Citatepedia^®.com

To succeed, one must be creative and persistent.

quote by John H. Johnson
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Please Do Not Resist

At nighttime I have found my mind,
Can not unwind.
You've got my insight on a hold...
All thoughts I've left behind.

And I know you're not the kind,
To try to probe and define me.
And feeling good I surely do...
Because of you it's true.

A taste I want a little bit...
Of it.
Yes.
A taste I want a little bit,
But I am not a quitter.

I know I'll try to get as much of it,
As I can get.
Oh I know I am persistent...
And it's to your benefit.

A taste I want a little bit...
Of it.
Yes.
A taste I want a little bit,
But I am not a quitter.
And...
I know I'll try to get as much of it,
As I can get.
Oh I know I am persistent...
And it's to your benefit.

And I know you're not the kind,
To try to probe and define me.
And feeling good I surely do.
Because of you it's true.

A taste I want a little bit...
Of it.
Yes.
A taste I want a little bit,
But I am not a quitter.

I know I'll try to get as much of it,
As I can get.
Oh I know I am persistent...
And it's to your benefit.

A taste I want a little bit...
Of it.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Feeling Obligated

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone is feeling isolated.
When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone else is feeling obligated.
Someone else is feeling obligated.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.
To leave another feeling obligated.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Strange

Jason: D.C. 930. How many people from Virginia in here tonight?
Very cool, very cool. I grew up in Virginia.
This is the closest Ive ever played to home, so
this is very very groovy. Lets see what happens.
Strange because I believe it is my future
Staring back at me
With eyes so light
I never dreamed it could be
Anything else than what they could see
Oh, they are colors
That collide and scope
My heart belongs into
Magnificent ever-changing patterns do
Im wide awake at the wheel
Its oh so crazy because I can see
It could be my presence
So pleasantly deprived
Ive never seen the explained prophecies
Or anything else it should be
Oh they are troubled
And disguised behind wise eyes and wise crackin smiles
Hypnotized behind a panel
On a thirty hour drive
Im not at all what I seem
But my intentions are practical inventions
Forgot to mention Im insane by definition
Were taking pictures on the paper
No escape, the morning after I outride the wave
But all in all, its unlikely Ill succeed
Said, all in all, its unlikely
But all in all, its unlikely well succeed
All in all, I said, its unlikely
But all in all, its unlikely Ill succeed
Ive developed a lovely distaste for your heart on my sleeve, yeah
(scatting)
We keep it simple
Keep it clean
Keep repeating the words as often as you need
Oh, think, think
Blinks like a turning signal me to
Turn, turn away oh
From anything good, people say
Oh now, I will be selective, calm, cool and collective
And listening to the voice and its perspective
Hoping that the choices, appropriately respected
Are protecting me, are protecting me
Hey, hey, protecting me, protecting me
And I would like a little sugar in my coffee
I would like a little dream
And Id prefer another smoke before the morning

[...] Read more

song performed by Jason Mraz
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Aunt Mattie's Quilt

Aunt Mattie bent a thousand times down the long black rows
Then battled with the angry weeds so little seeds could grow
Come summer Mattie pulled the snow from cruel and cutting bolls
She was patient pale and slender and was only eight years old
Round 'n round the spinning wheel beneath Aunt Mattie's boot
She recalled the soil and cotton seeds and summer's hopeful shoots
Two winters spun out summer's threads in rich and creamy folds
And she had a bolt of cotton cloth when she turned ten years old
If we bend and plant the seeds and tame the wicked weeds
If we let the sun and rain assist and simplify our needs
If we follow in the barefoot path of one persistent girl
We'll throw a healing quilt across an ever ailing world
Indigo and lavender made up Aunt Mattie's sky
Remembering her childhood days she made the rustic dye
The hour before the day would end it fed young Mattie's dream
She made indigo and lavender when she turned just fourteen
If we bend and plant the seeds and tame the wicked weeds
If we let the sun and rain assist and simplify our needs
If we follow in the barefoot path of one persistent girl
We'll throw a healing quilt across an ever ailing world
Aunt Mattie bends a thousand times down each patchwork row
Piece by piece and stitch by stitch in fading candle glow
The valley of the shadow cannot call her from her seams
Until finishing her lifetime's work she dies at seventeen
If we bend and plant the seeds and tame the wicked weeds
If we let the sun and rain assist and simplify our needs
If we follow in the barefoot path of one persistent girl
We'll throw a healing quilt across an ever ailing world

