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On Writing And Words Imagination Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Imagination

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Details | Rhyme | |

Rhythmic Perfection (anapestic trimeter)

There's a river that twists in the mind
that I plunder and ravish with sieves,
on crusades to the summit of rhyme
where my Phoenix of tropes and schemes live.

In a war to free diction's fair Queen
where the Soldiers of Babel bemuse
and the modern day graceless regimes
are in battles to stifle my muse!

In my quest for her verse of prestige
I have traveled a nexus of words
with this Lexis of language on siege;
where the dissonant hum drum is heard!

Oh, the poise of my bayonet firm
as I pin down my thoughts in a rush!
Oh, the will of the language it squirms
as her essence of glory I brush!

She's the Queen Muse that whispers within
as she watches me battle with style,
she supplies me the yarn that I spin
as she lends me her rhythm awhile.

It's the moment her Highness is freed
that the Armies of Dissonance fall
and the sound of Perfection can bleed
in those lyrical sounds that enthrall!

Details | Free verse | |

From My Treasure Trove

My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine. 
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.

My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.

Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.

Once, later on in my own life, 
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in  my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . . 
and found that even those less valuable could shine!

A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted 
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade, 
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen! 

The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.

Details | Epigram | |



Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions

Burning fire you are 
Consuming my whole 
My heart
My mind 
My soul
My spirit,  
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated 
To be understood
To be expressed!

A Herculean task it is,
I swear, 
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained 
And mold you into:
And still retain 
Your explosive 
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple 
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!

Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the 
Cosmos speaks,
The universe alone
The language of 
That we humans 
Even then 
To describe you

©Demetrios Trifiatis
   28 January 2013


Details | Rhyme | |

Seductive Disarray

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...

Details | Haiku | |


Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....

Details | I do not know? | |


are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

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
illumination. glistening
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 spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
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

Details | I do not know? | |

Poetic Seduction


                Your written  words roll off my tongue, and I savor the taste
                   Captivating my desires, with your nostalgic embrace 

                              Your verses I desire, your poesies I crave
                              Your sensual phrases place me in a daze

                              Rhythmically in sync, steadying the pace 
                               Melodies in motion, no need for  haste

                          Intoxicated by the scent of your lyrical fragrance
                        My imagination climaxes from your melodic persuasion

                         Your hypnotic undertones send chills down my spine
                     It’s like poetic seduction when I read between your lines

Chiquita Chiamaka Baity



Details | Free verse | |

Come Back To Me

The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.

The Desk, once alive,
The Words,
No longer,

Love, abandon,
But wanting not,
The Freedom,
It has.

A Wooden Chair, dusty,
Reclines not,
For the Comfort,
Once given.

Time, a mystery gone,
With passing,
Never to be recovered,

Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
The Heart,
Once brightened.

Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Of Laughter,
Wisdom, once known.

Details | Free verse | |

Grand Canyon

Some people are voices
On the edge of rocks
With steep slopes and cliffs.
Some people are echoes
At the bottom of walls
Carved by rushing waters.

Details | Quatrain | |

The Lonely Poet

Paste on your passion smile
Crisp all your words
as you settle yourself 
to be self-consumed, heard
Whisper sweet nothings
which only you know
Don't stop the banter,
the words or the flow
You've reached the summit
of the loneliest point
You're king of the vacancy
best in the joint
Write all your poems
on the back of your hand
and read them at supper
of cream pie and sand
Your siblings will stand up
and whisper applause
You've felt all emotion
and ridden all stars
They bid you good-bye
for you're out of their league
and to think you just wanted
to be heard, succeed...

Details | Free verse | |

My Sudoku Life

And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.

Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.

Enticing my stature
to belong
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
nor negative
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

Details | Limerick | |

Where Talent Lives

While doing my daily internet loop
I read some poems at Poetry Soup
Some souls were bared
Emotions shared
By a wonderfully talented group

So many unknowns are gathered together
Brandishing their talents without a tether
Notable skills
From gifted quills
Flocking together like birds of a feather

Whether mundane or totally bizarre
Through words they express just who they are
Some young, some old
Some shy, some bold
Each as marvelous as a shooting star

To the nameless owners of this great site
Thank you for giving our poetry flight
No longer adrift
Because of your gift
You are the beacon that brings us to light

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry Assignment

It was “Death” you drew.
You rolled that slip of paper
between your fingers 
thin as onionskin, 
and dropped it in your pocket.
Pastel lady, 

did you wish to spare 
us? You fluttered fingers 
over the basket, and drew out 
“Patio Party,” 
a subject we must address 
before we meet again.

How many great poems 
have been penned on Death? 
How many on a
Patio Party?

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 | Free verse | |

Flinging Poems Into Wind

We seine them up
like dust
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
determining worth,

And like those before,
we toss them absently
into wind—
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
change destinies.

they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
opal moons,
infestations of night
thickly settling
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.

Details | I do not know? | |

Blood upon Pages

As I place the pen
on paper
my soul beings
to bleed
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla 
fog around me, allowing
my mind
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
I write
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
and fears
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner 
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams 
of being a published poet
clearly float
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
onto pages
into an early sun

Details | Couplet | |

Inside My Eyes

A Poets eyes are small windows that don't hide...
Easily seeing out but a blur to see what's inside...

