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Quatrain Write Poems | Quatrain Poems About Write

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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

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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?

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What Where Who

What, Where, Who

If I where asked the what, where, who
That drives me to write poetry
I’d say that if I only knew
I’d leave right now this misery

But I’m afraid I’m not the sort
To answer in straight fashion
I have to offer my retort
With words of heartfelt passion

For just the other day I found
Encounter gave me food for thought
Soon the words they were outbound
Jumbled as they rushed and fought

Though ne’er the less inspired me
To battle on my way
Look toward the end and see
Which words I could display

Confess do I quite openly
That I am ignorant
Of  poetry’s technology
Coz grasp it I just can’t

I wouldn’t know a what’s it called
From a what’s its name
In my mind won’t stay installed
Confusion is its game

But I somehow, find I can
Muddle through at best
Organise a crafty plan 
And set my brain the test

For out there I see loneliness
Suffering and pain
A world in turmoil and distress
That cannot stake its claim

I look for every trait in man
Into the soul I stare
At his betrayal and flim-flam
Also the ladies fair

Dear love will always be there
And so will Demon war
And my thoughts on these I’ll share
Of that you can be sure

Laughter I would hope to bring
Sadness sometimes to the fore
Of natures forces I will sing
The list goes on galore

Yes I will write throughout the night
With hope to de-confuse
I’ll try to offer some insight
By giving up my muse

So now you know the what and where
But what about the who
Inspiring people are out there
Who knows - it could - be you 

And what about that misery
I spoke of up above
Well, I gave that up for music
Of the poetrysoupers love x


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My blood trickles
through the tip of my pen
as my soul is exposed
yet once again.

Naked, my words
slowly open the door,
and step into the world
largely ignored.

Fearfully, they
confront giants of hate,
bigotry, ignorance,
Thus fixing their fate.

So bleeding, I
press my pen to the page
and bear my soul once more
to cowards’ rage.

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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.

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To Spread Ones Wings and Fly

Sometimes I've stopped and wondered As I write from day to day To spread ones wings and fly And let the anew have their say There are so many horizons In the distance of our lives To spread ones wings and fly Where new writing newly strives Audiences abound our globe Where fresh learning's can be found To spread ones wings and fly Maybe there's a common ground Topics to capture young thoughts Like fantasy and the dark To spread ones wings and fly It would be churlish not to be a part To write and grow with tomorrows kind Is to enjoy the enriching road To spread ones wings and fly And settle into a new abode Writers and poets so Are to be read, and to aim for print To spread ones wings and fly And capture the readers glint Sometimes I've stopped and wondered More so, very recently To spread ones wings and fly And to find where ones writings to be

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free cee SHE DOES dedicated to DONNA JONES a poet supreme

                                                         SHE DOES
she does make me feel whole
she does touch the intricacies of my soul
she does, and she does it all
with every poem she answers a holy dove's call

she does thrill me body and bone
she does make me feel no longer alone
she does write words I could never duplicate
she does write words that will allow her into Heaven's gate

she does something that makes me feel real
she does write words that describe how I feel
she does scribe stanzas that shake me awake
she does put into words feelings for this poet's sake

she does know the respect I hold for a poet of her grade
she does know the lady has a soul only the universe has made
she does write words that set my spirit free
alas, she probably doesn't know what her words mean to me
   © 2013..copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~

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4 in less than forty


Have to be somewhere in 40 mins
Enough time to write at least one
Fortunately I’m not using and pens
Else I would not be close to done

Of course you see the form I write
One familiar yet still complicated
It should be easy I write every night
Why my poems are often post dated

Halfway there only three minutes gone
Can I write eleven of these in my time
Maybe but could I post them all as well
Not sure, but I wouldn’t even bet a dime

The last I didn’t rhyme of first and third
I will admit I normally will rhyme abab
But in my amount of time that’s absurd
I am trying to finish quickly as you see


I already finished one how about another
The next line already in my head of course
Now you are probably saying o brother
This guy is a distinct body member of a horse

Really it’s just practice and having a bit of fun
I am definitely bored at this very early hour
I’m also texting a friend here and think of pun
I’d tell her what I think, but she might be sour

The last of course was purely a joke my friend
No evil thoughts currently in my head Miss PD
I at present, do not have that emotion to lend
Or maybe it was serious the last stanza hehehe

This is so much fun, a great way to pass time
You should try it, if you would possibly dare
I have said time a million times in my rhyme
Take time reading them, go ahead and stare

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Solar Eclipse

There's something I feel that I still haven't said,
Quotes that haven't straddled my lips.
When poetry wheels don't turn in my head,
Words can cast a solar eclipse.

