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What Is Poetry? ? ? ? ?

Poetry is the WORST FELLING
that make me CRY
Poetry is like a CROCODILE
Eating its PREYPoetry is a monster,
That its the brains up.
Poetry is like a VILLIAN
That makes my brain ROT
poetry is a WHICH
that makes my brain FLY
Poetry is the WORST FEELING
that makes me CRY

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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 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 poem that makes you cry

Why did he write the poem that makes
You cry? Did he intend to make you sad
For the whole day?
He didn’t. He is simply talking about
Himself. It is not about you.It is about his
Own sorrow. The dead ants, the shadow
Of the sun folded and kept in the corner.
The goats that have to go. The lines of your
Palms that you follow. The stars in the
Heavens. The fact that ultimately there
Was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
They are true. I have seen how they happen.
With him on the grassy plain. There is
Always a story to tell. This time you come.
And you find yourself immersed. You are
Like us and so you cry. It is you in us.
It won’t last long anyhow. We shall soon
Part ways, as he once did. Earlier.

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Poetry is the Divine Part of Man

Poetry haters love to make fun of the touchy-feely stuff
as though that defined who or what poetry is.

Poetry is the last time the sun gets reflected
in somebody's eyes, when they're saying goodbye-
maybe for forever.

And it's that first dropp of rain, touches the new brides veil,
blesses her; as she's lifting it off her face
for the first time, after being kissed in the marriage ceremony.

And poetry might be that bubble,
over the sink.. keeps floating away, fully intact;
even though all the laws of physics and gravity may be saying
it ought not be able to go on existing;

And poetry in motion
is a baby, trying to walk and falling down
again and again;
refusing to give up, surrender
less painful though that might be.

And poetry could even be your hand over my mouth,
because you know that I can never really say
what I am trying so hard to say;
as there's another form of secret communication
connects soul directly to soul,
without confusing or complicated words.

And that is some of the invisible poetry,
lives in the eyes, the hands; the heart of the mind;
and all the hidden, inner recesses of a human being; and even though
something may be a form of poetry for one; it may not be for another.

Finally, if you balled up the emotions together, and then just threw them up
into the open air, not knowing where they might come down, or even if;
this too, could be one of the purest forms of poetry.

My words could go on flowing forever, like a stream, and that could be poetry;
or they might stop without warning and

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Poetry is the reason I live

Poetry is the air that I breathe in every minute;
granting me the tenacity to propel exuberantly
forward; each mundane instant of monotonous life,
Poetry is the rhapsodic wind I trespass through on my
way; engendering me to fantasize to infinite
kilometers beyond the sky,
Poetry is the most proudest possession I have ever
acquired; making me feel more privileged than the
gloriously majestic kings,
Poetry is the smile that perennially encapsulated my
lips; granting me the magical prowess of evolving a
mystical paradise; out of sheer nothingness and
bizarre wilderness,
Poetry is my reason to contentedly sleep; blissfully
conceiving the entire beauty of this fathomless planet
in each of my dreams,
Poetry is the royally grandiloquent dwelling which I
inhabit; harboring me like a divinely angel against
the most acrimonious of storm,
Poetry is the perpetual conglomerate of roses which
blossomed in my garden; blending my aboriginal
rudiments more emphatically with the soil; as their
spell binding fragrance tickled my nose,
Poetry is the tantalizing rain that fell with untamed
charisma on my naked skin; igniting the most
obliviously dormant infernos in my body; the highest
point in the sky,
Poetry is the stupendously silken fabric which I wear
to envelop my body; acting as my compassionately
amicable mate for times immemorial,
Poetry is every song I uttered from my throat;
inundating my drearily diminishing soul; with
unsurpassable happiness,
Poetry is the benevolent seed in my mind; which
proliferated at astounding speeds into the tree
called; friendship and solidarity,
Poetry is the blazing volcano of my innermost senses;
which makes me indefatigably feel that I was
euphorically bouncing and always alive,
Poetry is the enigmatic cloud that incessantly hovered
in my eyes; reinstating in me a romantic lovebird;
even as I galloped my last footstep towards my grave,
Poetry is the blood that turbulently drifted through
my labyrinth of intricate veins; instilling in me a
new found ardor as each minute unfurled,
Poetry is the pea***** which always perched on my
window at the crack of vespered dawn; culminating its
vivacious festoon of feathers full bloom; to cast its
impregnable spell upon the languid atmosphere,
Poetry is all the wealth that I could ever assimilate;
infact made me feel the richest man on this
unfathomably huge planet without even a cloth
entrenching my skin,
Poetry is an appetizingly rubicund fruit in my
palette; which didn't metamorphose its celestial
dimensions the slightest; even after my countless
bites,
Poetry is the cardinal motive which I wanted to
ubiquitously propagate all throughout the Universe;
embodying its marvelously ever-young spirit; in
whomsoever who came my way,
Poetry is a profoundly optimistic beam of light in my
life; an indomitable shoulder for me to lean upon in
my times of inexplicable distress,
And poetry is the very reason that I live; infact the
very reason for which I could relinquish breath this
very moment for and die; of course only to breathe
again with it; in realms of Omnipotent heaven….

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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 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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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 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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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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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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Poetry Is The Way Of My Life

The carpenter's son!
Carpenter, pen, net, cap, peer, near, cent, care;
The sailor's wives!
Wives, beehives, dives, lives, drives, fives, gives;
The natural thing!
Thing, sing, ring, wing, swing, bring, string, wring;
But, poetry is the way of my life.

I am along the road of life with my mind,
And, in the African dress!
Dress, press, distress, stress, cress, impress;
In the barber's shop!
Shop, hop, drop, mop, lop, slop, top, crop, stop;
In the African forest!
Forest, rest, test, best, nest, guest, pest, quest;
But, poetry is the way of my life.

Breast, abreast!
Rest, arrest!
Test, attest!
Far, afar!
Tend, attend!
Stir, stair!
Feather, further!
And like the tale of Africa with the tail of a monkey;
But, this muse of life will teach many yet unborn.

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She Never Makes Me Cry

I saw an old lover
Today on the street
She said do you remember
How we used to be
On fire with that passion
We'd burn down those nights
No I haven't forgotten
How we used to fight
I finally got married
Settled on down
Yeah she's a preachers daughter
In a sleepy little town
She'd make you laugh
Since we said goodbye
No she aint that funny
But she never makes me cry
she never makes me cry like you used to
Theres nothing about her that reminds me of you
I promise I dont see your face when I look in her eyes
And she never makes me cry
Does she makes you beg
for her love in the night
no she aint that selfish
And she never makes me cry
she never makes me cry like you used to
Theres nothing about her that reminds me of you
I promise I dont see your face when I look in her eyes
she never makes me wonder when she's coming home
There's something about her like I've never known
It's been nice to see you but now i must say goodbye
she never makes me cry
she never makes me cry
no no

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