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Details | Quatrain | |

Reflections from a Toiling Sonneteer

One’s poetry not always will unfold beneath its author’s pen as some suppose. And poetry one is to yet behold might slowly bloom before one plucks that rose. At times the lines come breech, the labor hard. A trial of thought; a repositioning of words emerging, offspring of the bard! And then at last, the poet’s heart will sing. The poet must write always, lest his mind grow barren, for not always can he know his muse will be there. She’s not always kind, but oh, the joy, when verses want to flow! 1/8/13 For Russell Sivey's Poetry About Poetry Contest

Details | Free verse | |

Exposure: Part I

Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.

And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.

I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.

I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon 
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave, 
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.

"What does hate feel like?"

"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."


Details | Quatrain | |

Ode to Poetry Critics (Co-written with James Fraser)

Wipe that silly grin from your face, boy
I am a woman, but certainly not a wimp
Watch me roll with the punches, tough guy
It'll take more than your words my style to crimp

    Hey, babe, your style really sucks
    Call that art, I have seen kids write better
    Have some heart, instill it in your writes
    Feel the moment, feel those letters

My feelings are there, you just may not relate
If you can't grasp my intent, too bad for you
I write from my heart, not from a man's head
I know what I'm saying, you just haven't a clue

     Oh, i see you have posted another piece
     Let me read and determine my thoughts
     Excellent shape and so true to form
     This definitely has plusses, you must be man taught

Hold on, joker, no man has influenced me          
Dickinson and Teasdale are among the finest
Your thoughts on my work I'll disregard
Your views on poetry reveal your blindness

      The last write you wrote, has invited my see
      It has clearly shown, your writing to be
      Scope, shape and the form you have written
      I have scrolled to your past, and I am sorrowful smitten

No more condescending from ye on the throne?
What was it that made you feel superior?
And, furthermore, what gave you the right
To make any poet feel inferior?

Details | Acrostic | |

My PoetrySoup

M y eyes see what your heart is feeling
Y our feelings you write out as poetry

P ain, love, joy, wonder, inspiration
O nly you can help me see, hear,and feel you
E ven though only words you have written they
T ouch my heart and mind deeply from within
R equiring me to write a poem so full of feeling as
Y ou become my poetry I write from my heart
S mile, laugh, cry, whisper, or shout
O pen your heart, mind, and soul
U tter your words on paper or screen
P oetry is where I see and feel your soul

Tons of comma fun!
contest of Russell Sivey

Written by: Carol Brown
3rd Place Winner

Details | Free verse | |

Feather in my hand, ink in my heart.

Trickling over my mind
Came scampering the question
This dilemma of a heart
Come running into my embrace
Stricken with fright

It asked me
Father, why do we write
And so I dipped my feather in the darkness of my mind
And brought forth my answer 

I wrote of fear and the love that comes at a dreadful cost
Of meaning and of the fight for knowledge 
I wrote for voices unheard
I cried for emotions long forgotten
And the answer came to me as the tears wrote their own tale
Painted in pain was the image of a long forgotten glory
Of emotions left unstirred
Come to see what these words have conspired 
Come to see how these words have called them from their sleep
To ensue in them an undaunted hunger

Well my dear son
Here comes my answer to you
I write not for you
Nor for me
I write for what is within you
What has bubbled forth within me
I write to stir the masses
Unchained, unhindered
Willful subjects of our being
They huddle in wait
The towering limestones of their cave grow eon by eon
As they rot away, moment by moment
I write for them
We write for the grim
The unnoticed prestige
We write for what you have neglected to see
To bring it forth before your eyes
To fix your head with an iron collar
To make you a slave of our direction
We write to be your masters, when you need one most
We write to fix your gaze on what you have never lost
We write to drag forth from the depths of your inky heart

We are the harbingers of emotion
Be it hate or lust
The unseen veil of ignorance, or to shatter the blinding globe of pride
We are the harbingers of sight
With our binding collars, our guiding feathers, dripping the black sweat of our labored toil
You will come to see
What has not been seen before
We are
Fathers of a relationship sown by words, sealed by the dawning of the sun, the dawning of 
We are 
Your feathers, to your wings or to your ink

And feathers will flutter
Bearing you into the frigid embrace of the skies
And when the winds will them no more
We will descend upon the ground
And speak to the earth as we are reclaimed in its rough embrace
We will write to the trees, when we cannot write to the birds, the sun, and the sky
And through the trees we will see the stars
And to them we will write about the shade
Harbingers indeed.

© Samir Georges

Edited for Deb's Free Verse Contest on why we write.

Details | Bio | |

Unwritten Conversations

He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with 
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says, 
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out

                “Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
                                 “Everything is beautiful, baby…”
                 “But what is beautiful to you?”

Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows, 
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything is beautiful. 

                      “Just write about that then..”
                                 "Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
                                  live it out.."
                      "What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies 
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and 
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
                                "Mmm, I suppose."
                        "What's real poetry to you?" 
                         "I don't understand."

I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…

                                     "This, baby, This is real Poetry.."


Details | Rhyme | |

Why do You Write

Why do you write?

To give birth to beauty
To decorate a drab wall
To splash color on a canvass
To entertain and enthrall

Why do you write?

To become immortal
To capture fame
To heal a wound
To become sane

Why do you write?

To produce magic
To invade a heart
To be someone’s passion
To create a work of art

Why do you write?

To take a word picture 
To weave a poetic tapestry
To build imagination’s castle
To write your own history

Why do you write?

You write because
You're confused
You’re overwhelmed
You’ve been abused

You write because 
You’ve been shortchanged
You’ve been neglected
You’ve been enraged

You write because
You have a need
You crave passion
You want a creed

You write because
You are in pain
You carry baggage
You have tasted rain

You write because
Like every poet
That has come and gone
Of will ever be
You write because
You are searching for
The rhythm and rhyme
Of your life.

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Details | Rhyme | |

Only A Poet

Write me a smile with your magic word
And write it nice and wide
Write me a whisper, that's never been heard
To show what you're feeling inside

Write me a tear, as it runs down your cheek
Each time that you need to cry
Write me strength, when you're feeling weak
Or love that will make me sigh

Write me the anger, when it doesn't go your way
Or contentment, each time that it does
Write me tomorrow, instead of today
Or maybe the way that it was

Write me your heartache, with all of your pain
When your heart's been broken in two
Then write me the pieces of you that remain
For I need to feel them too

Write me the morning and evening skies
Or maybe even noon or night
Whatever emotion your lonely heart cries
Like only a poet can write

Details | Free verse | |

Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard 
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.

I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.

And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.

But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,

As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.

And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, 
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.

Details | Alliteration | |

A Poet's Thoughts

I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel
into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal
from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within
the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins.

I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word
or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard
to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined
unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine.

I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony
between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me
I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while
to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile.

I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all
with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls
pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion
washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion.

I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse
expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use
composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy,
I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.

Details | Quatrain | |

Too Much Nasty Poetry

I don't like nasty limericks.
I don't like vulgar words.
I'd rather write of better things, 
like maybe watching birds.

So many poets feel the need
to write such graphic things.
The art of poetry to me
is making words that sing.

It's easy to be nasty.
It takes no brain at all.
But I can't keep from wondering
where you get the gall.

My poems may not be 'genius'.
I'm sure they don't compare
to many other writer's work
but mine, I like to share.

No matter if you're ninety
or if you're only nine
you needn't feel ashamed to click
on poetry that's mine.

Details | Free verse | |

Orgasm Of Sadness

images pour erratically
falling on eyelashes 
tears fueling my pen 
always the sadness 
finds me waiting 

wrenching emotion 
twisting my heart 
in a vice grip 
can't stop the images 
from driving me insane 

raped and murdered eyes 
pleading for children 
drowned beneath 
adult oppression 
and addiction 

it's the emptiness 
that I write 
a cursed 

social consciousness
that blinds

I don't write love 
for it lies 
can't find happiness 
to send to my pen 
for it lays behind 
my eyes 
a tired whore 
spent and overused 
with too much hype 

can't even pen security 
never found that either 
under blankets or kisses 
not even in hardened urges 
that deflate just as quickly 
conveying only want and need 

no I write of sadness 
I return there 
a drunk to cheap wine 
guzzling my addiction 
with lust 
it holds me safe 
for it is familiar 

I live it 
I see it 
it knows my name 
and I know its

we are intimate 
sadness and I 
a couple 
twisted together 

in some grotesque 
sexual position 
culiminating in orgasm 
with my depressed pen




Details | Lyric | |

Through Mundane Clouds

To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness  -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
With boredom.
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did  one thousand  yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
                   O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented 
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky… 
Mark, until it breaks through  mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall  taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.

Details | Couplet | |


         Writing is my challenge each day
     But it's not the words or what to say.

     It is the connection with other writers here
     Because I feel I'm not worthy or equal I fear.

     The talent expressed by so many others
     Often makes me want to hide under the covers.

     The gems that are written and ones that I read
     Are so inspired, personal, and give me a need.

     That's why I come here every time
     To see what others have put in their rhyme.

      Carolyn always has a message for me to ponder
      And others write things that make me wonder.

      I often race to the "New Poems"  just to see
      If by some chance there's one by which P.D has destroyed me.

      And Carol, Bob, Nick, Emily, Wilma, and "the Sweetheart"
      Write things that sometimes I just can't pull apart.

      The Doc has written so many things
      I am amazed sometimes at the thoughts he brings.

      Others are here who write so well
      Their words do me so oft compel.

      For like unto them I want to be
      Writing words that have meaning for others to see.

      Will they be worthy I say when I'm done
      Or will they be read by others, as I've intentioned.

      You know I feel so many emotions just now
      Because of all these writers, I just don't know how.

      For they are a driving force for me
      And part of my challenge each day is to make them see.

      That because of them I have to write
      Sometimes into the wee hours of the night.

      To pick a favorite writer is...well a difficult choice
      So I pick them all, because they shout with one voice.

      "Write, you fool, then write some more"
      Words I hear and cannot ignore.

      So I choose them all...all here in this group
      The ones who have made me hungry for Soup.

      There, I've said it...and you know that's not in haste
      The Soupers that are here are the best of all to taste.


Details | Free verse | |

I will not be late to work this morning

I will not be late to work today

I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
About gymnasiums
About TAKS 
About sound
About war

I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of 
Broken valentines
Strewn against a wooden
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase

I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert 
Ready to begin my lesson

I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Or hurt
Where there is no abandonment

What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and 
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the 
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles

I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
Before work

I will not write poetry
Before work
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and 
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving

I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and 
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic

It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
This morning
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything

This poem is over 
the work day begins

Details | I do not know? | |

Why Do I Write

Out of all the questions I have been asked in life
None of them stump me more like this:

Why do I write?

It does not stump me because it’s tricky
It stumps me because it’s a stupid question to ask

Why do I write?

Because there’s nothing more relaxing than it.

Sure sometimes it’s frustrating
Difficult, fundamentally challenging
But that’s part of the beauty of it

Letting you emotions spill out across the page
And knowing that people read it
That people expect who you are
It’s brilliant

When you live a life of not speaking up
Of being that quite person in the background
Expressing yourself is… magnificent

I’m not me when I write
Something takes over me, controls me
So much so that I don’t really know what I am writing consciously
But it works so well 

I guess some people will never understand 
The joy in it all

When you're my age and you develop some characteristic
That doesn’t suit the normal criteria you get picked on

It happens, you can’t stop it
But I feel sorry for them

Expressing yourself through writing is one of my greatest joys
And I’m not going to stop
Not now
Not ever 

Details | Free verse | |

Tracing thoughts

at night, i close my eyes
and see your smile
as it erases the distance between us;

sometimes i feel like a poem
lost somewhere in a poet's mind,
a thought
a dream
waiting to be released
on paper sheets

i can almost hear them,
unfinished poems
falling like leaves
in the silence of night
tossed about in autumn's air
as you write them out

i want to feel the warmth of your touch,
like a fingered-pen as you write me out
from the depths of your mind,
and be the breath that falls
from your lips to sheets,
a masterpiece being born
again and again.

sometimes i feel like the poet,
lost within my own words
and thoughts,
breathless upon the stage
after a midnight reading,
yet, i want to read you
again and again.

i want to be the whisper
that falls under the moon,
a kiss beneath the stars,
a breath from my lips
to yours,
be the silence of words
and the only thought
within your mind,
or all the thoughts
as you dream
on sheets of white

Details | Rhyme | |

When Poets Bleed

When poets bleed they fill their quills
And write their words in red
The letters scream each time they're made
In the hope of being read

The page becomes a sounding board
A mirror to the soul
A reflection meant to bring them peace
To comfort or console

They choose their words so carefully
Not wasting a drop of blood
Writing words that lift them up
As tears begin to flood

They'll write with true conviction
Each time they start to weep
They write sometimes to clear their minds
Before they get to sleep

When poets bleed a word is born
Trying to appease their need
Shining a light to the whole wide world
And all who want to read

Details | Romanticism | |

Words in a can

Don’t give me technology
I loathe what we’ve become
give me parchment, give me ink
I’ll write in blood, I’ll write on sheets.

Bare walls suit me fine
I prefer pencils, and my wine
where have all my good friends gone
oft to sing their sing sing songs

We could share this apple cake
drink milk and whiskey and tell tales of take
of confession and penance and love be damned
oh if words could come in a can!

This tiresome fight
I can't begin to explain
selling our souls for gold or fame
does any one even hear our pain?

We prostitute our writings out
only to see our hearts torn now
its only real if written down
words have no meaning, unless typed down...


Details | Free verse | |

Dealing the cards

Come on artists
lets play a game
its all different to me and i want you to see how i am different
and let me shine as you sign up another way 
as i prove to you my leadership of this new age wave

cards cards
give them new meanings
like you never knew you could 
and lets make the psychics pine through our words to figure out
what they are reading and believing

I wanna see your hearts and spades
dressed in tall grass or lemonaide
i wanna see your cups and wands
inbetween whispering winds and songs lead me there
i know you can come on 
come on 
come on be strong 
like a suit of clubs or diamonds
show me something
and then sprinkle your writings
and we'll make collectors out of all those we invite here
as they read and ponder the meanings of our literature

whats in your hand?
a royal flush a pair?
and as we deal the cards they stumble upon at this endless game 
of cribbage or poker
or tarock
or war who is winning and getting points?
what card means what to who and why

tell me artist as you write with your style on low and high
what makes what suit smile and fade shine and slide?
inside outside sphere of influence
be their collective the object of the psychics to crave?

blind leading the blind
and something they are after for days and days

a few cards your favorite cards play smart or dumb
shuffle the cards pick a game deal a hand
reveal what your playing and one day i'll tell you what we're playing what your 
cards mean
if nothing
to someone one day when the stumble your way
the mystery of nothing speaks something
and we rebuild the puzzle of cartomancy better and better this way

just inspire
once you know you can't
blind leadin gthe blind
so after you read this you can't
play along your uninvited
strike it off your list of things to do
round one is over now go find all who wrote
all who write all who have wriitten the masterpieces
of cards and see what they mean today and collect them for that is something no 
one else can do
until round two....

Details | Rhyme | |

Frustrating Voices

I get so frustrated with the voices in my head 
They seem to tell stories when I'm ready for bed 
They sound so amazing I should write this all down 
But as soon as I locate a pen I don't hear a sound 
Tell me the story repeat it again 
I'll write it on paper and share with my friends 
I try to remember but to no avail 
Papers get crumbled because memory fails 
Frustration seeps in I almost give up 
The voices are asleep so I'm just out of luck 
But then I remember just one little line 
The rest I just wing it to make the poem rhyme

Details | Free verse | |

Why i'm a poetess

I'm just a kid, and life is a nightmare
I'm forced to be mature beyond my age
Using my writing as my therapy
Scrawling my thoughts across the page

Every couple days or so
a poem or two I write
I can't sleep while my thoughts process
So i scribble throughout the night

I give you all my thoughts and fears
this is the reason that i write
so that i can clear my head
giving me the strength i need to fight

In this book i write the things
that i cannot say to their face
but letting it all out on paper
helps me to keep my place

writing poems calms me down
and puts me back in control
I have been writing poems for a while no
since i was twelve years old

Writing puts things in perspective
shows me another point of view
it helps me work out what was done wrong
and shows me what i need to do

If you look closley at what I write
I think that you will find
That exposed on these many pages
is the darker side of my mind

Everything i feel, i write
my thoughts are a tangled mess
I write to clear my head and keep myself sane
thats why i'm a poetess

Details | Nonet | |


Poets are a most talented breed
They write of pain,sorrow and joy
They might write of their own lives
Or of a Spring sunrise
Or of a Pug Dog
Of perhaps grief
Perhaps death
Of Faith
Of self
Of seasons
Perhaps the wind
Or of love gone bad
Maybe a growing love
For the love of their children
Or of a deep dark depression
Yes, Poets are a talented breed

  I tried a new form for me and maybe a new form...This is a double reverse Nonet...I hope
you like it........... Taz

Details | Lyric | |

Let's Write A Poem

Here’s my plea: Let’s write a poem for the world to read;
And in it is a message that all can relate or heed;

Encourage others to pick a pen instead of a gun;
With this poem let people be taught to bond 

all spirits, whether in distress or in joy with a smile;
This poem we write be a reminder that life is fragile;

That peace is at hand, only if we want to achieve;
People will learn to greet enemies and they shall be received;

All of us can write, whether you’re white, black, or brown;
Just believe in what you can do; and not to aspire the crown

Of hate, if you dare tomorrow comes without tears,
Nor will there be worries of living in fears;

With this poem, people will burst not
In paroxysm of rage, but, be inspired to share a lot

Such as love, hope, or maybe, just give a friendly kiss;
You know, it’s easy to write a poem, than writing peace.

Details | Rhyme | |


                                       All these words inside my head
                                           drive me crazy while in bed.
                                       They will dance inside my brain
                                         and fall down like pouring rain

                                             When I try to dress for work
                                          down the hallway they will lurk.
                                           When I leave and drive my car
                                          on every signpost there they are.

                                            What this soul now has to do
                                         is write down these words for you.
                                         Taking pen and pad in hand I'll
                                            write down what they demand.

                                          When it's over and all done and
                                          these words have had there fun.
                                            They will leave me then to rest
                                                        one day.........................
                                                       you know the rest,,,,,,,,,......

Details | Verse | |

My Words

Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words, 
and not necessarily my reality;                                     
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing

You can be who you want to be on any level 
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;  
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys,                                                                        or places that some don’t even think exist

They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry 
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart 
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses  whether they are just cases, 
or me in the absolute right here

My words exude positive intentions; 
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections 
and reversed dejection  
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul 
and temptations

Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before         
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect 
according to divine order

They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time 
because up until now, 
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time 
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside – 
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice 
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Details | Cinquain | |

Blind I Walk With Only Sound

Blind, I walk tap tap
to find my way, rap echo.
Sing song carry me
home to you, bring it home tap
straight to my heart so I hear.

When I see the beat 
boomerang back rap to me
I know your sound space
I know the song of your sense
I hear the cry of your dream

The echoes build loud
Add fluid to the white space
Thoughts of listeners
Adding additional beat
Making new heart, soul, song, sound 

One by one you come
One by one you come online
Choir adding rhythm rip
choir adding some  filigree
add understanding to world

What the rap you make
What the taps you spell out loud
Becomes an image
Shared by all who listen, sing
Wonderful sound, our heartbeat.

Details | I do not know? | |


There was once a man.
He’d always wanted to write,
But his biggest failing was
That he wasn’t very bright.

Whenever he started 
On a story or a plot,
Before he could pen it
He simply forgot

What he had thought earlier
And he wasn’t very wise
So all he wanted was that
The end be a surprise.

And he made up plots and tales
Funny, sad and intense
But in the end he found that
None of them made any sense

For follow as he might all grammar
He could never be concise
And what is more, the ending
Was never a surprise.

Yet he cherished dreams
Of becoming famous and great
Of writing beautiful stories
Of defying his impending fate

But, for all his boldness
He could never roll the dice
And his stories never ended
In a nail-biting surprise.

He told his tales to children
He tried them on every friend
But they never gasped at 
The crucial part, the end.

He sent them off to editors
Of magazines of acclaim
But they all sent the stories back 
Saying the ending was all the same.

He tried to write a book too
But in the middle he got stuck
And he wasn’t very clever
So he simply cursed his luck

Then finally he gave up
And wallowed in self-despair
He felt life was being hard on him
He felt it wasn’t fair.

Then one of his friends suggested 
That if he really had to write
He needn’t just write stories
To prove his wit and might.

He could simply write a cookbook
Or an instruction manual too
Or a traveller’s guide to touring 
A place like Timbuktu

Now the man wasn’t very brilliant
But he could recognise good advice
When he saw it, so he took it
Though he wasn’t very wise

And he wrote a self-help book on
Coping with writer’s block
It became  a national bestseller
Every bookstore ran out of stock.

And he made pots of money
Because it was reprinted thrice
And he was always very glad
He took his friend’s advice

So now if you ask his opinion
He looks very condescending
And smiles, and says, “to write a book
Who needs a surprise ending?”

Details | Ode | |

Ode 2 My Poetry

Why can’t I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are simplistic at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal’s vapid test?

Behind a block of writer’s I’ve been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused

There’s elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this I belabor all my thoughts
Create an elegy for elegance in time

Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams

And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters in their stead

But won’t you like my poem just a little?
I promise it won’t be a trite conceit
You say my writing’s convoluted, so, I strive to simplify it
Then you call my writing sophomoric and cheap

Yet still my writing exists, remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do just exactly what it feels like
And it finds you and your editing, perverse

It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn’t want you to consider it profound
For if you did then it might accidentally be common
And make cool people like me put it down

But won’t you like my poem just a little?
At the very least try to be noncommittal

Details | Free verse | |

Child poet

The raw delight and 
wonder of an eager 
child-poet lay scattered 
across the floor.  

A baby's coo squeals from 
the aging pages babbling
forth childish nonsense while
tired cliches wind lazily through
trite rhymes lacking lyrical luster.

Still, each precious verse endears 
me to the memory of a precocious
youth when poetry was simple 
and an unspoiled world
lay bare age old secrets
calling out to be discovered.

Author's commentary:  

I don't remember what inspired me to write my first poems, but there was always something about
language.  Something profound, something powerful, something pure.  

I had no natural talent, and thankfully I didn't know it for I might have given up.

But eventually, and by sheer accident, I pieced together something that worked proving
poetry is not reserved solely for those with the predisposition but is also born of
passion, study, and discipline.