©2012 Honestly JT

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Sitting in my Office

Sitting in my office
Papers scattered everywhere
Mid-term tests to type up
I've lost the heart to care

Sitting in my office
Reading some sweet rhyme
Wanting to write my own
But I'm so pressed for time

Sitting in my office
Typing fervently
No set theme in my mind
Just sharing part of me

Sitting in my office
Wish I could amaze
My words are all so...dead
Because I'm in a daze

Sitting in my office
Hoping my muse will bring
A dreamy gift of words
That makes hearts dance and sing

Sitting in my office
I let out a heavy sigh
Time to pack up and go
For now this is goodbye

Eileen Manassian

I know....Sometimes you just want to do anything but what you are supposed to do. You just want to give in your obsession to taste and experience and live and breathe and live and live and live...and you're stuck in your office with deadlines looming over your head...wishing you were writing poetry tucked up cozy in your bed! :(

I'm in a crazy mood. See you all in a few hours when I'm rested. It's been a long day. Tomorrow is every longer.

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18 Stoic Faces

 18 Stoic Faces
- by Bob Atkinson

eighteen stoic faces
faced four who had come
to read the erudite refrains
of poets both dead and gone

readings were in earnest spoken
for respect for some who had
garnered from the establishment
accolades, awards, well sanctioned

yes, eighteen stoic faces
faced four who read so good
those meaningless diatribes
of useless linguistic words

significance became not evident
for similes provided here
metaphors vaguely crafted caused
me not them to revere

this didn't change my attitude
my demeanor didn't rise
waiting for an end to it
was my only real desire

so I couldn't clap and whistle
and be smiling in my face
that would not have been sincere
became just a little bit ashamed

whistle I didn't do at all
felt not much real emotion
gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door

save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
of those thoughts not poetry 
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed

listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts 

next week went to Vegas
to see the eagle band
and watch as pure emotion
rocked that audience grand

ten thousand had paid apiece
a couple hundred bucks
to see those wordly masters
like Henley, Frey and such

they told of the situation
which emotion played upon
a woman's real life choices
why she'd become despondent

ten thousand cheered upon
recognition of great words
displayed while coddled with sounds
soft guitars and drums beat purrs
I thought "now here lies real poetry"
not those prissy kind of words
that speak only of the unimportant
with wispy mindless verbs

some lock credentials grand
for that which moves us not
and laugh at the suggestion
that song is our greatest art

me, I have a vision
that we shall all enjoy
songs we've grown up with
as emotional literal tomes

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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

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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

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My Pen Drips Of Sorrow And On This Paper,
I Write Each Tear.

He never told her of the love,
He held within his heart.
Though he knew she longed to hear it,
He just could not impart,

The feelings that he had for her,
Although she was his bride.
It seemed to her that if he cared,
His love he would not hide;

And so it went through all their years,
They drifted slow apart,
Lonely, sad and unfulfilled,
They each had broken hearts.

                                          Judy Ball

Aug.13,2011  For Just Write Contest by Constance LaFrance

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Jack The Quack

Timothy Hicks recently suggested I write one called “Jack the Quack” Who better than the quacker himself Who's wheels have left the track I've never professed to be poet In the ilk of Browning and Keats A rebel, a renegade, a enigma of sorts Marching to a different beat A bit of a “quacker” I've always been Take pride in being off beat Don't have a choice, it's who I am Travelling down a different street Always write in the purest of forms Simple quatrains most of the time Since a very young age, always thought Of poetry as a needing to rhyme Forever been one to revel in creativity Searching brand new vistas each day It sure turns my crank and floats my boat Wouldn't be happy any other way Thank you Timothy for the inspiration To express what makes me tick We're all cut from the very same cloth Till we find a pathway that clicks © Jack Ellison 2013 Timothy suggested I write this one appealing to the kiddies along the lines of "Howard The Mallard"... I chose a different route!

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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"

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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

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                                             WRITER'S BLOCK

                                           THE WOULD-BE POET

I thought I'd write a word or two,
Like all them famous poets do,
And then mayhap I would be known,
And folks would ask me to intone,

The lyrics that were world renown,
In recitals throughout town;
So I sat down with pen and waited,
For inspiration, breath abated.

I waited long into the night,
Then came the dawn and morning's light.
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Short story, pome, just one or two,

But seems to me there's no such luck,
So I got in my pick up truck,
And drove around to clear my head,
It did no good, my muse is dead;

Or else she's just abandoned me,
I prayed to her on bended knee,
But as far as I can see,
This effort's in futility.


