Poetry Inspired By Life’s Most Treasured Moments

Carol Calkins started writing poetry after a close friend passed away earlier this year. She never knew that poetry was her gift until the words began flowing from her effortlessly. The passing of a friend left Carol with a gift that she is now sharing with the world.

Her first poem which was inspired by the loss of her friend is listed below:

We Said Goodbye a Thousand Times
Don’t be sad about my parting
Don’t feel like you never said goodbye
For you and I both know deep in our hearts
That We Said Goodbye a Thousand Times
And shared so much love and joy every day

Be happy that I am now at peace
Be joyful that I have lived a wonderful life
Be happy that we have shared so much together

And remember I am always with you in a thought and a sigh
Every day when you see the beauty in nature think of me
Every day when you see the colorful flowers think of me
Every day when you see a frisky animal prancing around think of me
Every day when you look into the eyes of someone you love think of me

And know beyond a doubt that I am with you in everything you do
And know beyond a doubt that I am with you in everything you say
And know beyond a doubt that I am with you in every quiet moment of your life

Don’t be sad about my parting
Don’t feel like you never said goodbye
For you and I both know deep in our hearts
That We Said Goodbye a Thousand Times
And shared so much love and joy every day


After this first poem came through Carol, she began seeing poetry in every aspect of life, from new beginnings, to the special people and moments in life, to precious endings. In nine months Carol has written over 400 poems and has compiled her first book, Bring Poetry to Life, which is being released on Amazon on Wednesday, October 20th.

Whether we write poetry ourselves or just love the messages they teach us, we can all relate to the beauty that it invokes in our lives.

Grab a copy of Carol’s new book today, and pick up an extra copy for a friend and receive free shipping.

To find out more about Carol’s new book and to purchase your copy visit www.bringpoetrytolife.com

ee cummings reads "Somewhere I have never travelled..."

Emily Dickinson's A Word is Dead

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just begins
to live that day.

- Emily Dickinson

Poet Tantra Zawadi @ The Inspired Word

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The Inspired Word dazzles the night every second and fourth Friday, 7-10pm, @ (Le) Poisson Rouge, 158 Bleecker Street, NYC!

Poet Justin Woo @ The Inspired Word in NYC

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The Inspired Word dazzles the night every second and fourth Friday, 7-10pm, @ (Le) Poisson Rouge, 158 Bleecker Street, NYC!

Poet Sabrina Gilbert @ The Inspired Word

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The Inspired Word dazzles the night every second and fourth Friday, 7-10pm, @ (Le) Poisson Rouge, 158 Bleecker Street, NYC!

Molly Kat @ The Inspired Word

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Every second and fourth Friday @ (Le) Poisson Rouge, 158 Bleecker Street, NYC!
7-10pm.

Gabrielle Bouliane's Final Performance - Please Tell the World!

The lovely and amazing performance poet Gabrielle Bouliane performs for the audience at the Austin Poetry Slam.



This would be her last public performance.

Gabrielle was diagnosed with Stage Four Cancer shortly before this video was filmed. Our dear sister fought hard, but she ended her fight January 29, 2010. She was surrounded by family and friends, and her passing was in a very quiet, peaceful room full of love and affection. She was so brave.

Please share this video with everyone you know. I am sure it would tickle her to no end to have this video get as viral as a video can be. Tell the world.

Justin Woo: Poem "Dear Mr. Fritzl"

Justin says of this poem: It was originally written as part of the Spoken Word Almanac Project 09. The article I read that inspired the piece is called
"Guilty Pleas in a Trial On Captivity" by Nicholas Kulish and was
published in the NYT on 3/18/09.

Dear Mr. Fritzl

"There must be some kind of way out of here.
Said the joker to the thief.
There's too much confusion.
I can't get no relief."

Dear Mr. Fritzl,
We cannot escape each other.
My imagination will not stretch
to accommodate the enormity
of your deeds. Their sharp edges
perforate the too small walls
of my mind when I attempt
to envision that tiny room
filled to bursting
with the cruel bulk of suffering
that you've inflicted.

After the third year, Elisabeth stopped screaming.
Your hand, once placed firmly over her mouth
became occupied with new violations.
Now her eyes locked
on the wood paneled ceiling,
hoping that her gaze
could burn its way through
four concrete apartment floors
to reach her memories of the
world outside of your basement.

After you stole her third child,
she stopped crying. Tears
became a language
as dead and foreign
as Sumerian, Babylonian.

She tried to look
on the bright side -
they never have to see
this sick circus,
you, ringleader
me, caged animal.

Your wife always marveled
at how much her supposed
grandchildren looked
so much like you.

She didn't realize
that she could become
adoptive mother, grandmother,
cuckold, and fool
all at once.

I pray that your children
do not inherent your megalomania
your need for control
your grasping, too-busy hands
your probing fingers.

I hope that their eyes
are like their mother's
Pupils that burn through solid stone
to touch the sky.

"I can't get no relief."

I shudder to think
what your reasons must have been
to bring your ill nineteen year old
daughter, granddaughter
to the hospital.
After letting one baby die,
compassion, a language
as dead and foreign
to you as mercy,
could not have whispered
to that rotten lump of muscle
that only the most removed
clinicians could call a heart.

I can only imagine that
when a ringleader grows tired
of one animal, he must breed
a replacement.

"No reason to get excited."

Your basement was discovered
and with it, your depravity.
Hot outrage flowed into my blood
almost as fast as chilly cynicism -
the only thing that keeps this mad world sane.