song performed by Dixie Chicks
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Those Who Go To College

Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.

And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.

So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.

'Not me.'

Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.

And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.

So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.

'I got in college! '

But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?

'I got in college! '

But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?

Since many are in college,
Just to party and to get a degree.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Faith in Belief - Coping Strategy

Must have faith or what else is left?
Lack of faith, sorrow bereft
Belief in a God, nature, galactic deities
Even atheistic belief gives some amenities

Belief in self to succeed
The need to daily feed
Belief in love, seeking to thrive
Faith in thriving to stay alive

Those with no faith to look forward to
Stranded, without a helping clue
Grasp a belief enabling you to cope
One that brings fulfillment with hope

Faith in music unbound
Open ears to the acoustic sound
Sweet rhythms renowned
Belief that art opens the way
Creative devotion bless the day

For some, blind faith is better than none
Others may curse their belief, ready to abscond
Seek a belief peaceful, considerate
Avoid following the fanatical illiterate

The three C’s of hardiness agility
Commitment, Control, Creative ability
Deliver strong sustainability

Belief in Joy and Happiness, treasured gold
Warm goodness and kindness never cold
Resolve persistent griefs
With faith in positive beliefs

(September 2008)

poem by Joshua C. Whiting
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The creative and the receptive

To sing is creative; to listen is receptive.
To play is creative; to watch is receptive.
To write is creative; to read is receptive.
In sex, man is creative and woman, receptive.
21.09.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A Creative Heart

Where is a creative heart in grave,
all we pray for is acheivement,
ignoring our creative attitude and pure
heart, we keep praying yet our heart are creative in all areas,
can a creative heart be seen by a faded heart?
Indeed no heart is weak.

poem by Senator alufalism
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Creative Mind!

Creative mind!
In the land of the heart of your muse to satisfy me;
But, what about those in the snow?

Creative mind!
Out of love in the land of your muse;
But, are you ready to learn? ! !
For, the muse of this love is all about us.

Creative mind!
Justified by the muse of your love;
And like your works as seen by all,
But, try to be yourself always.

Creative mind!
Love it and enjoy it and play with it;
For, the muse of my love is very fast and very easy! !
And like the joy around you in the land of peace,
But, try to understand my sweet muse of love always.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Those of Creative Inclinations

I love it!
When those who perceive,
My ceative sensibilities...
Exposes a sensitivity,
That implies a character weakness.
Those of creative inclinations are often compared.
With limp wrists and tea cups!

But there are very few I now know or then knew,
Who were shy to tell anyone a thing or two...
Or where to go!
Anyone connected to this creative process knows...
It is not a joke.
Not this process carefully invoked...
To provoke a higher consciousness.

Growing older makes one aware,
Of the strength involved in this!

Nor made of fluff are these creative disciplines.
The only ones who believe they are...
Are those who have unruly children.
And have themselves disconnected...
From the creations of their realities.
Wishing to perceive,
Those of creativity are lazy!
Which for the most part,
Has been reluctantly failures man made!
To get a quick buck.
To find themselves at dead ends...
And out of luck!
Shall I say...
On their 'lazy' butts.