For Block, Block, Block Contest by Detroyer Poet

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Nature Excuse Me

Excuse me to dissapear and appear
When I long for her
Permit me to take her
Higher to the sky into the star

Excuse me to occupy health
Empowered with strength
To run over mountain heights
And fend roses of the earth

Excuse me to possess wings
To fly accross the globe rings
And acquire valuables
To tell her she is adorable

Excuse me nature to the rines
Help me to sink into the mines
To bring her gold
That she will forever hold

Excuse me longitivity
Endow me with precinus immortality
Then I will see her face forever
To sit beside her till the world is over

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The name “Jesus” 
When He was a Jew
The name “Christ”
When He was baptized to Christian

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Eyes Gaze

When the sun cast pastel colors
On the far eastern horizon
Like kisses exchanged between lovers
Drawing me as the scent of spring
Lures the honeybee to come taste
Notebook, pen, dictionary bring
To porch, ears tuned, eyes gaze__no haste  

Sponsor: Carol Sunshine Brown
Contest: Who, What, Where
Form: Saraband(one tercet plus one quatrain)
Rhyme Scheme:A,X,A...B,C,B,C
The form not listed so put under Quatrain

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Written in Immortality

I open my mouth and no words come out There seems to be amazement written here She has stunned me yet again with her looks I know in her heart she surely does care She speaks to me with such love towards me I could not say even a single word I’m in awe with her beauty, with her soul I approach her, give her a hug forward She knows me, sees what I wanted to say And whispers into my ear, such sweetness I move in for the kill, and grab her warmth She sighs heavy, now she wants my weakness As one we fly to the bed, getting nude And fireworks expressed themselves tonight She sure became the most beautiful girl Exhausted we lay holding very tight I now find my words and I write them down Poetry flows like magic in the air Passion is formulated in each line I show love to her by my write I share And now we are unified through these words Unbroken bond of immortality Soothing are the lines within my poem Forever our love written, endlessly
Russell Sivey Entered into Poet Destroyer A's "Make me smile ----old/new poems" contest 3/7/2013

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My Bedroom

The door of my bedroom is closed
Sunlight filters in through the curtain
I quietly lie down in bed
In this my sweet little haven

My cozy warm bedroom is safe
I feel my soul is truly free
No one dares to harm me in here
The whole world can just let me be

I pull up the covers real tight
As I hug close my teddy bear
I revert to being a child
A child with no worry or care

My eyes wonder around the room
But focus on a memory 
My rapid breathing evens out
As I relive sweet history

The people outside of my room
Leave me filled with stifling fear
I am left confused and unsure
As I brush away a stray tear

I’ve forgotten how to mingle
Socializing just gives me stress
Whatever I may say or do
Leaves me an emotional mess

Yet here in my room I am free
To converse with great eloquence
I talk to me, myself, and I
With such amazing confidence

I simply write and write and write
I resolve to love, laugh and live
I have not a single worry
About what I should do or give

Do you think that I’m a recluse?
A modern day hermit, you say?
It could be, but this I do know
I’m having a wonderful day!

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Limited in choices of writing creative topics of poetry,
I only want to write about some sort of painful misery,
Lost love or I am not a thought in a mans new mind,
For I do not know how to write any other type or kind.

I pump out a limerick and rhyme here and there,
Only to write poems that reflect my lack of flair,
For I do not have many hobbies or interests too,
But I will keep posting my limitedness for you.

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Writer's Block

I tried to write a poem,
A little while ago,
But I couldn't find the muse,
The words just wouldn't flow.

I started with the standard stuff,
A poem or some prose.
But inspiration left me dry,
The floodgates all were closed.

So next I tried my hand at rhyme,
The nursery kind for tykes.
But all that came was trite and lame,
The kind that no kid likes.

Then after that I tried to pen
A couple lines free-verse,
But that attempt completely failed;
Results were even worse.

Thus, at the frayed end of my rope
I tried just one last time,
A limerick, I thought, was in my grasp;
Alas, it did not rhyme.

So that's the end.  I'll write no more.
My inspiration's flown.
I couldn't write to save my life.
My creative mind is blown.

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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.