The view from a distance might be one of dispair...
Yet behind those shades sits a dreamer that is rare...

The walls on the outside are splashed with lovely colors...
While the inside has tangled words and see through covers...

With transparent letters that twist into concrete phrases...
They are now free to stand alone and above a poetic haze...

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 | Rhyme | |

Reading/Knowledge is Power

Page after page
My nose in a book
I read intently
As the words
Form pictures 
In my mind
What power.
With one look.

Imagination runs wild,
There is nothing 
Like the thrill,
The ride,
 thoughts race
Like a roller coaster
Going through 
its paces
Giving you chills.

It’s a rainbow
Of translations,
If you will.
Get on it,
And feel the inclination
To soar 
You’ve had enough.
But is it ever?

You see, 
Once you start
It’s too tough
To get off 
That ride 
That makes 
You smart 
To begin with.
You are filled
With exhilaration
And with pride.

Reading takes you 
to the top,
To the power 
of knowledge!
Knowledge is power,
A roller coaster 
That never stops.

Details | Couplet | |

Soulful Cries

Writing words across a clear blank page…
Sharing thoughts let out of a cage…

Toss it up into the sky…
Watch it scream as it flies...

Over bent back treetops that hide rainbows…
Grabbing colors like a picture show…

From my fingers to your eyes…
The words read clear in soulful cries…

Toss it back up with your smile…
And blow a kiss that covers miles…

To my hand it returns with peace…
As poetry glides with tender ease…

Details | Couplet | |


Come, my muse, to that mystical realm And shower me with imagination at the helm, Let’s run again along green meadows fair Floating, flirting like fairy wings of exalted air If it just be for a sweep time, or only some hours, Yet for a long while my words, they will flower To weave threads on loose pages, now like weeds Once bathed in fountains of blooming seeds, Then without care, a burst of moonlight shall claim A birthing of free spirit, hands daring without shame © . . ……..

Details | Free verse | |


"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."  

Please do not edit the quote , or add anything to it, use as given. 

It can be the first line of your poem if that is what you want





Details | Haiku | |

It is now

Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust 
for things start to be.

Details | Rhyme | |

Dreaming In Rhymes

In the rain I see clear...
Through the clouds I can hear...

Behind a wall I can write...
Scribing words in the night...

Moonlight shines on every line...
Sunrise brings the final rhyme...

See the world in my view...
From dreams to words it all grew...

Details | Verse | |

Enigma's Calling

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
My passion
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

Details | Rhyme | |

Out Of The Box

                                     Wings of an Angel that are not so white...
                                             Mine are just a little discolored
                                                 from what should be right...
                                    I tried to sing but silence stole the stage...
                                              I'm now trapped in a box of
                                                 of words without a page...
                             I will scratch on these walls till it makes some sense...
                                            And then whisper a song until it
                                                     tears down the fence...
                             On the other side I shall stand upright with my pen...
                                             And in the air I will scribe from
                                                      where I've been...

Details | Couplet | |

Writing In Daydreams

                                                    Glass outlined in wood trim...
                                     A powder blue background pours down the rim...

                                    I make words from passing clouds with my fingers...
                                         Each letter tickles the tree tops and lingers...

                           The rising chimney smoke underlines my thoughts with care...
                       Catch my poem in the sky before the day goes and becomes bare...

                                             The moon will soon erase my thoughts...
                                    Till another day when my daydreams can be caught...

Details | Free verse | |


Black as both the crow and the cat that Edgar Allen Poe wrote of.

More meaningful than you might think.
Words penetrate our hearts and minds, but
ink does both and sinks deep within and between the pages, binding, and lines.

Dark and mysterious.
Yet clear and concise.

Hurtful, yet helpful.
A never failing flicker of light.

A tool, a hobby, the hearts design
A love, a passion, a joy and a show of affection, rejoicing, celebration and of all that is mentioned and more combined.

Man's gift, man's privilege,  man's pot of knowledge and gold.

Both for the young, the aging, and the old.

A device to say both hello and goodbye.
A way to rejoice, sound sorrow, or joy.
A way to say I love you, to someone for whom which you care.
A way for them to say the same, six words of miscomprehended compare.

A way to convey feeling, to record history and time.
A way to teach us, knowledge that we may not else find.

Forever it stays.
Black as night and yet light as day.

Our greatest invention, always it must stay.

Details | Couplet | |

Written to Death

  In God's own ink
with bloody hands,
he writes his life away.
   yet he's free
to have his final say.
        Dark and dank,
his tiny cell
         becomes a living tome,
to tell a tale of villainy,
      of madness 
    and of home.

 His maiden fair
     returned his love
with evil and deceit.
    She led him here into a trap
his enemy to meet.

    At length 
she saved him 
     from an end
a death both quick and sure.
She left him in this dungeon dark
forever to endure
the memory 
     of her false heart
and one who stole it all.

He tells it all right from the start
      it flows upon the wall,
and when his bright red ink runs dry
    the angels come to read.
He falls upon the stones to die
    with no words left to bleed.

