FROM THE POET

This is a series of poems written by John Svododa over a number of years. There are times of peak-where numerous poems were written & there are also times of lows where there are long periods between each poem. As the author is trying to reach a goal of 1001 (and then retire!!) it was never envisaged that this would be done over a short period of time. Poems can be humorous, ridiculing someone or something, show a meaning of hurt or love or even project feelings that not necessarily be directed to the same person/thing, can be a reflection of life or to be life. Most poems are trying to send a message to the reader be it not understandable or nonsense.

The idea of this poet is not to have any ill feelings against anyone but to be read by young whom can learn about life – and by the elderly look back at what could have been. Some are very personal- but who cares when you are currently living in a life that has total enjoyment. Suggestion is not to criticize but to take in the enjoyment of creative poetry make it meaningful and thus may be you can be an author.

SO NOW:

Please Read On!

Monday, 7 July 1986

Poem Number 128 - To Be More Of An Adult - 7/7/1986

One firm hold of one other’s body,
Is tense tenderly-love care of the other.
One’s quick reaction to seduce the other,
Is a mutual response of a personal feeling.

To love is to love with aspiration,
To not love and not be loved,
Is a selfish, lonesome feeling.
Yet, your friends will not be friends.

To use or not to be used,
For reasons of financial or get to know use,
It’s not how I at the moment feel,
It is how most males and females are.

For me there is a ‘love’ to love,
A love of truth, youth and understanding,
A love of life and mostly complimenting,
That will always be here or there.

Yet she would. She doesn’t believe in everlasting love,
She has the out righteous right to do so.
Yet, I believe, know and would like so,
To know what our bright future will be.

I can of course hear wedding bells in the future,
Just like it has done so, in the past.
With buttered-colored page boys, so cautiously walking don the aisle,
And pretty white flower girls, being so sweet inside.

Like small children playing around in streets with no real parents,
Like genuine parents who divorce after a year or two,
And don’t child their children or even care at all,
Maybe, the child will grow up, to be more of an adult. 
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