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FREE CEE how do i hate you let me count the ways


I bent down, plucked a rose and arose
“my dear” said I with sincerity
“my heart is open to you and will never close”
now, so many years later, I write to you with only *enmity

we strolled the boardwalk by the sea
a daisy of a day impossible to duplicate
people on the shore envied you and me
but now I write you with utter hate

you took me on a yacht and sailed to Belize
at least that's what you promised to do
instead you dropped me off in a frigid deep freeze
and that's why I have nothing but disgust for you

you took me to see the fireworks up in a amethyst sky
and yet my eyes were trained on how wondrous our future could be
for a year we lived like lovers until I found out your love was a lie
and since you still have a pulse i'd like you to know you repulse me
                               ~FREE CEE!~

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I became a poet
in March of two thousand ten,
not knowing it then
and even later didn’t know it. 

Now some tell me so,
and in so doing, reveal 
as surely as church bells peal
as far as the sound shall go.

With pen in hand,
bent to heartily confess,
I write with no thought of stress,
laying down verbal contraband.

Some true, some false
but most, purely make believe.
I write for myself to please,
my pleasure above all else.

If one line outlive my life
pray I with every lasting breath. 
one may read and smile, and I in death
entreat my timely gift to suffice.  


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I love the night from dusk 'til dawn, 
It's the only time to carry on 
with thoughts and dreams still unachieved, 
my whole life plan at night conceived. 

No light's distractions, no buzz of sound, 
my conscious clears while ideas abound. 
Sleep does not come for me with ease, 
Time hypnotic is knowledge less seized. 

What is it that makes me insightful those hours? 
Is a great truth revealed by some higher power? 
I think fate is set when the mind is most clear 
of petty thoughts which by night disappear. 

But as the hours count down to day's early light, 
some find it ironic to be enlightened at night. 
Yet I find strength to arise and start the dead day, 
knowing that night is not far away!

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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...

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Help get my feet back on the ground
a broken neck took me away
a good job for me never found
since twenty-one no jobs did stay

founded love more than any work
in the navy there was no love
I loved drinking without a cork
this life nothing to get rid of 

it’s this writing that keeps me sane
and the wife fills in all the blanks
she sometimes says I’m one big pain
to Poetry Soup I give thanks

but writing won't pay all these bills
my wife's work and the VA pays
to me there seems to be less thrills
I'll be writing without delays

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   I guess you could call me a silly guy
   For humor is how I get through the day.
   I love telling stories, writing poetry, and romance
   Each in its own separate way.

   I could be called a "Hopeless Romantic"
   As I have always been sentimental inside.
   I learned that feeling growing up
   Watching my parents, and their worlds collide.

   I knew my Dad better than anyone...I think
   He and I worked together for some time you see.
   And when he died at an early age
   Everyone seemed to be in tears but me.

   Of the six kids in our family growing up
   I had a brother named Ron that I was closest to.
   He had a sense of humor and devotion to his family
   And he would always find strange things for us to do.

   We loved driving around in his old MG
   When it worked it could do no wrong.
   He took me for rides I'll never forget
   To teach me his favorite Irish drinking songs.

   His death really put me on the writer's path
   As I eulogized him with "Remembering Ron".
   But afterward I could not stop the words from coming out
   As if a spigot had deliberately been turned on.

   So I have written poetry, stories, and a few songs too
   I'd like to publish something some day.
   Getting to read and write here on the Soup
   Pehrhaps, I will finally find the way.

   I believe in the goodness of man's inner soul
   And that God intended for us to be happy here.
   The love of Wife, Child, and Family
   Just make me want to stand and cheer!

   I'd like to see us not have wars
   Or even have cross words with others we meet.
   Sometimes I plead my case in the words that I write
   And sometimes, the proverbial "Dead Horse" do I beat.

   I look at history as a great learning tool
   For I've studied Antropology in college you see.
   And all the past comes into the present time
   At least, it does for me.

   So I will write works about historical things
   As much as I write about family, love, emotions, and silliness too.
   Just so others can get some insight into me
   And perhaps their own lives as they should do.

      I don't know who will read my work
   Or if they benefit at all from the things I say.
   I only know that this passion to write
   Is one that is here to stay.

   Some people think I'm kind of grumpy
   I guess that is also true.
   But the words I write fill that void inside me
   This is but one more poem...for you.

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My Silly Muse

(silly poem) 

My pen gets stuck a lot at night 
I try and try to make it write 
Seems this pen is out of juice nite 
And this muse has no pity of me 

I unscrew all its parts to make it work 
And scribbled hard as if it were a fork 
Then scramble and unscrambled my brain 
But heads swollen has been inside a drain 

Still my pen refuses again just to write 
My poor brains having infamous bug bite 
I hate see my beautiful Muse, just slipping 
But what can I do if she's bent on leaving 


Dorian Petersen Potter 
aka ladydp2000 

September 9,2009

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Devil's Emprisonment

Smearing live cells, with those of the dead
As fires rage higher within,
Hold up a hand to cover your eyes
Lest your soul be scarred by sin.

