Treasure Island

Writing Poetry


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  • Shelley Stanworth (2/1/2014 3:09:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    When paper,
    meets ink it highlights,
    little things that don't matter
    Often splits,
    society into rich or suffering,
    oblivious all are the latter
    Baffled when,
    confronted with random,
    puzzle pieces to be connected
    As life,
    is like a jigsaw,
    except the end result is the unexpected
    Like a ripple,
    on the surface
    let unfold through us whats meant to be
    Calm still,
    waters below watches,
    peacefully, true love is let free
    Caught in,
    turbulent rapids
    by limits put on our existence
    Deep eternal
    empty, engaged but
    to perciece is our substance
    Blindfolded we are,
    in life, hidden from our eyes,
    our pure true power within
    That the world,
    is just our mind
    which creates, suffers from and plays in
    And it drains,
    our spirit that we dont
    grasp with our fingers
    the chains,
    on the door, control isn't gone,
    yet anxiety lingers
    In insecurity,
    we wont open,
    conditioned to block
    Out the light,
    inside ourselves
    has always been the key to the lock
    These strict,
    limitations on life,
    minds came together and insisted
    Physical life,
    is short yet
    time endless so we have barely existed
    We needed,
    rules and regulations
    to give life and death importance
    To strive,
    use time and get
    presumed born lacking self acceptance
    Spitting fire,
    regardless of the human
    races, the planets great fatality
    It is our
    mind that keeps
    on dreaming, circling this reality
    Our conflicted,
    involvement in ever
    changing surroundings unrefused
    Underestimating,
    within the already
    present power and strength, confused
    We keep on
    living a dream we're unaware
    we're in, sleeping is our waking
    What is,
    considered real,
    our known, is just us mistaking
    That control,
    isn't ours, each going
    rouge fighting in battle alone
    Against fate,
    mind created when a path
    was already laid out in stone
    True reality,
    is waiting,
    in the unknown, not the dream which is fake
    We're dreaming,
    all night then
    to dream again, never choose to wake
    And simply,
    forgetting the truth
    inside that we have known
    And to
    remember all in life,
    all we become attached to or are shown
    Is ever
    changing, inconsistent,
    yet has already been and died
    Our true,
    self is before,
    time and space had its title, meaning or divide
    Light, pure,
    love using our lives
    here to express, engage and pursue
    A harmony
    we and all life crave,
    a unity and not to be split in two

  • Doris Cornago (2/1/2014 3:11:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    In my opinion, you need interaction to write powerful poems. This poem is in response to LP's poem 'Blowjob By The Tracks'. Whether this poem is autobiographical or not is a matter for creativity. One should never question the motive or the background for the poem. Just allow me to make a statement on this matter of 'paid love'. Men look for love in the most unlikely places, but women find it everywhere, and help themselves to it. Many might disagree, but such is my observation of the difference in the genders and their quest for that be-all of existence. If I can hold on to one thing before I go, I would choose that person who has shown me the utmost example of love - without boundaries and definitions, no commitments, no measures, just the pleasure of being together. If you have found such a person - hold this person tight, he/she is the one.

    Utter Ignorance
    By: Doris F. Cornago

    What do you know of love
    Something that is peddled
    As wares on a side street
    by perfumed women in tights
    and low cut bodices - their
    dead eyes fastened on bread.

    Or the course one takes
    Upon seeing a new face
    Meeting eyes in a crowded room
    a nod of understanding
    hurry out of the room
    before somebody senses.

    An excuse from boredom
    A rubbing of flesh
    A grapple, a cry of pain
    She has mistaken you
    for somebody more gentle
    Now she is screaming poison.

    We are strangers from start
    we pretend we need love
    to unmask others, make them
    conform to the person we want
    In our utter ignorance, love
    turns from unmasking to deception.

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  • Tawfeeq Hasan Khan (1/30/2014 4:49:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    I think that a poem should be like a dirty ocean whose depth cant be seen but can be felt only if you dive deep into it.

    Replies for this message:
    • Doris Cornago (2/1/2014 3:14:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      An ocean is not dirty but deep and translucent. By all means, dive into it but be sure you know how to surface later. Writing poems is not just an ocean excursion - it is a beautiful adventure.

  • Faham Mengal (1/28/2014 2:28:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    i think just flow with your feeling n write whatever you feel after all poetry is flow of feelings......

  • Gajanan Mishra (1/28/2014 7:00:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Writing poetry is the life-breath, respiratory system and a going on process.

    Replies for this message:
    • Doris Cornago (2/5/2014 8:39:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      Yes. I do believe a poet cannot live without poetry; even the whisper of the wind has words for him.

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (1/27/2014 8:44:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    I am very much interested to read and recite poems and trying to understand its meanings the poet supposed to understand by the reader. I think that poems beautifully created by the poets of eminence is really worth to social awakening in every sphere of life and making the reader so enthusiastic for societal obligations in right sense. Be it sorrow, enviornment protection, nature, river and any subject is so much interesting when it comes as a poem for an interested reader. Poets and poems are the real connectivity link for international human relations and humanity at large I think.

  • Dru L. (1/23/2014 12:44:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Hey, I'm inviting you to check out my site The Poet Society.Net. (http://www.thepoetsociety.net) . Also if you have any suggestions or comments on the site, you can email me at dru@thepoetsociety.net. CHEERS! ! !

    PS: Keep writing ;)

  • Doris Cornago (1/22/2014 11:00:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    @ JC: The lines were good, but honesty was lost in alien words. Good poems are those which wish to connect with the least difficulty as possible. I dislike smoke-screening and pretense, but a full view of what's what is most appreciated by all. In simple understandable English like a good movie that makes you run or walk, depending on the cue.

  • Doris Cornago (1/22/2014 10:55:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    @ Metamorphh: Yep. Rhymers are best in my opinion. They give poems that melodious quality that makes you feel welcomed by the poet. It is like sitting side by side together and going on the rhythm of bodies closely touching, rather than being pushed recklessly behind by the other, as some poems do. My poem is also somewhere in this page. See if you like the easy rhythm of waves rolling in and out.

  • metamorphhh (aka jim crawford) (1/22/2014 8:52:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    While I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry, I particularly like writing rhymers. Creating within the strictures of rhyme I find to be challenging, exhilarating and just plain fun. So, a little challenge, maybe?How's about something a bit abstract?Here's my offering, and looking forward to seeing what you've got...

    Turf Wars

    Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
    hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
    She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
    spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.

    So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
    waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
    a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
    he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.

    An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
    it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
    The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
    while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.

    All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
    and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
    to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
    the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.

    The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
    but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
    who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
    (their sh*t’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .

    The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
    all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
    the whole yawning yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
    (from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)

    The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
    as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
    ‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
    on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.

    The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
    as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
    with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
    t’was God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .

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