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Byron

Poetry is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

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Poetry in the sky

Poetry in the sky,
sweet as apple pie,
flows through the ear,
and into the mind so dear.

wrote 11-22-06

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The Metaphor of Poetry/Meets The Mysteries Of The Soul

THE METAPHOR OF POETRY

The metaphor of poetry
Meets the mysteries of the soul
And wakes us in words
To worlds of wonder.

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The Imagination Of The Poet

The imagination of the poet
Was used in this poem
Because when he wrote this
Poem he was trying hard
To create the image for this poem

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The Poetry Of The Old

THE POETRY OF THE OLD

The Poetry of the old
Is a smaller poetry
A more fragile poetry
A quieter poetry.
The Poetry of the old
Does not raise its voice
It sings to itself softly
And does not really hope to be heard.
The poetry of the old
Is a quiet poetry
And its name
Is mostly ‘Sadness’.

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Lust May Be a Game of the Imagination

Lust may be a game of the imagination
But there was no love
Like our bodies' love
When we touched
And held each other
Even the mind died in happiness-

O Ecstasy you and I
Ecstasy our bodies
In each other
Oh love my love for your
And your love for me

Long go
Before it all ended
In sadness.

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Poetry Is The Language Of Our Deepest Feeling

POETRY IS THE LANGUAGE OF OUR DEEPEST FEELING

Poetry is the language of our deepest feeling
It makes Beauty even of our Darkness
And shares with others our Light.

Without Poetry we would be less in life-
With it,
The inner anguish the soaring of the soul
Our real lives whatever they may be-
Find Meaning in Expression..

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There Are Times/ When The Poetry Of The Poem

THERE ARE TIMES/ WHEN THE POETRY OF THE POEM

There are times
When the poetry of the poem,
And the poetry of the poet
Are poetry.

But there are too times
When the poetry of the poet
And the poetry of the poem
Are not poetry.

There are times
When all the poetry,
And all the poets in the universe
Do not make the world a poem.

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Poetry of the earth

Poetry calls me out of darkness,
Poetry lights my candle!
When the king wears a crown,
When the beggar wears a frown,
I'll take you to town!

Poetry of the earth is never dead,
Poetry of the earth - never shall it end:
When the blackbirds sing,
When a boxer enters the ring,
When a bee gives you a sting,
Joy and comfort to your soul I'll bring!

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There Was A Time / When Poetry Was The Poet's Only Life

THERE WAS A TIME/ WHEN POETRY WAS THE POET’S ONLY LIFE

There was a time
When Poetry was the Poet’s only life-
All that was in his experience
Had its meaning
Only as Poetry.

But when he began to understand
Poetry’ had primarily become a ‘means’
For his own Greed and Ego.
Poetry was lost.

But as he was a Poet in his soul,
He and his life too were also lost.

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How Can Poetry Heal The Sick?

HOW CAN POETRY HEAL THE SICK?

How can Poetry heal the sick?
When the sick can no longer speak
The Poetry within them?
How can Poetry heal
Those who can no longer hear it?
How can Poetry be anything
When the suffering person
Barely has a mind anymore?

God has given us Poetry
A Great Blessing -
But like all God has given us
At certain times
It simply is not good enough.

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I Have Written My Poetry For The Day

I HAVE WRITTEN MY POETRY FOR THE DAY

I have written my poetry for the day
I can rest-
But there is no end to it
When it wants to come-
And why should there be an end to it now?
One day there will be
Without my trying.

Let my poetry come then
Let some song in me be free
Let whatever feeling I have
And especially whatever joy
Say itself-

Come now my words
Tell me again
Life is good.

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The man whose riches satisfy his greed

The man whose riches satisfy his greed
Is not more rich for all those heaps and hoards
Than some poor man who has enough to feed
And clothe his corpse with such as God affords.

I have no use for men who steal and cheat;
The fruit of evil poisons those who eat.

Some wicked men are rich, some good men poor,
But I would rather trust in what's secure;
Our virtue sticks with us and makes us strong,
But money changes owners all day long.

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Poetry In The Closets

Poetry in the closets,
words are all stuffed away,
Open the closet door once more
so the words can say

'Listen friend and catch the thoughts
and make them come to bear.
Don't leave them where they can't be heard
for poetry takes you where
you fall in love with words again
like no prose itself can do.'
It opens your mind to brand new ideas
and then when you're through
you'll say

'Poetry in the closets
come out where you belong.
Take your proper place once more
beside each touching song.'

