What gorgeousness is Beauty most treasured,
that breathes life, air, and health into starving lungs,
so ecstasy that's beyond being measured,
make even angels rejoice and speak in tongues?
Nothing is more blissful than passion enjoyed;
and nothing's greater than love supernal,
which inspires joy when two hearts are alloyed,
in union of mind and soul eternal.
Love everlasting and preternatural,
and Beauty incomparable, divine,
transcendent, and utterly ethereal,
transform lovers that join, and intertwine.
To love is beauty, and beauty will not move:
what more could the world need now to know,
than heaven and earth were made from Beauty's love,
and grace, that sanctify with a sacred glow?
In our measure of the passing time,
Curious circles fill the counted days—
Numbered moments scarred by transiting light,
The heaven’s moguls bruise our joy and blight,
And give, and take, and measure what we mean.
Time, indifferent, measures us; it loops
Around the heaven’s span and grids the world.
Saturn still stutters—constant sorrow speaks—
Today recedes into tomorrow’s loss;
Yet clocks in circles go, and we pay cost.
O god of time, your circles go and go,
Returning slow, then turning wingèd, fast—
They come, they go—there’s time enough for love.
Meanwhile I scan the horizon with my mind,
And seek the curve of her Belt of Venus—fire—
A circumference of sunset reds that span
The sky; on sight she’s timeless, swaying slow,
A pendulum—its fixed foot steady—rings
My day; her pulse keeps measure as it swings.
And in night’s sanctuary, as we roll
On sweat-slippery fields of red-ochre bliss,
We kiss the kiss that turns and kisses back.
Then, as I watch her breathing come to rest,
Time stops—
and takes my breath away.
A black child knows the song of heavy trains,
as clanging engines brought my father home.
His weary, sweaty, fat thighs bearing strain,
from cooking pots of food for those well-known.
We felt the forceful song of heavy trains,
not rails or trams that ride below the street.
A move that in your gut of gut does reign,
black power that comes up beneath your feet.
Our past has known the song of steel on steel
as trains have carried tired heads held high.
When we approached we heard the air brakes squeal,
and at that sound we thought our hopes were nigh.
We've listened for the song of trains for years.
Their mournful horns just croon a memory,
and often resurrect the blues of tears,
or flash across the mind as reverie.
For many years we've sang the sad refrain,
with strength and power striving in the soul.
This melody of freedom laced with pain.
The weight of all life's longings taking toll.
Oh, sing a song of praise for those who bare
the weight of heavy trains within our past,
a rocking to and 'fro' from here to there,
maintaining in our spirits WILL to last.
Dragons don't cry, nor laugh-- not that they can't!
It's just exhausting, to accumulate
Years, wisdom, and gold: emotion they slant.
For all their beating wings, their heart runs cold.
To love, fiery? No. To mourn unto tears?
Again, no, they don't. And having lost love,
Laughter too is gone. Have you heard echoes,
Arumble in the canyons? Fierce laughter?
Dragons do not cry. They are too old, tired.
So let the ocean salt the wounds you bear,
And let your madness mount the dragon, ere
You see the dawn and dusk, the cloudy draw.
Soar, winged emotion, drown sorrow in tears.
But be not dragon, for whom the cold heart
Beats without laughter, tears of joy, nor grief,
Lives uncounted eons, born nether shadow,
Without connection, regret, love, nor loss.
No.
Laugh with the spring rain, Sorrow over loss,
And most of all, love. Love with tempest tears
Grieve with your short years, and be not dragon.
When it came to iambic pentameter
Alexander Pope was no dumb amateur.
In his strict use of it he achieved a skill
often with a monotonous overkill –
a danger every poet should not commit
unless he likes his thoughts in a straitjacket,
and the flow so turgid and mechanical
the line will cease to sound natural –
more strident, unmellifluous and harsh
like a stomping, goose-stepping march.
Now here’s a fast and easy suggestion
to unclog a line’s bumpy congestion
which Pope and other poets used to great
effect when they deemed it appropriate :
they added an extra syllable or stress
which opened it and gave it smoothness.
These little extras acted like a breach
and made the line read like spoken speech.
It may not work even with a first try
and take it from me, it’s not a lie.
In fact, you may require a new line or couplet
to be rewritten with a little extra sweat.
But, hey, think back to when you started writing
how many drafts required no editing?
Laughter hides in the strangest of places.
I laughed when she spoke, the sun's rays kissing her
Beautiful smiling, the lilt in her eyes
Betrayed promises of many tomorrows.
It's no secret that our life's been hard-- NO--
A betrayal of modest happiness.
And yet, I found joy. Laughter whilst walking,
Joyful moments of tender lovesickness.
I forgot sorrow, and laughed at clowns,
Awed at acrobats, and, entranced I watched
Fish and sharks, colors shimmering behind
Glass walled cages, swimming. It was a day spent
More of emotion than of my wallet.
My wife squeezed my hand, reminding me, “Love.”
I forgot sorrow, anxiety, and…
What was I saying?
“Life's a gift, but sometimes sorrow
moves the path of our tomorrow."
_ by Poet
From happy to heartbroken, we've become,
without a thought, her life would take a turn.
Strange symptoms that were very worrisome,
with outcomes that took many months to learn.
It started with the hurt in her left arm
when moving it became a painful chore.
Then, day by day, this triggered an alarm,
as her left side became more stiff and sore.
A search for diagnosis was the goal.
It was not easy as her symptoms grew;
from sleeplessness and mental stress, her whole
demeanor, doing things, was changing, too.
With visits to physicians, days went by
for swings in blood pressure, her beating heart.
New doctors and neurologists would try
to diagnose these symptoms from the start.
In early June this year, the verdict came-
one which we feared, but hoped would not be true.