It was 15 years of frustration and tears as poem after bad poem was ripped to shreds by
seasoned writers with invaluable, albeit sometimes harsh, advice before I created anything
worthy of being read.  But I am in love with poetic art so have persevered with humility
and gratitude in the face of rejection until finding a rhythm of my own.  And though a bit
of time may sometimes pass before I am moved to write again, the words eventually spill
forth, and with a bit of luck and ingenuity, I will write a profound piece of insightful
prose stirring pride in the hearts of my mentors whose opinions I hold so dear.

For me, it has never come easy but with a deep-rooted love for the art and an obsession
for one day authoring a single, perfect verse, I hope to be unified in spirit with the
ghosts of poets past inspiring and encouraging others to keep the craft alive.

Details | Free verse | |

Invisible Ink

"My pen drips of sorrow and on this paper, I write each tear" – A Rambling Poet

Someone once said, “Write not what should not be read…”
He never knew what to do otherwise
for his pen was his only friend, and paper, his face
of which emotions made themselves known

Forbidden love touched his heart,
never knowing ‘til then that it could be 
the ink for which his pen would write

He seized that passion
and wrote ‘til his fingers bled, mindless of the pain,
numb with love.
The pain was superficial after all, just blood on skin
A flurry of letters that grew strength on secrecy…

Ah, but someone once said…
“Write not what should not be read…”

But how badly he wanted to be read…
the only problem is that word called

Love reveals, love betrayed;
hearts betray, hearts revealed.

It was all a ruse,
to let slip secrets that were never meant
to be known.

The pain now draws from the heart,
bleeding him dry, reaching his soul
to dehydrate him some more,
‘til Death becomes his friend.


She receives one last letter in the post
-a blank sheet, wrinkled…warped

Was it invisible ink?
On the contrary,
its message was loud and clear.

No words needed at all, just
pure sorrow of a heart and soul 
that wept

…her tears stain that paper now,
never enough to smooth it out.

August 14, 2011  149a219 
for Constance’s Just Write contest :)

Details | Couplet | |

Equus Poeticus Variabilis

I’m riding your horse, no giddyap allowed,
simply plunge into the deepest unknown.

Your voice sets the pace, it whispers 
into the ears of my ride, sometimes they twitch

sometimes they find water, sometimes 
the waterfalls absorb all thought. I lean

over neck, sample horse blood like a vampire, 
like a computer’s command mode

taking over my brain, allowing my heart
to beat in tune, my feet to turn to hooves

and kick up or canter, moving with the rhythm
and flow, feeling the sweat of the sun

overhead and the damp of shady pines
and raking the grasses until they rustle over skin.

This is how I know you: the whisper on the wind
the stroke along my frame, the bed stead 

in which I dream, the places of unimagined
like a lure, a bait, overtaking me, leading 

me down a road I’ve never found
until you lent the movement of ride forever. 

Details | Free verse | |

Boomerang - 5 Stages of Poetry

as my pen positions itself between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand… …I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride…. Thoughts spew inside my head – too fast to articulate. Too deep to defend. Ticking like a badly timed bomb infused with a faulty timer – I reach for the pen… words align themselves as I walk Through the clutches of Pre-validation. My mind is appeased – my will is at ease…until the stumbler opens his mouth: “Poetry” he whispers and I’m thrown Into the vapors of Validation wondering, perhaps, maybe? Could it be that without will I have created that which could be termed as poetry? The jury is out: the naysayers and the critics; the conservatives and realists; friends and foes – torturing my mind, stroking my ego, making my blood boil, soothing my heart… tears I cannot cry…smiles they can not see… anger spills out; indifference sets in; I wring my mind and pack my poem slowly I embark on the Wrought past Post-validation. Baby steps in forming words I love. Twisting the poem in forms I’ve learnt. Dressing it in different styles, shortening it, elongating it; Snip, snap, cut, bandage – Rhythm no rhythm. Basking in formless form. Counting and discounting syllables But still it’s not enough. What’s the use of words if they don’t effect? Diving into The plunge I reign in the words – the leader of my chariot- My poem succumbs to my will. Wielding, exposing, slicing, dicing, building, destroying, encouraging, condemning the poem breathes – a life of its own. And I think to myself Oh please who am I to be the wielder of such potency? I call it back. Taking a stroll along the beach, I reminisce of things past; The things I’ve done; the things I’ve not done; The rot in the world; the love that begs to be heard… The thoughts start swirling in my mind. …. My steps take me back to the beginning… as my pen positions itself between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand… …I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
For: Boomerrang Contest sponsor: Michael J. Falotico

Details | Bio | |

I Am Poetry

I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation 
                     of words cascading from a nebulous eye 
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto 
                     a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,

and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly 
                     sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades 
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry 
                     fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,

Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion 
                     itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so 
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever 
                     careering from caustic career path to another new low,

Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s 
                    counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the 
                    fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp 

Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent 
                    with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering 
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond 
                    farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering 

Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and 
                    gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the 
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed 
                    existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a

Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding 
                    gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of 
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels 
                    in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love. 

Praise no other; I am poetry.

Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: III

Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Details | Epic | |

In The City

The city has everything anyone can dream of: public transportation (city buses, trains/subways, and taxi cabs), theaters, parks, hotels, and restaurants; not to mention downtown apartments. All of the cities are the largest metropolitan areas that never sleep. Living in the city is like being a part of the essence of urban living. And when he or she's in the city for a concert or another event, they won't want to leave it behind; they just want to stay there. It looks like I'm not the only one who's a city person; it's everyone else, too. The U.S. has multiple cities, and so does the rest of the world (Beijing, Rome, Paris, Toronto, or wherever). No mater what city are these people from, they're all part of the urban society. To be honest, I've always wanted to reside in the city: New York City, Seattle, Washington, Atlanta, Georgia, Kansas City, Missouri, London, U.K., Los Angeles, California, or Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I see all cities with brand new buildings in the year 2065, and I also see aliens or any other life form interacting with the humans in the futuristic city, as well. If the city's ready for me and I plan on residing in one of them for a long time, that would be great.

Details | Free verse | |

I am not stupid

I did something this 
time without 
asking you or telling you
until now.

This is my very own 
" Accomplishment".
I want to soak it up
like a sponge soaks
up water.

I want to Relish in this.
I did something that
everyone thought I could
could never do!

They said I was not smart
enough to  write anything.
Now I wish I could see their
surprised faces.

You can't take this from
me like all the times before.
Because I won't allow you to
ever do that again.

I feel good for once in my life
I have earned this right.
It's all kind a of scary because
it's all so knew to me.

I won't run I will embrace
every moment of this.
I have so much to learn
and to write about.

The word 'Stupid' is now
replaced with the new title
of 'I am an Author'.
I did it with out asking any
of you it feels grand.

Now all of you who tried but
failed to take my will this 
'Poem' is just for you. 
I am not Stupid I am a 'Person'
but most of all I am an 'AUTHOR'.

Details | Rhyme | |

I am not SAD

I am not sad!

While most of my poems may be SAD
They reflect the experiences that I’ve HAD
I promise you I am not MAD
In fact most days I feel GLAD

Whenever I do feel DOWN
Or sadness is AROUND
When pain and fear are ABOUND
I write to release my inner FROWN

My writing is the skeleton KEY
To all things that make me - ME
It opens the door and sets me FREE
To document my life’s JOURNEY

I write today to tell you SO
Just in case you did not KNOW
My memories are clear and PLAIN
On my journey there’s both joy and PAIN


Happy memories are all I SEE
When I reflect on my girls and ME
They fill my heart with such JUBILEE
And now my life has UNITY 

Alaya and Saen adore me SO
I love them and this they KNOW
They repaired my heart and helped it GROW
In their eyes I see love’s GLOW

A love like theirs is INCOMPARABLE
This makes the pain of my past - BEARABLE
They fill my spirit with joy and GLEE
They are the reason I was meant to BE

Each and every day I PRAY
I look in the mirror and I SAY
Thank you lord for this DAY
Watch over my children as they PLAY
And please show me the WAY
To be a better person - TODAY

This eases the sadness in ME
So I can live and be HAPPY!


Details | Rhyme | |

I Made an Effort

I had really tried to make an effort
To talk about the great unknown
To explain some of the mysteries of my life
To venture beyond my mind's place of home.

I had tried hard to do my very best
To communicate an explainable thought
To write something with some meaning
A poem of words is what I'd wrought.

But after you had read my words
You seem to think of me as shallow
You seem to think of me as someone else
Whose thinking is very narrow.

Nothing beyond the tangible
You seem to think of me as uneducated as a lark
Completely communicating nothing of worth
That I'd really missed my mark.

But who is the real loser here
Is it you or is it I
Is it I who tried to make an effort
Or is it you for criticizing me for my concerted try.

You, who chose to put my efforts down
To push them all aside
To put yourself on a higher plain
A plain where only 'real' poets reside.

I think myself the winner
For it is I who have truly grown
I have gone outside and beyond myself
I have ventured into the deep unknown.

And if I did truly miss my mark
If I truly tried and failed
I am sure my God will understand
My sincerest efforts to him are known.

*This poem is dedicated to all of those who try to write anything and whose efforts 
would be cut down by those who do not care about the sincerity of their efforts.

(January 8, 2011  Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,

Details | Free verse | |

Thy Name is Poet

Some poets write with a rapier blade,
meaning to cut a thing down
to its bare-boned ism.

Others write of fanciful affairs with a voice
as silk is,
to a fair maiden’s slip.

Some write from the void (the out world expanse)
of truth and secret gatherings
of white wind warriors!

Some write of the gut wrenching horrors
of abuse, pain, and mutilated soul;
where every word written is a cathartic expulsion 
of venom from veins -
a bleeding of the darkness within, meant 
for the healing of self and others.

Yet, others write of the red beating pulse of love!
with the force of eternal motion,
in one long unstoppable exhaled breath (the fall of time 
standing still);
of holding ones breath in 
either tortuous blue-faced death, or the splendor 
of knowing the everlasting meaning 
of one.

Other poets write their fingertips;
a caress felt with a lead tipped touch,
(for they are the ones whose minds
                             have stolen heart –
replacing it with the numb of page)
their only place of refuge,
for pages do not scorn, nor look in places 
where they aught not look (where love dies).

Some write simply what comes:
from the breath of a new day on their lips,
to the touch of a kindred spirit’s words
upon their heart - to make sense of a memory,
or share something discovered –
an epiphany 
                       yearning to spread.


Parchment just wishes to be stroked,
no judgments made unto its scribe –
only love, only love…

Some poets paint their words –
A union both exact and beautiful –
where visions blossom within the mind
instead of on a canvass.
These inner pictures rise from the garden
of each poet’s depths;
each beheld a little differently, than the next 
soul to read, the poets eyes.

There is no other form of art that can bring souls together,
from any age, life, reckoning or century,
like the written word.
We write each others lives,
for we are of our maker’s words.
One breath upon first parchment, wrote
one word within the stars –


For, we here are all bringer’s of truth;
spreaders of seeds (for good or otherwise)
we are all extensions of the whole –
the will of God, Gods, Earth and all that is,
reaching out with verbal arms
into souls that wish to be SEEN!
To be understood! To be heard!

And so we write.
Thank the heavens above,

we write.

© Kristin Reynolds 2008

Details | Sonnet | |


They assigned me me to write a sonnet about the life of a drunken writer
whose dream wouldn't shatter, but his foolishness wasn't in the past tense; 
he spent endless hours reading blogs of people who didn't make sense...
in chat rooms he found geeks, charlatans and a casual liar. 
These are the ones who can text all day as kids do for fun... 
what's the excuse for being late and perform with a brainless head?
Here's proof of his laziness: he didn't write anything to earn him bread.   
" Wake up, your work is piling snore as pigs in a barn! "
the co-worker in the next booth sneered as the boss approached Fred
who stuttered and tried to explain why he couldn't get the work done...
while his breath stunk and couldn't stand him looking awfully mad.
" I need that article by tomorrow, or you'll get a pink slip and are gone! " 
" Sir, the last article was a liked that sex-pot with those boobs! "
" Why can't I write about today's generation who have the speed of raccoons? "

Details | Concrete | |

I Write What I Say and Say What I Write until its Done

If I write a lie then my whole life has been like an entire lie/
I can't do what must be done if one doesn't give it a try/
Im living what I write until my breath of words in my body die/
You see my rhymes grounded until they finally set forth in flight/
Paragraphs blinded until words give them sight/
If I write what was wrong I can still make that mistake right/
Im trying to live in peace yet at times I won't live if I don't fight/

I shouldn't be thinking like two because I am only but one/
You see working on verses late into the night until the early morning sun/
I fight with sophisticated verses upon many losses until my spoken fight is finally won/
Lost into thoughts so deep until they no longer seem fun/
Thinking out the day worried every night that I sleep with a gun/
If I am not to your standards I dont give a **** if I am shunned/
Im doing what I do until the day that my purpose in life is finally done/

Details | Cinquain | |


Word Collection
Penning down lines
Expressive, Heart Rendering, Soothing

Details | Clerihew | |

Not, yet

I dreamt myself as poet-frog
And good Fancy` Fairy
Would stoop to pick my verse…
But she didn`t come.

Details | Rhyme | |

Oh to Write a Triolet

I cannot write a Triolet
I tried but I haven’t finished it yet
A Flach Sandwich doesn’t seem so hard
Then why have I barely written a word
Thoughts are running to and fro
I wonder where they seem to go
I have dozens of things to write about
Why can’t I seem to get them out
Starting and stopping I do a lot
Do I have anything yet or maybe not
If it is not as hard as it seems
Then why am I not putting out reams and reams
I cannot write a Triolet


Details | Rhyme | |

A Writer's Longing

My writer, my writer,
where art thou
and our times shared through the pen ? 
I miss our writing together
as I look back
now and then.

My writer, my writer, 
for this I long;
to write with you once again.
Our writing together
a perfect song.
So let’s write my writer and when ?

Details | Concrete | |

A Writer Always Writing

As a writer always writing about my life everyday, I have to write this when I say that this is the only way that I know I know how to speak and write about "My" life before I "Die" in these reservation cold streets like many of my own people.
 I have hope for something better and bigger beyond our cold rez life streets here in money rich America.
 I'm trying not to be another victim or just another number and I'm especially not trying to become just another "Rest in Piece" or just another "In Loving Memory Of".
 I'm trying to leave something behind for my people but especially for my "yet to understand daugher", and this is the only way I know how to leave my very own one of a kind unique individual thoughts behind is through paper, but now what make's it even better now days for us is the "Internet", and my Internet crowd and across sea's internet crowd will listen to my words more than my "family" or "friends" ever will, and this is the only way I can truly be there for my family, my friends, my people and my daughter is in these words that I write, in this words in which I speak, and I have to be careful about what I write because it can help, but more often than not I can make them hurt, but I got to be careful about whom these words I write and speak about.
 I got to be more about helping than hurt as a True Lone Poet Speaking Life as "A Writer Always Writing".

Details | Rhyme | |

If You Had but One Last Poem to Pen

If you knew that you’d be leaving soon
And had but one last poem to write;
What might you pen as you begin 
To say your final, farewell good night?

Would it be addressed to those who’ve blessed 
Your world with all good things?
To someone close you love the most
Or perhaps, a song of spring?

Of changing winds that swirl and spin
From cradle to the grave;
If you had but one last poem to pen
What would you want to say?

Would thankfulness surround you
For every breath you’ve ever breathed?
Or will you write before losing sight 
Of past regrets and shattered dreams?

Will your pages be filled with all the thrills
Of memories made with laughter?
Or will sadness remain despite all the gains
Of riches you’ve chased after?

And I wonder will the darkness fill
Our minds with somber sojourns;
Or will instead we find we’re led
To God’s gigantic, love-filled ocean?
If we have but one last poem to write
Before leaving Earth’s atmosphere;
What will we say that just might stay
In the hearts of those still here? 

Details | Lyric | |

I Can't Say It Without You

I was your never ending composer
We spent many a nights, and many an hour together
But now you’re lost inside
And I can’t find my way, again.

( chorus )
Cause I can’t say it without you		
It hurts to be without the feeling		
Never knowing when it will return		
But I know that you would stay with me	
If you came back, again some day		
But till then I’ll wait till you appear.	

I really miss the way you make me feel
People said we were meant to be together
Why’d you leave me so unexpectedly
I hope you come back soon.

( Chorus )

It’s been two months since I’ve written you
All I’ve got to show is crumpled bits of paper
The passion and creativity is now gone
So come back home so I can work it out.	

Details | Haiku | |

All About the Music: The Infinite Magic of Lyricism

Pop may be catchy
But not lyrically deep
Case in point: Chris Brown.

(N.B. Poem written after hearing "Don't Wake Me Up")

Details | Verse | |

The Poetic Blues

I think I self-sabotage unknowingly 
because of fear
So my message goes unheard because I’m afraid to let the people hear
And end up drowning in the poetic blues
doubting my ability to write about the truth;

I dug deeper and deeper into myself trying to write a poem good enough to be free of judgment
Then I stepped out on faith and suddenly I was triumphant 
and my writing grew 
and I was loving it
I had finally passed the fear of speaking and caring about who the fu*c! was judging it

As I wait to be inspired for the next poem, 
I sit and think alone and drown in my sorrows
Listening to jazz, blues and a.m. radio
trying to find an excuse not to perform at the SLAM 
because again I can’t think of a damn thing to write…..
Drowning in poetic blues
Will this be the one that will be thrown away and never be used 

Or will this be the one that transcends the others  
and finally prove that poetry is blues and blues is poetry and hip hop and jazz and r&b, 
Poetry is music and the words dance around in my soul 
and I am free once they become spoken 
In the meantime the paper is where the words will rest 
until the silence is broken

Drowning in the sea of proper delivery 
My voice, my stance, my intensity
How will others interpret the words that I’ve chosen so diligently?
I wrap my soul around the possibility that none of the words I choose – 
will keep me from becoming deluged and trapped by the poetic blues

Somehow my heart refuses to accept that I don’t deserve to have my words heard 
and it takes over this whole process
No more time for shrinking and feeling less
I was born to  make my words manifest light
I am a gorgeous medium to the truth yeah that's right
I was sent here to give you a piece of good news
Remember that God is with you when you get
The poetic blues

Details | Haiku | |

Great expectations

Great expectations
of all metals to win the clay:
Seasons`cuneiforms ...

Details | Limerick | |

Inspiration Hibernation

What happened to my inspiration
Is causing me great perspiration
My mind is a blank
No one can I thank
For my creative hibernation

© 2013 Rick Zablocki

Details | I do not know? | |

The kitchen sink

(Only the first line of this poem is true.)

I've written poems about everything but the kitchen sink.
I write so much that it hurts when I think.
I'd write some more but my pen is out of ink.
I'm the only man in my town who wears a mink.
Don't mess with me, I don't take sass.
If you tell anybody about my mink, I'll kick your ___.

Details | Rhyme | |

A Poem for You -First Collaboration with Michael J Falotico-

A Poem for You By Michael J. Falotico & Dinda Minardi
(Finished in August 14, 2011) ~Dinda~ Same like yesterday of yesterdays, I sit under this three He sits on the woodenbench Before, he just him in the same ways Then unique him set free Tastes like dewy meets thirsty to drenched I’ve sighted his eyes, down to nose, slide onto his lips How come a stranger makes me beat my heart faster? I can’t imagine if he talks to me, can I bear the shock waves? I wonder, when will I get that eager to see his face closer? My underestimation has been impressed wider I used to be a talker. With him around, I’m only observer What can I say, I am now an admirer Atleast this park provides me air that's clearer So I can still be sober ~Michael~ A day in the park seems to take a change.. I try to write words but they spill out strange.. This blank page is being played with by the sun.. Shadows crawl up and down but none with fun.. My eyes travel past the wishing well to a tree.. A smile that shines but I only wonder is it for me.. All these words I write she can't see or hear... My legs are frozen from this beauty I fear... ~Dinda~ Who is he? He robbed my breath and blocked my sanity Could he be? The one who’ll keep me from uncertainty Or it’s just my brain mutiny because I want him too badly? How should I know? My self-esteem suddenly low Should I start it first, or would it only make out worst? What a perfection he has, I can only gasp By his all I sigh, while my hands sweating on my lap ~ Michael~ Well she is moving closer, what should I say? I will tell her I'm drawing a picture of today.. When she see's there is no paint only words and letters.. I answer "I have drawn a poem of you" which I feel is better.. With no words we kissed and smiled for hours.. I flipped the page over and drew you a flower... *I had fun in this collaboration. It was my first collaboration and I feel honored to collaborated with such sweet poet like Mr. Falotico. I hope you enjoy! :)

Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Going Home

What is it to see the soil of home again?
A welcome, snow-struck and a return
To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn.
We converse in broken tongues to men

We know, hooked on holiday language
Comprised of wandering hand signs.
Collect the car and pay parking fines,
Drive through towns and over a bridge

Until we reach the Western gateway.
Oh when will we arrive at our house?
No camels there, only field mouse
Which are eaten by our cat anyway.

The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning
Through the stretching, pealing sky,
A knife through air; what it is to fly.
Our travels over; a new day is dawning.

Details | Rhyme | |


Human language is used for its aesthetic 
To me writing poetry is prolific
It does not matter if it is oral or literary
Just keep it simple and ordinary 
Conveying emotion or ideas to the reader's or listener's mind or ear
When you read this tell me what you hear
All these effects to generate meaning is what marks poetry 
Beauty is found more in the balance of ideas than in specific vocabulary
Poetry was created to escape the logical
That is when my pen, words, and paper become so magical
I write with a combination of elements like theme tension, complex emotion, and profound 
reflective thought 
With my words I weave that trap so now the reader is caught
There are several poetic forms, such as ballads, sonnets and rhyming couplets
Compared with prose, poetry depends less on the linguistic units 
Alliteration and rhyme, use poetic structures
Poetry is used in several sacred biblical scriptures
Rhyming verses are frequently used in songs
That is why it so easy for us to remember and sing along
I always write more for the eye than for the ear
I want the reader to be animated and be full of cheer
Love, understanding, and hope that is what I'm giving them
Poetry to me is life's need rhythm

Details | Light Poetry | |



I thought I'd write some poetry
Just for the fun that it would be.
So I went to the web to see
 what it said
about how to write poems just for me.

I ran into words like iambic and tercet
and other ones that I had never met.   
There was even a thing called a quatrain
that confused and corrupted my brain.

Stanzas are neat if they get the right beat
with the meter which I'd no doubt delete.
You also have tetrameter and pentameter
which are terms I don't think are neat.

Long ago I did write in rhyme 
but just to friends who didn't mind.
I'd write some limericks or lyrics to sing
that were not important 
and didn't mean a thing.

But as I write now and look into how
I find myself stymied by words to allow.
I read such things as trochee 
and anapest and even dactyl.
They are words I just read 
and don't really feel.