Remove the creative process out of schools...
And the manufacturing of fools are produced.
But then again...
I need not to say that today,
Do I?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Vivid Imagination

Vivid imagination should expand
Initiative with intuitions shared
Creating strong momentum unimpaired,
Kicking serf's shackles' strong wrongs most minds b[r]and.
Independent spirit seeks no grand
Embroidered mirage where, when fair truth's bared,
K eystone is found unstable, unprepared,
Valueless, - base built from desert sand,
Integrity, rejecting out of hand
Compromise, incompetence declared,
Kidding not! With facts intact compared,
Intelligence rejects cores coarse, mores bland.
Expediency's unhealthy cup of tea,
Key words are: sound, profound, autonomy!

Veracity and clarity combine
Intensely in a mind which hopes for scope,
Creative recognition not soft soap.
Knowledge wide inside retains design
Innate to contemplate true meanings, line
Existence with the will to grow, not mope,
Keeping ideals intact to underline
Vision deep, whose inner light should shine
Incandescent as the heliotrope.
Charming seems surface smile, yet one must cope,
Keel even though some seek to undermine
Innate principles reject weep whine,
Expect top quality not slippery slope,
Karmic energy to intertwine.

Enchanted by an understanding clear,
Awaiting an osmosis warm whose heart
Should share implicitly, ne'er need to start
To challenge for the sake of challenge here.
Creative thinking helps the mind appear
Open free from artificial art,
Arrogance and intolerance which chart
Shipwreck sure, lure siren insincere.
Touched by heart, tomorrow's travels steer,
Gaining trust, towards berth port where part
And whole are one, soul won with Cupid's dart,
Life, laughter, linked as frontiers disappear.
Energy creative shuns despair,
Choice, voice, combined, find mind binds joys hors pair.

Voice for choice in this decisive year
Important is as effervescent mind
Calls for conditions which can leave behind
Kennelled spirits, steer solutions clear,
Interactive, shared. Ambitions dear

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

What Is From Them Expected

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

With a doing done for them selected
And not much of a choice
To leave behind to neglect or forget

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Those with gifts and talents given
Will confess from birth
They have known from within
What is from them expected
With a doing done from them to complete next

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

All These Busy Busy Entrepreneurial Poets

All these busy, busy entrepreneurial poets
trying to substitute their usefulness for talent.
If you can't sing well enough to bear your own voice
to get lovers and applause on your own merits,
manage a band, control those who can,
network like gyspy moths in a Dutch elm,
take two creative writing courses
from a narcissistic mystagogue projecting
the fraud of the Wizard of Oz on the unsuspecting
listening to a firefly of talent talking like a starmap
about shining, about black holes and supernovas
dark energy and gravitational eyes, and the myriad galaxies
he teaches on the lower rung of a swing
in an institutionalized aviary of higher learning
as if the closest he's ever been to the light
was a dead starfish among the usual relics of a low tide
or sodden firecrackers of insight on a Halloween night.
He teaches you to take out whatever there was never much of
to put in. To strike the definite article
like crab grass out of your well-mown lawn
so you ending up writing in the patois of a robot.

Listen to this swarming starcluster of gnats
in the sunset of the word that's wondering
where all the songbirds went. Maybe it's me
and I've grown reactionary without knowing it
into a vicious old age but I swear my stomach
can't turn another page of a saddle-stitched chapbook
that reads the tea leaves in the broken skull-cup of the moon
like a bowl of soggy cornflakes that taste like breakfast haikus.
You can't live like a maggot and write
like a wounded dragon of the soul. You can't
paint a tsunami in watercolours and claim you know
what it's like to be caught up in the emotional undertow
of a tidal pool that threatened to sweep you out to sea
until your guru or your shrink reminded you like a tugboat
you have to sink before you can call yourself a shipwreck.