We shovel the dead, two at a time
To their first installment of hell,
As flames tear hungrily through their body
Their charred souls are left to dwell.

You can hear them screeching as doors close
Engulfing their corpses in flames,
Clawing for the chance of salvation
These iron walls echo their pain.

When all is done, I stand for a while
Fearing to touch hundreds of lives,
They echo to me remorseful despair
For soldiers who fed them lies.

My mind gone blank, I see no more
Whilst dark ashes bleed in the room,
Out of this portal their ruins do rush
To warn the blind of their doom.

I breathe it in, a cloud of cinders
They scramble to get in my lungs,
For I am the slayer of my own
Let the devils scrape out my tongue.

Time only waits so long, my friend
His razor claws beckons round the bend
I now know too much, the demons shall send
And this incarceration is too my end.

*This was a poem created by a promt word CREMATORIUM, and as I tend to write in darkness,
I chose to write about perhaps the biggest known crematorium, used to burn millions in
Nazi camps. Now my knowledge is not completely sound, but I recall from my history lessons
that the final cruelty towards their victims [Jewish in particular] was to burn their
bodies. This meant no Jewish prisoner could be reunited with God in their community nor
their loved one's eyes, as they believe a body is needed for God to find and welcome them.
The Nazi's used prisoners to help "sweep up" the remains, until the prisoners began to see
too much and they then killed them as well, although obviously evidence was leaked out and
this is why we know today. This poem is written in the POV of a prisoner, i know it is
extremely unlikely they were made to actually burn the bodies, but it fitted better. Sorry
if I offend anyone with this and thank you for reading.*

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pirated words

I stole this poem
with cutlass and eyes
words lusted and trusted 
so I took of this prize

it's chests of golden
it's flashing jeweled verbs
and left letters worthless
to be picked by the birds

sailing 'cross bleached pages
under azure blue skies
I stole of my own life
and took what implies

existence on dangerous sees
to the edge of the earth and
boarded keyboard south of the keys
taking every word of worth

pillaging the hapless literati
demanding chains and trinkets
relieving authors boasting haughty
of bootied lines me think it's

better to hold to bright sun 
to see glint in the daylight
some pirated pentameter outdone
without sword of pen to fight

so hang me dashed by a yardarm
an' tell lies of me glories
whilst takin' maidens in arm
regaling wild legended stories

but, me matey, ye'd better beware
of plagiarists fast on your tale
'cross oceans of notions they dare
pirate your own words to unveil

to their own laughing lasses and crew
drinking and toasting remembrance of you
what's a pirating plagiarist to do?
- but pirate a poem out of the blue

aaarrgh matey - 
        I'll be takin' them lines now...

© Goode Guy 2012-12-13

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Emotional Literal Tomes

Emotional Literal Tomes
- by Bob Atkinson
have written words before on
this subject some have blessed
how poetry fills the heart
with endless emotional progress

some give the subject passing grades
some give it no real thought
some think they know its content
see poetry as fully rotten

well, to some extent I do believe
that enough has be done
to give the genre a bad rap
with words of nonsense rung

rung from that tree of indecision
like a person in the park
who knows not which path to take
how to get home before the dark

they pen words of nonsense
taking the mantle for their name
of "poet" of the highest order
without good words to claim

not only are their words so frail
but their stories often walk
off in that useless direction
only they would think was smart

so, let's add to the "do's" of poetry
that requirement firmly instilled
emotional aspects must poetry contain
without which the story lies insincere

also, must refrains contain
a literal view of life
to point us toward our fate
or lay bare our inner strife

tomes must within these walls
sense passion of our being
stories telling those incidents
of which we feel have meaning

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American Friends Service Committee

This was written a while ago as a member of a another poetry site. It was about a South African lady who I loved and admired greatly! I miss her wit, her charm and most of all her great creative talent! She challenged me to write a poem describing her official job title which turned out to be no mean task... She's our leading lady, you know who I mean All she does is write great poetry She's a marvellous gal with a heart of gold Now here's a bit about her psychometry She asked me to describe her job in rhyme This marvellous and talented lady She's the Assistant Program Director of the South African Program of the Peace Education Division of the American Friends Service Committee Some say it's a cover for something shady Can't write much more, I'm all out of breath I should store as much as I can One never knows when I'll need that reserve For a reprieve, well at least that's my plan She didn't think I was up to the task But her occupation is included herewith Don't ask me how I managed to accomplish it Sheer genius I suppose, it's a gift! LOL © Jack Ellison 2012

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I Love Facebook

I love to write on facebook.
Friends on there know I do.
I skip gaming distractions.
I chat with folks like you!