You swore you didn't know
that that baby was dying.
You swore you didn't know
that those cries meant hunger, fear, pain.
You swore you didn't know
and part of me believes
that might have been the truth.
How could you, of all people
understand human suffering,
a language as dead and foreign
to you as love?

"There are many here among us
who believe that life is but a joke."

And we're still laughing,
trying to transmute shock
into numb indifference.
When they marched you
in front of judge, jury,
too bruised and lacerated
to be astonished by atrocity
you held a binder over your face.

I can't imagine
what you thought you were hiding,
your dissipated jowls
hanging loosely over ancient bone,
framed by hawkish brows
and eyes Hitler's favorite shade of blue.

"So let us not talk falsely now
the hour is getting late."

Maybe you were hiding
something else - that true horror
that could only be caught on film,
in motion (the path of a bullet,
the passage of time in captivity,
the devil's laughter).
I would thank you
if I thought you had actually
saved us from anything.

Mr. Fritzl,
they're called crimes against humanity
because you've killed us all.
In this world, Josef,
your world,
we have all become Elisabeth.
our collective imagination
is forever locked
in your basement,
never again to see the sky,
freedom a language
as dead and foreign to us
as forgiveness.

Poet Diana Garcia on Writing Poetry

Allen Ginsberg's Howl

Read by John Turturro & Allen Ginsberg.

Anthony Alonso - Poem "Piercing Through Her Veils"

Piercing Through Her Veils
By Anthony Alonso

The diamonds in her eyes
Cuts me at a glance
Her feminine stance
Sets the trance
To begin
Her skin shines
With a feline
Type of mesmerizing
Kind of sublime
Reflecting within the mind
Flashes of her
Occur
Too short to grasp
And too clear to blur
The mixture
Of her stir
Soothes
My jagged edges
Yes her
Whisper
Comes in clearer and crisper
And wedges
Between
Memories
Of her femininity
And lucidity
The edges of her peaks
Are layered with streaks
Of mystifying mysteries
Captivating me
Polaroid moments
Are too short
To capture the
Entirety
Of her beauty
To be or not to be
Super snooty
Fluidly
Flirtatious
Yes her air is spacious
Sometimes the shine
Of her eye
Unties my shoelaces
And this is dangerous
It is hard to pick two
Stranger than us
She is spelled
With no words
In other words
Birds
Sing harmonies
Of her curves
And her curls
I dive deep
To bring pearls
Oceanic opticals
Opened
And unfurled
Trying to pierce the veil
Of her world
Foxy
Lady
Fierce
Freezes the frame
Of her unknown name
Her floatation device
Resonates her fame
Her planets
Of warm weathered wisdom
Rain
Life giving liquids of love
She is below
And above
She links me sneakily
To see her fit the glove
Then she will blend
Into another shade of sound
Waiting for the day
I will pitch from her mound
Sensual sensurround
Bounds
To her gown
Rhythmically sticky
To the gems on her crown
She is all of this beyond
Illuminating the calm
Hear the quenching
Rumbling
Of her distant storm
Midnight knows her name
And its meaning
Her clout spelled out
When the stars start teaming
In her expanding oceans
Of deep rich plentitude
The ore
That soars from the pores
Of her core
Endures
My ever constant gratitude
A luscious latitude
Of a delicious direction
Ignites
My thought projections
Her image will escape
This twice told tale
Killed by curiosity

Piercing through her veils. . .

Saul Williams: "When The Clock Strikes Me"

In Memory of Poet Craig Arnold: Uncouplings

Uncouplings
by Craig Arnold

There is no I in teamwork
but there is a two maker


there is no I in together
but there is a got three
a get to her


the I in relationship
is the heart I slip on
a lithe prison


in all communication
we count on a mimic
(I am not uncomic)


our listening skills
are silent killings


there is no we in marriage
but a grim area


there is an I in family
also my fail

Source: Poetry (October 2008).

Craig Arnold (November 16, 1967 – c. April 27, 2009) went missing on the small volcanic island of Kuchinoerabujima, Japan. He went for a solo hike to explore an active volcano on the island and never returned to the inn where he was staying. His trail was found near a high cliff, and he was presumed to have died from a fatal fall near the date of his disappearance.

When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be

When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be
By John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai: Inkwells

Inkwells
by Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai
http://www.yellowgurl.com/
Click here

tonight, i imagine
each of my fingers is a pen
drawing from a never-ending
inkwell, the colors from pinky
to thumb are lavender, goldenrod,
scarlet, pearl, black - the blackest
of all blacks

no more fumbling in my bag
on the subway or shaking
and throwing out bic after
bic, no more hardened crest
of flesh on my middle
finger, or smear of ink
across the side of my fist

it will be as i imagine it -
ink flowing from fingertips
like moisture gathering, the
act of writing becomes the act of
massaging, the fingertips
soft and round and bulbous at
one moment and then hardening
into a piercing tip the next –

from the inside out, the
nib comes, the pleasure of ink
draining onto the notebook
page, the subway bench,
the bathroom stall door, the
base of the statue, the newspaper
bundle, the lovers’ thoughts

it will be as i have imagined
it - my secret weapon constantly
at will, ethereal, immortal,
impishly half-human and half-
beast, like something winged or
clawed or scaled or poisonous,

i slide the sippers of the inkwells
from their shaft when necessary,
retract them to slink about
my daily business

it will be as i have imagined it -

my pen and hand as one –

words emancipated from their muffled
hives within my brain and body

free to ride the earth’s
tantalizing circuitry
of delible surfaces

free to live

Dylan Thomas

Alicia Keys on Def Poetry: "POW"

Inspirational Video - The Don't Quit Poem

Beautiful People by Nafisa Ahmedi