Those words belong to meter,
 a measure in feet.
With stresses on heavy or light
and then they repeat.
They do form the meter 
which makes the poem complete.

I may just give up and write more in prose
My friends will give thanks and I'd smell like a rose.
But I do get such joy with the lines in a verse
So I'll just continue, and the poems I'll disperse. 

I could go further and write in free verse,
which doesn't make sense 
and just makes it worse.
Free verse would just boggle my mind.
It really won't matter
what rules I would shatter
as long as I make the words rhyme.

* I actually learned all the technical poetry terms as an English major in college.  This is just a satire on their usage and the way I enjoy poetry.

Details | Couplet | |

Life Sans Soup

Ah, life would surely be tasteless without a ladle of Soup each day!
Ah, the variety of delectable verse to choose from that bountiful buffet!

There is romantic verse, hot and spicy, to warm the cockles of the heart!
Inspirational and insightful poems from the poets' very souls to impart!

So delightful are the witty and humorous ditties that evoke a grin,
And so are the spiritual writes that warn us against the perils of sin!

We learn so much from the historical ballads written by our creative peers,
And read of the vicissitudes of life that bring the hardest of hearts to tears!

Others write of the brave deeds of soldiers that swell our breasts with pride.
Still, others write of the grandeur of God's Creation so great and wide!

'Tis so pleasing to read glowing tributes to others written from the soul!
We enjoy tales of cowboys, their saddle sores and favorite watering hole!

Poetry Soup offers splendid opportunities for budding poets and is first rate,
But the folks who ladle out the Soup to receptive minds are what make it great!

Ah, life would certainly not be complete without my Soup 'fix' each day!
Ah, the variety of delectable verse to choose from that bountiful buffet!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Placed No. 3 in David Williams' "Life Without Soup" Contest - February 2012

Details | Free verse | |

An Artist I'll Always And Forever Be

Storytelling without words
Paintbrush in hand
Strokes of colors in various hues
Painting what I see, what I know
Creating masterpieces on canvas
This is what I've always done
This is what I do best

Life, alas, is too short
At sixty five young, a new skill
Switching paintbrush to quill
Putting words to my paintings
My thoughts of what I perceive
Beauty of expressions 
Creating mental images
In rhythmical formed verses
This is what I'll attempt to do

You're never too old
Too learn new things

For Tracie's contest, "Gimmi What I Want... What I Really Really Want"

Details | Quatrain | |

About Poetry

If I am sad or when I’m hurt,
I write to let the anger out;
It helps to get it off my chest -
I find it’s better than to shout.

And when I lose my head or heart,
I write the words I cannot say;
A secret crush, a racing pulse -
It keeps me going anyway!

For Russell’s Poetry About Poetry contest, 14th January

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poetry is the answer

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

For some the answer is simple enough. 
but others must crack a nut that is tough. 
It’s more than rhyme it's that and bigger stuff. 
A finished poem, a diamond no longer rough. 

There is much to be said of many things, 
of wording it right and the joy it brings, 
a quality tone just right when it sings, 
when it ends it's as true as it begins. 

What impels us so late at night 
to rise up and turn on the light 
to sit down and begin to write 
a poem if the feeling is right? 

An un-crafted word, just like a fetter. 
Un practiced in words, we are the debtor.
And for proof, view any written letter. 
Poems fill a need to say it better. 

thanks for the recomendations Reason A. Poteet 
edited by Monty Newman on 11/25/2010

Details | Rhyme | |

Coloring Music With A Pen

                                    An artist can paint a scene with colors so abstract...
                              A musician can create sounds that flow from front to back...
                                     But a poet can play with words and form images
                                              that each set of eyes can draw from...
                                     A simple phrase that shouts to one ear can easily
                                                         hum to another one...
                                       When you look at a painting you can write what 
                                                            you see or feel...
                                        As when you play a tune you can scribble words
                                                     that will make it alive and real...
                                         My instrument is my pen and my blank sheet is
                                                                    my canvas...
                                           Together I write from dreams all so precious...

Details | Verse | |

Constructive Criticism

Poetry is subjective and can be written how you like;
There are many different ways in which to write.

You can put it down as prose or create some double rows,
Triangles, squares etc. are alright.

I had feedback yesterday from a person with no name;
I guess most of you have had some too.

He said my poetry’s bad, archaic and awfully RANK;
But I don’t write for him, I write for some of you.

Constructive criticism is welcomed by us all
To help us each achieve a higher goal.

To knock for knockings sake is very bad indeed
It makes a normal person less than whole!

If you have something to say, make sure you give a rock
To the person whom you wish to criticise.

Give them helpful hints; you’ll find that the response
Will illuminate from their ever grateful eyes!

Details | Quatrain | |

What's in a Name

I need to remind myself why
As to why my name is required
Is it to look at the same old name
To become literally tired

Or do I read into an abyss
Where one needs a clue to be
I'm estranged as to why my name
Requires the reader to see

I can live for centuries
The desire to see, never compared
So why should I write my name
When I'm blank, my write is spared

Maybe I'm tired with age
Or common sense allows my right
I need to remind myself why
That who should know my writes

Details | Blank verse | |

Why Do I Write

Why Do I Write?
I was born in an era when Shakespeare, Shelley and Wordsworth were kings. Reading them was like hearing beautiful music and after all these years…it still is. Then I fell in love with Emily Dickenson and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…what wonderful words of wisdom they imparted! I write because it allows me to express myself…my thoughts, my compassion, my soul… much as my singing has done all my life. Now that that part of my life is waning, I can still be a “diva” in my own eyes! lol I write, because my heart tells me to in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes me. I write because these thoughts and words which are choking me...screaming to be free...must be released. I write for those who mourn, or who suffer illness, to console them and say I understand. I write for the lonely, for those who have no hope. whose stories tug at my heart. Since I can't hold them close to me, I try through my poems to convince them there is hope and tomorrow will be better. I write to be show I am still relevant and have viable thoughts and opinions to share with the world. Experience is still the best teacher. I write to protest injustice wherever I find it. To be silent would be cowardly. I write humorously about inconsequential, everyday situations, to bring a laugh or two into our lives. I wrote my memoirs for my grandchild, to preserve the past for future generations. I wrote poetry to release grief and sorrow when death came to call, to help me find peace and acceptance. I write my religious poetry…not to flaunt my religion…but to praise God and thank him for his sacrifice for me and for the peace his presence brings to me. I also ask his blessings for my friends and loved ones and for the heavy in heart, so that they might find peace and deliverance from the evils of this world. I do not expect my work to be published…I have no illusions about my talent…I write for everyman, most of whom would shy away from the literary world and consider it elitist in the extreme, but when tragedy befalls them, they take comfort in simple words of encouragement and consolation. But most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it and because my soul requires it!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle (All rights reserved) For Frank's "What turns you on" contest

Details | Rhyme | |

Poemmania Anonymous


Oh mercy, mercy!! Set me free! Poemmania flu is after me! Another contest…. which one to choose? Will mine win, or will it lose !? Another topic, another form Did I enter this one before? If I hurry and write my rhyme I just might post, in nick of time! Meeting deadlines, reading rules.... It seems, sometimes, I’m back in school! Never mind how good it is,…. I’ll write it fast, and click “submit”! Where, oh where, did my muse go? When all my poems were valued views? Contests, contests, (my new addiction) Causing me some contradictions Time is precious,… with things to do, But cannot leave, my eyes are glued! The challenge is a main attraction How to break this chain reaction? How to break my Soup addiction? And the endless competition? Oh…goodie goodie!!…Well, I declare!! Contest list has more to share Two new sponsors, starting theirs! It’s like a monkey on my back Poemmania flu is on attack!!

Details | Haiku | |

Poetry Soup

Poetry soup is
a great bowl of emotions
that I really love

(To everyone in poetry soup: great work.)

Details | Lyric | |

The Paper In My Lap

Ashley Plotczyk

I write, inspired by my heart 
my thoughts only able to be expressed 
through my poems
The best time for me to write
is when I am emotional 
The paper serves as my relief 
It takes my struggle away from me
I love to write when no one else is around me
My thoughts only heard by me 
but read by others once I have mellowed down 
I enjoy sitting down
being only surrounded by silence
This is the time I take for myself
I take the pen and I write until I've found the right words
The only words that can soothe my uneasiness 
from my busy life and hectic mind 
My favorite place to write is anywhere I am able to write 
at that moment that I have the urge to release my feelings 
Like my busy life, I do not wait around to write
I write poetry everyday and I will not always be in the same places 
But my mind will always know how to trade places with the paper in my lap

Details | Rhyme | |

Pit and Pendulum

Forgive if I borrow, write and craft some sorrow
Beg and steal, I give you this now and tomorrow
Pen me under stars, pit me against the best
I'll write you a sonnet, put your heart to the test

Cause darlin I gotta know what it feels like
To taste glory, bring heaven from hell's pike
I need to pen a haiku and be through 
Oh you thought that I meant with you? 

Hell, darlin, I am seeking fame and fortune
I'll pull down stars and ink a supernova
This year I no longer stand by till it's over
Pits and Pendulum's buried under sandy dune

Desert? I will cross it then, a thousand times
Water to quench my thirst from otiose rhymes
But yet, I'll pen my name in the stars for it
Bleed heart and soul for it
But you'll find me... at the edge of a razor.

Details | Light Poetry | |


I didn't intend to write a poem
I really thought I'd do a tome
and as I thought I'd take my time
I found I wrote instead in rhyme.

So, alas, what was I to do?
I wanted to write to please you too.
I took on the task of putting to verse
the things that I thought of
that wouldn't make them worse.

I wrote and I wrote and before I knew
I had 30 poems that suddenly grew.
But what should I do with so many rhymes?
Are they good enough to keep up with the times? 

I looked around and then I knew
I would put them in a book
and send them to you.

Details | Rhyme | |


Thank you my fellow supers (soupers) 
for inviting me to write more
for appreciating and loving what i do best
when I was previously on the floor
I do not know the lot of you
but I feel like I know you well
for we, we share the same language
that makes a weak heart swell
swell with courage to write it out
when all the world seems not to care
when I was down in the dumps one day
the supers caught me in midair

Details | Free verse | |

In Search of Words that Rhyme

I can never think up rhyming words
When I write my stupid poems
All the other words have a place to live
But the rhyming ones have no abode

To other poets it comes so easy
Penning rhyming words that sound just right
But I can never find the rhyming mate
Though I try all day and evening

So this desire to be a poet
For me is just a curse
And all the poems that I eventually write
I just have to label them free form

So if you have a few extra rhyming words
Spinning around inside your head
Could you share a few of them with me
So I can write a poem before I’m deceased

Details | Rhyme | |

Layers of Me

                                                        I sit naked and exposed...
                                              The sky my ceiling to write and pose...
                                           Sprinkled pieces fall and stick to my soul...
                                They are fragments of my dreams that drop and unfold...
                                   I stand with arms raised touching the layers of me...
                                       And then sit and write as my Poetry flows free...

Details | Free verse | |

Whenever My Muse Calls

Whenever my muse calls
The words will always speak.
My pen will always flow
No matter where I am.
A pad I always keep.

I write parked in my car,
Or in the grocery store.
No matter where I am
My pen calls out my name.
I write until my brain is sore.

Sometimes a word or two,
Or a completed verse.
Ideas flow puzzle-like
For me to fit the pieces.
Could this be a curse or not?

Maddening at sometimes,
The creativity side of me.
Mumbling to myself.
People will always stare,
As I look back glassy-eyed

My muse will not be ignored
And my pen will always flow.

Details | I do not know? | |

When I Write

In my life there are many things I crave.
Passion is one of the biggest cravings I have,
Because with passion comes many other cravings;
Love, Happiness, Friendship.
These are only the passion for emotions though.
Reading, Singing, Dancing.
Now these are passions for doing things..
But none of these passions compare to my passion for writing.

When I write everything else in my life goes blank.
My worries disappear.
My stress fade to nothing.
When I write my heart beats faster.
My mind races into a million ideas.
My soul flutters like a butterflies wings.

Writing may not be my only passion in life,
But it definitely is my only true passion.
My passion for writing goes beyond anything else in life.
If I could not write down my feelings, 
They would tear me apart from the inside out.
My world would come tumbling down.
Without writing my life would be nothing.

Details | Rhyme | |

The Other Side

With arms stretched I struggle to see over the wall..
My chin pressed against the stone, upward I crawl..
My fingers feel the warmth but my eyes are blind..
An endless climb as my heart feels what my soul will find..
My hands start to write words on each slate I pass by..
Leaving my mark for the next poet to see if they choose to try..
I pull myself over to see a world of art and poetry..
There I pull up a chair to and take my seat and write for me..

Details | Limerick | |

Some you win, Some you don't

Poetry contests we enter with zest
And hopefully write to our best
Sometimes we don't win
So our re-writing begins
Some poets, just over protest

This poem is about another site I had joined, where poets went
in the huff when their poems never got any attention. So many 
thanks to Constance for prompting me to write this.
Needless to say, I don't post there anymore.

Details | Couplet | |

Poetry sets me loose

Poetry sets me loose
No, I haven't had the booze!

It just gives me a chance
To jump into a written trance!

I play with all heartfelt thinking
And dig out every feel of sinking!

I pen it down into lines
Hoping each word shines!

I feel the words across my face, breeze
Giving me a momentary freeze!

Now that its in the open and out
I feel like yelling a joyful shout!

Yes, oh yes, Poetry sets me loose
No, I haven't had the booze!

Details | I do not know? | |


MUM ...
































Mom you mean the world to me
It’s hard to live without you ,You were always by my side
Through thick and thin you helped me

Details | Free verse | |

My Thing

Writing is my thing. My drug of choice. My bling bling.
I fall in love with the similies and mentions of passion while wrapping my body in 
Creating complicated rhythms and making them simples as instances
Every line a differenet emphasis
Commas, explinations and periods
Sometimes rhyming and sometimes not
Stopping to puff so my thoughts can lock
Feeding hungry souls starved from starvation
Creating new creations
Making people feel the sensation as I build up to mind elevation

The quest for knowledge is not a game
Spoken movements teach about the pain
I write to ease the pain
Rhythms run deep

Deep underneath clouded visions of unspoken truth lies a message
a message...a message that should be taught accurately to the youth
About the struggle of a people that was misued
abused, refused, confused, raped, beaten down
portrayed as clowns, coons, niggers, fools
Modern day niggas and goons
Wake up!! Did you hear the news?
You are responsible for you!
Imagine how it would be tho
If we were uninterrupted and brought overseas yo
Uprooted from a line of royalty kings and queens
Africa unite is all we'd sing
Rhythms run deeper into the seams of my being

I write to ease the pain of the oppressed
I write to celebrate their success
I write to educate the rest
The message..The message..The message is very clear
No time time to waste
The time is NOW
It's here!

Details | Couplet | |

Flying With The Birds

If I were to believe in you, would you believe in me?
If everything that I promised you actually came to be

If I were a beautiful rainbow, a reflection in the sky
Formed by the rays of light as your tears you cried

Sweetheart I am just a simple man with a complex plight
My blessing is you’re here with me, as this quest I fight

Sweetheart you know I’m a warrior, though I live like a ghost
I fight and write living my plight, inside the belly of the host

From shore to shore, a forever war, that will never end
Just today I got the word the host has taken another friend

Another soul another goal of course another wasted life
God I am a lucky man to have become one with my wife

Pains insane it shreds my brain and tears my heart into
I’m left here asking myself, “Was there anything I could do”

I have to write a eulogy though I just don’t know what to say
Here is a soul, another hole, for someone who lost his way 

Sobriety is really great but at times it is truly rather hard
You watch them take another friend and plant him in the yard

Another smoke, another joke another party has reached its end
Here I sit in a spiritual pit feeling totally lost about my friend

I hope someday someone reads what I say, takes another course
Pass on doing that shot, love it or not, death upon the black tar horse

So I shall write my Eulogy falling to pieces about my friend
Who made fun of the man I turned out to be, until the very end

But that’s ok it was just his way, right up until the day he died
The one true light shinning bright, lives inside of you and I

So will all of you join with me let your spirits pen my words
About a beautiful soul, who found his goal, flying with the birds

Very few people in this life that I love enough to let make fun
of the changes I made in my life. Addiction (The Host) took 6
friends in 2007, 5 in 2008 and this is the first in 2009. He didn't
overdose he was shot a couple of days ago in Chico, Ca during
a home invasion robbery over his heroin debt. I used to always
pay his debts when it reached this point with bags of Meth. This
time I couldn't go there for him and now he is dead. This is my
life, my gift and my curse. God Bless you all, mj

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.

Details | Verse | |

Those Who Write

There is a Book of Secrets each person writes the book is about all the things they do from the time they are born to the day they die Some write a about discerning lifestyles, which indicates a Blanket of Darkness, masquerading the true nature of what they might feel inside Some write about the Shades of Fall while sitting in their favorite chair looking at the October Rain drops cleaning smog from the air Some write lyrics for a love song while looking up at the starlit night They find themselves humming the tune, creating the title for the song - Romancing The Moon Some write about The Jewels of the Faeries creating a magical tale, to be read to children when it's time for them to go to bed Then, there are those who write about A Gate of Dreams, taking the reader to a Gentle Place, Where the Angels Fly- From Where They fall In Violet Light to mend their broken wings Every writer has a story that needs to be told The greatest reward the writer receives is to know their story touched the reader's heart and soul
Rosalyn M. Lampkin

Details | Free verse | |


What’s big to me may be small for you
But when you hurt I hurt too
So many different phases I’ve been through
Withdrawal & self-indulgence just to name a few
I dodge sleep to note this nonsense to both me and you
My desperate attempt at understanding 
Has only led to more questions
I remember when medication numbed me well enough to stay quiet
A zombie!
All last night I cried and cried
You slept while I died all the more inside
I don’t have all the answers
One thing I know is
Dreaming and fantasizing 
In these worlds I find solace 
Seeing and realizing
It hurts…
It hurts…
People have been so unfair –
But then again 
What is fair?
So many questions…
Once upon a time,
I’ve put down my pen 
Followed doctors and drugs
Their drugs, my drugs
Just stop judging me and fix me!
I’ve put down the drugs
Picked up a pen
And this is the reason other people say I’m doing well?
What’s real?
I can’t tell
Is it what you tell me or what I tell me?
Drugs have concealed me
Silenced me…
Taught me that I don’t have to feel just see
And shake my head
Now I can both feel 
Shake my head
I can verbalize 
But I’d rather not talk just write
I can write and write just to get it out on paper
It’s still in my mind
I’m not fixed
Still I cry and cry
While you sleep
So which am I supposed to choose?
Solace or the truth?

Details | Haiku | |


there are those that need
structure even in their art
personally not

for me, I'll write it
however it comes to me
sorry if it don't fit

in your poetry 
mold, keeps me from growing old
you wouldn't want that

so write your tight 'lil
lines and I will still write mine
hopefully we can

share some dreams and things
and for each of us it will
still be very real

Details | Rhyme | |

No Pretty Poems In My Head

I'd like to write a pretty poem
about butterflies
and clear blue skies
meadows and streams
rainbows and sunbeams
but when I stopped to smell a flower
the smog attacked my senses with all its power
I'd like to write a pretty poem 
about lovers walking hand in hand
strolling on beaches with soft white sand
I'd like to write something upbeat
but there's just been a robbery up the street
I'd like to write a pretty poem
about enchanted forest
castles and kings
but every time I try the telephone rings
For inspiration I walked barefoot in the grass
but wouldn't you know it
I stepped on glass
I listened for the birds
but heard traffic instead
I've just gotta get this clutter out of my head
I'd like to write a pretty poem
about autumn, winter and spring
but I just can't think of a single thing

Details | Quatrain | |

Freeing Up My Mind

So many words competing.
Floating around in my brain.
Jumbled word of nonsense.
Waiting to be ascertained.

Unscrambling words unsought.
Emotions not yet explained.
Words need to be released.
Feelings I can no longer retain.

Writing my thoughts into verses.
Freeing me from mental fatigue.
Provoking responses in others.
Penning tales of intrigue.

Writing is the essence of my soul
Conveying my manifestations,
From drama to laughter, even tears.
Bringing me total satisfaction.


For Russell Sivey's contest, "Poetry About Poetry"

Details | Rhyme | |

The Road My Thoughts Lead To

Laid up in bed these couple of days,
I’ve seen the passing of the sun’s rays.
Much time to think as each night time nears,
I search the state of my hopes and fears.

The rule of nine guides these lines I write
even as these words now come to light.
The words before me or so they seem
could make this poem a writer’s dream.

It would be nice with nothing to do
but sit and write till each day is through.
No permanent sanctum do I find
in this with other things on my mind.

I’ll write these words as they come to me
and take advantage of time that’s free.
Still, other things contend for “my view”
so I’ll search the road my thoughts lead to.

Details | Quatrain | |

In Defense of my Romantic Poetry

I’m a hopeless romantic
Now please cut me some slack
Yes, there’s more to this life
Than love’s beaten track

I just can’t write about fish
And I can’t write of the farm
I can’t write about frogs
For me that holds not a charm

I can’t write about wars
And I can’t write about keys
I can’t write of history
Go easy on me, please!

Yes, I guess I’m limited
Stuck in mediocrity
I’m trying to be diverse
It falls flat, can’t you see? 

So I write tales of love
And I write about passion
Can’t write about trends
Or the latest fashion

I write about suicide
And I write of addiction
I write about my life
Not some sort of fiction

I write about my daughter
And I write about hubby
I write how much I suffer
To be thin and not chubby

I write about God
And I write about heaven
But can’t write about 9
Much less about seven

So please hear what I say
What you all write is grand
It’s just not my way
I’m stuck in love’s brand

I’m cheesy, I’m sappy, 
Dripping with goo and such
But this hopeless romantic
Loves your poems so much!