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The poetry of the earth is never dead

True that the poetry of the earth is never dead

The grasshopper and the cricket testify that

But another great war will take place

It will a nuclear one I am sure

That will be the end of grasshopper and cricket

That will be the end of the poetry of earth

Presently with another great war

our dear earth will turn into a piece of charcoal in a moment

to dissolve in the space

Thank you Herr Einstein

Thank you Oppenheimer

Thank you Gamow

Thanks to the disinterested curiosity of science

To me the meanest flower that blows

tells me what man has made of the earth

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Mr. Cogito and the Imagination

Mr. Cogito never trusted
tricks of the imagination

the piano at the top of the Alps
played false concerts for him

he didn't appreciate labyrinths
the Sphinx filled him with loathing

he lived in a house with no basement
without mirrors of dialectics

jungles of tangled images
were not his home

he would rarely soar
on the wings of metaphor
and then he fell like Icarus
into the embrace of the Great Mother

he adored tautologies
explanations
idem per idem

that a bird is a bird
slavery means slavery
a knife is a knife
death remains death

he loved
the flat horizon
a straight line
the gravity of the earth

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All Poetry... All The Time

All Poetry … All The Time
I Love To Read In Rhythm & Rhyme
I Love To Write Of Wistful Wishes
And Lips Speak Of Love Like Bold Kisses

All Poetry … All The Time
Poetry, Is A Medication For My Mind
Poetry, Has A Power To Overthrow Pain
Poetry, Should Be Spoken, Again and Again

All Poetry … All The Time
I Am Really Thrilled To Find
More Poet Lovers, and Their Word Artistry
All The Time … All Poetry

All Poetry … All The Time
May Each Poetic Puff, Rise & Climb
Into The Clouds, Up To The Stars
(Or Maybe Just Linger, Where You Are) …

All Poetry … For All Of Time


Written & ©: 5/24/10

By: MoonBee

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 52: So am I as the rich whose blessèd key

So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in that long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placèd are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.
Blessèd are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.

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Up-Wellsprings Poetry From The Coldest; Deserts Hearts

'Up-wellsprings poetry from the coldest; deserts hearts'.
Where; blooms the most exotic flowers of all…
'They're dunes, they're zephyrs, and they're petals caul,
Wrap-around each sunset—sunrise subverts'.

'Yet, they're as real as any pollen-laden bee.
In the art of subtlety, such, interactions…
Deceiving as the moon, undercurrents the sea:
But, these ruses are finite, attractions'.

'They call for intricacy, a little mystery!
And of course they all question what if, anything'.
'Poems are about: Do, they have integrity
Who'll balm just one soul, Lord Where to begin?
Each word, a sphere orbiting—another!
Let's not be over analytical… my lover'.

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Reading poetry on the Web

i wade through rivers
of diamonds, rubies,
plain rocks and stones
that criss cross the world
picking up gems
poetry on the web
i wade through rivers
to get to international souls
sacred rivers of all kinds
ganges, indus, nile, mekong
chao phraya
filled with stones
heads of all kinds,
round, flat, sharp,
black, white, green,
brown, yellow, big and small,
sand, silt, gravel,
between them when lucky
precious gems turn up to greet me
fishes help spread the magic
liven up nooks and corners
some sprint, some plain swim
among these, the best rivers
are crystal clear,
a dazzling picture of sky, heaven
taking the breath of god
as they whisper a poetic tale
immediately marked in gold by the morning sun

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Poetry holds the veil

Poetry, like Joseph, draws a written veil across its face,
Poetry speaks from behind the shawl of its own intrigue.
My beloved would know my plight if he read my verse,
He would sense my pain if he heard my cries.

Poetry, like the brow of my beloved, it is a sea of beauty,
Fitting for those of vision to reflect upon.

Poetry, like Mount Sinai of Moses, has witnessed the divine,
Struck by his figure, it shattered into shards.

Poetry uncovers the cravings of an aggrieved people,
For the foolish lover, my book of verse is a vow of maddened love.

Poetry is revealed in the realm of truth,
Each line invokes a voice of an unseen world.

Ardent like the roses, Yahya, I am too immersed
When I recite verses about his well-formed physique.

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