I didn't crumble or drift off into a fade...
I shrugged off goodbyes faster then they were made...
Watched as they were dipped and soaked in my poetic rage...
As I threw a fist full of words against a framed blank page...
I sat and watched my emotions scatter artistically...
Like candles on a wall it poured in colors so intensely...
A portrait of a misguided soul that has lost its way...
To a poet who paints with a pen in seductive disarray...
Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012
I do not know?
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.
But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.
And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.
So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008
All I see is beauty in the burning of her words,
The flickering of flames,
Constructs of fires licking at the night
From snow white sheets of dreaming.
The senses of her bleeding, ink and roses,
Gliding rails streaming to the stars,
The links between the earth and heaven’s tide.
All I see is beauty in the visions of her art,
The tenderness of angels,
Architects of chapels wrought of lace,
An arbitrary grace of love.
The impressions of her breathing, saffron breath,
Exhaling of her soul,
Bestow of sleeping kisses to the lips,
Priestess of the mind and loin.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
Like water that flows in a river
Time will not stop and wait
It comes and then it goes
And now will soon be late
The sun will not rise
And forget to set
Today will not stay here forever
Time was born and passed away
While I was chasing dreams
I never dreamt of
Dreaming of things that were
Not for me to dream about
I didn’t know at first
That in my inside
There is a seed germinating
Deep in the roots of my heart
Where veins and arteries
Carry blood in and out
The eyes of my eyes
Could not see
The ears of my ears
Could not hear
The tongue of my tongue
Could not taste
The nose of my nose
Could not smell
The mind of my mind
As this seed
Was patiently growing
It was watered by tears
That couldn’t fall off my eyes
When I cried
It was fertilized by my deep thoughts
That denied me time to rest
The pain I felt within
Was manure to it
And now it has grown
It has grown into a tree
it has grown into a green looking tree
A tree that sprouts colorful flowers
And I am hopeful
Hopeful to reap tasty fruits
Of this seed of poetry
Sown in me by God
Copyright © Bojosi Ditshwele | Year Posted 2010
Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
And the little men they breed
Would counsel silence.
She bursts instead Athenalike
From out the wearied brain
Or grows painfully from every vein
Like ivy's tiny tendrils
Pulling monuments to ground
Inch by inch
To let in the light and rain
From which newer monuments may grow.
She cares not at all
For their inconvenience.
She shows herself so many ways:
As the boldly topless Priestess,
Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms
As the nun in golden sunlight
Falling through cathedral stone
This lady is a child
All innocence of face
And Ageless eyes
She knows all that remains of purity,
And every excess she also calls her own.
She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering her sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work
Creation Destruction Change
Upon her restless,
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
To create paintings
On a canvas filled with white light,
Bursting with everlasting imagery of nature
Copyright © 2009 Lena “Lolita” Townsend
*inspired by Raul’s wonderful Haiku “Sunset”
*for Brian’s Contest
Copyright © Lena Townsend | Year Posted 2009
First friend, foremost;
Dressed in Allusion;
How I need thee!
How I need thee!
Never deep asleep,
Nor rest Refrained,
Who has pause to write,
And write to pause;
Time needs its tick-tock,
Rocked at chimes;
Clink — tinkle;
Cubes in a glass;
Onomatopoeia is back,
At Lake Oxoboxo,
Not pair a ducks,
She quacked not;
She waddled not;
She flew not;
Run into Enjambment,
On foot nearby;
Rhyme Royal chanting;
Out of line,
The coins are tossed;
O my dear friends,
Copyright © Claire de la Grange | Year Posted 2006
I like it
For my soul!
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2006
---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********
now and again
approaches the fog in me
screams its name
apropos adverbs appear
slick little nouns
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
beneath eight parts of speech
within prison walls
filled in the past
like Job's tedious job
homographs from heteronyms
words never mind...
they wind the mind
in the wind...