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Details | Free verse | |

One Heart, One Pen (Why I Write)

People ask me a lot why do I write
Well...Pain is Lyrics am I right
It constricts my heart ever so tight
I try to break the hold with all my might
But the pain is 2 strong
In this mindframe I belong
No friends in my life I remain alone
I was born the same as I will forever be gone
Beginning in my preteens I felt constant oppostion
Looking in the mirror every morning I saw no recognition
Tempted to have my head in the clouds
Which way do I go, drugs or alcohol 
Will it make my conscience proud
It will feel good I told myself, but I saw doubt
I need an outlet, I need a way out
So after the death of my bestfriend
Going on the path to destruction had to end
So in 8th grade english Mrs. Mackowich told us to write a couplet
I felt the urge to "up it"
But I had too much to say
My poetic testimony took the pain away
October 3 2004 was my first write dedicated to my friend's memory
I had my class feeling sympathy, but why do I feel like I'm the enemy
That one death was the weapon to tackle my self-doubt
My depressing
Me stressing
Self-hate in my heart thrived
My new drug has finally arrived!
So I write everyday, every way
To get away mind-wise
My emotions are disguised
The pen will be my pipe
The ink is my nicotione
Instead of putting it to my lips
I put it to the page
How could I think so deeply at such a young age
I can't stop its addicting
My thoughts are forever flipping
And they ask me why I write
It's obvious I feel spite
After reading people assume I want to be a rapper
Such dogmatic fools why would I participate in such "crapper"
It doesn't matter If I'm black
I'm human and that's that
Rappers write from the mind
I write from the heart
Straight from the middle like a game of darts
I'm the Robert Frost of rap
The Jay-Z of poetry
The Edgar Allen Poe of lyrics
The Kanye West of english
All embodied in one to the end
All I need is One Heart 
All I need is One Pen

If you can't tell that I'm the most unique Afican American of my age you are without 
perspective. If you are not rich and powerful people feel as if what you say is meaningless.I 
speak to people of all corners of humanity with my feelings and thoughts.While my 
bestfriends were partying and doing crime when i was growing up in my teen years, I was in 
my room reading harry potter, playing Playstation, and writing poetry.This is my life and 
talent. The legacy I chose to imprint. This is my ode to poetry.

Details | Rhyme | |

heart, mind, and soul

father time in my chest
keeper of its own pace
just skin and bone depth
influences time and space
what are we but drifters
 in an unknown

see truth in a literal
belief before my face
stars with no funeral
light will win the race
here i am, not for long
death starts at home

where is this leading?
which story could it be?
despite all my reading
writings the cup of tea
i dont need to know it all
as long as im not alone

Details | Light Poetry | |


By Leonard Kleeman
I started writing poems at the age of eighty-one.
I did it because I enjoyed it and it was lots of fun.
I thought of getting published but I pushed 
that all aside, 
I read so many poems that I knew I 
couldn't abide.

I admire those who write and do it big time 
and most of their poems don't have to rhyme.
Many of those I understand and many I do not.
Some are hard reading and some I really like a lot.  

To be a published poet you have to write a 
certain way, 
be it metaphors or similes or other stuff 
they say.
I read and read so many poems until I really knew
It isn't just the form they have but they must have
 meaning too.

A poem to have meaning is a very important thing.
You have to understand it or it can just be annoying.
It can be done in free verse or any other way
as long as the reader knows what the poet has to say.

I remember as a child reading Mother Goose.
When I got much older I even read Dr. Seuss. 
And, Robert Frost became my favorite to read.
Even finding poems by Emily I would often plead.

So through the years I had a great taste 
of all the poems and some even to waste.
I decided then to write in rhyme
and to be understood all of the time.

I made my poems as simple as could be
with easy meanings that all could see. 
I then set them to rhyme to give them 
some charm
For all to enjoy and never do harm.

So here I am now at age eighty-one
writing some poems just to have fun.
Maybe they're just lyrics writ off the cuff
but I'll enjoy my time that's left writing that stuff.

Details | Rhyme | |

In My Reflections

by Michael  Falotico

                                           I write with mirrors that don't reflect..
                                       That cascade visions that you can't dissect..
                                 You can climb into my mind and twist in the breeze..
                                       Play in my dreams and write as you please..
                             Or lay dormant on the shores of my soul like naked glass..
                                      And feel safe and free till your ship has passed..

"Put yourself in the readers shoes"
contest sponsored by Judy Konos

Details | Rhyme | |

Free The Spirit

( This poem resulted as I was pondering over the question as to how should my poems be. I 
was trying to pull the vague feelings and hunches on to the surface and to my surprise it 
emerged in the form of a poem...)

I read a lot of  books, wrote intelligently too,
I imagined that I was good and loved by all of you.
A hope was born in my heart, it flowered...
My inspiration was the world, its mysteries uncovered.

     I loved to watch and understand the ways of the world,
     A student of life, its miracles I behold...
     Picking up the pen, I thought and  wrote..
     Words flowed creating visions,myriad possibilities  came forth.
I wove the magic with my pen as I sat unravelling insights,
But then the science of it clouded my sight.
My mind analysed, it calculated and cringed,
The spark of magic, my creativity was singed.

     The search for mechanical perfection spoiled my delight,
     Forgot the lesson of love, passion was reduced to a skill overnight.
     A wall emerged, fortified by my beliefs of what a poem should be,
     Reduced to an equation, my perfection killed me.

I went outside for a walk to meet the trees, hills,clouds and the birds,
Seeing, breathing it in, opened myself to the world...
Travelling beyond, felt the moment stretch into an eternity,
And realised- the minor imperfections, the aberrations are the beauty.

     Every line should be new,capturing passion,
     Struggle against the flow, create a commotion...
     Breathe fire into the being, ignite the minds
     Let every soul feel the strength inside.

Fight to create, to taste freedom within...
Its better to die than to write what I do not believe in,
To write as I see it, feel it and love it,
I write to stir,wake and free the spirit.

Details | Rhyme | |

The Muse Has Gone

I think I may write, but of what I am not sure
It could a be a love verse or one not so pure
I think I would like to write a verse on love and life
But it gets so hard and can be full of such strife

What can I write for this new one-to-one
My thoughts are dried up, and now they are gone
The muse she has left me, what am I to do?
I will just send these lines, as they are now to you.

Please do not judge me, if I get it wrong
But this is a breeze, I may now write a song
A song of love or a song on what will be will be?
Come muse I beg, send a new thought down to me.

No I am not there yet, I can’t think of a new one
So I give up on this piece that was for the one-to-one.
I will do the next one when I know what to say
So this is the end of it, I will send this one your way.

© 13/01/2013

Contest Entry One To One

Details | Blank verse | |

A Cook and a Poet

In the kitchen
Having with the knife
I know 
I am a poet

In the note book
Having with the pen
Or the fingers with keys
I know
The difficulty of being
To be called 
I am a poet

Things can be 
Turned into creative for taste
Things to words 
To be turned for taste
Still I am a poor

 Udaya R. Tennakoon

Details | Free verse | |

Essenes Of A Poet's Soul

Words are a poet's greatest tool
Having the power to turn what we perceive 
Into a masterpiece for viewers to read
Poetic storytelling with quills
Harnessing romance, sorrow and the drama
Whimsical, magical and the surreal
Evoking a response of emotions is what we do best
From surprises to laughter or even tears
Warm and loving feelings or feelings of dread
Writing is the essence of a poet's soul

Details | Verse | |

Writing Wrongs

Should I write in rhyming words
are you babies I should coo
and speak of love and little boats
of Dr. Zeus’s zoo.

Should I compose a sonnet sweet 
while prayerful folk are weeping
for war has come and killed their own
while their lulled hearts were dreaming?

Should I rave of man’s downfall
and never raise a hand
or shall I write of community
the unity of man.

Hand young and old, a tool to clone
a key to all this babble
an eye to see, a mind to grasp
let them lose the rattle.

For mind is bound to fortune
and blood is bound to pain
governments like sorcerer’s
will fall once it’s seen plain.

Take up the quill, and reach out
observe, recall, rescind
and the power you’ve given others
will be yours in the end.

Details | Enclosed Rhyme | |

For The Sake of Poetry

That feeling you get,
When it rains & you 
that feeling you feel,
when you want to write
but you want to give up
cuz nothing  at all
is good enough not at 
to be put on that sheet 
of paper.

That feeling you get,
when no word in your 
Brings about a 
beautiful rhyme,
staying up late,
like you got late
for a date,
and its too late,
to go back and not be 
so you stay up late,
like trying to fix a 
broken past,
it's impossible like you cant 
count dust
its impossible it's past
its gone it is past.

staying up late
for the sake of paper 
and pen,
for the sake of poetry,
just to write and feel it,
that sense of 
that you are a poet too,
Like those great poets 
you read of.

Staying up late,
for the sake of Poetry.

Details | I do not know? | |


MUM ...
































Mom you mean the world to me
It’s hard to live without you ,You were always by my side
Through thick and thin you helped me

Details | Free verse | |

Good Day

To control these thoughts and write with precision 
With each verse flowing sweetly down the page
Seems an adventure into the unknown world of 
Dictionary tease!!

A daisy chain of words and phrases joined together
in a disjointed series of seemingly nothingness
placed now around the neck of you, dear Souper,
Eyes adorned

Constraints of quiet time and space are often
the culprits of lack of creativities ability to show
verse that makes some kind of sense to some
but not all

That this soul wishes to write beautiful controlled 
poetry is an understatement.  Words spilling now
from mind to fingers in an attempt to simply say
Good Day!!

Details | Rhyme | |

The Dying Art of Poetry

(Written for Carol's WHO WHAT WHERE contest)

So what motivates me to write things down?
Well, the things in this world that are all around
Feelings, stories, music, and love
You could write about any of the above!

When the hours fly out of the clock
And I’m stuck in a deep writer’s block
I read Rimbaud and Rilke all through the night
They usually give me inspiration to write	

Sometimes poetry is the only way we can feel
We write things down just to make sure we’re real
Some stories are true and some are not
When you think about it, words are all we’ve got

Poetry is sadly a dying art
I don’t know where to start
People just want something that will entertain
And with poetry they have to use their brain

And that’s motivation enough for me

Details | Rhyme | |

Writing on Absurdity

Oh so many words to write
On colours so divine I sight ~
	A blue
   A green
           A pastel scene
Some color that’s like whipping cream!

	So eager!
Have you seen her?
Sitting on a rustic fence?
I bet she’s waiting
Being with some handsome gent!

Aligned with sights and sounds I muster,
	Up the strength to write a word
I write them down without a sound
	A thought that’s really quite absurd!

So gander at a gander
So fluffy with its feathers
Beyond the gleaning fields of yellow
                   Not beside that smelly fellow!

A goose is good if you can gander
At it --
With a telescope
	Leave it with a good impression
I’m guessing
   You would like a lesson
In how a duck can dodge a gun --
	They are a duck however, pleasing
However pleasing is a duck?
But if you think about it really
     They can dodge because they 

Details | Blank verse | |

Solitarily Writing

Writing in the dark.
Thinking as I fall asleep,
Imagining how it could all be.

Writing in the daylight.
Contemplating my identity.
Picturing all of whom is me.

Writing in these empty diaries.
Feeling my emotionality.
Reflecting how it all is for me.

Writing in these pages.
Wondering about things too many.

Details | I do not know? | |

SHOULD U WOULD U COULD U i could but i wont

I could write about love, but love never lasts. I could write about memories, but memories are our past.
I could write about my dreams, but my words would not seem true, I could write just another simple poem, but i don't want to write of you.
I could write about moments, but moments always pass, I could write about life, but life is just too fast.
I could write about children, but i couldn't contain their youth, I could write about the homeless, but i'd rather build a roof.
I could write about alot of things that life it-self contains, but the fact that i'm writing at all, is the poem that remains.

Details | Couplet | |

My poetry form

Out of all those poetry forms couplet's my fave.
     Cause that form lets me rant and rave.
         It lets me put my poems to rhyme.
If there was no couplet poetry would be a crime
       When I have a thought I write it down.
Couplet's my favorite there not all about syllables
                         and nouns.
       So writing poems is what I love to do.
Couplet's allow me to write about what,when or who.
                       Teresa Skyles

Details | Quatrain | |


tracing drops that scatter shoot
down the bedroom pane.
humming head I can't refute
that bed she calls my name.
fighting slumber gallantly,
I need to write some verse.
my eyelids dying valiantly
yet insomnia is my curse.

Details | Free verse | |


All I write is him
His eyes that bloom like April
As we print ourselves in sand

The serifs that trail from every word
Fallen feathers at our feet

The nights-
When we were more than naked
We were transparent
I could feel each rib against mine
See right into the core of his chest 
A pulsating brass mirror

I write him

And I fold him into fiction
Furiously sharpen the seams
Thumbnail pushing paper

Just Nouns loving verbs, I say
Just nouns loving verbs.

Details | Grook | |

My Grook

There was a contest to write a Grook The challenge I obviously took I swallowed it bait and hook But it’s harder to write than it looks

Details | Couplet | |


Sometimes I wonder what will be best
If I decide to write a poem for a Souper's contest.

Everyone wants theirs a certain way
Nixing any ideas I may have had in play.

Trying to create a written piece is difficult
Yet, some seem to want not words...but the occult.

Different people have talents beautiful and rare
But to read the rules, sometimes I just stare...and stare...and stare.

Write it in this form or be sure to follow this measure
No, we won't consider your hidden treasure.

At least not if it's not written to our specs
Sometimes reading the rules just makes my brain go convex.

I enjoy writing...sometimes only in a certain way
The rules enjoined on others oft puts me off that day.

Because it's not form or rhyme or scheme that matters to me
It is the words describing the writer's moment that I want to see.

I want to know from a place so remote
The feelings and inferences they now emote.

What are their words and what do they mean?
Do their words speak to me, or am I obscene?

Yes I, like poets everywhere
Enjoy the challenges of "Putting it out there".

But, count your syllables, count your lines...
Then be sure that you have the correct scheme of rhyme?

For some it is easy to transition one to another
Yet, my mind says to me..."Oh, Brother!"

So, that is why I can't write for every contest I would like
Because my brain would have a writer's strike.

Remember too, I am speaking for me
I can only know what my own writings can be.

Some of you will think that because of this I'm an ASS...
Well, you may be right, but for now, I'll just pass.

Details | Free verse | |

I Don't Know

The bewildered tip of my pen hovered over the blank thirsty pages… 
I thought expressing feelings is as magnificent as the sight of the sun’s birth 
from the horizon’s womb...
Or as miraculous as a squeamish bizarre caterpillar's transformation 
into an elegant butterfly… 

Such a transcending experience still lingers within the facets of my subconscious…
As I limp through the days under the weight my tumescent thoughts… 
With my weary pen, I converse the endless possibilities of a phrase, a word, a feeling… 
How few ordinary words from countless pens became etched in history…

I’m hovering with my pen wondering about how to write and what to write… 
Should I write about what was in the past; a past I long to forget…
Or about a present; a present battle I still haven’t won…
Or about a future; nameless, precarious yet an exciting adventure… 
Should I give birth to what’s swelling inside or consider abortion… 

My pen is choking…it’s time to end the turmoil and hesitation… 
I’ll just press down the tip of my black pen on white paper…
And wait for a reaction… 

Isn't that how it works anyway?

Details | Rhyme | |

How I Write

Sitting outside,
On a cedar board swing.
Cold beer right beside,
Looking for the “ugly” in the spring.

My mind wanders to and fro,
Looking for a spooky story.
Up top perched a crow,
Looking down at something gory.

Something starts to focus in me,
As my mind paints a Monet.
Light brush strokes I see,
Flying across my cerebral page.

Then my pen starts a flying,
Gliding in a maddened way.
So I make the crow start crying,
And make him eat the gore away.

Then my pen is between my teeth,
And I reach for my thesaurus.
To change an angry to a seethe,
See? I want you to think my vocab ain’t so porous.

Details | Didactic | |

Walking Thought

Some thoughts are made 
to rust and brim
some to bloom
its sweetest scent
scents of hope, joy and peace
such are thoughts that combs its nest
that juicy comb 
for the homey mind

Don't relent
  till your all is out
Don't relent
  till you give your own
Don't relent 
till your thoughts are out

The walking thought for the blazing mind!

   © Tina O Chimma 2013

Details | Rhyme | |

Note By Note

Sophisticated, but mentally endangered, he's sharp as a razor
Intimidated by his own mind, until his pen forms a sword and defeats his paper,
Categorized by society, given the label of a thug,
Found guilty of innocence, cause he was born into the slums

He killed the beat with metaphors, and invisible rhymes,
the autopsy uncovered nothing, the alphabet was his genocide,
Take a look inside, and find nothing, cause I'm nothing, so in the beat is where I hide
So as long as I'm alive, I'll run into this notebook in broken times

He walked this trail of tears, and he's lost in broken rodes,
Stumbling over writers block, as his thoughts hide inside his dome
Main characteristic is that he refuses to be a statistic,
The possiblities are endless, because dreams are what's realistic

He was born to raise Hell, but he rose to drop bombs,
Material defenitions of the welfare he was on,
The knight in shining armor, he was undefeatable when he wrote,
So he defeated his enemies, beat by beat, and note by note

Details | Quatrain | |

Student's Descent

with apologies to E. A. Poe...

Student Descent

At first the chamber's gentle rapping could not my slumber even stir,
but as it came to be a tapping sonorous visions were to be no more.
And as I stumbled in the darkness, I heard her voice distinctly cry
"O Ed your offer reconsidered will now with me an evening buy!"

Femininity with such harsh bravado, what lady offers such taboo affairs?
I've read of men, weak in the loin, who fall into such infectious snares.
Flesh's joys can wait, I've got to study, for school has such quick paces
and as a student of the arts, time's robbed me of all social graces

Alas, I dream of that day of bliss, but now Ed's the man and I'm the other.
I ask her name and Eleanor is given, by her, but certainly not her mother.
"He's not here, in fact, I don't know him." I utter with a boy's tone.
"Well I'm still here, and you're awake, and so am I and all alone."

My thoughts arranged like a card deck dropped, and left with such a feeble mind.
Should I ignore this dream, or is it real? Behind the door what will I find?
A gentleman would let her in, at least she'd have safe haven.
But to my shock with doors pullled wide, there's nothing but a raven...

Now I'm not mad, but this is odd, as a women spoke, not a bird at my feet,
so I sprint to my room, bury my head...but now it's clear...the wooden floor's
got a beat...

Details | Rhyme | |

I Write

I write to heal the broken hearted. To give inspiration to those without it. I leave my words for all to read. I scribe the pain from the heart of many. My journey has taking me far and near. It has been clouded and clear. My road is full of mysteries and dreams. I write to help those who need to express their feelings I write to be the one to present them. I write about the sorrows and the joys I help others remember the days I write what my memory says. I write from deep within. Expressing words of encouragement. and inspiration.

Details | Rhyme | |

What Poetry Is To Me

When you read what I write,
What you see is an internal fight.
The words that you read are more,
They are thoughts that begin to pour.
I write these words to blow off steam,
If I didn't I'd tear at the seams.
When I write I don't need to think,
All my thoughts fall off the brink.
When I write I don't notice time,
It flies by with every rhyme.
For my mind, my body is nothing but a tool,
When all my thoughts reel from the spool.
Poems are more than just pretty words,
They are the most beautiful things I've ever heard.
They are ornate doors to another's mind,
You never know what you may find.
Poetry is more than just a way to kill strife,
To me it's much more, it's a way of life.

Details | I do not know? | |

My Crazy Neighbour

Sitting after I finished my studies
Started thinking 
Looking at the closed window facing me
I wanted to write
Do I write about Life or Politics?
The drops started hitting the window
The echo made me think

I decided to write about my studies
A way of thinking
But the darkness outside that I see,
And the drops fight 
Do I write anyway or fear politics?
I looked at my pens, maybe they know
I sipped some of my drink

I see the light and thunder and light dies
I ceased drinking
Maybe after all, the problem is me
People out there fight
But is fighting and killing, politics?
A feel something moving, wants to grow
How do I think?

Why my neighbour does shout? He cries.
I started thinking
"If I respected him, he would have respected me"
This savage wants to fight
I shouted, shut up I don't fight lunatics.
He saw the picture in fact I know
The picture, I think.

I draw his daughter. You bastard, he cries
I started winking
The picture offended him, I know. See
I draw what I please, my right
My freedom. Why do my hand panics?
You Stink

He entered furious pulled my shirt
Told me he will show my real sex by pulling my skirt
My hands were alert
But damn the one who is wrong is the one hurt

I am writing now my hands trembling
Why did I start it since I can't end it?

Details | Free verse | |

A missing tale

You can't tell a story
when there's nothing to tell...
But if you just happen to say
"There's nothing to tell"
you have a story right there...

Details | Free verse | |

The Journey

From time immemorial your story began
A hundred, a thousand, a million years and more
Your story past written a character just one
The tale of you bleeds into all

Each story unique while pieces the same
Today, tomorrow, millennia expended and gone
Your story continues passed first to no last
The tale of you bleeds into all

Through love and hate, laughter and death
Minutes and seconds grew to decades and days
The story being written you wrote each day
The tale of you bleeds into all

Memories endure through dream and remembrance
Yesterday is gone but tomorrow you live on
Your story yet written a character more than one
The tale of you bleeds into all

Your stories the fires shall never consume
A past, a future, a present goes on
The story you wrote lives forever in your love
The tale of you bleeds into all

Details | Free verse | |

I Want to Write

I want to write something
Of breathtaking beauty
Something of value
That will nurture a soul
Assuage a pain
Tug at the heart strings
And bring release

I want to write the words
That someone will cherish
The words that will bring light
To the dark crevices and corners
Of a battered heart
And bring healing
And peace
And light
And joy
Indescribable joy!

I want to write
About the enchantment of love
And being in love...
About fluttering heartbeats
And quickened breathing
About slowly reaching that melting point...
The mystical moment of surrender
Surrender with sweet abandon
To another
That you are safe
To experience
To know
And be known 
That pleasure is waiting
To be mastered
and to master
and to obliterate all else
Except that moment
in time

I want to write……
But the words
Won’t come
I’m empty...
Parched to the core
And desperately in need
In need of those very words
That will bring me back to life.

Details | Blank verse | |

Free are my thoughts

Free are my thoughts, I have no rules
               I can write all I want tonight 

Free are my thoughts, free are my words
                     Blank is the verse I am using

Free are my thoughts, free is my style
              I'm enjoying this poetry thing

Free are my thoughts, they always have been
                         I just need to start expression

Free are my thoughts, free is my soul
      Free, I am free falling back in time

Free are my thoughts, I need no rules
             Save the ones I set for myself

Free are my thoughts, I have no rules
           I can write what I want tonight

Details | Rhyme | |

I Didn't Want to Write this Poem

I didn’t want to write this poem
Of twenty children dead.
I’d much prefer composing words
Of pleasant things instead.

I didn’t want to think up rhymes
For evil, horror, shock;
I’d like to hide those images
Behind a mental block.

I didn’t want to conjure up
A classroom filled with death,
Or parents of those kindergartners
Struggling for breath.

I didn’t want to write of those
Who heard each awful shot.
I didn’t want to write this poem
But then, how could I not?

