poems about writing

Confetti | Ann Christine Tabaka

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Paper snow
on the floor
shredded dreams
that used to be my poems
words spill onto pages
only to fly off
looking for cohesion
searching for a theme
day after day
frustration reigns
as the ritual repeats itself
a line here a phrase there
then all is lost
and once again
confetti festoons my world
—–
Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies.

My Friend the Poet | Michael Kagan

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My friend the poet
writes about the recent future
taking close-ups of tomorrow’s past
somewhere inside myself
the abstract speaks in vivid color
every word she says
my friend the poet makes imperfect sense
her truth rings through me
counting the kisses on dewdrops
singing a cappella with her ghosts
charming clouds to let her inside
their dreamy shapes
look down upon the folly
chaos and despair
she writes about the worth of worry
it’s lighter than the air
she writes about making peace with fear
and explains the blindness in rage
cannot see around corners
and I understand these words
my friend the poet
on cloudy occasions
writes of her own voyage
many holes on a crumpled map
waves knocking her over and over
she tells her story surfing on her belly
to the shores of solid ground
and she as a magic poet
describes it so well
you get the picture
as if you were always there

The Ethereal Poem Eternal | Michael Kagan

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As the ancient tribe of wandering poets
Pushing and prodding
Crisis and passion drawn
From the central library of time
In ink and blood explaining
As only poems are able
The organic airborne substance
Defining the human condition
In the period when they penned
Digging deeper and deeper
Where meanings converging
Melt all over the lines
Perception teases
Tickling curious minds
In every way hunting seeking
Until you have a hundred answers
And every answer is right
And every answer is wrong
But the unfulfilled poem stands
Like an inoperable iron monolith
Unflappable in it’s position
And we write about anything
Floating in from anyplace
From everywhere
Things we didn’t know we didn’t know
Things we didn’t know we knew
Hopes the poem will fit the puzzle
And teach us how to trust

Plagiarism | Chris Byrne

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Was it just a word?
Or was it sneaking in
And stealing my soul
Whilst I slept,
Hearing me playing my
Favourite song that inspired
Me, a tune that helped
As I wrote those deep and dark
Inspiring sonnets, trying not to
Plagiarise the lyric, that hidden
Meaning within a song,
My thoughts coming to life
All because of a song,
Something it awoke in me
As I typed and typed
Erased and erased
As my brain thought
It’s too like the song,
The never ending
Thoughts of a poet
Are always just like the song.

Pretending to Be Profound | JD DeHart

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By the light that streams
in, you can see through
the discourse, held up to
the light like a small animal
within that envelope of syntax
and highbrow terminology, the
digestive system of the creature
can be deduced
a flurry of sound and thunder
with no lightning heat or music.

Written In Blood And Ink | Judy Moskowitz

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Fading ink from a time past
A precious commodity
For the collector
Of rare books
Chasing down words written
By the esteemed
Whitman, Lorca, Neruda
Bindings worn thin
The original always
In demand
Now being erased
And digitized
Like your face
Expressionless
Frozen in time
Hands kneading in the
Dirt and grime
An auto biography
Worth reading
Buried, disappearing lines
Exalted and desired
By the caretakers of history
Where were you when
The lights went out

A Poet's Curse | Chris Byrne

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A poet’s curse
Is writing about love,
Sensing the darkness it expresses,
The beauty it reveals; understanding
It’s a complicated feeling,
Misunderstood, difficult, full of
Words, thoughts, and misconceptions.
Most never see, nor value
Its true nature, yet we recognize
Its inner beauty within the
Gloom, always craving it
Never seeing it.

A Poet's Spell | Blanca Alicia Garza

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When I was a little girl,
I dreamed of being a poet.
As an adult woman
I learned that to write
the most beautiful
of love poems I
had to let my heart
break into a thousand pieces.
Perhaps it is true, that the poet
carries a spell to pen,
the beauty of love, but
never is able to attain it.

Mode | JD DeHart

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What does word have
that gesture doesn’t? We each sit
in an experience, stand in a way of living.
We express our life,
prioritize what we feel we must –
Gathering the world together
onto a white board, listing the order
of our day, our reflections,
What can be done with lips
can be done with hands, no barrier
holds language back, it is a flood.
We are bubbling with expression.

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