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
We seine them up
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
And like those before,
we toss them absently
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
they seem to flit
pale night insects
infestations of night
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
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.
Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2011
If written by God,
Why lost rhyme, measure?
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012
A coffee bar with orange paint --
Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
A neon sign hangs by the door.
I come here sometimes just to write.
A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
I do not see it as a taint.
Tonight an artist's work is hung
Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
Allows her dreams to have their say.
I like the color in these walls --
A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
A coffee bar with orange paint.
Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock | Year Posted 2006
When words can't be seen and smiles aren't felt,
we fall onto paper and drip and melt...
We spread colors of blue and grey to highlight
an early morning sigh, and splash and orange tint
on a late afternoon high...
Late at night I will paint my sky a dark black, and
with just my fingertips sprinkle stars that stay intact...
When words finally return and a Poem is read, the background
is my painting of colors from a dreamer not dead....
Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
Since joining just yesterday,
I have not had much to say,
As I sit here idle,
Waiting for a title,
I watch as you pass my way,
I am honored to be here,
While a select few may jeer,
Mostly I can see hope,
From the end of my rope,
Bringing about a joyous tear,
For all poets who have been called,
Disenchanted or enthralled,
Our mission always true,
We inform and move you,
To make you act or make you halt,
To rise above and expound the truth,
Or to lose ourselves in a groove,
Whether blatent or far out,
We live to learn - live to shout,
About love, laughter or the blues,
For although I may be new,
To this small poetic group,
I see what you've built,
With talent and skill,
Namely this Poetry Soup,
Copyright © My Gull Wheels On | Year Posted 2006
Poetry is... Art
by Amy Swanson
Poetry comes in all
About all kinds of
It can be
.... and so many more-!
Poetry's authors are
or even no-haired
It is about
from the heart.
It can make you
or even goo-goo eyed!
Poetry ... just is.
There is only one thing
Poetry is not ...
Each verse as unique
as the heart that wrote it
Each line as unique
as the soul that felt it.
Poetry is... art.
Copyright © Amy Swanson | Year Posted 2009
I am so far out of my element
It almost seems unreal
When in truth, which I always seek to find
Pretence is all that I feel
In this, my second language
I aim to express the glistening skin
That hides the shallow graves of conscience
Trapped so deep within
The pottery I shape in craft
Though pedistilled and on display
A camouflage that’s merely drafted
words of wisdom most portray
And in the spirit of fairness
As a virtue which we all possess
Accept my resignation
For this sport has had its best
I’m off to party hard and waste
My life as best as I know how
The animal within this chest
Needs freedom to survive for now
The playing game of words
is but a winding road that’s filled with stone
I’m parched in parts unheeded
As my cluttered soul heads home
Copyright © Brandon Basson | Year Posted 2006
A lot of people seem to love fabrication
I won’t judge
That’s just not me
A true poet is to each his own
It’s still poetry
Mine is MY life and MY story
Yours might be full of hopes and dreams that I can’t see
But if imagination is key
It’s still poetry
I won’t dye or perm my hair
That only masks your essences’ bare reality
Living this way
Writing that way
To each his own
It’s still poetry
Poetry is poetry is poetry
An artistic expression of ones feelings and ideas
Creative . . .
Not your everyday average
Therefore, it can be make believe
It can be real
Either or, it should appeal to the audience
To seal a crowd of many zealous listeners or readers
I write for me though
If one can REALate, that is a bonus!