Details | Rhyme | |

Doesnt make sense

I think ill make something new!
Something somewhat different with the words i spew!
Something about lost love to be found.
That will end up driven right into the ground. 
Or in a box called lost but not found.
Or make something about death so hollow and sad.
So sad it will move the hardest prison grad.
Get it?
But anyways maybe not.
Maybe ill write a story of a baller getting shot.
But yeah ill probly not.
Whats on your mind though?
Have you got the time to find the time then let it go.
Just grab a notebook and let it flow.
Its like riding on a breeze nice and slow.
Like flying a kind real low. 
Its easy unless its not simple.
Like when you use big words to sound obedient.
Which only rymes with words like expedient.
I dont even know what that means, i just threw it into the ingredients.
Sounds like a word thats rather deviant.
I like to build my poems like a subservient structure. 
Im loosing it so bad my brains about to rupture. 
This write sucks it doesnt make any sense.
The reason im on the damn fence.
Becuase nothing i seem to do.
Seems to make sense.

Details | Free verse | |

My Petals of Words

Unfinished words I now retrace
Are drifting now like petals in the wind
Blown long ago, from some old hidden place
This is the night that calls me to that place
From deep within my vase of memory

I fell in love with words, but knew that love was fleet
My words recall, and help to write a poem
As if it were a thing to touch and feel
That time and years would take to make complete

 I write again on petals now retrieved! 
And still, somehow, sweet fragrance lingers near
When thoughts were flowers falling at my feet
I’ll pick them up, and dust them fresh and clear
Tonight I bare my folly to the moon
O’ moon, you saw the ways the devil woos
How roses swoon to songs so out of tune
But hearts refuse to see the naked truth

A bloom that sought the sun to feel the glow
For gentle touch and whispers from the breeze
Instead of sonnets sung with warming breath
Each petal  has had his chance, and left with ease

I trace the choices made…each withered shard
Words strove to use me up, and follow scorn
I stand alone, stripped bare of self regard
As petals fell away, stripped down to thorns

My words now steal my breath, against my will
Made captive by a heart who seeks it still


Details | Couplet | |

My Walls Covered

                                              In these four corners lines lay empty..
                                  Waiting for this pen to spill thoughts that are plenty..

                                         I hope I finish before the water washes it away..
                          While trying to keep an upbeat write before a tear takes the day..

                           I can smear words of love and sadness on paper to line my walls..
                            No spot left uncovered , just waves of thoughts that will not fall..

                              With my words that have color and a color that speaks words..
                                My playground to write is in peace, and hate will not disturb..

Details | I do not know? | |

Why I Write

…Emptiness tightens its shackles,


imprisoning me.


Jagged shrapnel,
piercing my heart,


my emotions trickle away,

yet hope refuses to flee.


I write, to feel again.


Something, anything.


I write,

to be free.


I write to feel again.


something, anything.

I write to be.

Details | Free verse | |

The Writer

He hides his wisdom
beneath his thick glasses
He uses his pen
to say what he knows

He conceal himself
with his infamous words
of what he understands
nobody could comprehend

He barely speaks
For he stammers a lot
But he read so much
So he could tell

He has this blanket
To cover his frail body
Who could responds to facts
And withdraws data

His wicked wit
An envious one
He knows a lot
But possesses nothing

The curve of his eyebrows
He questions a lot
The eyes of this beast
Crushes your ignorance

His pathetic jaws
Displays no elegance
But the color of his lips
Could define your existence

He perceives a lot
but not himself
His eloquent tongue
could change your stand

His grotesque features
Is the uncertainty of his integrity
For people believe 
The superficial reality

He looks dumb
And you act smart
You laugh at him 
He doesn't mind

You see yourself
As the face of success
He shrugged his shoulder
As he creates you #

Details | Couplet | |

Why I Write

Written expression is my own personal therapy.
It keeps me sane and gives my thoughts clarity.
My brain comes alive whenever I write poetry.

Self-expression is my way to self-healing.
My poetry at times can be so revealing,
Letting the reader inside, no longer concealing.

Inspirational verse allows me to witness
My belief in God and Jesus Christ to confess.
Open my heart, share His love like a caress.

Humorous rhymes let my inner child breathe.
Creating laughter is a magical gift, I believe.
I am truly blessed with each smile I receive.

Poetic forms with syllabic counts intrigue my brain.
Sometimes finding just the right word can be a pain.
By writing senryu, haiku, and tanka, my mind I train.

Love poems are my favorite poetic genre to explore.
Regardless of how many I’ve written, I write more.
Happy love poems seem to make my heart soar.

I also write sad and broken-hearted verse
Where people are loving then leaving or worse.
There are no happy endings, just the reverse.

If you should ever encounter a poem of mine.
Perhaps it does not have the perfect rhyme
The rhythm could be off a beat you might find.

But know this one thing for sure about my musing,
I don’t believe you’ll find the words confusing.
Many of my poems can even be quite amusing.

I write poems for me, so I write just for joy!
So when you read my poems, I hope you enjoy!

Details | Limerick | |

My Passion - Poetry

I love poetry with a passion, so much That I write it every day as such I really get into it The very thought of it As if I’m writing without a crutch I write a poem with great expression Writing all about my extreme passion For writing a poem I have to show’em I can write about anything of a fashion
Russell Sivey Entrant into ???'s "My Passion" contest 2/26/2012

Details | Romanticism | |

Written words

Words swirl around in my head
I starts and until I write them down
They just won’t end
Writing my words on paper
For people to find significance within them
These words are very real to me 
The emotions are far from being pretend
Some say you looked right into my heart
You’ve seen my soul
You read my mind
Just how did you know
You pinned my feelings to a tee
How again could you see
Everything within me
Here’s you answer as to why
The words that I write are my pain
I’ve seen you, yet not knowing you, through my own eyes
Just because we are different, don’t mean we are still not the same
Emotions are universal
They make the world go round
The silent cries of screams
Quiet is my sound
To often of times
The struggle leaves one
Lying on the ground
The hurt so heart wrenching
And so very real
Time is never ending
Life is what the pain will steal
So breathtakingly helpless 
Is what you will feel
Heartbreakingly hopeless
Devastatingly you just can’t seem to heal
So yeah,
I write my words of hurt and pain
On the pages of paper to share with you
Many will relate and they often feel the same
At some point of time
I do hope you find some sort of comfort here
Within my lines of worded rhyme
Perhaps they will help your heart and soul to let go and heal
Cause while they do help me get by
Most times they don’t really help mine

Details | Free verse | |

Write Things Down

Write Things Down

What am I going to write?
Is has been hours without an idea
The sun cast the last of its light hours ago
There is no moon to shine in the cold night
The stars are blocked by late summer clouds
Music is missing from the radio
Some politician is droning on trying to save his job
I had so many thoughts earlier in the day
Why didn't I write them down?
My mind is blank as the clock strike four
My eyes strain and my head aches in the dim light
Ideas are just avoiding my efforts to find them
Why didn't I write things down like I should?
My eyes close and I drift off to sleep
Tomorrow is another day
I know I will have ideas about what to write
I will remember to write them down
Tomorrow night I will be able to write
If I just remember to write things down

Details | Free verse | |

Work and Write

Try and try,
And try again.
To do what
Others have begin.

Work and work,
And Work some more.
To finish what
I must now end.

Toil, Toil
And toil some more.
Only to start again

Write, Write,
And write again.
To build on what
Other have began

We work to achieve,
Try to succeed,
Toil through the soil,
And write all the miles.

Details | Light Poetry | |


Dawn ! It breaks! A new born day
I hope there is a change in any sort of way
The sun it peaks through the puffy white clouds
As I sit and visualize - to see clearly
That my day I cherish ever so dearly
Deep in my hear - I hope I see imagery
Flattering through my brain! In my eyes
And promises I keep - I try to reach the skies
Yet indeed! Through the night I dream
And awake I see true colors of reality
That running through my soul - I gleam
With feelings towards my responsibility
A new day truly challenging it may then seem
I can never find the happiness deep inside me
It' all about you! Complicating my day
Dysfunctional  - you sure did shine
Today I challenge myself to overcome you
I see the beauty in my soul - permeates
It's deep inside - and beauteous thoughts
This in my deep set heart , still then creates
The words that come to mind - reflect
Down on my personality , it is the key
I'm breaking with the crack of dawn, a mood
You're a disadvantage in my heart
My skills I portray , my mind it may smooth
And my pen - strokes like that of the brush
As I put my mind to the test and color with hue
My art I put in words each born new day
Yet I still reach very few - must it be
That the darkness of the clouds shined down on me
As the sun peaks through, I'll cherish each thought
My mind thinks clearly and yet not distraught
I color my world with the pen, remembering when
I dreamed, I dream each born new day
And imagery, I see this in my mind today.
Words they intrigue me, pun ? Do I see?
I'm working with the sun in my eyes, with me.
We are both at our peak,  Then I speak!

Details | Rhyme | |

Stir The Waning Embers In My Soul

Dear Lord, wilt thou stir the waning embers in mine languid soul,
And rekindle a raging flame that I may attain my fervent goal,
To write anew of things that bring honor and glory to Thy name;
To write of things that encourage others and ne'er for fleeting fame!

Guide my lethargic quill that I may portray the marvels of Thy Creation,
And honor the heroic men and women who have served this great nation!
That I may write of the simple beauty of a rose and its aromatic scent,
And the toothless grin of a child, those precious souls who are heaven sent!

May my quill write of peace, tolerance for others and true compassion,
And compose verse that speaks to hearts and minds e'er be my passion.
I pray that I can portray the precept ordained in the ageless Golden Rule,
That we treat others as precious jewels and to our fellows be less cruel!

Direct my pen that it may inspire those stranded on desperate shoals,
To surmount the vicissitudes of life and strive for worthy goals!
I pray that humor will flow from my pen to ease their onerous loads,
And gladden the hearts of folks as they plod life's treacherous roads.

May I so write that the water's hymn is heard flowing in the waterway,
Or watch with me as He paints a glorious sunset at the end of day!
Oh, wilt thou stir the waning embers in mine languid soul,
And rekindle a raging flame that I may attain my fervent goal!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Details | Rhyme | |

Poetic Surgeon

Sometimes my pen cuts as a scalpel in the surgeons hands
It releases my thoughts, it creates my plans
I can build them up, I can tear them down
Will I make them happy or will I make them frown
My words are filled with passion, they have the power of life and death
I can give you hope or make you feel there's nothing left
People follow the stanzas to the end of every page
Some titles express joyfulness while others breathe rage
Will my words take you to the skies, will they bury you in the sand
This poet is more than words, I am a still hurting man
So with each poem complete a part of my soul is released
When you take the journey, will you awaken or tame the beast
Creating is what I do, turning my flows into light
I will take you on a trip with every thought I write
So in essence this poet is the surgeon, the scalpel is my pen
I can take what was birthed in sadness and make you feel alive in the end

Details | Rhyme | |

No Clue Et Cetera

No Clue Et Cetera

You know I haven’t got a clue
When it comes to pleasing you
You challenge me to write a poem
In hopes of first place to bring home

You know at first I did it wrong
Skipped two words that did belong
But now I think I'm back on track
It's not for trying that I lack
I haven’t got a clue where this poem is going
When I’m typing some words and seeing what’s showing
Comes to what you have in mind
Pleasing you in rhythm and rhyme
You see I have some words inside
Challenge me and I decide
To write in some ungodly form
A poem that is outside my norm
In hopes that you’ll take pity
Of first this humble ditty
Place this poem high in your ranking
To bring home my eternal thanking

Mdailey	3/4/12

Details | Rhyme | |

Paid With A Smile

I don't write for fame or fortune
Or even to set myself free
I don't even care if it's good or bad
I write of the things I see

I look with a different pair of eyes
A different point of view
For that's what poetry is all about
Showing what I see to you

It's all about letting someone see
Things in a brand new way
"That's something I've never thought about"
I strive to hear them say

Sometimes it can even change their minds
By something they've read or heard
Wouldn't it be great to change the world
Through the power of a single word?

I really don't care about the money
For that's just not my style
Instead of all the fame and fortune
I'd rather be paid with a smile

Details | Rhyme royal | |


                                              READING POETRY ON A RAINY DAY

                                             On the page, the white declines,

                                            Love of phrase enlivens night--

                                             Images patrol my mind,

                                             Words become the key to sight.

                                             Vanished is my world by schedules set.

                                             Conquered by the Poet’s words--

                                             Persons vibrant this way met

                                             While my true life flies with wayward birds.

                                             Time and passion are contained

                                             Graced within the page in hand--

                                             Bathed in sun while garden rained--

                                             Wander I from sea to land.

                                            What more glorious can life be

                                            Astonished with the gift of flight--

                                           Transforms a bookworm lass like me--

                                           Sword in hand --   blood lust to fight?

Victoria Anderson-Throop  2013

Details | Haiku | |


                                                   The Haiku

                                                    fox tricky
                                         blue spring sky simple

                                             spring stream clear
                                             thistle socks prickly
                                                birdsong pure

Victoria Anderson-Throop

Details | I do not know? | |

I Alone

I'd rather be alone.
I'd've me alone.
I'm but of one alone.
I've got myself alone.
I'll stay with me alone.
I'll've been alone

Details | Lyric | |

Songwriting(I write these words)

I write these words
I wrote my feelings out
The words filled with my thoughts
Is what I am all about

I write these words
Explains everything in me
Explains how I feel
In the words that sings

I write these words
It came out from my head
I am becoming more scared
When I stuck dead

I write these words
Open myself to the world of my own
To where I have never been
In the world of songwriting

I write these words
I write with my heart out
My blood, tears and happiness
Is what I am all about

With these words I wrote
It filled with what I feel
Is what I want to be
A songwriter, that will be me

And these are the words I wrote

Details | Rhyme | |


A poem is just a rhyming verse
That sometimes carries a hidden curse
Cos of night while you try to sleep
Into your mind, rhymes and words do creep

Lying in bed so quietly
Words fall into place silently
Like clothes in a dryer spinning around and around
The minds’ abuzz but there is no sound

Poetry is an expression
Great therapy for depression
As thoughts transfer from mind to paper
Then disappear from your thoughts like an invisible vapour

I like to write my feelings down
As all my thoughts could make me drown
I believe the words that I share
Relieve my soul and allow me air.

©copyright Juanita Torr

Details | Rhyme | |

We Poets Pursue Perfection

We poets pursue perfection
As tides to distant shores, naturally inclined 
To follow one’s instincts, 
Nothing less and nothing more.
Some of us are driven like hurricane winds
While others, more calmly still;
Like soft breezes on warm summer nights
Addicted to words that fill.
Our hearts and minds with rhythm and rhyme
With thoughts from Venus to Mars;
We poets pursue perfection
No matter how near or far.
We’re all as different as day dreams
In perceptions, ideas and beliefs;
While I write about mountains for climbing high
You write about turning new leafs. 
You like free verse I find them a curse
But love you none the less;
For all you say tomorrow today
You’re still pursuing your best.
And though we may not agree, one point with me
Is how you look within.
Poetic thoughts are how we ought 
To live each day from beginning to end.
As for this gentle man, he understands
The reason we poets keep going;
Not for the fame or praises we’ll claim
But the truth of our own self-knowing.   

Details | Rhyme | |

Foggy Words

Some poetry is so unclear
it fogs my weary brain.
It isn't going anywhere;
it's a disconnected train.
We know you have these pensive thoughts
that must come hurtling through.
Why not write them so your reader
might understand them too?

"She walks in beauty, like the night",
were the words Lord Byron chose
and we recall them with delight.
We'll long remember those.
There's beauty in the simple word
as well as the obscure.
If you would write what we would read,
please keep them clear and pure.

Posted for Judy''s "Put Yourself In The Reader's Shoes" contest

Details | Free verse | |

A Poet

A Poet

A poet takes the time to think the unthinkable
Using just the right words to make people aware
They set emotions to fight the good fight
They make people understand others differences
A poet can end the needless deaths of a war
They can show the pain behind a child’s tears
They can use imagery to show what cannot be seen
Their words can make a small flower seem like the entire world
And make the whole world seem like a pretty flower
A poet can share Heaven and they can create a Hell
They can make people see the beauty in a passing cloud
They can hear the music of a breeze travelling down a wooded valley
Their words can show even the purest form of love
A poet writes not for money or fame
They write because they feel a passion others cannot understand
They write to share their feelings and thoughts
A poet writes because it is in their nature
A God given blessing that they cannot, will not ignore
They just hope that someone will read their work
And they will, even for a moment take time to think
Maybe remember how wonderful the world and her beauty is
If they do a poet will smile and their purpose will be achieved
That is all a poet will ever ask

Details | Acrostic | |

Poetry Soup

Poems can come in many forms, in free verse or in rhyme;
Our pens keep busy with its forms to write it all the time.
Each person has his style and form, and nothing is exempt;
To me it is a lot like soup, with smells that lure and tempt!
Right now I’m sitting at my desk to write it one more time;
You know, I think God gave this gift to me to make these rhymes.
So here’s another yet to add to my e’er growing file
Of thoughts, ingredients succulent to satisfy a while.
Until the last breath that I draw, I will consume this treat;
Poetry soup tastes good, you know, so grab a spoon and eat!

Dedicated to, acrostic of the web site name.


Details | Rhyme | |

My Ditty

Here’s a little ditty for you to read
And in your mind, I’ll plant a seed
A seed that makes everything you say rhyme
As into your mind the rhymes will feed

You’ll see the World in a different light
The thoughts you think will glow bright
It’s so easy, the words just flow
So grab pen and paper and begin to write

Putting words on paper is therapeutic
After a while it will become automatic
Words and phrases appear like magic
You will become your own worst critic

But peace will come as your mind does clear
And your negative thoughts will disappear
To be replaced by positive ones
New inspirations bring a happy tear

Stop using your heart as a cage
Deposit your baggage on an A4 lined page
Your soul will soar to great heights
You’re now ready to move to life’s next stage.

©copyright Juanita Torr

Details | Rhyme | |

Slang and jargon

Slang and jargon make my day!                                                     
I seek your kindness please stay away!                                         
Made my poetry dim and pale                                                     
Can I ask from where you hail?                                                        
You are snooty I know that                                                               
Pick on my poems with a baseball bat                                          

Don't be a bully I cadge you                                                             
Fix my poems with poetic glue                                                 
Spare my poems let them be                                                            
I promise you will never see me

Details | Light Poetry | |

My Open Book

When I write these words from my mind...
Its deep inside my heart I search and find...
Each write has a piece of me written throughout...
Some may express a time of anger and a shout...
Others could be about lost love or a new one found...
All these poems are a part of my soul with no bound...
They tell of tales of passion and heartache which 
helped me grow...
A few are just a morning thoughts or a pile of words I 
throw up in the air and blow...
While a few still have strong feeling of loss or being alone...
However it comes out , my book is now open and this heart
is now warm not made of stone..

Details | Free verse | |

The Momentary Word

You spit me out
Like a necessity
Like a volcano
I adorn your paper
Beautified with ink

In a moment of indiscretion
You grow blind
Forgetting me
Strike through
Death knell
Maybe you are lost
Therefore, losing me

In a moment
I fall through 
To the nethers
Glory in tatters
Once desired
Now despicable
Scribbled out

The birth
The cause
Of the death
To live 
To die 
In the same breath
I was alive

Scribbled me out
Disfigured me
But I remain
On the page
Hapless reminder
You had wanted me
Even if for a brief moment

Details | Rhyme | |

I Wanna Write a Short Poem

I wanna write a short poem - 
Eliminate the fluff - 
But somehow just a few lines
Don't ever seem enough.

I wanna write succinctly
And chop down to the core,
Yet all the words I whittle
Keep coming back for more.

I wanna squeeze my meaning
Into just a verse or two,
Though when I reach that threshold,
My poem is not quite through.

I wanna grab that reader
Whose patience may wear thin;
Convince him that the ending's 
Close to where he'll first begin.

I wanna write a short poem.
Alas, I cannot do it;
For here, five verses later,
I see I really blew it.

Still, when my poem is finished
I peruse it and I see
That it sounds just like it should
And that's the perfect length for me!

Details | I do not know? | |

I Don't Want To Write Anymore

I don't wanna write tonight anymore.
My fingers are cramping more and more.

I keep getting rhymes rushing through my brain.
My hand grabs the pen no matter the pain.

I'm tired, Mind, make it stop.
Another day, I'll pick up where we left off.

My head's going to burst.
My body throbbing of sleep thirst.

Just for tonight, Leave me alone 
I need time on my own.
I need to go to bed and not write anymore.

Details | Rhyme | |

Writers workshop

spacious room filled with silence
imaginary mind's guidance 
stave off intense subsidence

seconds and hours seem the same
search for warmth of a burning flame
offered in words without shame

re-filled fountain pen scratches
frail thesaurus paper crackles 
missing words causing hackles 

pictures of unknown figures
music of  equal characters
writing poet's private lectures 

few words build a small mirror
readers' mind reflecting clearer
poets' pictures sneaking nearer

©Ellie Daphne

Details | I do not know? | |


Words Words can make you hurt, Words can make you cry. Words can make you laugh, 
Words can make you try. Words can change you and Words can make act wrong. Words 
can hurt others. But words that hurt are nothing new. Words with action is. Because some 
actions can hurt and make pain come. Some actions can make you feel happy and loved. 
Some actions can get you down the wrong road. But whatever happens, with words or 
actions Remember that friends and people have feelings Try listening to them Friends can 
make you laugh when your sad. They can catch you when you fall. No friend lets you die Or 
leaves you in a dark corner to cry. Friends are angels from above. They are there for you. 
So if their is one thing from this that you remember is should be this, Don't say your my 
friend one moment, Then hurt me and leave me to die the next.

Details | Rhyme | |


  Oh, but for the gift of the written word
  When it comes that time of day for solace.
  They become the friends whom I seek
  As much as if they were Kings in a palace.

  Would I but get to know them better
  As each and every one reads past.
  Time will not allow me to meet them all
  But the ones I do, seem to fill the chasm so vast.

  My mind thinks on them every now and then
  Only to be tempted to sit and touch them more.
  Not only with the thoughts I had and have
  But with the emotions deep in my core.

  When I find that my words do not come 
  I cry for the ones I cannot know.
  Then I read the words of others who share
  Their words, like blossoms, within me grow.

  It is their kindness to me for which I am thankful
  As their words wash o'er me in time.
  To each of them I am the quiet reader
  For the words they write stick in my mind.

  These gifts to me are not to be overlooked
  As each one is a treasure wrapped in its own rhyme.
  May the Lord continue to bless all those who write
  With the gift of words, both simple and sublime.

  Is there anything else I need to say?
  There is but one thing I hope to do.
  Write words of emotion, comfort, elan, and voice
  That I might help to fill other chasms, too.