We post our pretty pictures.
And write our poems below.
Sometimes some friendly lectures
Can make our thinking grow.

No matter where a heart may lead,
Or where imagination travels,
Someone is there to share, indeed!
And trim our flaws and ravels.

A poet friend is a special friend.
His soul delves very deep.
Kindly words he will always lend.
Without complaint or peep!

God bless my friends around the world.
Each one brings me great joy.
It is with friends and love unfurled
That imagination whirls…oh boy!

So, thank you for your friendship.
Real world folks visit cyberspace.
Shining kindness without one blip!
Sharing their soul and their face.

© February 8, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen

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Who's the Best

Who’s the best to hold a pencil,
And sketch out a lovely scene?
Who’s the best to clutch a paintbrush,
And make a canvass so serene?

Who’s the best to give an embrace,
 And dance the night away?
Who’s the best to ever speak with,
And make a sky blue out of gray?

Who’s the best to compose a song,
And perform and entertain?
Who’s the best to write a novel,
And find fortune and fame.

Who’s the best to write a poem,
And to give a great tattoo?
Keep searching in your soul,
Because the best could be you.

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She's an acrobat with anachronisms 
and an anarchist with adjectives
she dances with words cheek to cheek
and the letters follow all her directives

she shames me with her shameless talent
while displaying what she feels deep inside
I try to learn from her but am defied every time
and her ability to thrill me will not be denied

she can be comical or sacred and serious
she can write about reality's voice or fantasy's face
I read her words and wish to write like her
as she takes each syllable into her embrace

this wondrous woman is a poet supreme
a lady who writes what people need to hear
each word is placed in just the right place
and can make you smile or urge an urgent tear
  (c) 2012....copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~

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Now I Do Not Need To Here Her Complain of Late Nights

"Were you online again dear half way through the night" the wife said to me,
My thoughts were simply " I wish she would let me just write and be".
2010 I decided that I was going to get my real wish to take some real flight,
I could do what I want when I want without any type of nosey drained out fight.

2009 I decided the big divorce and would be free and go my own way,
I would open up blog after blog without hearing a word that she would say,
Between tulip, dan, the rev and 2010 explosions of neve and many more,
I would write until my fingers bled, and barely walk outside the front door.

I would let my health take a plunge and not take any good advice spoken,
I would rather let everything around me become a mess, my life broken,
But when I am told to change things from those who love me like they do,
I gripe they are judgmental even though I gained many pounds or two.

**we never want to hear advice from those who love us when our lives
hit the toilet
this is for the dans, the tulips, the jeremies, and the rev's, oh and now 

a 2010 more ways then explosion

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Paperback Writer

She waits tables everyday 
penning stories on her break;
Packing those tips far away
wondering what it will take

to create a paperback 
characters and adventure;
Never again plates to stack 
not work, it's only pleasure

Clocked out then its off to class
studying hard is the deal,
Hoping to more than just pass
her fantasy will be real;

Determined and with talent
all red eyed with all nighters,
seeing life after student 
soon a best selling writer

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Quick Draw

With the challenge of writing a poem in the now I reach for my pen, a lightning quick draw Gun slinging the page with a six shooter of words Letters ricocheting off of the page, escaping the poems claw Defeating all who dare to challenge my ink shooter Walking tall in Poetry soup's Wild West Poets work, slinging words left and right We enter contest, to conquer and be the best Today I'll spur the paper with cowboy up Put my words down with the quickness Winning the buckle of Glory Riding this bull named "dirty business" I'm riding off into the sunset another notch in my belt The legend of the "Word Slinger" has begun Conquering all from the east to the west Riding in glory, clearing the dust second to none ------------------------------------------------------------------ Inspired by Matt caliri contest - Write now- took me 30 minutes to write and type 8-19-09 had lots of fun!!!!!!!!!! purely fictional :-)

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FREE CEE i wish wishes could come true


despite time, distance and/or space
i can still feel your warm and friendly embrace
just a caring carress to warm my heart
and it seems it's been that way from the start

though we've never touched each other's hand
it's somehow difficult to understand
but when i need comfort i think of you
because that's how much i respect your point of view

i write you words and you write me back with expertise
you write words that edify me and with insight that will never cease
there are times when i feel fear for you but then realize you'll be all right
because angels always deliver a last message before they take to flight

when the one closest to me i wish were afar
i search for my keys and start up my car
then i drive around aimlessly wishing wishes could come true
and all the while thinking of you

i don't really understand the emotions i feel
all i know is that they are tangible and real
if friendship is supposed to be forever i hope that's true
and for that reason i thank you humbly just for being you
    (c) copy write 2012....PHREEPOETREE   ~free cee!~

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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

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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

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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.)