Copyright © JustcallMe Britt | Year Posted 2012
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2007
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010
I realize you’ve been busy, so I’m sending a letter of distress
Postmarked today, addressing my quality of living
Since the last time we told our life stories
Sewed the seams between our broken dreams and
Seen the world through the eyes of the needle
Tiny and volitional
Since our foggy self-destruction,
Misplaced priorities and miscommunication
On every lonely person’s face, I see my own
Reflected in the spaces between our parallel lines
That should be meeting at Infinity
Please send me a post card when you get there
I want to know what Love looks like
Doin’ and doin’ and doin’ my thang
Stacking up that green and
Piling on the makeup between each scene
Stealing hearts and pulverizing them with each time
All those honest ways of making a living
Collapse into bed every night only to close my eyes
And be haunted by dark thoughts of you
Urgently and Daftly my pen
Spills raven-hued rivers of devotion
Onto this piece of paper
Hoping to soak into you
To get to the heart of my request
Open the ocean to me
The dark sea of your deceit
Drown me deeply in your lies and suffocate me with your
Transparent desperate pleas
Dear Sir, cure me of this loneliness
Charge me of suicide and let me crash into you
I understand the risk
I'll take my chances
Openly armed and ready for the world
In those intense brown eyes
Stopping my breath and caving in
To see the world so clearly again
Awaiting your response to my confessions
Copyright © Bella Cardenas | Year Posted 2008
with the fluency of fury
and the articulate voice of anger.
Spare me though,
of its affliction of aggression.
Let my pen paint
the reflection of my thoughts
like a mirror.
Thus my lines become
clones of my imaginations.
Let creativity be
the stubborn shadow
of my verses
and let not inspiration
fly out of my window.
Copyright © jide badmus | Year Posted 2008
Man of words, strange creature of fiery intention,
Amplifying pictures with that restless imagination,
Great are the images spurting forth from your pen,
Nothing holds you down, working alone in the den;
Unto the night you toil, pushed by an alien power,
Mastering some inner demons, taming your fear.
Oh how you search for truths floating up in the air,
Producing tremors with the raging force they stir,
Until at last your labors come to a perfect ending,
Shaking humanity with the hard lessons they bring.
Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007
A prickle about to lodge
In the heart of a Mighty Light
Above the low-dipped setting sun
The Knightly Night prepares to come
To lift me like a rising fog
Up to greet the countless stars -
That twinkle at a Sun's descent.
The horizon painted with lullaby
Of colours and their somber tune
Day's bed is laid behind blue mountains
And quietly it goes to sleep.
Inside the womb of a Sleeping Day
Begins a fierce protest
of dreaming thoughts
Now stirred awake.
Then out of the thick and cluster
And whatever dangers of flight await
Newborn wings of thought emerge
And rise and rise and rise
Captured by the winds of Night -
To wander heights
To kiss the skies
To dance to the gentle humming
Of spirit drums -
A duet with the breeze.
So when day comes breaking through
Dawn is greeted by what was writ
At the festival of it's eve.
With merriment's ink:
A song etched deep:
Art carved out of sky.
Title: Night Poem
Copyright © Camille Casserly | Year Posted 2012
The Artist’s Tower
In a tower a lonely poet sits
Memories of his past life elude his thoughts
The stifled scent of burnt paraffin clouds his thoughts
There is the light from candles which lit thousands of works
Flickering against paintings stored by unknown artists
The beauty of an eighteenth century meadow
The stark reality of people starving in a depression
All tell a story through an unspoken language
Reams of paper piled against the wall
Stories and poems long forgotten by those who created them
Did anyone ever read even one of them?
The poet sits, thinks and fantasizes in his own prison
Isolation to help him find the right words
The candle fades and grey smoke fills the air
As the light of the North Star filters through a dirty glass window
The poet writes the last word to his newest piece
It too ends up on the piles of discarded work
Because the piece is finished the poet rests
The candle waits for the next artist
There is always another artist who will hide in the tower
There always will be another story, poem or painting
All hidden, unseen in the tower
Copyright © R. e. taylor | Year Posted 2011
Man is an excellent work of God---
His visual poetry or art, out of mud.
Being one of God’s many creations;
Man must not forget his obligations.
Thou, man know God’s everywhere;
And yet, he does not bother to care.
Either man lives by God’s command,
Or, he will not live in a promise land.
Man must take this into consideration,
If indeed his heart craves for salvation.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007