Details | Rhyme | |

Thank You For Poetry

I'm not the only one Who can write poetry or sing songs I am glad there are many others Who sit in thought and wonder escape from the stress they're under reflect or simply write what's on top of their mind Poetry isn't very hard to find Poetry is awakening, poetry is alive New inspirations start coming to life Poetry is sensitive, poetry is wide There is nothing in their heart, that a poet can't hide Poetry can be about anything or nothing at all It can be non-sense, a silly haha A smile, a tear, a feeling of confusion Life, fact, fiction, dreams, delusion I want to say once more, how glad that I am That I'm not the only one to pick up paper and pen

Details | Quatrain | |

Our Words and Pasts we Share

I am the one of us
As you are the one as i
We write from our hearts
And watch our poetry ply

Our words grow from our thoughts
And grace surfaces we scribe
All words are free to us
For its in our writes transcribed

We write about our pasts 
And the times in our lives
Of nature and its wars
Where daily life decides

About the rights and wrongs
Families and our friends
Cooking up such delights 
About our past times and our trends

We even write about our lost
And why they are no longer here
If even for their moment
That they graced this beautiful sphere

As you read the writes of i
Whilst i read the writes of you
Our writings in us write
The writes of me and you

Details | Quatrain | |


In this day and age, I want some recompense
I don't understand it, it jus' don't make sense
that we can write through our entire lives
with all of these damn defective pens

Now, you all know what I'm taking about
a thought comes to you, and you look around
grab one to jot down and just blankness comes out
a clear transcription of thoughts ain't found

Cups, bags, heck whole drawers of colored inks
rattle around days like maracas of empty thought
a reliable pen can't be that difficult me thinks
yet makers design defective models to be bought

that seem to flow like water in a mighty river
when opened and used for the very first time
effortless lines arc mind to paper to deliver
only to sputter, and spot, and splotch the next time

How many brilliant tomes, how many cures for cancer
how many Nobel-winning ideas of sub-particled find
how many deeply spiritual thoughts went unanswered
because, like a well, the damn pen went unprimed?

Maybe I'm unreasonable, and have a penchant for perfection
but if I pick up a pen it should write every curved line,
'stead of pennies, I want it to rain pens from heaven
that work the first, the penultimate, and the very last time

© Goode Guy 2012-09-06

Details | Free verse | |

I Write

I write because I am blessed Each time I grab the pen and pad, there’s a message to be expressed Why did he choose me? That reason is still unknown But I dream daily to find out why All before I am dead and gone But fact is he chose me, so I must take on the skill And everyone knows the mind will give out Before your body ever will I write because I am blessed Meaning I am very bold, adventurous and strong minded So every time I choose to write, if there’s a message Surely I will find it I can speak on any topic in many different styles Making me mostly who I am A versatile child I write because I am blessed By: Quiayren D. Young

Details | Rhyme | |

"Seeing Through My Glasses"

I sit and write for hours with nothing to say...
My glasses put down where my pencil lay...
I write about me and you, and how we got here...
On how these days pass with more smiles then tears...
When you put my glasses on you can see like me...
Everything is put aside and its just us being free...
We lay together for hours as I search for words in my head...
The next day the paper shows all things we have said...
That's how I always know a way to think and write...
Its with you by my side, and all the words just seem right..

Details | Rhyme | |


My intention is to write some prose
Why it comes out poems, nobody knows
I struggle, wiggle, leave me alone
As I sit happily writing a poem

Words are created and suddenly rhyme
I hardly revise them – I’ve not the time
Give up the idea of writing a book?
I feel I’m caught by a crook and a hook

Following rules as the semester unfolds
Smothers my brain; puts creating on hold
When I find a second that isn’t filled
I’ll write a poem, ‘cause I’m strongly self-willed!

Details | Rhyme | |

Mrs. Worth, Joyce Kilmer, and Me

When I was yet in grade school, my teacher gave to me,
a task I thought most surely would be the death of me.
She ordered me to write a verse, in any style I chose,
I will tell you right up front that at her words I froze!

I thought long and hard on it, as any schoolgirl would,
still coming up with nothing did something no kid should.
There in my mother’s bedroom, stored on her bedside nook,
I found my dusty savior, ‘twas mama’s poem book!

I read until I found a poem anyone would think,
was ok, not quite perfect, one step above “what stinks.”
I began to jot it down, unaware what lay ahead,
she’d ne’er be the wiser as my pilfered poem was read.

As I wrote I altered words, for even I could see,
with just a couple changes, ‘twould sound the more like me.
The title seemed so boring, that I switched it as well,
now she’d think this poem was mine and say my work was swell!

Hot cheeked at her desk I stood, as her accusations flew,
suddenly, I don’t know why, my mouth began to move!
“This is really weird,” I lied, “as strange as it could be,
that this guy Mr. Kilmer would write so much like me!”

Sent home with a message, addressed to you know who,
it explained “our” little problem and what I’d have to do.
Red cheeked at the other end, I sat that very night,
when suddenly words emerged and I began to write!

Words floated onto paper, as I in anger vowed,
to write something much better than “trees whose heads are bowed.”
Mrs. Worth, though long gone now, I hope will somehow see,
how her dastardly assignment set my  spirit free!

One thing to remember, should a harsh critique you read,
ignore what isn’t useful, accept that which you need,
never get discouraged if the kudos don’t come through,
‘cause even old Joyce Kilmer once had a bad review!

Details | Free verse | |

Writer's Block

If only I could think of something to write. I’ve been sitting here for at least two hours, just trying to think of something, ANYTHING to write, but nothing is coming to mind! I decided to write down my thoughts, because that always inspires me to write. Writing inspires me to write. Ironic, huh? But its whatever, I guess. I’m sure I’ll think of something. I always do. Even if I think of something void of all conventional logic or cleverness, it would still classify as free verse poetry. That’s the beauty of it! I could write anything, and people will find it poetic. Sigh… Well, I’ve got to wrap this up. I need to think of something to write.

Details | Free verse | |


Just a note Those who have entered my contest Please reread the rules that I asked I would like to give all a chance To place in the contest If you did not write to the forms Specified by me, your entry will be disqualified. If you write more than one or two stanzas You will be disqualified.. A stanza is one unit of whatever form that you chose A Dodoitsu has four lines so only eight lines A quatrain has only four lines So eight lines only A rhyme has four lines So only eight lines.. If you entered an English Quintain I will accept that Please let the theme be About food or drink scent or aroma That triggers a pleasant childhood memory Example: The scent of cinnamon wafing From the bakery at the mall Flooded my soul with memories Of childhood at home in the fall Thanks, Sara

Details | Free verse | |

Why write when you can pray ?

Writing is a form of prayer, the writer makes with  his pen.
He puts it to paper,
 and lets it all go
When writing there is no time, 
  no space,
 everything stands still,
 while the writer writes.
Why does he write ? 
 Why do you not pray? 
To have someone to hear your inner most thoughts to look for answers,
 to ask for help ,
 to let go , 
to just get it out.
Sometimes he writes out of anger,
 sometimes out of loss,
 others its out of desperation ,
 sometimes its just because .
Now the writer writes in hopes
 that the answer will be come clear .
He knows all he has to do is wait long enough,
 and it will appear. 
But what say you of those who do not write ? 
Are they lost, broken or just forgotten ? 
No, they are not lost, broken or forgotten
 instead of bringing down the pen to paper , 
They choose to speak their silent prayer 
But one thing is for sure 
Paper and pen 
Hands clasped and kneeling
Someone, somewhere,
 has heard your silent prayer 

Details | Rhyme | |

Writing Poetry

Many write poetry with the hope that their work will be profound.
I write poetry mostly to occasionally clown around.

Details | Blank verse | |

Life Is The Ink

Life is the ink
I write with.
Words are the actions
I maketh and take.
Paper is the earthly conneciton
Of where I am.
This pen is my destiny,
For only I hold the key.
These lines are boundaries
Of memories and times.
This book is my story,
Telling all there has been.
Writing is as living
As to remaining is as dying.
History is vast,
Yet each life creates its cast.
Life is the ink
We write with.
Words are the weapons
For fight and defence.
These books are our story
And forever we write freely.
Life is the ink
And is bound to run dry.
Our words remain
Even after we die.

Details | I do not know? | |

Publish, Change Or Be Damned

You want me to write in metaphors
Twist meaning to fit the rhyme
Make the word count perfect
So many beats in time.
Use words out of context
Which have nothing really to say
My plain style not good enough
So change it or go away
So should I write my offerings?
Just like what follows now

Substitute fatalities, cowering yellow
Within the confines of a sacred cow
Oppressive vision of Babylon towers
Secreting liquid words of wisdom
Tie-dyed to fit the morning headlines
Career advice for the enslaved kingdom.

Does anyone understand what that meant?
Does anyone really care?
So long as “they” think it fits
They’ll publish all your wares
I’ll not pig at the trough
Just to please the critics
I’ll write for the “common” man
After all, they're not so parasitic.

Details | Quatrain | |

Pencil Me IN

It's easy to write a dark saga
of midnight and wolfbain and you
It follows to throw in a campfire
in the winter, the cold and we two

Forsaken this landscape I'm painting
twisted like limbs of the trees,
Haunted ,the mansion is waiting
the trembling begins in our knees,

Tell us to head for the highway,
tell us to hitch hike to town,
Ah, but we will have it my way,
I'm writing this horror all down.

I'm sending you straight to the castle,
You're knocking right now on the door
It's answered by some lowly vassal
who says we may call him Igor.

He pulls us in out of the weather,
he lurches away to the right,
we huddle for safety together,
afraid of what may come in sight.

Insanely the laughter surrounds us,
but you're getting tired of the game,
I shriek that the vampire has found us,
but you knock him down with your cane.

"Now stop this and write our vacation!
Away to that new Pirate Bay.
Get us out of this bad situation,
or I'll have the Count make you stay."

So I pencil plans for Orlando,
while erasing the fiend and the slave,
Why must you go so Commando?..........
(Watch your step over Dracula's grave.)

Details | Rhyme | |

A Poet's Curse

To write the perfect ode or verse
Is inevitably every aspiring poet’s curse
To write like the greats of the past
Who somehow have managed to last
Perhaps as a guide follow Patterson or Shakespeare
But wouldn’t this just lead to more confusion and fear

I wonder if there is a dummies guide to becoming a poet
With a cheesy heading like ‘your poet you just don’t know it’
What would such a book suggest
Would it be easy to digest

It would probably read
Poetry made simple here’s what you need
Step 1; it must always rhyme
And be kept in time 

Step 2; create a meaningful flow
Which is not too fast or too slow

Step3; convey superior knowledge and I.Q.
Show a variety of styles perhaps put in a haiku

Step 4; capture the readers mind
Know when to be cruel and know when to be kind

Step 5; make your theme relevant
A topic know one knows may be irrelevant

Step 6; use a thesaurus
It will help you find words similar to porous

Step 7; make sure your message is clear
When trying to portray terror give the reader fear

Step 8; keep your verse short and sweet
Keep your writing punctual and neat

Step 9; don’t rush, take your time
Eventually you’ll find a word to rhyme

Step 10; end it with a great line or pun 
And lastly try to have fun

If only creating the perfect verse was such an easy creation
We would certainly have a poet filled nation
The substance of verse would perhaps be bad
Which would make lovers of verse increasingly sad 

If you need to follow instructions or a list
In relation to verse you evidently don’t get the gist
Simply write what you feel passionate about
Say it softly or say it with a shout

Grab pen and paper and feel the space
Because with more self expression the world would be a better place

This guide to poetry is clearly a joke
Follow it and you will unavoidably choke

Details | Free verse | |

Tell us, you say

Tell us, you say, in your profound complexity
Prophet, griot, artist, word maker
Why do you litter our hearts with song?
I do not write for the crowd in Dubai
For the poetaster and rhyme maker
I write for the discriminating eye
The unweaver of magic images, breaker
Of spells, and wonderment of the child.
It will read a poem and understand
The archtecture of history is better built
And when the books are all torn up
And tradition of lies is unveiled in the night
The masses will come candleness
And light a upon a page and find light.
I write to rage
In paradigmal shifts against the loss of things
Including the plucking of my own wings.
And sometimes in my rage I sing
And sweet the tongue to sing along
Thinking of freedom as we die ... without a song.

Details | I do not know? | |

I Love Writin




Details | Rhyme | |

Share my soul

I would like to propose a toast
                             To my friends on this site
For all of us share a single soul
                             One that loves to write
We write not for fame or glory
                             But agree that would be cool
We have all just come to learn
                             Poetry is our greatest tool
We write about our triumphs
                             As well as our regrets
We write about those we love
                             This includes our pets
We write about things in our past
                             Things that are yet to come
We write about our deepest joys
                             And pain that leaves us numb
We write about all types of nature
                             This includes the birds and bees
We write about our darkest sins
                             And getting on our knees
We write about the politics
                             The agonies of war
We write of how God loves us so much
                             Thats what he gave his son up for
We write about the children that are born
                             And our love ones who have died
We write about things we have let go
                             And things that we have tried
This morning I picked up my pen
                             Just to let my dear friends know
You're not only deep in my heart
                             You also share my soul

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

Prose mine prys 
Gather up my scrolling drawls 
Paging through the spite 

Prose mine prys 
Splitting metaphors with mauls 
Swindle word codle the blight 

This poem explained

Shut your eyes 
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts 
Absolutely shut off your mind 

Shut your eyes 
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich 
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind 

My ordinary words chip away 
Read what I have written 
They are memorable moments of contempt 

My ordinary words chip away 
I chop up what I write with metaphors 
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness


Details | Rhyme | |

Limited Dictionary

people try to propel
and often excel

in the area of their choice
stand up, and voice

their opinions on life
even to share their own strife

we all feel this need
an often excede

the limits of our dictionary
so the writers must be very

ready to expand
because the words that are at hand

cannot express everything
some not even anything

and of our monsters and men
they speak the truth, Amen

our minds do play tricks on us
sometimes we even cuss

at our stupidity
and are often typically

unable to express
the things we should profess

Details | Light Poetry | |


This is the man that I am

No need for a detective because I have few mysteries

Whatever you don’t find its trapped somewhere inside my mind

I put my life into words for the whole world to read

I hope you enjoy what you see

A South Korean English teacher by night

An avid writer by day

A helpless romantic somewhere in between

The smile and joy from my students is priceless

Seeing someone enjoy my writings is pretty rewarding as well

I feel that everything in my life is finally going well

From my writings you may find that hard to tell

Sorry I don’t write more fantasies or fables

To convey happy emotions and attract more followers

You are getting my life through my eyes

I don’t have a sweet tooth so I don’t sugarcoat things

I write what I have seen and how it has effected me

My adventures and journeys have been vast

Come with me on this ride

Together we can both be pleasantly surprised

With what I will write

This is the the man that I am

Find more of my writings and poems at

Details | Classicism | |

The Poetic Script

A life in words wrapped in truth hidden from lies underground speaking so silent across the waves making them ever so loud.
 A life abused until the body is damged far deep into the soul looking for redemption in a world of numbers and codes lost somewhere on this crazy road.
 I see what life is and what it aint but moreso at what it outta be, so I look hard for something different for yet another lost soul on the stop waiting to monopolize and collect $200 past go.
 So I look at my life story and how I live so I write it in words of laughter but mostly hurt.
 So I write words out my mouth until I spit for truth I dont quit for *****in a world of *****pits among the strong who survive with mind wits I write until I shake hands with fist given vulgar lips living life is like living a trip so with these words I cant miss leaving everything I live on the list because every second we live is another second added to my entire life poetic script....

Details | I do not know? | |


Between the covers of this book...
  A diverse collection of when I felt forsook
Not all words are detailed to a fact,with
Serenity I've changed some,others I enact.
There are some words for which I must find
  A story to tell and make it rhyme,
Some fall on paper in three-quarter time,
   Others are painfully sent as a sign.
Some are worth Million$ others not one thin dime
   Chapters and characters for another to design.
            Venture on thru-A journey you will find..
"POETRY-IN-MOTION"-ten-thousand steps of life to climb
As like Mother-Goose only I write of the ruins
   Of neglect and child abuse.
I write of Jude and The Book of Revelation
The Work-of-Art by God's Creation.
  The Wrath of God and behold Salvation
And that Christ Jesus died 
            for this Worthless Generation-

Details | Quatrain | |


I take Mr. Webster's pages
Season rather well
Toss t4hem in a noisy blender
Stir them up pell-mell

If you find therein some meaning
I am doing well
'Cause I am just a used-words merchant
I've nothing else to sell

So here I am, past seventy
A prattling, wordy fool
My friends all say, and I agree
I should go back to school

I can learn from textbooks proper ways
The way to do it right
And scribble pretty words of  love
That blossoms in the night

But what does this boy know of love?
I've only loved one girl
Since back when I was seventeen
And I had hair, with curls

Society says love comes and goes
And girls move in and out
But I don't understand their way
Or what it's all about

So I'll just keep my long-time girl
Who wears my wedding ring
There is no Jeezebel in her
She treats me like a king

So i can never write of love
As forlorn tragedy
I can only write of love
AsI found it to be

Details | Rhyme | |

Writer's Delight (My Delight)

I write to take the pain away
Releasing heartache
Not allowing it to meditate
Not allowing it to penetrate
Triggering unwanted emotions
That create the notions
That cause me to hate
Or hold malice
Malicious thoughts taint the soul
Tamper the spirit
So I write my pain down
For the world to read
Never to hear it
Writing is my weapon of choice
Shooting words and rhythms
This is what I choose to do
Rather than shooting with a nine-millimeter
 Or a twenty-two
To evoke contentment
To contrast some of the hard feelings
Given by the life
That so rarely satisfies
Allowing the pain to slowly die
Line by line
Word by word
Nouns and verbs
Which show action
The act of my passion
Causing a distraction
To everything that has upset
And beset me
To pause and redirect me
Letting go 
Starting anew 
To introduce the world to my view
What I see
My sight
This is my writer’s delight

Details | Rhyme | |


I love to write, it pleases me
For when I write I change you see
I’m not a worker anymore
But can be what I want for sure

A pilot our a buccaneer, how cool
A soldier or a complete fool
Whatever I would like to be
I can through writing poetry

So I write to pass the time
Words of love that I hope rhyme
As many a  good poet will know
If they like me have felt the glow

So relax, unwind and write a bit
Soon you will find the words that fit
Then you could end up just like me
And really enjoy writing poetry

Details | Free verse | |

Write for Right

World is full of intellects all around
Writers among many wearing crown
Winning the glories with titles and prizes
Honors each year various societies.
Everyone writes for his own cause
Some spell mystery, some make fun
Inscriptions are numerous in stores
Libraries inspire many and many more.
Write for right everyone proclaims
Who wishes to listen the truth
Each and every entity disdains
All want happiness shuns pain.
Reality check is tough to go
Many do write for the right
Bring the world to true light
But result is shameful to abide.
We live in democracy proud to say
Hope it was really that beautiful
Writings can actually revolutionize
As in past…but now is a fearing world.
Faith has died a thunderous death
For all of the major section is corrupt
Who can dare to write for truth…
It’s a beautiful world for silence.



Details | Free verse | |

Poetic Justice

The rhythm of these words
I am praying
When I say it
You will play it
Over & over 
Until you learn it
& not fear it
When you hear it
It will appear as
If you understand the meaning 
That's behind it
But your blinded
& reminded 
Of the lyrical content
In which I comment
This is my system
Not a victim
When I'm on the throne
& in the zone
You can't condone
How I feel
You cannot seal
This is real
So am I
This is my high
In my poems I tell no lie
This here is my waiver
What craver
I'm just doing you all a favor
Here's my substance
You can trust this
This is my Poetic Justice

Details | Rhyme | |

Collaborator Wanted

At the moment, I’m looking for a collaborator who will help me write something with the bite of an alligator. Tracie, our “Indigo Dreamweaver “ sponsors a contest right now. I would like to submit a poem somehow. With writing, I know many of you are quite able. Just write something good and put it on the table. We will get fifty points each for this caper. Just write down something impressive on paper. We may get two hundred and fifty points each if we win. Let’s get together as soon as possible and begin. I’m serious!

Details | I do not know? | |

Thought Compost

Everybody's made of different stuff,
Some are all about laughs, others pain.
Whatever it is, we all have enough.

I'm made of words, though the majority of them are unheard.

If I don't write I start to fade into a calvacade of thoughts with bombs and horrors.
I gotta get rid of my steam on paper -
doesn't do much good just to dream 'cause it'll catch up with me sooner or later.

Sometimes, in bed, I can't get to sleep at night 'cause the words in my head need release through what I write.

Now if I herd them from my mind and all the way down my pen they generally don't bother me again.
Otherwise it's like I'm trying to hold onto a raging bull, who's tossing me about on his horns,
while I only have a rope to pull.
No spears or weapons of any kind!
Can you imaging the terror creeping up behind?

I don't control the words - I'd say it's the other way round.

Sometimes I've gotta sift through Thought compost, or dig a hole in Imagination's ground
before I find anything worthwhile to say.
But hey, it's not often!

Mostly they march to the sound of a beating drum, and I have no control over the speed at which they come.
They're supposed to be MY troops!  Instead they've got ME jumping through hoops - doing handstands and other silly stuff.
I don't think they'll ever learn when Enough is Enough...

But that's okay.  For all my complaints, I don't want them to go away
(could use a few restraints though!).

If I had to choose something with which to surround myself,
it'd have to be words and language;
Not the sentimental treasures on the shelf.

Food for thought.
Maybe a poetry sandwich, maybe roast beef on rye...

I'll write my dreams on paper and then toss them into the sky. 

Details | Lyric | |

The Big Apple (a brief chant)

The rooster crows at the break of dawn.
I rise to write a poetic song.
A look through the window,
and I hear someone shout!
What brings' you to the Big Apple.
I say, I came,
 by the way of the creator.

Then I replied with a night out on the town.
I look and observed all around.
I seen with my eyes',
even though I was deprived of sleep.
As the crowds gather in the streets.

The crowds begin to applaud.
I joined in and started to clapp,
as these talented brothers and sisters,
 was chanting their art of rapp.

I continue to stand, 
as the crowds' expand.
What a treat 
it was watching
 these brothers and sisters
 break dance.

I observed and learned
 knowing someday it'll be my turn 
to express a poetic song.

These brothers and sisters 
sure can chant the art of rapp,
and not only that by chance.
These talented brothers and sisters,
can perform the art of the break dance.

I look through the window,
at the break of dawn.
A rooster crows,
as I write a poetic song.
I hear someone shout!
What brings' you to the Big Apple.
I said , I came,
 by the way of the creator.

Details | I do not know? | |

Yoy Want me to Write you a Poem

So you want me to write a poem
And you want me to write it now
You see, I want to write this poem
But I don’t know how

I don’t know how to rhyme
And I don’t know how to flow
So I cannot write this poem
That you have wanted so

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry Soup Group

Poetry Soup Group

This is quite a group, 
the people at Poetry Soup.

They make me feel 
like a part of their troop.

No matter how much bad 
poetry I enter in their contests 
they still encourage 
me to write until I poop!