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If I was

If I was a powerful Queen
I would choose to rule without a smile
Of course, my mind would be kept serene
For I would make sure my subjects do run my own mile

If I was a magical fairy
I would hide from the world and pretend to be an impostor
Ugly is how I would see the face of humanity
Though all of humankind has been made by the Lord, our father!

If I was a old witty witch
I would use all of my love spells
I would seduce the cute and the rich
At my diseased feet, I would make sure they all fell!

If I was an omniscient Goddess
I would create another world
I see Earth as beautiful, but sickened by an abcess
By the side of my God, I would make sure my creation flowered!

With a sign, I realize I am but a poet
Sometimes, I become even a dreamer
Wishing I could have my way, play my own trumpet
Well, I can only write, hoping, to be remembered forever!

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Sword's Superior

My tongue is mighty and heavy
Moving into action it looks wavy
Greater it is destroyiog
Than the blood the sword is good at spraying

I kill internally with the tongue
Collapse it brings to the soul not for long
Undoubtedly regret the sword to the dead
My tongue respect, it gets for its deed

Capable is my tongue to correct
Owing the result of its effect
Victims seeks re-think
But sword's casualties never get a wink

Rather solving, the sword brings anger
My tongue finite ending to danger
Mightier is my tongue to save life
To the sword's weakness to take life

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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

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Calling Mimunna Mimunna

******Calling All Poet's*********

Mimunna is a switch/bate scham on the internet that has infiltrated our rank's......
Poet's, write and give her your love. Poet's take the floor and express your love
via E-mail!!!!!!! Get the write-up, up! Kiss>Kiss>Kiss-up!

*****She is at( Let her know we care!!!!!


Mimunna, Mimunna
I know that you love me
But, tell me is it me
          Or maybe
       My money
That you are trying
             To free
You wrote me on the internet
Told me that I was a catch
But, you are nothing to me
Not even an even match
I told you that I love you
      But, who love's who more
Are you a real person
       Or are you just
An inter-net whore
A whore on the internet
Writing me back
Seeing if I will fall for you
Maybe give you some scratch
Baby, your'e Scheme is kind
            Of wack
Sure, you can write me
           On the internet
And that is true
So, remember that
Their is just a little bit
More than just loving you
And that is this simply
This thing called {Poetry)
So, don't be a stranger
Check me out on Poetry Soup


Your friend in the pen/G.FIELDS

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on writing

I will write of happiness and ecstasy
Though my heart is burdened 
For I've given up on that one fantasy 
He whose passion I've yearned

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manner to his soul

A poem to a poet
is like manner to his soul
portraying life, love and hate
magically to enthrall

many ways of expressing
the deep love within our hearts
Loudly crying in anger
when the pain of losing starts

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Emotion of Disgust

Emotion of Disgust -
by Bob Atkinson

softly settled to my

those words I wished
to hear

brought me to a
higher level

when written well,
so treasured

waiting patiently

the throng of
citizens, no guns

a gentle lot of
doers well

those who praise art
and tales

standing up to do
their best

to settle for all
the rest of us

a trumpet sound of
sculpted tones

ones with meaning
held upon

a field of life,
pages open

emotional tags,
sometimes spoken

carry me to advanced

please read good
words, not trivia

when they speak
these honored verses

so well received and
prizes awarded

my hand reaches for
the door

so I might escape
these awful chords

no, they don't speak
for me

blank faces in the

form so simply

purpose one's only
good intent


when sung accolades
flow quickly

a million sold six
months a pittance

poetry had come of

yet nobody knew or
accepted change

Chandos lamented

no quotes from us,
our poetry

were made outside
our borders

were not champions
of language order

thought about this
for a while

remembered friends
in distant lands

who spoke Germanic
languages different

no English were they
aware of meanings

yet sung our tunes
with impassioned

wildly swinging arms
to chorus

the words meant
nothing to their

but beat with
rythyms to their
hearts timed

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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?

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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.

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Above Poetry Soup

Take pen in hand and make your stand
Tell the world who you are
Be not afraid of prices that are paid
Have faith you are a star

To all of you my feelings so true
I hold you in my heart
Will never be a day that I go away
For here is where I start

Times a moment or two is all I can do
I love the words we share
Without a doubt they help me out
Foundation of my prayer

Beginning to end you are my friends
Poets sharing my soul
That is a bond that is so far beyond
Anything else I know

I love the flow and I love to grow
Planting a tiny seed
No need to shout I just write it out
Hoping to fill some need

If it does or not I gave it a shot
Simply because I care
Anything I can do ask and its true
I’ll give all I can spare

I sink my hooks and write my books
That is this poet’s plight
For when your blue what I hope to do
Offer a little light

We can turn it around or upside down
Find what’s hidden inside
It’s a good thing the poems we sing
Each its own special ride

I love to teach but hate to preach
That just isn’t my place
I’m a lamb be blessed or be damned
I hold you in my grace

We make it right by sharing our sight
The knowledge that we know
Sisters, brothers, fathers and mothers
All just trying to grow

Grow into what, you can like it or not
Alliance is our group
That’s why in the sky angels do fly
Above Poetry Soup

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What If

What if Amadeus Mozart had a gameboy?
   Would his concerto have come to mind?  
What if Ludwig van Beethoven had a PS3?
   Would his ears be okay and his eyes gone blind?

What if Vincent van Gogh had a digital camera?
   Would he have been a great photographer?
What if Claude Monet had an PSP?
   Would his vision have still start to blur?

What if Shakespeare had a computer?
   Would he write more plays with Word?
What if Emily Dickinson had a Laptop?
   Would more than 7 poems have been heard?

What if T. C. Cannon had Adobe Photoshop?
   Would he still create native history?
What if I lived in their times?
   Would I still write my poetry?

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                                           THE  POME

I wanted to be famous,
So I thought I`d write a pome,
Somethin`reely spiritchul,
With touching undertones.

Somethin`folks would reed about,
When I`m dead and gone,
And call me poet, artist, bard,
And put it in a tome.

Them great big heavy books folks buy,
And never reely reed;
But if yer in one of them books,
Then folks are all agreed,

That yer the best that ever was,
A reglar Willem Shakespear,
So I set down to write it,
And found that it has took near,

All my time and energy,
To come up with a title,
Let alone the pome itself,
For me this writing`s futile.

                                        Judy Ball

Fergive me Yàll.
I got writer`s block.

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My Final Decree

I’m still flying high in the sky
Because I have my friends
In this place I’ve found grace
No rules I need to bend

Without a doubt it comes out
The evil from within
Times it’s hard to forget the yard
Glad that I have my friends

Pain in my soul you’ll never know
But I think that’s ok
Cause I write it out without a doubt
It’s just another day

As of yesterday what can I say?
Love broke open the stone
Friends to my heart always a part
I’m soup down to the bone

A special place home is grace
Let us all join the feast
In the end I love my friends
The belly of the beast

Opened wide nowhere to hide
Finally I am free
In this life I love my wife
And all she means to me

It’s also true that I love you
And all of your advice
Led me home and broke the stone
I am free of my vice

Friends are back I feel like Jack
Just running up the hill
I have no doubt it will work out
Through all the love I feel

You guys got me to be set free
Sending my friends a book
Through the pain the loss and gain
Forgive me take a look

Now I’m as free as a man can be
My heart I fill with love
Once again I’m a worthy friend
A gift from God above

Now I’ve said what’s in my head
I’m tired as can be
I end this write with goodnight
My day’s final decree 

If anyone has any idea how to reach
our fellow souper Margaret Okubo 
could you please give me her hookup
now. We always send each other copies
of our books but I have no idea where 
to send hers to now, God Bless, MJ

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The Lonely Poet

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 don'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

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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

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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

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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. 

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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

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On Writing and Words

I could take the world within my grasp, spin it and write eloquently
The moon could inspire many a romantic image and phrase
I could speak of the depths of the sea or speak philosophically,
Or write about almost anything, to leave you most amazed

But, here and now, I choose to be just so silly, be just me
For poetry need not endure the pain and wrath of just one form
Or subject matter, why must it always be of love, you see? 
While variation of subject and style can be the new norm

Take up the license that each poet is issued and so carries
Utilize the changing roads and the directions for your course
Take your time though, for writing is better then unhurried
As your words will fall in place and stay a natural force 

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)