I think of Van Gogh. I think of the intensity of a man
of immense humanity, and it occurs to me if he were sitting
on your saffron sectional in your coffee-book living room,
going on obsessively about the nutritional value of cadmium yellow
you'd commit the same sin of omission and condemn him
to his solitude like an asylum for the underfed
listening to the voices in their head telling them
they're better off mad or dead than living on
the aesthetically modified junkfood
you dropp in their begging bowls like chump change.
And, o yes, wouldn't you just be the exception to the rule
who knew how to tell the difference between a sad joke

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Late Spring Snow

Late spring snow on its way.
Dead ochres and colourless greys
that have never heard of the impressionists.
It's a landscape
it's a mindscape
but it behaves like a still life.
I've been staying up late
trying to paint my way
out of my life
until dawn every morning.
The windowpane a ripening phthalo blue.
It's compositionally deranged
to hear the birds singing
when you're totally exhausted.
Mentally physically spiritually emotionally financially
gone gone gone altogether gone beyond.
All my happy endings orphaned.
A sum of depletions.
I'm living this creative life
scribbling down the notes of the picture-music
that doesn't just run through my mind
but is my mind
colours and words
down on canvas and paper.
When I'm writing
when I'm painting
when I've wholly disappeared into what I'm doing
for a few holy hours of life
immensities open up like the multiverse
and I've got a window a wormhole
I can fly through
and out out out among the starfields
with the evanescence of smoke
or a bird
putting itself in the picture
as a finishing touch to the sky.
And I am free to explore the intensities
of my own creative peace
as I keep saying to myself
one eureka moment after another
turning into a mantra
no no I can't leave that.
I've got to bring that back and show them.
They'll be delighted with that.
They won't believe it.
You've got to write and paint with an open hand.
Let the brush hold you.
Let the pen.
Then you're the meaning
of what the words are trying to say

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Ways Of The World

These are times of uncertainty and widespread discontent
and certain forces of nature on our destruction seem bent.
Though we mostly try very hard to do the right thing
we as a whole get into trouble and then feel the sting.
When our heart isn’t completely in that which we do
there’s no real satisfaction to help and see us through.

There is too much superficiality and of make believe;
to be creative in life is essential like that to conceive.
If we only go about doing what it is we just have to do
without any scope for improvement is a limited view.
To scan the horizon involves looking forward and taking a risk
using one’s intelligence develops confidence and is also brisk.

Though the world seems daunting and at times without cheer
if we have faith in ourselves can overcome much of our fear.
To live for the moment only is something few can afford
but the situation at hand may indicate or offer a reward.
When anyone persists in their efforts there’s a breakthrough
even if the desired result is still some way off it may be true.

To succeed in the world is what we all try most to achieve;
this can be accomplished easily if in what we do we believe.
To change boats in midstream is not the real way to succeed
yet anything may be possible if in life we have genuine need.
To accomplish then what we had set out at first thought to do
depends much on our determination or desire to see it through.

There will usually always be obstacles in whatever we undertake
that is why we shouldn’t mind too much if we learn by mistake.
A lot of the trials in life are such that for some are overbearing
however, if they’re overcome bring success and smooth sailing.
Though where people are around nothing stays the same for too long
as each one demands something else which for a while proves strong.

To get the most out of life is what we’re all living here for
and so everyone usually strives to gain just a little more.
If it happens as it often does that many do not succeed
it’s because the right signs on the way they didn’t read.
The ways of the world are sometimes like a cliff or razor’s edge;
one slip and you’re down regardless of how secure was the ledge.

___________________________________ _________________

poem by George Krokos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

We want everybody to succeed. You know why? We want the country to succeed, and for the country to succeed, its people - its individuals - must succeed.

quote by Rush Limbaugh
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

You've got to stick at a thing, a particular thing, until you succeed.I feel that's the only way to succeed - by concentrating on something in particular. Once you know what you've got to do you will succeed, you will succeed.

quote by Betty Cuthbert
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Believe in Myself

I believe in God
I believe in myself regardless of what others say

I love myself
I believe in things that others would not believe

I am not insane, but intelligent
I know and feel in my heart that anything can be possible
I never give up even when it feels impossible

I will succeed
I will succeed

No one can take away my pride but me

I will succeed
I will succeed
Just you wait and see

poem by Alisha Ricks
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!