The State of the 
group at Poetry Soup
Is that it’s a great 
place to regroup,
Eat soup and write 
poetry late at night,
When you can’t 
seem to sleep.

It’s a great group of people,
Good company to keep.
They make me want to
Leap for joy each time
I log on to Poetry Soup!

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet's Prison

Why must a poet write such things
Of sorrow and despair?
Does he not understand he brings
The darkness with him there?

He brings a hollow lonesome wind
That chills us to our souls
Each time he waves his mournful pen
The breeze of heartache blows

For he writes with pure emotion
Where demons sometimes sleep
He will write of his devotion
He's ever reaching deep

He will write of his rejection
He lives with every day
He knows no words of affection
His mind doesn't work that way

So write on now lonely poet
And tell us of your scars
Tell us of your lonely prison
With heartache as your bars

Details | I do not know? | |

Don't Stop The Poetry

I'm going to write this poem
and not once stop my pace
So when I die I will show Him,
God, the poetic piece I've laced.
I'm going to write about my struggles
I'm going to write about happyness
My strength will put me on a hussle
So I can make ends to share it with,
My mother, my father,
My 2 sisters and brother,
I may not say it at times
but until death I love them.
I cry out to the Most High
that honestly I only can do my best.
If I leave the Earth a failure
then I'll feel I've failed life's test.
No matter how hard things are
I promise I won't stop the poetry.
Because God knows my strength
and if nobody, He'll notice me.

Details | Rhyme | |

Poetry Soup

This is where I come to bleed.
Where I leave my heart for you to read.
So many things in my heart to grieve.
But only one place it can come to relieve.

It's where my friends I've never met,
Yet, in their minds, my feelings I set.
You relate my fears. You see my love,
Even for that of my God high above.
I speak to you of the one I hold dear.
Whenever, for her, I'm shedding a tear.

Poetry and song in the world we fill,
Leaving it with an insurmountable bill.
Though in money and riches we do not bask,
A little of your time is all I ask.
Poetry soup is what soothes my soul.
It makes even the broken feel once again whole.

I write when I'm joyful. I write when I'm lost.
I write when the world has me beaten and tossed.
It's a medicine so potent we cannot perceive.
They're words that can make weak humans believe.

So to you the readers I am ever indebted.
It's a friendship I have not ever regretted.

Details | Free verse | |

Number Nine (Nonet)

Sixty-three divided by seven
Four squared plus two and minus nine
Square root of sixteen plus five
Square root of eighty-one
Three squared plus zero 
Ten minus one
Six plus three 
Three threes

Comments:  dedicated to the mathematical wizards who would like to write a 
nonet poem, this is your chance.   This is a very understandable way to write a 
nonet. A nonet poem has nine lines, with the first line containing nine syllables, 
the second line eight, the third seven, then six, next five, then four and so until the 
last and ninth line has one syllable. The nonet poem may be written about any 
subject, and rhyming is optional. Start with a topic sentence and work it down live 
a funnel. It should be deductive and inductive.

Details | Cowboy | |

Dear Charlie

I have thought of you often, found some paper tucked away,
I’m feeling sentimental and have some time today,
So with pen in hand I thought I would write a line or two,
Though I don’t know where your at or if this letter will get through.

Well the wire is now strung and the cowboys are fenced in,
The Indians that rode beside you will never be again. 
The long horns their now mulies a horn not a one,
I guess the wild west days have come and gone.

But Charlie I think you know there is a die hard breed.
There are still some out there that live the cowboy creed.
I know it’s not exactly the same as when you rode so bold,
But Charlie I wanted you to know that not all the saddles are sold.
For they wake each morning to the rising sun,
And know at the end of each day their work is still not done.
And they will gather around a fire to hear a yearn or two,
To see who tells the better tale of the things that they do.
And some paint a might good picture too, I have seen them at their best.
I guess there’s still a little wild out here in the west.

We think of you often and dream of a time 
When the range was open and the land was in its prime. 
When long horns ran high ridges and tested cowboy wit,
And even the best of the ponies would still challenge the bit.
So I thought I would write to let you know 
that you are thought of out here in what we do and where we go. 
And there still is hardcore buckaroos who still challenge change,
And they fight for the freedom to ride the range.

Well the fire has burned to embers and the crew is coming in
The quiet moment that I had, is now brought to an end,
So I will stoke the fire, put the coffee on and say goodbye for now,
Hoping you might get this letter some how.
Just remember your not for gotten Charlie and you will live on
And the cowboys and buckaroos are not completely gone.
And when I have more quiet time and paper that I might find,
I promise to write again, rest in peace my dear old friend.

Details | Lyric | |

Empty Thoughts

Staring at a blank paper
thinking of something to write

My mind is empty now
I'm looking deep into the night

When I shall wake
I might have a thought or two

I can't believe this happening to me
Has this ever happened to you?

Shall I write about love
Shall I write about fears

Maybe a poem about death
Wait,no more tears

I could write about my past
and tell you what I went thru

But I have already done so
by the poems I shared with you

I did write something
for you to read

My empty thoughts are gone
yes they are, yes indeed

Details | Quatrain | |


Why is it I write with such plain words? Why don’t I use a rare one? Why don’t they sound as good when their heard? Why not good in the long run? Why can’t I find words that embellish? Why don’t they sing like a song? Why is it my work sounds so hellish? What am I doing that’s wrong? Why can’t I create hidden meaning? Why write it just like it is? Why not make it so it needs screening? Why shouldn’t it be a quiz? Why can’t I learn to garnish a word? Why aren’t they ever dressed up? Why don’t you proceed to give me the bird? Why don’t I stop and shut up?

Details | Rhyme | |



I know a lot of you have been there so you know how I feel
A wee bit apprehensive and even more surreal
Will anybody ever read it, is it worth then being read
Will it be like other art works, worth more when I am dead
Will my grandkids and their grandkids keep a copy on a shelf
Will it give someone the courage to write a book themselve
Will it be my only published work though I write down all my thoughts
Will it be the kind of book you’d read or better yet, you’ve bought

mdailey 4/21/12

Details | Free verse | |

The book the wizaed wrote part five

But you cant keep this book intact its not allowed 
your soul will not bear it 
do you keep all the prophecies to be a part of the truth 
do you tear out the love and find just the directions to eternal youth\ 
do you keep the satanic metaphors to reveal the author had a horrible soul 
this test upon humanity is sitting by the riverside
Love for sale in western mail
Love for sale in western mail
Watching it all go down is given to every woman child mother father adult 
and then you create how its passed down to the future but its never whole 

one day I will write this book and you will all dream 
Pushing the limits
So many nights crying
The limits that limits that change
About its entirety 
go from house to house 
to read the book 
with pages missing to compare it to yours 
to fathom family legacies and opinions 
Born to please
to try to understand the truth of oppression and decisions and accuracy and 
and in this book I will write stories and I will write traditions and I will write games 
and I will write sanities and insanities 
but what you keep and what you throw away 
stay away from the river man
The water is cold
Don’t ever set me free
Born to dream
Of those days of warm rays
No one has a clue
You’re safe when they hear me
But they’re gonna clue in
When they see the sneak
They clueing in
All their strength not to fall apart
Satellite secret moments shadowed in the heat of the afternoon
To the holiday
They will always want by their side

they’re cluing into the bird lady

Doing things my way
they’re cluing in to little miss daisy
is another test 
another dream another curse 
another prayer of metaphor 
another chain 
of soft spoken words
to never have answered 
something this generation had that memory can only answer 
and the death wish of not cooperating leave you upon a grave of cand’lit flames 
and hells passed on to legacies of hell the arch angels tell you to tear down 
walls to cripple you all 

Everything blue eyes
Unbelievable ways
Sky of white stars exotic
Magical times

Broken faith makes me
your new book of god 
And I’m running out of here
Or no way at all
Running out of here

makes me

And I’m running out of here
And I’m running out of here
Come to the reason
You really got me
I wasn’t fake
come to the light
back to the middle

Details | Rhyme | |

Just Move On

With thought in mind 
And love in heart
I came here with a pen
With intentions to write
And share a part,
To make a few more friends.
I write in prose 
And some in rhyme
Just so to fill my void.
If some should hurt
I’m sorry that
You read and got annoyed.
T’was not intended
To bring you down
Nor ever give you pain
T’was just intended
To provide the picture
Of what was in my brain.
So, if you read
And want to scream
At the words that I have penned.
Then, please do not
Dare write response
And just move on, my friend.

Details | Rhyme | |

Between The Lines

A poem is never the words you read
It's what's written between the lines
For the words can only plant a seed
To grow the emotion a word defines

A feeling trapped inside our hearts
Or maybe a place we haven't seen
The words are where emotion starts
But the meaning is always in-between

For our words can never write a smile
But yet you know it's there
It has nothing to do with the poet's style
Or even the words they share

The words we write have a silent voice
That the poets call their muse
But interpretation is the readers choice
From the words we didn't use

Emotion is always, the in-betweens
Our words are only the signs
To understand what the poet means
You must read between the lines

Details | Senryu | |

Words Relflect The Man

Words reflect the man, 
yet it reveals not the true 
nature of the beast. 

What you read is a 
verbal mask, a secret self, 
in an ink disguise. 

One may write humor, 
then be revealed as sullen 
and melancholy. 

Or write heartfelt prose, 
to be found a true cynic, 
to whom love is bunk 

Thus we praise the words, 
but would we applaud the man 
once divulged to us? 

Often, to write well, 
an inner demon must be 
allowed to break free. 

cleverness and some guile, 
does make a good read 

As can honesty. 
Which is rare when found in form, 
and harder to write 

You must not fear it, 
if you wish it to come forth.
It seeps from your well. 

Dip deep your quill pen, 
into your true self and see 
your writing change face. 

Gone will be your shield. 
Open to criticism, 
will take true courage 

Details | Rhyme | |

Ars Poetica

A poet shouldn’t write what others want to hear,
One must not feel intimidation, nor fear.
A poet must write about his own experience
He should capture his own life’s true essence.

At nearly nineteen years of life I’ve learned,
A true artist’s voice is not pleasant to be heard.
A poet’s life truly is nothing to be desired,
A poet doesn’t have a job, he never gets hired.

Any man can live a life plain and normal,
But being a poet is much more exceptional:
Telling your thoughts with no care in the world,
You can freely make your voice be heard!

Details | Free verse | |

My Poetry

Once poetry was just a hobby,
Then I grew to love it,
My poetry is dark,
And sad and angry,
But I never feel happy enough to write anything else.

My poetry is my feeling in words,
Expressed in a non-harmful way,
I write about love and passion,
But nothing stupid at all,
Because my poetry is real,
And I’m not stupid.

Details | Quatrain | |

May I Write, at 63?

May I write, if you don't mind please?
It seems there's much I long to say,
Haul up the bucket of ideas from my deep wishing well
That reaches Heaven as well as Hell.

Break loose the constraints from the walls,
Chase all the forms down endless halls,
Catch the strange and toothless one And bring it out into the sun,
Hold down the letter and add it's parts until the work is done.

I love to write, what's wrong with that?
In the sound of words and rhythms flowing
I find what seems to me  worth showing,
Real or not,  cool or hot, whether thin or whether fat. 

So I will write, as I do today, again tomorrow, read or unread, 
We who write dress up thoughts as leaves adorn the trees,
Planting seeds in minds and hearts as we please,
Ascertaining and dispensing hope instead of dread.

If we choose to rhyme we may, but if not we may not,
We can pun just for fun or tantalize with care,
Immortalize or satirize, do as much as we may dare.
For it is a good thing to write now while still above the family plot.

Details | Acrostic | |


                          Poetry is for me
                          As i write it for all to see
                          I can write the words
                          Without being disturbed
                          I put my feelings in it
                          And never want to quit
                          It's about me and my life
                          That i think about with all my might
                          It helps me get through
                          With things i do
                           I write it from my heart
                          That it feels like a dart
                          Poetry can be happy or sad
                          As long as it makes me glad
                          Write it each day
                          With so many things to say
                          Even when days are gray
                          Poetry is for me
                          To let me be me

Details | Rhyme | |

The Lines That Come Forth

The taking of the pen in hand 
to write of what I see,
the lines that come forth  through inward demand 
remain the best expressions of me.

Never old and ever changing
are the words upon each page.
Never limitless are my options
for the world is viewed as a stage.

Of various people from all walks of life 
to the seasons of unending change,
the subjects I write of from day to day
are as far as east from west in their range.

Desire and accomplishment are best expressed
each day that I find time to write.
Only when done can heart and hand rest
as the words of each poem come to light.

Douglas L. Ace

Details | I do not know? | |

This Poem

This poem started easy
lines were flying out
but, now they're rambling
words from a child's mouth.

Ideas now dry up
I try to bring it to an end
that's when poem becomes,
a fiend instead of friend.

Now I write and I write
I don't want to but must,
If this pen leaves the paper
I may become dust.

This poem, this poem
How it is poison in my veins,
Haunting my dreams and thoughts
driving me insane.

An addiction that won't cure
thought it's killing me inside,
I want more and more
I've become Jekyll and Hyde.

One moment i can stop
then the beast appears,
manifesting itself
into my worst fears.

This poem, this poem
Oh God help me this poem,
I'm sacrificing myself
trying to appease the totem.

But the more I write
the clearer i see,
What this poem really is
why I write with first degree.

This poem is my life
why it seems over when it's hard,
yet why I keep going
learning when I'm scarred.

This Poem, I will keep writing
until my pen has dried,
then my time will be for the Reaper
To take me to the other side.

Details | Couplet | |

My Government

To my government that I love dearly,
I must say that I write to you wearily.
Like a good girl I write my concerns,
when I get a response it just burns.
It's a copy you send to hundreds of others,
Not much comfort for the burdened mothers.
It's easy to see there's no caring,
to voters you write, it's so daring.
To think we'll keep backing you with votes,
when such responses we get to our notes,
It's a little arrogant in the least,
At times, you seem more like a beast.
I know that easy isn't part of what you do,
So for that, I do give credit to you.
But put away the fancy words you give,
And change things for us, in this world, to live.

Details | Free verse | |


i don't use spacing in my poetry
because it feels like a gimmick
i don't dabble around in various forms
because they're trite and they bore me
i add little flourishes
that no one notices
so maybe i should just stop?

i dig around inside my head
for things that might matter
for a second but not so much
a minute later
i am fickle when i want to be
and do not apologize for it
i despise cliches with all my heart
yet more often than not
splash around in them
i am lazy, and incoherent
and stupid and smart
and couldn't give two sh1ts
about what you think i should
or should not do about it

i take feedback like a b1tch
but rarely ever listen to it
i swear because i believe
the entire human language
is free range
i write about drugs
because they interest me
not because i do them
i write about life and death
and everything in between
but i still tend to repeat
i write about life and death
and everything in between---
you get the point

Details | Free verse | |


Poetry is philosophy treated so unlike philosophy
Once the discourse begins
There is no return to the conversation
Just an endless flitting to everything
I want to open words like arms
And go deep down between their legs
Until I am all quivered and done.
For what are we 
But the countless, endless germination
Of words spoken
But I write them to create thoughts, not worlds.
O for a T. S. Eliot
To steal a thought and opened it like a flower
O for a W. B. Yeats
To write and write until the conversation has its power
O for minds like crows
That will not let the thing go
But flash it, shake it, shred it
Until it is only strands of meat between the teeth
Minds that will not yield but even in death 
Conquers defeat.

Details | I do not know? | |

I Am A Poet

I am a poet
I inspire to be
I am a poet 
This is me
I believe in poetry
And its will to achieve
I believe in poetry
Like this world believes in deceit
I write when I am sad
I write when I am glad
I write when I am turned-on
And I write when I am mad
I am a poet
Because I believe in the power of words
The exact way they flow from my mouth
The way they can motivate, inspire, deliver, and control their listeners
Makes me tremble to my knees
I am a poet
Even when I don’t feel I should be
I am a poet
I was born to lead
I am a poet
I inspire to be
I am a poet 
This is me

Details | Light Poetry | |

The Art of Poetry

Poetry allows you to write what you feel
Let the idea of thought to inspire you
Lets the words that you write take flight 

Watch as each line takes rhyme
Write it deep and defined
Or turn it into a design

Flowing from the pen, keyboard and recorder
Poetry is in every earthly corner 
Poetry creates the landscape for every perceived view

Its in music and movies
Its at the beach and parks
Its on a plane flying high

Poetry’s got the motion 
It allows you to vent your rage 
And share your joys

It doesn’t have to rhyme all the time
express who you are,  out of the dark
dance your write and celebrate.

Details | Couplet | |

Tag Sharon Weimer "You are IT"

Sometimes in life it is so clear to see
My friend is as special as she can be

Things happen and we don’t know why
But for my special friend I would die

I started the (YF4L) club just for her
Sometimes I stutter but I never slur

My wife knows that Sharon is special as can be
They’re the only two who calm the beast in me

Be the first admit, I don’t always think right
I’m a true man of God with a Soldier’s plight

The “Man of God” part is all brand new
Sharon I have penned this poem for you

But it’s not just a poem, Sharon it is a tag
Pull yourself a name from the Poetry bag

And then tell that Poet how special they are
From the bag of Poets pull yourself out a star

This is a game that all of us poets used to play
Hopefully we can relight that flame today

Anyone but me Sharon you can write about
Just answer the “Tag” and let your love out

You know I've been here long enough to say.
"Back in the day" we used to play tag, i miss
it a lot - Rules are very simple, I write a poem
for Sharon and tag it. Sharon now can write a
poem to any other poet but me and tag it. Then
they do the same. Lets rock and roll, heart and
soul and see where it may lead. Tag Shar, your it.
Now this is a wide open game, anyone can pick
anyone they wish at any time. The object is to
keep the ball rolling. This used to be a very special
part of our site and I do hope we can relight that
Flame, God Bless you all, MJ

Details | Free verse | |

Why I Write

Take a walk with me
Down this street that is in my mind
Past the houses, past the sidewalks
Past the children's playgrounds and ball parks
Walk past all the things you see
And wander into my memories

The past, the present, the future
All rolled into one event
Inside myself I control my destiny
Beyond the physical boundaries
Into that part deep in my soul
Lingering in places only I know

When you read the words
Written and meant to be shared
You touch this place inside
Experience the tears I've cried
See the love and anger too
The disappointments and the dreams come true

I don't write for me
And I don't even write for you
I write because I am compelled
To share a story I must tell
It's not a talent I have been given
It is ordained, predetermined

I write because I have no choice
I write because God gave me the voice

For every heart my words will touch
And for my own heart too
I write to share compassion
I write with fevered passion
To show the world the human side
Of conflict, anger, pain and pride

Details | I do not know? | |

If I Could Write Stories

If I could write a story,
It would be based on me.
I promise I'm no Mary Sue,
But I'd want to express
All of my inner mentality.

If I could write a story for you,
It would be based on us.
I promise it will be remnant of you,
But I will only try to express
All our ideas we used in role-playing.

If I could write a story for others,
It would be based on a message.
I promise that it'll be good uplifting bad,
But I would do my best to express
All of my thoughts on different feelings.

If I could only write a story,
I would need more ideas.
I lack motivation to complete,
But really I'm aware of my potential.

If only I could write a story,
I would need someone like you to illustrate it.
I can draw in my own way,
But really what I envision cannot be done by me.

If only I could write a story,
I would need a vast audience.
I think I believe I can someday write books,
But really deep within I feel impotent.

If I can write all those stories,
It would make one enjoy reading them.
I would feel glad to finally be a true writer,
But I must lose my pride: learn to edit and review
All my past experiences and values.

Details | Rhyme | |

Our Writing

We write to please
As we are pleased to write
Our writing grows from our inner sight

All shapes and forms
Are written down
We grace the page, our writings gown

We write so differently
You and me
Our comments are gracious, for all to see

From all over our globe
On the Soup appear
Nationalities of many, in writing sincere

Details | Pantoum | |

I Write This For You

I write this for you
because you have given me
a world of beauty in your writing.
So, it’s time to give back.

Because you have given me
almost everything in your heart,
so, it’s time to give back
everything I have in my heart.

Almost everything in your heart;
a treasure, of the purest kind.
Everything I have in my heart,
I wish to share with you.

A treasure, of the purest kind;
a world of beauty in your writing.
I wish to share with you!
I write this for you!

Details | Rhyme | |

Musings on Censorship

Musings on Censorship

By Elton Camp

When someone tries to tell us what to think or write or say
Just what authority gives them the right to act in that way

If it’s my own opinion and the information is not untrue
Then I will proceed to write or say anything that I want to 

Used as an example so much that it has become a cliché
To yell “Fire” in a crowded theater we just must not say

But what if the one making the announcement is no liar 
And it turns out that the movie theater actually is on fire?

But wait a minute there if you are now tending to agree
Let’s first examine some other circumstances and see

A pedophile asserts that sex with children is sure okay
Is that his opinion that he should be allowed to say?

Another claims that the church is both evil and corrupt
Many outraged calls for censorship then begin to erupt

The first example exceeds protection of free speech
But the second is Constitutionally well out of reach

But just how do I know that this view is really correct?
It’s because everyone should do exactly as I direct

So I really feel that censorship is needed and is fine
Only so long as the decisions that are made are mine

Details | Free verse | |

My life is not a joke

It's not easy to put yourself out like this
sabatoge your fantasies
and write down life experiences
glad you are enjoying my 15 year nervous breakdown
but you are laughing at my life
and why i write is to inform you
my life is not a joke

I am a human being
who tries probably harder than you
who sees the blessings in everything
and its unfortunate for soo many they see so few
it's not easy to inform an apathetic world
whats going on in my life
and not take it personal
when you laugh at my attempts at talking myself out of suicide

Talk about ripping my heart open
to give you a laugh
you write such pretty creative things
i write in an attempt to heal
the whole statement here is my life is not a joke
but obviously its humorous
and in time i will learn to put up another wall
i'm sure whatever joke i am fits me like a glove

One of the few things stopping me from giving the world what i thought god wanted from me
and now i'm going to stop
just thought i would inform you
my pain to me is very real
ignorance is bliss i guess
and i can't take that from you
but its been taken from me

I learned the hard way not to trust anyone
love is a trick to get someone else to do what you want
a disease is something you get when someone doesn't love you back
mental anguish and confusion of self medicating go hand in hand
leave you to surrender to the realisation
those ennabling you with street remedies are trying to kill you
and those are facts
the whole point of writing this
lately anyway, is to show myself im not a joke
you want something funny, go look at the other online books i've written 
and laugh at that

My last attempt at having faith in the world
i guess it shouldn't come so easy to someone totally destroyed
emotionally and mentally
and my diagnosis
I get it now
it's funny
lost to myself again
my life isn't a joke
but im sure the punchline of my death
will be attractive to every comedian

Details | Free verse | |

loosendedly finish my sentences so they can finish yours

previously they said that was
and what were they doing?
we got here and opened 
could we go any faster someone seemed to
and there was a reply before the question

so low and so far from
you were me and i was 
we were never really found
in place of disaster where we find our
we see right through the holes
and become something
or else we turn this into god

stuck in the middle 
the researchers say you can say anything before or after
every line to make it beautiful
when you write it down
answer the questions
what does she want for her birthday?
how was your Christmas?
where does the story go?
how many pieces to the puzzle
and where did the weekend end?