Details | Haiku | |

First Haiku

I write a haiku
With five, seven, five pulses.
How do you like it?

Details | Rhyme | |

Whenever A Poet Cries

A letter is hidden inside each tear
As the pain escapes our eyes
A poem is born inside our souls
Whenever a poet cries

Sometimes they're tears of sadness
Other times, tears of joy
They're filled with happy endings
Or words that can even destroy

A tear can look like a broken heart
Or maybe a gentle smile
It can even look like temptation
Tears that are meant to beguile

A tear can be a new born child
Or a loved one who has died
Ink will flow through a poet's veins
In the letters that we've cried

A letter is hidden inside each tear
In all the words we seek
A tear will give the letters a voice
Until the words begin to speak

Details | Free verse | |

Night Poem

It waits...
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 -
Wings beating
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 Kiss; 
A dance; 
A song etched deep: 
Art carved out of sky.

Title: Night Poem

Details | Rhyme | |

The dance

If I were to take your hand
                                     And ask you to dance
By the light of the moon
                                     Would you take a chance
You know I am just a dreamer
                                     Or so it would seem
For there is nothing I won't do
                                     In search of my dream
To me a dream is but a story
                                     Waiting to be told
And as a poet writes their dream
                                     They try to break the mold
So as you dance across your dream
                                     Trying to get it right
Close your eyes and drift away
                                     Dance with me tonight
As we dance across the floor
                                     Know my words are true
I have answered all my dreams
                                     Just by holding you

Details | Couplet | |

Scrolls of Dreams

Like small waves in the ocean, the
curtains blow back from a breeze so tender...
Through my soul silent whispers travel 
and are placed where they slowly surrender...
Behind my eyes the small echo of chimes
dance to a moving sound...
And my hand starts to glide across a slippery
page that bleeds so proud...
And now I'm left with scrolls of dreams that 
never made it to the night...
Just a poet who walks and breaths through a
window of second sight...

Details | Free verse | |

In the Shallows

           I bent over to touch my toes
               and the ground tore open like a backbone.

I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe 
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars, 
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.

Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees, 
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]

The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.  
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.

   I dared to taste oblivion,
       and the sky swallowed me. 

My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming, 
but inside out.

            I bent over to touch my toes,
              and my spine tore open;
            the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
          like the tines of forks.
            I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
              but I only found where I end.

Details | I do not know? | |


In the still of the night, when the Muses speak,
What a wondrous  thing to hear--
That magical sound of the siren's call
Falling upon your mind's eager ear.

Those sweet ladies wait at the midnight gate,
With their golden harps to play.
But the creative wind is Insomnia's friend,
It will blow your slumber away.

Next morning, the sighs, yawns, and red eyes--
The price of the sleep a fool loses, 
But what can I say? It's a small price to pay
For a wild night out with the Muses. 

Details | Narrative | |


Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    

Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...

After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "

Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  

My theme is: Happiness In Childhood

Details | Haiku | |

Writer's Block , v.2

quarter moon in sight,
partially hidden by clouds.
just like my verses.

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Archeology And The Poet ... '

Dig Down Deep
Carefully Unearth
Artifacts Will Speak
Words of Worth

With Pick and Shovel
And Papyrus
If Block and Rubble,
Gently Brush

Treasures Buried
Deep In Soul
Heart-Stone Quarry
Hold Hidden Scrolls

To Royal Edicts
Read and Call
On High Walls

In Expeditions
To Exposé
Show Gold Emotions
In Glass Display

From Pyramids
In Sealed Mystery
So The Poet Did …
… Archeology

To Preserve Words
of Antiquity
So That You Heard
and Shared, Discovery …

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 | Light Poetry | |

' A Metaphysical Moment ...'

‘ A  Metaphysical  Moment ’

A Metaphysical Moment
Electrifying To The Touch
Breathless, Thru The Clouds
Can My Heart, Take So Much

… Can My Eyes Endure
All This Vision, I See
Can Voice, Even Speak
Over Roaring of This Sea

… Can Ear Even Listen
When I Am Flying So Free
Soaring, So True With You and
Metaphysical Moment and Me …

A Metaphysical Moment
Will I Ever Understand
This Mystery of Our Universe
The Mystery of Woman and Man …

(And I End This with an Haiku for
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno and
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))

Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

          Understanding A
      Metaphysical Moment …
      … Nature’s Mysteries

Metaphysical (definition) as an adjective:

Metaphysical of early 17th Century Poetry
Relating to the poetic style of John Donne,
George Herbert and other early 17th Century Poets
Who used consciously intellectual language
And elaborate metaphors that compared things

Details | Pastoral | |

A Painting of Words

Let the paper be a canvas and the pen, a brush
The words fill  the mind like a young girl’s blush
Every color on the palette of the imagination
Becomes a vibrant idea of luscious creation

Open a door of stained glass with swans of white
Made more brilliant by the glowing sunlight
Surrounded by a pool of sapphire blue
Water lilies afloat with teardrops of dew

Beyond the door a walled brick terrace of burgundy red 
With a gray flagstone floor in which to tread
Terra cotta pots at the edges with mixed colored flowers
Above a dogwood in blooms like a canopy towers

Wide steps lead to a large flowing fountain
Three flowing tiers sparkle like a crystalline mountain
It towers within a large oval pool
A goldfish swimming like a small orange jewel

Beyond the fountain, a cobblestone path
Followed by a fence of latticework lath
An open field on the other side of the fence
Beyond the field is a forest, dark and dense 

Two Belgian horses graze on clover patches of red
Near a large gray stone two-story shed
Nearby a pond of sparkling blue
Reflecting  the clouds of a dusky pink hue

The blue sky fades into pink streaks of sunset
Turning the forest trees to a darker silhouette
And the grass to bright emerald green
All to create  a tranquil pastoral scene

The words fill the mind like young girl’s blush
With the paper as a canvas and the pen, a brush.

Details | Couplet | |

Word-O-Lator Complaint Dept.

My word-o-lator system failed
The "Robert Frost" you had on sale,
has gone berserk and won't obey
a single thing I try to say
It thinks it's really Robert Frost
I try to write, it says "Get Lost".
It wants to try to reawaken
an interest in "The Road Not Taken"
It wants to take the morning train
to New England, what a pain
it says I'm acting like it's father
that taking orders is a bother
"Independant I shall be"
That's what it likes to say to me
Can you advise or just refund?
I'm really feeling rather stunned
Although, I'm starting to relate
There's still the train, it's not too late
Maybe we could pen an ode
Man and robot on the road
With a good pal at my back
I could be Jack Kerouac
Hey, never mind I'm feeling better
Kindly disregard this letter
Looks like Robert Frost and I
have found our niche,
                  So Long, Goodbye!

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 | Quatrain | |


I have entered many poetry contests
to display my amazing number of sixty or more,
only one of my poems has won first place;
poets are like enduring athletes who fight to the very core! 

One big hurray goes to myself for the first win,
congratulations to the other participants
who are on the top of that list, or have been
awarded Honorable Mentions for their efforts!  

When my poem doesn't make it to the finalists's list,
I don't feel discouraged, I brazen out the doubt and try again;
even Lance Armstrong, with his skills, can't always win his race,
and the trophy must be given to someone else!

I rejoice when some of the chosen poets appear 
on the winners' list; I am happy for their accomplishment,
and into a word-restricted message's box I gladly comment
on their poetry...with the insight of an achiever!

And for those whose names never made it as previously thought,
I honestly tell you, from experience, not to be a bit discouraged...
your time will come when your enthusiasm will require a big shout;
never put the word, " Winner " to rest, write for fun and persist instead! 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Details | Free verse | |


PoetrySoup …

I Was Heartily Welcomed… As I Sat At Your Table
By:  Carol, Sara, Carolyn, Dane Anne,  Moses, and Abel
               Tim, Leon, John, Michael, Jim and Yoni
               Deborah, Krista, Adeleke and Charlie
   …  James, The (Two) Ruben(s) and (The Quik-Composer) Raul
   …  and Many, Many More, I Love to Hear At Dinner-Call !

                  The PoetrySoup …

… It Has Member – Mushrooms
Chew and Chat Lunchrooms
Delectable  Hors d'oeuvre
Every Ear-Full… Heard
Every Mouthful… Taste
Spoonful of Gourmet Grace
Voila’ Words, Don’t Waste
Simmer-Slow and Baste’

In Dug-up, Sweet Potatoes
  Ripe Food for Thought Tomatoes
And Onions, That Will Make You Cry
Artichokes and Lemons that Squeeze – ‘til You Die
Garlic and Oregano Are Just Some Suggestions
And Here’s Some Mint… for Your Digestion
Parsley to Parley and Jive-Chives, Just Keep Stirring
But There’s No Clam Chowder, Shrimp, or Herring

A Dash of This… A Dash of That Seasoning
A Pinch of That and Sprinkle This Reasoning…
On The Side with the Mustard and Relish, so Fresh
Are the Cucumber-Contest and Radish Requests
And I Can’t Forgo the Tongue-in-Cheek Puns…
Your Laughter is Passed Around, like Hot-Buttered Buns !

…  Poets … Are Proverbial Peas In The Pod
The Harvesters of Herbs-Heard, in The Garden of God
so... Salt and Pepper to Your Superb Style
Did You Say Cheese, Please ?... ( Full Mouth Smile !)
There’s Hot Chicken Broth, When You Are Cold
Everybody Knows… Its Good For The Soul
And All That’s On The Human Menu… It’s In There !
… Even A Mother’s … Tenderized Care
Like Campbell’s Brand… Its Umm… Umm… Good !
The Aspire – Asparagus, I Took… I Understood
So, PoetrySoup’s Cupboard is Never Bare
And There Ain’t No Bones, No Medium, Just Rare
And On The Star-Burner… Is The Savory Meat
So… Grab A Heartbeat-Bowl… and Bona Petit’…

Yes, Thank You, PoetrySoup
(You’re Up There with MoonBee’s FruitLoops !)

It Has Been A Pleasure Getting To Know You All 
Thru Your Beautiful Expressions, Coming Straight
From Your Warm and Welcoming Hearts

God Bless You......


Details | Lyric | |

These Words

All these words and all these lines
Just keep running through my mind
By the dozens, they drown out sound
And force me to quickly write them down
Lines and lyrics in poetic rhyme
Written within record time
Words so simple and plain to me
Can bring a smile or a tear you see
Though these are more 
Than mere words to me
It is a part of my soul,
From way down deep
So please excuse me 
While I let it all out
Or these words will drive me crazy
Without any doubt!

Details | Quatrain | |


He was the bard from Stratford, and as a teenager
he helped his father in his trade; he married and had children
and became the most popular and admired play writer
in all England...acting was also his other pleasurable passion.    

Curious Queen Elisabeth was one of the thousand spectators,
who came to see him in the Globe theater...she shed tears, 
and was stunned by the performance of his timeless plays,
and yet, some of his fellow-poets criticized him for his writings!

I wish I had lived in that Victorian era so intellectual and refined,
and had met him in person and had showed him my ample admiration;
I would have asked him the secret, which made him so legendary and loved...
and he would have whispered it to me, to make me revel in that revelation!     

I have read his inspiring works, and tragedies rampantly occur
from " Romeo and Juliet"...the Verona's immortal lovers, through" Hamlet "
whose insanity was undoubtedly caused by the specter of his father; 
and why didn't Shakespeare choose less dramatic plays not ending in death?

He wanted to teach us indelible lessons to show us how the human spirit
can be passionate, adamant, loveless, envious, cruel, unfair and treacherous...
to outline all kinds of guilt: from murder to envy so well-expressed with eloquence;
it's no mystery to anyone how he conjured up such plots with grief, madness and wit!    

Shakespeare was no ordinary kid, and he played with his siblings on Henley Street,
neighbors saw him trot to his grammar school, later he would make everyone weep; 
early in adolescence, did his prodigious mind envision one from a vague thought?
It's no wonder that he is widely read even today...hear his speak, he'll impart worth!  

Entered in Amy Green's contest, " Wow Me With Inspiration "

Details | Rhyme | |

My Word

If I were a word, 
Then 'peent' it would be.
It's something unique,
Just exactly like me.
With mystery and flow,
Like a forest hid stream,
Like memories unrealized;
Some faraway dream.
Any sentence could fit me,
I'd make stories complete,
My meaning’d be endless,
My harmony sweet.
Yes, if I could pick one word,
That fits only me,
There's only just one word,
And 'peent' it would be.

Details | List | |

Fragrant Color from the Torn Rose

Dive inside the rainbow
fill your hair up with
Let go of the wind and
follow the sound of
haunting wolves.
Let your demons collapse
you, and your bitter angels
astounded words from
your holly lips.

Green leaves sailing across
the heaven sky.
I sometimes wish I was free
falling never looking down
just spreading my wings making
lonely dove sounds.

Holly sea where does the
sunset cry?
Why must we rain again?
Our broken rocks are
Under us this sand and

Thunder is a rolling in
better turn your eyes
toward the north.
Save the wind.
Mother Earth,
if I could have just one more day,
I would change the weather for a better way.

I am a rose and a sailor,
cold and torn, but I win
the fragrant color, the lessons
blend as one.

Details | Verse | |

Figure it Out

Time has come 
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?

I opt for the one 
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.

If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again.

Details | Free verse | |

Sweet Sweet Emily

I was born in Amhurst Massachuetts
on Decenber 10  1830 
and had died May 15  1886

My hair is bold like the chestnut burr
and my eyes like the sherry in the glass
that the guest leaves behind

I cannot write about the world without
first backing away from it and then
comtemplating it from a distance

A word is dead when it is said
Some say I say it just begins
To live that day 

Who Am I ?

My Poetess Sweet
Emily Dickinson

Details | I do not know? | |


Why do I write
The things I do? 
Pick up a pen
And paper too,
Put down my thoughts
Flitting like birds
Across my brain,
It seems absurd 
To want to write – 
To let it all out,
To watch my work
Leave me in doubt
As to whether I could
Have written it all,
These strings of words
In the dirty scrawl
Saying things 
I never knew I thought,
Painting a picture 
In ink and blot.
Telling a story,
Recounting a tale,
Laughter and tears
So strong, so frail.
Everything done, 
Yet I don’t know
Why I write,
Let my feelings flow.
It is not for wealth,
For then I would sell
For as much as I could
These stories I tell.
But then, I think,
Its surely not fame:
I am content if
No one knows my name.
Is it what some
Awful people call
“Aesthetic exercise”?
Oh no, not at all…
I’m not trying to help
Woman, child or man,
And I’m not writing 
Just because I can.
But I think I can cast
Some much needed light-
I think the answer is
That I love to write.
To feel my thoughts
Forming a line,
Interpreting emotions
So hard to define,
Gives me assurance
That I can narrate,
Invent and concoct,
Compose and create,
A story that gives 
Me an identity,
That story is special 
For it defines me.

Details | Free verse | |

In a Risky Rhythm

She kissed the kiln and fired her tongue
in sparks which lit the rhythm stream
and reeked of rancid gasoline
and the blue of honest fire
She danced in shoes of kerosene
her heels in flint, her soles in sheen
as barefoot she would always be
to tattoo the earth with toe prints
She missed the mark and shot the sun
(which swallowed the fire come undone)
and swept up ashes noon 'till night
with anklets of turquoise and jade
She riddled wars and froze the moon
In silence, she slept on pitch and ink
and gained momentum for her dance
on edges burnt risky with rhythm.

Details | Free verse | |


A poem including following words/phrases;
Nuclear waste
Baby food
Smiling Moon Face
Dog waste
Malicious love
Miracle of Fatima
Broken alarm clock

Lets see what you guys come up with;  by Feb. One
Bonus points if you add; Peanut Butter and Jelly with Meatballs the daily special


Details | Rhyme | |

What is Poetry But Text...

Sensitive ears of nature I have 
Poetry is not the sight of words 
but the sound.

Spoken,sung or played on a guitar...
Human, machine,instrument or nature.
Any of these are cool as long
as they're written down.

A flute playing, a bird singing ,
a car engine starting. 
Someone whipping , chopping,
cooking in the kitchen.

Hear it first, then write it down.
For what is poetry but the text 
the sound that you've found?

Details | Free verse | |

Poa-tetry Soup (The Name Inspired)

Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.

You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.

My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.

Details | I do not know? | |


So many different poems to write
If given the time, I’d sit here all night
Too many things I want to say
Too many thoughts to throw your way
Hundreds of stories left untold
Thousands of rhymes I just can’t hold
Memories that haunt and feelings of fear
All of my laughter and all of my tears
My emotions run deep and drown out sound
I wake from sound sleep, to write them all down
So many things I have left to say
God didn’t put enough time in my day
I wish that I could convey to you
My thoughts and feelings in a way that is new
A new and easier way to understand
Just how I feel when my heart won’t mend
Feelings come and feelings go
But the visions that are left, continue to grow
Way out of hand, and out of control
What was once smooth, is now uneven flow
My mind is vast with rooms unknown
Through poetry I try to let it be shown

Details | I do not know? | |

Brainwaves (2005)

Brainwaves- not just an invented excuse
These ideas are born for a use
When I sleep arbitrary thoughts sing
Like in a cartoon, I see a light bulb and hear a ‘ting’
Thoughts pour like they do now
No explanation, they just appear somehow
Your probably thinking this is taking me ages to write
As I speak my words strike
Its not even a minute and my brainwaves materialise 
The whole world is waiting to realise
Brainwaves come to those who are gifted somehow
They are happening right now

Details | Rhyme | |

In the Spire to Be Inspired

It's the taste of clouds
the purr of words
the whisk of wind
we thought we heard
It's everything
rolled up and sent
a package filled
with sugar mint
It's now and then
it's years gone by
It's every thought
which makes you cry
It's passionate
It's salt and stone
It's the moment I leave
and you're alone
It's "Call me now!"
It's "Leave me be!"
It's all of you 
and some of me
It's hands to hold
and songs to sing
It's our first kiss
It's everything

Details | I do not know? | |

Poetical Gratitude

You have refreshed my soul today
with your liquid lines and your soulful sway
with the image you pour into listless words
which shakes them to action, vividly stirred
I may never meet you or greet you in person
but you have defused much incredible tension
You have lit fires in dark unused pockets
and filled with head candy you've left my brain sockets
To ring off the bell that you've started to pull
or join in the song till it's harmony's full
To slip into the sunset in your memory lines
or break out the camera to hold your designs
To lose my emotions within smoldered embers
of loves you have lost and committed to paper
in moments caught frozen, turning for masses
to understand just what your heart does encompass
I thank you for filling my pool back up
with pure creativity straight from your cup
for sharing your art cross the ceilingless room
of the cavernous ‘spanse of the poetical loom.

Details | Free verse | |


I stared in the eyes of Beauty, and she was...
Everything I thought she would be
But when I saw her I was speechless
She noticed me I noticed her
Her fragrance was beautiful 
She smelled like frankincense & myrrh
We made eye contact she gave me a lil smile
And kept walking 
Then and there I knew I had to have this woman
I wanted to smell her beauty
I had to feel her touch I want to 
Fall in love wit her not lust
I want her to fall asleep in my arms
Not just have sex & bust a nut
I want her to be my everything
I want her to take refuge in me
I wanna hear her say that she misses me
When I'm with her I wanna feel like I'm free
So I call out to her and I say...
I been looking for you 
She says I been waiting on you 
We converse in a conversation
And all the anticipation is thrown out the door
You see this woman just makes my heart soar 
And her personality just makes me crave for 
Her love even more 
We exchange numbers and we go our separate ways
I know she's different from every woman I met 
Because I ain't thinking bout gettin laid
And all I keep thinking bout is will we last 
Or just be another fling 
But a couple minutes later my cell phone rings... it's her

                                     "TO BE CONTINUED"

Details | Verse | |

Ding Dong The Wicked Witch is Dead

Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Thatcher’s dead.

Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Thatcher’s dead.

Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Thatcher’s dead.

Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Thatcher’s dead.

Details | Free verse | |

Generic Minds

generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

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 | Free verse | |

Untitled #187 / A whim

A whim produces this!

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Details | Imagism | |

Poetry: Doggerel And Rhyme

It is our poetic verse
That releases the restraints
Opening our minds eye 
To flowing sincere thought  

It is the flowing of ink
That becomes our salve
Healing our wounds and scars
Allowing us to be unafraid again

It is the poet’s candid opus
The voice of the untainted spirit
Transferring our tedious passions
From internal, to pen, to parchment,

It is our steadfast sanctuary 
Where we hide in total exposure
Our poetry is the end of  todays voyage
For we who dare to wander

Details | Rhyme | |

He Makes Me Smile!

As I sat and wrote this poem, I was grateful for my cozy home. I started praying on my knees, And suddenly I could write with ease. I am sure, that if you pray, He’ll be there for you each day. He’ll show you your talents and your calling, And when you are down, He’ll catch you from falling. When I’m praying on my knees, I know it’s Him I’m going to please. By writing these poems and spreading the Word, He knows when they’re read, His voice will be heard! I hope He makes you smile today! I know it happens if you pray!
Michelle D. ©6/15/06

Details | Couplet | |

A Different Verse

A different time, a different place
A different life and different face

Different wants and different needs
Different values and different creeds

Different Pomp and Circumstance
Different songs and different dance

Different likes and different hate
Different foods on different plate

A different boat on a different sea
A different you and a different me

Details | Narrative | |


Literature was pursued
by the greatest individuals who ever lived,
and they left us works of unsurpassable wisdom;
human emotions have always been the same, 
and this can't attest to the fact that they will not change anytime soon,
but the freer we are, the further we go up in our balloon.

The richest heritage of Humankind
is found in the written word, which is heard often and not really understood;
where would we be today without the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare that were quite sad,  
or Dante's famous canto, not excluding superb works by modern writers?...
During the dark ages, monks translated books from Greek and Latin into common languages;
as the barbarians destroyed everything found in their path, civilization did not end.

Tragedies of famous people attracted the lucrative minds of poets who had heard of them,
thus embellishing them with their vivid imagination and present actual facts...I follow in
their poetic footsteps, writing down stories that have recently happened, or occurred
before I was born; and with ideas as interesting as theirs, I continue in that tradition
without envying their unaging expressions and distinguished style, but by aggrandizing them.

Literature has finally found its merited place in History, unlikely a hundred years ago,
more people are voraciously reading, and keeping the writers busy by admiring
their sensational works, making comments of encouragement to boost up their optimism;
and to theaters they go and spent an entire night to listen to drama and scoff,
laugh, or cry when emotions intensify by the sconces of the electric lights; and cheering,
they applaud the richest heritage of Humankind on stage, and are captivated by its scenario.

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Self-Portrait of Life

As I draw my eyes I think about what I have seen, what I have witnessed, what I have turned my eyes away from with but a blind stare, and all those special moments I missed that done passed and gone, but above all I think about what I have yet to see when I die.
 As I draw my face and hair I think about I think about how the "Great One Above" has made me what color skin that I am and how he has shaped my attitude into what my life has become and what society and environment I was placed and grew up in around which culture or cultures I have become or unknowingly integrated.
 As I draw my ears I think about what I have heard, what I am still hearing and what I choose not to hear among the many noises surrounded within ones hearing, but above all I think about what death has sounded like not in just one but many different loud but yet still very silent noises around one.
 As I draw my body I think about what my body has endured, what it has failed to do so many times but also what it has finally conquered and still yet to conquer in a world of complete competition with sports so violent and unforgiving for winning does not forgive losers in a world striving to be winners.
 As I draw my hands I think about how they have created so much but also trying not to think about how much they too have destroyed. I think about how I can easily create bad more than the good like an addiction that cannot be stopped among an addicted world full of fiends waiting to get their fix….but above all as I draw these words of life I think about how the heck I am still here today writing about it… I am still here enduring it and how I am still here even to share it…Thank You “Great One Above”…..

Details | Free verse | |


Planning on crossing over
where footprints of night
are ne'er seen...
There fish are spawning
in clear blue stream ~
Surrounded by verdant green;
Nature begins speaking to me.
An antiquated chine-wood bridge
gracefully arches it back
with sturdy braids makes a path ~
That I may cross  to a place serene
Where nightingales and crickets sing
It's a place where I do my thinking
Unafraid to shed my skin ~
by dusk as honey bear I may roam,
by dawn take flight as an eagle
I may be found soaring toward home.
Upon opening mine eyes
I come to realize the colors of the skies
Yes, I've crossed that bridge before

Details | Free verse | |


"Are you Quill?," She asked abeam.
"Yes, of course! - mostly - when the Muselle` 
visits oft'n'r upon, as my wont!
"Well, here!, this will surely help at the Magic...

And IT, Voila!, was in hand, a thrust-unmistakable!
Blunt, bulbous & sleek, a slick Recife, 
this Turquoise and Silver stick.

