simple little poems

Google transalation, but here it  rhymes less.

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I would like to be a poet

but my poems do not rhyme

But I am writing to

sun and the moon a beautiful

poetry, song of love

and disaffection, glorious life,

and even terror ...

<--

Poemas no tenen lengua,
no launguage at all,
no poem is large, no poem is small.

Poetry's not joy, not sadness as well.
It's not heaven, or hell.

It's all of these, every one.
It's all let loose, once it's begun.

Poetry is all of these and
Know its reality by a
Rhyme at the end of a line or
Time it at the head of a line...

Or try instead inside the line?
A trick to embed besides a rhyme
of pedestrian verbage mixed with
pedantic diversions... so fix it!

I'm proffering one solution
and offering evolution...
to emerge from slime of "rhyme/time"
and purge old school tools of "cool/fool"

well, i hadn't seen the one of Writch , and it's true, there is no language.

i love the sun and the moon

i see the stars and they are so beautiful

every morning and every nigth

i say hi to a little one above in the sky

she is wathing me so am i

you can see in my nickname and

and my photo how i love her

its name is Mintaka, the rigthmost of the belt...

orion belt...

ok, it doesn't rhyme, but, who matters!

What is less bleak?

Do you know how and whers you must go and seek?

I have some antiques that are old and creek,

so noe is it too fucking weak?

LOL

This thread (though a bit mundane),
Now, instead, has just turned profane:
Our bards trading barbs, line-for-line
And thus far, going fine, just fine...
But kuttiecc nom de plume
Had to go and ƒ-bomb the room.

here i've got one by Shakespeare!

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

  Shakespeare.

my last one (spanish)

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mi susurro el viento lo lleva a ti

oh musa encantadora todas las palabras

que a solas recite, el mismos viento las

lleva tambien, todas esas palabras

forman un suave murmullo en el viento,

y en las noches calladas son las palabras

que en silencio recite.

XII.08

--

let's try.... translating

--

the wind takes my whisper to you

oh charming musa (or muse?), all my words

that i recited in lonely, the same wind

takes them too, all that words

form a soft murmur in the wind,

and in the calm nigths are the words

that in silent recited.

---

well, moreless

My cat

likes to bat at the cursor

and I laugh

as I throw him off the desk

for the hundredth time,

listening to Fiona Apple

and waiting

for someone to play with.

DPenn I like your poem, a simple slice of life that puts us right there in the scene.  I can't decide if it is you or the cat that is waiting for someone to play with.

This Christmas was filled with sorrow,

and Father time will not leand me his clock to borrow.

What must I do with this saddness which I do sow?

Can someone please tell me because I do not know.

I teenage friend was shot in the head,

and now he is dead.

It does not give me a pleasent way to feel.

Do you have any goo feelings for which I may steal.

grand is not a friend of mine

he uses force and spends my time

when i go name by name

from a friend i see the same

while i give a sample and suggest

all the days rest rest rest

what does that mean,

because i cannot create the scene.

please be more clear,

could you my dear.

swim with no fin

lost with the wind

I'm free

in the deep blue see

the veins and the stem

it's curves with no end

colors of delight

this leaf is so bright

the sun as it shines

can burn and so kind

we depend that is true

it gives to me and you

(3 Unrelated haiku; © Writch)

poor little oak leaf
wind alone can't tease you from
your frozen puddle

crossing gate comes down
I stare past the train that goes 
        by... 
               and by... 
                            and by...

         frosted crocuses 
 dreaming of the warm Spring air 
         in a robin's song 

Beginning to bore with such words,

Is there any intelligence

Are the writers just nerds?

Can there some excitement even with a small glance.

Come on think, think smarter, and I will hopefully be absorbed,

There has to be some kind of curve,

Some kind of curve that makes one want to read more.

To many poems I read, never finished, just because I get bored.

nobody has anything new?