
The moon is lit up at night
The sun is warm and bright
The stars twinkle until daylight
The sea is raging delivering natures reply
The child dies and the Syrian mother asks why
The mind is like the thermostat rising and falling at will
The arrogant politician thinks he is a frying pan that nothing sticks to
The people will rise and the house of lies will fall
The happenings that will shape us all
The people will be left standing tall.
©Andrew Penman ART 2014.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
He cradled pieces
of poetry that
no longer
made much sense
He'd add a word,
here and there
or change some
misused tense
But from metaphors
forgotten to a flow
that slowed to still
the penman died
a lonely death
from all that
moved his quill
Beautiful words
from a dying man -
had he lived and
loved at all
but who will know or
care enough to brace
the penman's fall?
May 27, 2024
May 27, 2024 at 11:29 PM UTC
I am, a penman,
encoded with words from within soul,
Stitched in grace.
Embroidered in breath
and fabric of my being.
I go by many names.
Sorcerer to magically scribe words to page.
Gardner planting seeds of thoughts for readers eyes.
Sculpturer using a tool of pen
to etch out visions.
A Dreamer making my way
across fields of white.
Whatever the title...
I'm glad to share. It is who I am
A gift of a writer inside a human vessel.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
Lovely writer;
Not I,
Lovely penman;
Is you,
Lovely are the words
Once written,
Lovely is the inspiration
Once flowing,
Lovely are the caged birds
Once freed.
Lovely is the imagination,
Once unleashed,
But all that is lovely,
Is not
Lovely at all,
Without
The observation
Of the observer,
The comment
Of the commenter,
The appreciation
To the author...
APAD13 008 - © okpoet
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Hello poems
I'm your penman
And your ship which has sailed over a thousand times
Hello times
Where are you going?
Lord knows in nowhere you will find
Hello no one
Hello some
Hello life and underwhelmingness of love
Hello certainty
Hello un
And hello to you my most newly begun
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
I’m fine
It’s nothing
A cocked brow
A notion
Disinterested sigh
Not important
Bygone valor
Gallantry shrugged
In commonplace lie
Bravado amongst poets
Passion, satire, silent glyphs
Etched to the bone
By penman, scribe
Acting, wishing,
Holding place,
Word, sentence,
Stanza, rhyme
Tears written
Down a hardened face
Literature’s torture
Pain sublime.
He thirsted after knowledge once
Pleasures, power, did pursue
Labored for approvals eye
Quest for love
One’s solemn vow
Words his only retinue
Musical ballads
Crescendo al coda
Bittersweet Grimm’s
Tale apologue send
Turning season’s leaves
Burn fiery gold
Autumn’s soft embrace
Preceding winter
Chilling touch
Of daylight’s end
Words meanings bitten,
Hoarded, gripped in brazen gall
As if to stave off hunger
Hold back the ships
The red dogwood rain
Black cherry fall
Winter’s frost
Its ushered kiss
Loneliness your coffin
Fears entombing wall
My sonata written, cast
Of ebony hue
Guise of pride or humility
Fear whispers
A life’s merits
Achievements
Matter not
Soul hidden
Unread, unsung
Silence
Pride enthroned
Your own tearstained
Rorschach
Lone butterfly blot.
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
Writing is liberating.
Each word part of my heartbeat.
It makes time stops.
And then, one must regroup
to get back to life's reality.
Scribing puts writer into a vortex
that carries one
into new visions, divinely.
It's window that when read
can provide views of understanding.
Writing is a companion
who allows you to
speak freely anytime.
It's a voice buried in words
that gets ignited as one connects.
Scribing are words that hug
in middle of night,
when one can't sleep.
It's fuel that drives thoughts
with no red lights.
Writing is therapy where
one finds no need to hire a therapist.
It's sentences that are like a telegram line
which is electrified by readers eyes.
Scribers are members of sacred club where
membership is free and lasts a lifetime.
It's a penman’s purpose,
that comes at any age.
Writing is thought or emotion
that rockets onto page
with destination... Ones heart.
*******
And poetry sweet poetry
are words that move like blood cells.
Please cut me and watch me bleed.****
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 11:29 AM UTC
May our creative words become seeds that blossom in poem for YOU the readers mind.
May our flowing verse become like stream so YOU drift gracefully.
May our colorful jargon become like a painting so YOU have visions clear.
May our penman gifts engage YOU to see with new eyes.
May our abilities to etch scrpted words upon vellum inspire YOU.
And may we as scribes provide insights so YOU the reader can launch your dreams.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC