Tag Archives: poem

Super Human

14 Aug

I spoke to all our heroes, and this they said to me
Don’t define us by our power, just the angle that you see
For each of us is a human so normal, behind our collective super face
And you don’t see who we are,
For the course that is par,
Of our feeling’s there’s never a trace

I spoke to the man who is Spider, of red-and-blue nylon and mask
He was angered when I addressed him so, indeed he took me to task
“I was picked on in school”, he shouted at me, as he sprayed me with web from his hand
“So I might be cool now,
All the boom and kerpow,

Sad Superman.

Sad Superman. (Photo credit: Mark_Coughlan)

But I never could be in a band”

I spoke to the man who is Aqua, an Atlantean is he born and bred
And I belittled him so for his powers, what are they when all has been said?
He can speak to the fish, that power he claims, he can talk in the day and the night
But I said to him true,
As I say it to you,
What use is a minnow in flight?

I spoke to the man who is Bat-like, a sulky and sullen night creature
He forced me to speak to the shadows, so that I would not see his feature
He was angry I think, though I cannot be sure, for he claims no real superpowers
And because of that thought,
All his efforts are naught,
And all his sweet victory sours

I spoke to the Hulk who’s Incredible, he conversed in his pure human form
For he can’t really speak as his green side, his grammar is lower than norm
Though a scientist, truly a genius, no one knows of his vast knowledge stash
If the man must be had,
Then his fans are all sad,
For they vastly prefer the hulk smash

I spoke to the man who is Super, great hero is he here to us
Though I guess he’s just normal for Krypton, they wouldn’t make much of a fuss
Here he is strong, and a hero so long, he possesses a super acumen
But I say this to you,
As he said to me too,
“Naw man I’m just super human”

Creative Constriction

24 Jul

Whether you’re writing poetry, a novel or a short story, one of the hardest parts of the writing process is channeling your thoughts into actual, concrete written material. In order to do that, here’s a trick you can use. It’s a little counter intuitive, but bear with me – the trick is to limit yourself. Impose a rule that you have to follow while you’re writing, like avoiding a subject or describing something without using visual descriptions.
Here’s an example. In the following poem, an existential-themed piece, I limited myself to rhyming only with the word ‘existential’. Limiting your options can force you to think out of the box and in original ways, and that’s always a good thing when you’re writing creatively. Here’s the poem-

All my life, in all my thoughts, just one thing burns essential
A question posed, unanswered still, am I consequential?
My mind can’t grasp the scale, perhaps that’s providential
Just one among billions, what is my real potential?

Each and every person believes they can be influential
If they only try to do their best they’ll realize their potential
But do I know if that is true, is thinking that prudential?
Maybe thinking that you matter is just hubris quintessential

So I think of this a lot, and my thoughts are existential
And I’d really wish to know if I’m inconsequential
It’s not that I am asking for a treatment preferential
But is it too much to ask just to think that I am special?

Let us try to break this down, in a subject that’s tangential
Being heard on the internet, where the info is torrential
On the web you’re just a node, just some numbers differential
No one cares what you say, your ID is confidential

Among all of the billions, who on earth are residential
I know perhaps a thousand, so I guess I’m nonessential
I don’t presume for a minute that I’ll be presidential
There are very few of those, and I don’t have the credential

So at last I do not know, whether I am special
And I know I’m not in charge, we are all deferential
But mattering’s not about power, or toward who you’re reverential
Your worth depends on you, if your belief is exponential

So that’s the poem. Now try it out yourself. Decide on a random imposition that you have to work with, and write an essay or short story with it – have fun, and

restraining ordered

restraining ordered (Photo credit: mcfcrandall)

good luck!


29 May
By Nesher Ehrman 
Oh hearken now and listen well
To the dismal tale I will now tell
Of a thing behooved of fickle feature
IMAGINATION – wily creature
From her emerge ideas and plots
Woven stories, domestic knots
All not-real and all made-up
When supping IMAGINATION’s cup
An author who bends and and sweats at his work
Creating the plight of a hero named Dirk
He calls to his muse, that she may inspire
To her he prays to start the fire
Like gems dredged up from crystal ball
Ideas come forth, they may not stop
The lifeblood of stories, each ruby drop
No matter the language, or of what nation
The bones are the same – it is creation
But no matter the name, or what it is called
IMAGINATION is fickle, a crone all enshawled
Sometimes you sit, and write for a spell
Nothing more trivial than story to tell
But hold dear these rare times, they come not often
IMAGINATION is harsh, and seldom to soften
To me this rhyme, these words, the whole
Where I beg for ideas, I whine and cajole
To me in my head, I play slave to her master
She is but an idea, but I write all the faster
This poem does not make too much sense. It makes sense to me in my head and that’s what important. It requires some IMAGINATION of your own to understand what it means to you. To see other (more comprehensible) poems and stories, feel free to visit nesherehrman.wordpress.com/

What Is Writing?

24 Apr


Writing is different from everything other

Qualities possessed by means of no other
To write is to set down the whims of your soul
To proudly lay bare every wish aim and goal
Words are at once dynamic and static
A series of symbols; words starkly dramatic
No more than letters just signs on a page
But none can express more of anger or rage
To write is to set down words for forever
They will never forget; though the bonds of life sever
In writing you use what is private and sacred
What you never would say; be it love be it hatred
All of our wisdom and all that we know
Is passed on by people who wrote long ago
And all between us and the beasts of the field
Is the letters we have and the knowledge they wield
It is this which I say; and I cannot stress more
This is all that we; it is all we strive for
To write is to share, is to teach, to be moved
And I hope in this piece my point I have proved

Soad Hacham’s The Ravens Eye

8 Apr

GUEST: Soad Hachami,25 years young love to read,write and bake.I enjoy writing poetry you can find me here on my blog http://www.soadhachami.wordpress.com


The ravens’ eye I wish to flee

That stare’th right Inside of me.

That hollow gaze which drills

My mind

Searching for the

Weak inclined

Thought that passes

From my heart.

Waiting lurking

Stalking still

You shall not

Rob me of my will

I will climb

Atop my mountains


Waiting for my sweet


When I shall

Take what is

Mine and keep

My conscience and my heart

Entwined together

They shall never part

For if they do;

I leave the wind

My secret tool

To nudge me

Softly off my

Stool of

Rock and soul.

And then

That fool

With eyes

So grim

Will not bother

Me a-gain.

What is a Writer?

7 Apr


I asked myself the other day,

Why am I a writer, what made me that way?
That question’s ad hominem, it asks about me,
But it’s true of all writers, counting you thine and thee
Because when you sit, and examine that question
Writing’s more than a job, not just a profession
A person who writes, whether tiny or small
Is always unique, from the first word they scrawl
So now, let me see, we’ve defined some new terms,
A writer’s a creature, not a snail or some germs
But how do they form? Do they pass some hard test?
Or perhaps are they hatched, from an egg, in a nest?
Now I still don’t have an answer to the question I asked,
But now I have new ones, they are rising quite fast
Is there more than one kind, is it decided by age
Can a man be a writer if he’s not old and sage?
To answer all this we might have to digress
Because it is I who must also confess
I don’t have the answers, I don’t know who’s a writer
I just know that I am one, more than lover or fighter
And I don’t know you, I can’t tell if you are
I don’t know if you rhyme or your thinking’s bizarre
Yet one thing I’ll say, and this fact I ensure
If you think you’re a writer, then you are, to be sure
This poem was written by an author of The Writing Corp. To see more poems by the same writer, hop on over to nesherehrman.wordpress.com/
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