Before and after mix it up Tear it up
cut it up
predict and foreshadow
end it mend it
break it fake it be inspired to inspire me and see who i inspire
as we search the lines of the database
for our arsenal
of the words we like
to add to our own to employ our souls
and play dirty with elbows to claim what is rightfully ours
together we write this chapter for the next

loose endedly
and find each line has a different tangent to say
level one incomplete
about holidays and treasure hunts
to not go on
fake plastic faces
and celebrated saints 
of yesterday
and emotionless emotive
when we celebrate the pity party of celibacy of
secrecy of masturbation

everything in this mess will mean something to you
and the joke on you8i is the joke
the joke on me
im the clown in the middle saying predict my next line
and finish he next
answer the questions
flip it skip it finish it
slide it and slip on by add your own and mix it
and bec9ome one with the vibe playing in your stereo 
cant stop the me your not
to swallow the down of the pillows we sleep on to hide
and feel it try to reveal whats inside
through the seeds we leave behind

and the one who starts the layer of the one we all predict and finish
switch and play in gibberish that makes sense is the god of such a matrix
give me a chance and open season at dileberate stabs at p[poetic sarcasm to 
conceal emotion
hey there peter pan?

Details | Free verse | |

The Opening of Rusty Doors

Stop me right now if you've heard this before
there's the wind at my back and a knock at my door
there's you love me to moons but I love you much more
and we dance and we dance and we dance
Please stop me now if you know all my thoughts
as they roll on the wind in occasional bouts
as they shine in my eyes like the sun bleeding clouds
and I write and I write and I write
Stop me in summer if you're sick of the moon
for she shines less and less as the Luna de Lune
for she swells with a million hot stars in her womb
and she grieves and she grieves and she grieves
So stop me at once while the day carries on
as I open my door to the once setting sun
as the brooding of winter escapes in the dawn
and we breathe and we breathe and we breathe.

Details | Free verse | |


Someone told me I must write poems
In the language of common meanings
Like brown paper bags
And the popped out eyes of children
What are poems I asked
The silence trickled into disgust
Not because the dumb cannot speak
But because I cannot make the mute to hear
I pour me out in words
First after being distilled to thoughts
I would not play with these words lightly
Each pourings leave less of me
And when this poem is done I am no more
That is why my meaning stay unique
And uncomprehended as I am
Sorry, I do not write that poem. madam
I write change on permanent memories
In the heart of the deaf he hears a fountain of melodies.

Details | Free verse | |

Poems are Easy

When asked how I write my stuff
I'm not quite sure how to start
It's not explanation enough
To say "It's my kind of art"
Or even to say it comes freely
To someone who speaks in rhyme
I don't want to be "touchy-feely"
For I really haven't got the time.
It isn't much of a secret
How poetry writing is done
Just write what you feel at the moment-
How easily poetry comes!

Details | Rhyme | |

The Tune

It seems that every poem I write has a dreadful tune
The more I listen to tune the more poetry I ruin
Ill try to write a song I think it really is a pain
For when I have a lyric I have no sweet refrain

Even as I’m writing this, the tune is in my head
Why can I not write poetry, which musically is dead?
It’s driving me right round the bend this music I can hear
It would seem I can not write poetry without music I fear

I want to take this music thing and throw it clean away
For when I write my poetry it just gets in the way
It’s hear again to haunt me the words mix with tune
Please stop I beg, please stop I say, please stop and make it soon

And it has at last after a long time
It has now allowed me just to write in rhyme
No music, no sound, the tune has departed as if forgot
Funny now I feel down hearted.  NOT!!!!!!!

Details | Free verse | |

There Was A Time

There was a time in my life when I cried and cried and cried.
Then one day I looked up and began to dry my eyes.

There was a time in my life when I complained and complained and     
Then one day I realized it only caused me to remain.

There was a time in my life when I screamed, and screamed and screamed.
Then one day I heard myself and boy did I sound mean.

One day I got a revelation, and it has helped me to this day.
I don’t have to cry, complain, or scream for you to hear what I have to say.

I just need a pen and paper, and my computer too.
Now I can write, write and write for my words have a voice too.
And as I write these poems out, they speak to all of you.

         First poem written in 2008.

Details | Free verse | |


Expression, creative expression,
That's all poetry is.
Full of anguish and confusion,
Happiness and delusion,
Sadness and obsession.
I admit, I have a confession.
I'm a selfish writer.
I don't write to make someone else's day brighter.
I write to make my own load lighter.
I don't care what others may gain.
I just do this to stay sane,
And that's exactly how it's gonna remain.
So why do I write poetry?
Because it's my escape from reality.
Now why don't you just leave me be.

Details | I do not know? | |

Just Write

Just write, don’t think about what you’re going to say.
Just write and let your mind come out and play.
Set aside emotion- it will speak through your words,
Set aside influence, despite what you’ve heard.
Forget about the editing; let the errors be your guide to finding that
single voice that dwells deep inside.
Just write about anything- say the first thing that comes to mind, and
let your ambition consume the need for time.
Plant a creative seed where ever you may go and eventually that
imagination will begin to grow.  Your voice will emerge as time goes
on, and you’ll hear it coming through steady and strong.  Let your
deepest thoughts rule your steady hand, and put your thoughts on
paper- as many as you can.  So, put away the dictionary only for
tonight-and enjoy the freedom of expression, and you’ll get it…
just write.

Details | Verse | |

To Lauris

I want to write a poem about love
Somebody teach me
I never wrote a poem about love
O teacher, help me
To squeeze the serpent until he dies
To swallow fruit without the seed
To freeze eternity in her vacuous eyes
To plant the grape and never bleed
I want to write of naked mornings
Shivering in the fleece of my embrace
I want to tell of tropic longings
Etched upon the mural of her face
I want to drink the nectar of her desire
And take the sugar core of agony apart
To taste the candy made from fire
And keep her cuddled in my heart.
How do you write a poem about love? how
Do you recover the dusty ton of vow
With words? O give me wings
My flesh is webbed by tenuous things.

Details | Romanticism | |

Writing my words

I sit here often and write on paper these words
Cause this is the only way to which they can release me and be heard
I write exactly how I feel inside
I do not diminish any emotions I will not let them any longer hide
These poems I write are heartfelt to some so I'm told
Within these words is my way of daring to be bold
They leave my heart open wide, so extremely vulnerable, and left to bleed
And it's left here to plead
Here in these words of rhyme, is pieces of me shared
If one looks they will see my very soul is completely bared
Begging for mercy from all I feel and relive everyday
Remembering everything in every way
From what dances inside my head deep in the dark of night
It's the why I feel all this writing is for me so right
I feel in writing them, I get to have him again
He is my everything, the one who knows me better then my closest friend
Then I see him in the distance so close yet so far away
I long to be with him and love him so much more everyday
So yes, I write on paper and share with you these very words
As it's my only way in my moments here, and my mind in re-living my past, they can be 
recalled easily, then so truly quietly and every so loudly be heard

Details | Free verse | |

The Things I Just Cant Say

I dont write my words because I'm angry.
I dont write my words because you're mad.
I write what is truly on my mind.
What I feel deep down inside.
It may not make sense to you.
But to me, my words really do.
Every letter of every word in every sentence.
They all work together in harmony.
To say the things I just can't say aloud.
To say the things I just can't allow out of my mouth.
I love you, you know thats true.
But when we fight like this, I can't say a thing.
Too afraid to say things I may regret.
Too afraid I'll say things I don't mean.
I can only tell you that I love you and walk away.
Maybe one day these words I write will explain.
The things that I just can't say.

Details | Free verse | |

What I Do

I do my best to please the crowd, 

While writing and rhyming, 

All about timing, 

Writing deep thoughts, 

Giving people something to think & talk about, 

Keeping it real all the time, 

Being original with mine, 

Making the world rethink many things, 

Just reaching out to all human beings,

My flow is smooth,

You can keep up with the groove,

Some say my flow is tight,

They love the way I write,

I try and capture the essence of life,

Things we live and see day and night,

Thoughts come to my head and with a thought I run,

Sometimes writing until my hand is numb,

But it’s all good - because I get great feedback,

And I like that,

You keep me going,

You keep me flowing,

Life keeps me focused and grounded,

So I can write all about it,

I’ll keep writing,

Because I’m liking,

The way this is moving,

The way my words are grooving,

The people who continue to read,

And like what they see,

The people – the crowd,

The noise is getting loud,

I’m feeling what you are saying,

You enjoy my realness, there is no playing,

So I continue to write for me,

And be the best I can be,

I continue to write for you,

Cause this is what I do.

Details | Couplet | |

And the Sun Spoke

The clouds fell down abruptly upon me this day
As the sun pushed them down, it had wanted to play

I looked to it, with a squint in my eyes
For it seemed so bright, there in the skies

It smiled and said, Michael, please write of me
I want the world to know just what I can be

I am more than just light, to brighten the day
I am inspiration, growth and a reason to play

I flourish the fields with multitudes of flowers
I give people reasons, in those fields, to spend hours

I am artwork, unpainted, but crafted from above
I am a gift from almighty, provided with love

So, Michael, can you please write of me now
Please let them all know, what I do and just how

Please choose your words wisely, so all to see clear
Just what I can do and just why I am here

I said, do not worry, they all know it true
For the words that I write, will be those poured from you

Details | Free verse | |


 I write because I can
and sentence structure doen't interest me
or what verb goes where
or when it all makes sense,
for I'm waiting for a moment
when some entity intervenes and 
write to rhyme
time stops and a new idea
reaches within
to spin
me in a different direction than 
when I entered here.
Exactly where am I, anyway?

On this machine they call it ....
"They" (whoever "   " are) have to label
every place and every time and
every other thing like rocks and trees
and a breeze 
that breathes and does the universe know
that it can blow?

From the legal tablet lined in yellow
its a different space and place where
slowly the eraser seems
to work its magic or its tragic
when it wipes away 
the best idea of the whole damn day ....

While I am here, Exactly where are You?
 Reading me or is it only another name,
another body, another face, another place and
we are all the same
busily tapping on something
keys .....
as We write because We can.

Details | I do not know? | |

The Way I Write

I try to rhyme.
I try to make the world read me right.
The words that fill the papers,
They dont always make sense.
But I know what they mean.
They mean to world to me.
I understand what they say.
The feelings I felt while writing them. 
Whether people feel the same, I cant say.
I cant make people get what I write,
Or even for them to relate.
I write what I write because thats how I feel.
I write what I write so I can unreel.
I rhyme when I want.
I keep a pattern sometimes too.
Whether I do or not, 
Whats it to you?

Details | Rhyme | |

Another Glass of Wine

This morning I wanted to write a poem
But the words just wouldn't rhyme
So, I'll just put it away
And try another time

Well, here I am in the afternoon
Armed with paper and pen
The words will surely come to me soon
So, I'll just wait til then

I had a very nice dinner
And an extra glass of wine
Poem writing shouldn't be so hard
And I'm sure I can do it this time

First I'll have another glass of wine
Just to settle me down
I'm beginning to get the feeling
I may need to lie down

So many words come tumbling out
I can't get them in a line
My fingers are shaking so
Think I need another glass of wine

Oh, looky, looky, looky, at all dem purdy werds
Amazing how a liddle wine can open up yer head
I wish I could get dem on my paper
Before my fingers turn to lead

I 'd really love to write a poem
But I don't know what to do
So, I'll have another glass of wine
And leave the poem writing to you.

Details | Quatrain | |

Poem Fun

I must be honest
I must confess
This is the hobby
That I like best

I love to read
I love to write
For poetry is
This man’s plight

My wife can’t see
Nor understand
Why poetry
Affects this man

I must admit
I do it all 
In silenced room
When heard, the call

I pen my thoughts
I ink my dreams
From Word documents
To PC Screens

I write for me
I write for you
I love this stuff
It’s what I do

Details | Blank verse | |

Gotta Write

One of those Sunday afternoons that just seem to stick to you like a mosquito on 
a drop of lemonade rolling down a D cup breast
One of those hours that just seem to have one minute deadlines to finish a 
thought process that you aint think yet
One of those moments that just seem so long lost in the zone of your own 
depression not to mention drowning in a liquid toxin occupying the container to 
your soul’s secrets
One of those questions about something so sacred you cant speak it
One of those things that cant explain it’s self with a subject or title
This is the one moment my mind needs to vent some shiit so vital

I gotta write it’s just some baggage my mind is packing
 I gotta write my mental mega bites are on overload I gotta hack them
I gotta write cause if I don’t I’m gonna wind up checkin my self in
I gotta write cause when I do I can get back to my day again

Let me write so I can tell you what you thinking
Let me write so I can ask you how you feelin
Let me write so that it doesn’t seem like your alone
 Let me write it’s the only way to make my mentals house a home

Details | I do not know? | |

Writing a poem

So many emotions,
In my head.
Guilt and longing,
And even dread.

How to pick just one,
I’ve not quite caught,
Because all the emotions,
Are quite a lot.

I could write about love,
Or maybe even hope,
For in my mind,
I’m familiar with both.

But, even I could
 Write about fear,
Or my loneliness,
When no ones near.

But, I cannot pick,
 And choose just one,
But, I really don’t have to,
Because my poem is done.

Details | Lyric | |

I Write for Myself

So sue me
I don’t write like you
I don’t pay attention to form and rhyme scheme,
And I shouldn’t have to,
That’s the beauty of art

I write from the heart
I say what I feel
Why must it be structured a certain way,
In order to be real?

I will not write a haiku
Nor a senryu 
What’s it to you?
Does that mean I’m fake?

It’s time you wake up
Get over yourself
I won’t change my ways,
Because you say they’re wrong
I won’t change my ways,
Because the forms say they’re wrong
I don’t write for your forms,
Or anything else
I write for myself

Details | I do not know? | |

I'm Writing Poetry

I remember a couple of years ago
That I took a Composition class,
I’m ashamed to say my grades, 
But let’s say I barely passed.

I had been writing for awhile,
But one thing I didn’t see
I wasn’t meant to write essays,
I was meant to write poetry.

What made it hard, for me, I guess
When I took that Composition Class
Was remember all the rules, and spellings and all
And all the things that Grammar has.

When I write here, I am not worried
When my Grammar’s wrong, you see.
It’s really just me and the way I speak
When I’m writing poetry.

I had an English teacher that once said,
This thing that she told me
I can’t go wrong, when it’s just my style
When I’m writing poetry.

So I guess that I’ll keep doing what I’m doing now,
And continue to let myself be.
I’ve found what I should be doing,
When I’m writing poetry!

Details | Free verse | |

between the lines

i wrote a poem
i worte this between the lines
the poetry is mine


I write a book 
i write this inbetween the lines
the book is good


i write a play
i write this inbetween the line
the play is unique


I write
i write this inbetween the lines
no one seems to know

Details | Quatrain | |

To Write That One

I wish to write a poem, great
One that serves well to inspire
With words selected, choice yet sweet
Perhaps, speak of desire

I wish to write a poem, great
That many would remember
They’d keep it in their hearts and minds
From January through December

I wish to write a poem, great
That would really make my mark
Let it burn like a fire out of control
From my mind, set ablaze with a spark

I wish to write a poem, great
Or maybe one that’s just enjoyed
You can’t become rich writing in verse
That is why I’m still employed

Details | Quatrain | |

The Write Way

It’s never truly easy
I don’t know what to say
When standing face to face
All thoughts then go away
My words, they all escape me
They pack and take a trip
So when I try to speak the words
My tongue lets out a slip

That’s why I write so easy
As words just come to mind
I sit to write on anything
All words are there to find
But, if to pen in front of you
I’m therefore on the spot
Gibberish is all you’ll see
For all words I’ve forgot

Details | Quatrain | |


I know it’s wrong to want and such
I really do not ask of much
There’s but one thing I ask of you
If I read yours, please read mine too

It seems that just so many here
Choose not to read me, maybe fear
I don’t know and really don’t care
Why they don’t, it’s just not fair

I make it very easy for them too
I read them first, give them a review
But yet, they choose to not respond
So of those poets, I’m not fond

Yet, I’ll continue to read each day
I’ll write a review, with much to say
For all my friends, without whom, I’d be amiss
They stay there on my favorites list

Those of you new ones I choose to review
If you don’t respond, I’ll stop reviewing you
It’s courtesy, respect, we’re here to assist
That is why I ask of this

If you see I’ve critiqued your work
Don’t just read and pass over like a jerk
Say thank you or thanks or even TY
Then review one of mine, give it a try

It’s really not difficult to read just one
You may in fact find that you like some
As I write so many, but just want to hear
Whether it’s good, or suffering clear

Thank you.

(Inspired by events from an old site)

Details | Quatrain | |

My Last Poem

To write no more, shall be hard to do.
to push never again my crocked pen
across the page which once was new
now so stained from pain within.

No more I write to an ascending voice
to hear their laughter from the back.
Knowing full well this be my choice
to write no more for skill I lack.

There shall be no loss to none but me
to find my thoughts uncarpeted then
to let my poets heart blow free
my scatter verse unto the wind.

I write no more I've had enough
to feel their sneer at my printed word
their descending mock for that I love
I drop bitter tears upon my verse.

From my heart so torn and I forlorn
so this shall stand as my final poem. 

Details | Rhyme | |

Just Write

Just write they say
Of a bio or an article
Poetry is just a hobby
Nothing short of a miracle

Just write your essays
As you’ve always done
They say they like my poetry
But it’s merely just for fun

Just write your diary entries
Continue to nourish your mind
Your poetry is cute my dear
But it’s simply silly rhymes

Just write they say
And that’s just what I’ll do
They blindly see the purpose
And the power of a poetry debut 

© Stacy Lynn Stiles

Details | Narrative | |

From The Mind

She writes and thinks
Her mind is toiling
As she thinks, it spills out onto the paper

Directly from her mind, translated by her heart
She writes and cannot stop
Her mind is flowing
Like an invisible dark ink, it 
Streams out from her thoughts
Through thin air and eases itself,
Two-dimensional onto the page
Abundant in ideas and thoughts, feelings and emotions
Her own experiences and life-story help her mind to write
What to write about? Write about what you love.
She loves to love,
And loves to write about love; the falling, the feeling,
The problems and dilemmas 
Her young soul is full of the warm memories,
The cold memories that were pushed into the recesses of her mind
She brings back to remembrance
For the love of her writing

She writes and thinks
Her mind is toiling
As she thinks, it spills out onto the paper

Details | Rhyme | |


What will she say next?
To turn a simple saying complex.
What will she write this time?
To change complexity into a vulgar crime?
We want you to understand.
They need to have freedom banned.
For fear of impressionable minds.
The youthful kinds.
To keep them jaded.
Freeing them from the torture that has been faded.
It's still there.
Hard and strong, unable to compare.
Hidden beauty in the disgrace.
Ugliness in every place.
Broken homes and hearts.
Ability is lost to put back the parts.
So what will he say that’s new?
To make everything you think to be untrue.
And what will he write now?
To raise your eager brow.
So leave the truth up the observant.
Because our emotions are raw and fervent.

Details | I do not know? | |

Future passed

  I am a brown man winding through the alleys of Bombay
I am a little girl slap,slap slapping through the wet beach sand
I am an acorn 
I am Life!
  and as I live,I write my story
not good,not bad,just the story of my life
now I hear you galloping up behind me
nostrils flaring
chest heaving
your great steed
nudges my shoulder
I write faster
ahead I sense the tattered shreds 
of chronicles
of yore
black and crimson
blowing madly in the wind
choking my open throat
dying on the words
they wrote
for me,
for you 
running now
I twist to pass the time worn scroll
to find the slot that fits it in your mind
no postage save my hopes and all my dreams
for new life that is bursting at the seams
here take the pen with feathers of it's own
it flys forever ,
with you or alone
now lift me up and set me to the rear
for you must tell Life's story now my dear.

Details | I do not know? | |

Why I write

The thoughts go through my mind
on whats going on at the time
so without getting lost, i write it down on paper as a rhyme..

without getting stressed
without getting depressed
i realize im not like the rest
so when i write, that is where i can express myself the best..

Anger is let out with paper and a pen
its easy to let out, but hard to begin
no matter how mad i get, i just grab a pen and write the feelings i get within

Writing for me is way i can see
a person other people realing dont see
a person most people wouldnt want to be
if you walked in my shoes you would hurt your feet
so when i write i can really just be me..

no matter how hard i try
i still write whatever is going on in my life
theres good and theres bad its sad im on both sides

the feeling i get
when i write my problems down, and talk about it
when i write, i feel better about myself
and im not trying to be like everybody else..

I write for many reasons
not keeping in what im feeling
telling everbody everything without even speaking
everyone has a meaning, a purpose why there breathing..

everyone writes in there own way
they say the things they want to say
i take it, rearrange it, and say it in a totally different way
its the only way i know how to release my pain, my hate
i guess its just a way i can escape
im not scared of what people think
i dont break down, i write it down without going insane
i try my hardest to explain the things that are going through my brain
and right now writing is the only way..

saying something last for a day
writing something stays, along time after we all pass away
so when i write its so people remember what i say..

writing is what i do
i can tell anyone what im going threw 
if my writing afends you
i cant help what i write but its the truth..

to the naked eye
im just a normal guy
but when i write i show you what i keep inside
the things i discised on the outside...this is why i write the things i write...

Details | Free verse | |


Notes all around the house on my desk, dresser, end table, and radio,
they are poems I write maybe just a line a phrase but words I know,
I carry a pen and this little book in my back pocket that I write on,
I don't want to miss a line, a thought, a poem, are a love song,
I see poetry all around me from when I awake until I  sleep,
on the streets, in the news, on peoples face as they weep,
I see it in anger,in joy, in a heartache, in all the seasons,
I write when I think of you, you truly are my best reason,
you make so much seem so right, you open my eyes,
and when this world gets me down and I want to cry,
I write down a few lines, notes and nobody knows,
I write of love, lost , poverty, from grass to a rose,
from a story in a paper, on the news or on T.V.
in this world there are many stories you see,
when it starts becoming to much for me,
I think of you, of the kids, then I can see,
this world we live in poetry can breath,
from the high mountains to the sea,
from the desert to the city streets,
from all walks of life at our feet,
peaces of paper with words,
a note some thing I heard,
or just one simple line,
thinking of you I find,
words I set free,
in my poetry,