For then we knew she'd never be the same.
There was no cure; just medicine would do.
From happy to heartbroken, we've become.
Our daughter, early 60s- Lord help, please!
This outcome is now very worrisome.
She's diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease.
Her beauty turned to malison and woe,
As ladies, envious, scorn her radiant face,
Their hearts, inclined to rivalry, bestow,
A bitter enmity, her charm’s disgrace.
The world casts down her fortune with its spite,
Her colleagues seethe when she but speaks to one,
The officers and ministers, not right,
Exploit her grace, their honor left undone,
She faces all the world with matchless heart,
And ward the wolves in men with stead fast might,
Her struggle tames her family’s raging part,
To prove herself a lady of great light
A nation seeking progress shall revere,
Such women, striving still to persevere.
Presence of you ignites my heart with joy,
If you go out of sight it makes me sad.
This bond between us always brings me joy,
The world will try to break our steadfast bond
By phone we share some talks of daily life,
And they do keep a watch on all our deeds,
To save my life from those who cause much strife,
Your care for me is praiseworthy, your deeds.
Your plan to fight the world nearby is best,
And keep me hide from them with daring flair,
The efforts to protect our bond are best,
It was you who made it ever to endure.
The friendships full of love and care is boon
To make it fail the world efforts are vain
The sea waves live- both fast and slow;
they gallop high, then tiptoe low,
_by Poet
There's nothing quite as moving as the sea
that takes my breath away with mystic bliss;
the strength of waves that move with majesty
as white-caps froth and roll with no resists.
With deepest roar, they crash upon the shore
and then change course in rolling back that force.
Their rhythm never fails as they implore
that circling motion fed by endless source.
Astounding is the power that never ends;
though tides with shifting boundaries contend,
for as the Moon, with push and pull amends-
the highs and lows retract and then extend.
Majestic sea, I feel your mighty drive
which leaves me breathless as I walk the sand.
No force on earth can change your will to thrive!
Oh, gift for life, I honor your command.
What is truth, Where does it reside?
Is it mere appearance or bride dyed-white?
Was Gandhi the truth or the Dreams of Freud?
Or did you find it when the infant cried?
In Slaying Slogans of Soldiers' Pride
Or in the mistakes which a child hide?
For me, truth is like a naked bride
You veil it as a corpse in graveside
Tis' Unbroken, Wrapt in spider's hide
Mother Instint'll be there to guide
Go deep to search that treasure in mines
Indeed you'll see it between the lines.
“To be abandoned by your own
is the most painful sadness known”
_by Poet
She lives alone, although her son lives there
a floor below- but they are worlds apart.
He comes and goes without a single care;
this sad abandon stabs his mother's heart.
He pays no rent or helps with any chores.
Her food's delivered- ordered on the phone.
She cannot drive or visit any stores.
So with a broken heart, she deals alone.
Three other children live some miles away
and try to visit her throughout the year;
but cannot force their sibling to obey
and help their mother out by force or fear.
Abandoned now at eighty-two years old;
how does a mother deal with such great pain?
To get him out, the family was told,
“You can't expel a son from their domain.”
No course exists to remedy this wrong,
a son who so abandons her this way.
No reasons for his actions came along
for her to live this hell from day to day.
The other woman lives inside of you;
I can see her silhouette in your eyes.
Her tendons twist through yours, interwoven,
down through your fingertips, I see her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can hear her hungry heart through your chest
Her whispers bleed like poison through your mind,
echoing in your voice, I hear her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can feel her presence through your body.
Her figure snug beneath your satin skin,
radiating through you, I feel her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can smell her cloying rose upon your skin
Her scent smothered in your tousled brown hair,
absorbed into your flesh, I smell her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can taste her lust when I kiss your lips.
Her secretive tongue in your starving mouth,
That name stuck in your teeth, I taste her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
and though you assure that she isn’t there,
could she too be capable of sensing
The haunted woman who lives beside you?
O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.
Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow as eyes on a predator? Pill.
Alcohol, wormwood, erasure, vile vial.
Guns, thy salute. Funeral. Lunge, then still.
Ravine, out back and filled with water. Caught.
Animals afloat, belly up, life flew.
Grey old men, hope is a mystery. Clue?
Sparks, burned out and skittering. Fire, cold. Bought.
Doom, close in on all. Deliverance? None.
Stifled by Fate and Fortune? Withheld. New?
Nothing under the sun, scion. Red run.
Grasping fingers and a quill, quahog. Brew.
Wasteland, receive. Gold, far. Sandbar, choke. Smoke.
Poison, leap from serpent's fang. Deeply sunk.
Peril, everywhere. Round upward, time. Soak.
Continent, beneath water. Ocean, plunk.
In moonlit skies, the night awakes,
The call of Eid, the morning breaks.
Eid al-Adha is drawing near,
A time of love, of faith, sincere.
Ibrahim stood the hardest test,
His son he offered, at God’s behest.
But mercy came from skies above,
A tale of faith, a bond of love.
Markets full with goats and cows,
Children cheer with playful vows.
Eyes gleam bright, hearts open wide,
In every soul, joy and pride.
Prayer begins at dawn’s first light,
Hearts unite in pure delight.
Then sacrifice, in God’s own name,
A sacred act, never in vain.
The poor receive their rightful share,
A plate of joy, a sign we care.
On this day, we stand as one,
No rich or poor beneath the sun.
Let Eid return with every year,
Its lessons deep, its meaning clear.
May sacrifice not end today,
But live in all we do and say.
Specific Types of Iambic Pentameter Poems
Read wonderful iambic pentameter poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, dog, family, food, friends, funny, kids, life, love, music, nature, school, sports, war
and more.
Definition | What is Iambic Pentameter in Poetry?