Is IT "Blue?" Is IT "Black?" 
Pray, "Blue-Black!?"  Wow! - 
A Sole instrument for Playing in the Indigene,
Soul Colors of the Earth! - I nearly crack to Self.

Swirled-embedded, b'neath the haute Baekelight-Crystal
like a LavaLamp-Entemp.  IT's messages of ambidexsrait-
Threads, Mola thru splayed fingers.  O' Charitable Mage 
You have brought to Life!...   I     Write    Handcrafted!  

Details | Ghazal | |

How to love

My roots are trembling
through clay orgasm,
tumbling the landslide
that speaks every shake or so.
Leo roars and I await life,
Generic roving rumbles
reminding me of the world around,
but I never remember
how to cling to the ground.

Details | Light Poetry | |


I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is 
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not  done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am 
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing 
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the 
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside 
 a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...

Written By: Christina A McCullouch 

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 | Concrete | |

Poetry Piled Up

I am a native criminal artistic creative poet/
against all odds a convict of christ in society, I must not stay below it/ 
This is my time 2 shine people, da tattooed face over society I must out grow it/
 I show no love for those who show none for me/
 I just most recently been incarcerated so my objective is 2 remain free/
 But it hard for a mutha ****in strrugglin addict half breed/ 
I struggle wit my own DUALITY, because my whole life revolves around 2 BE OR NOT 2 BE/ Im a educated Hustler starting back from scratch once again/ 
**** my families help especially my soul called friendz/
 Prison I want to say NEVER AGAIN/ But Still Im a self made huslter/
 Still a type 2 give a **** mutha ****er/ 
I show respect and loyalty I live by the Code, I keep my eyes open, ears alert and mouth shut/
 I gots to give a ****/
 same thing everyday is where im stuck/ 
I live by the code of silence/A man of peace so its a last resort to violence/ 
this my poetry now I slowly pile it....

Details | Free verse | |

To The Beat of Jazz Poetry

From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing
True poets had it best
For there is a rhythm in the soul, 
Which they all just had to express

Some could not control
This powerful thing 
 Was so often put to the test

It began to dawn coming on strong
Within the birth of a thing 
Called the Harlem Renaissance 

That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth 
Possessing syncopated rhythms 
And chronic expression of surreal tunes 

That perfected blend of jazz-poetry 
Developed into what it is today. 
Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes 

That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz
Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace
Transcended cultural barriers 
Readily accepted in the 1950’s by the humane race 

Therefore, the mantra had begun to be 
So freely expressed within poetic lyrics 
To syncopated beats moving on through the 60’s and 70’s
By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka

Returning strong throughout the 70’s and 80’s 
Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron
Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers 
Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters 

Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats 
On stage or in the streets
Yes, you’ve guessed it, most def its rap
Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing 
In which made many a heart sing 
As these icons did their thing

Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry…
Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong

Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse
tribute to some of the greatest modern day
founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.

Details | Narrative | |

Scarlet Portmanteau

Duke Luke by his bateau
Arrived at his chateau,
Had he travelled through large eau!

His mysterious rendez-vous 
with Henry Thoreau
Yielded him a scarlet portmanteau.

Entering his bureau,
he took off his manteau
and opened the portmanteau:

The Snow Man was inside
And though not well could he sing,
Sang he a song of himself:

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
He met Annabel Lee on a large shelf,
Frightened he was by the raven
And took the road not taken:

Crossed he the mending wall
And hearing the anecdote of the jar
To noble savage Billy Budd an honest fare he paid

Large and far
Travelled he
From spring to fall

Self-reliance: the idea he hath
The American Scholar guided his path;

He slept a long time
In a clean well-lighted place;

One winter he woke up
In a station of the metro:
He fastened his tender buttons
and found a red wheelbarrow;
'No ideas but in things' -
A lovely image this brings!

To his disappointment and sorrow,
He never saw the snows of Kilimanjaro.

Duke Luke in disbelief
Wiped his eyes
And pinched his ears;

The Snow Man disappeared.

Duke Luke
Took a look 
At his portmanteau
In hopes of seeing something

He found


Details | Imagism | |

Muse Entreaty

Muse, I ask for such passion in my words you give.
I crowned you today the queen of many stars.
I sincerely wish style, rhyme, flow, images, profound.
My desire in life is that my words continue to live.
They may understand beyond earth, beyond Mars.
Throughout the universe until peace does compound.
Muse, live within my heart and soul forever more.
My gifts I give to you only material and fleeting.
They come from my spirit to please and adorn.
You are the only one that knows my divine score.
Without your charm, my words would be defeating.
Your talent has been amazing to me every morn.

Details | I do not know? | |

Week Daze: Not A Poem, but Word Play : )

Weak-dei is a day following immediately after a Sick Day 

Shun-dei is a day when a person just wants to stay in bed

Moan-dei is a day to complain about what work needs be done

T’ewes-dei is a day a person feels sheepishly

Wins-dei is the day someone becomes lucky in the lottery

Thirst-dei is the day many alcoholics suffer from 

Fry-dei is a day when workers are ‘burnt out’ with the job

Scatter-dei is a day when volunteers are needed and everyone becomes scarce

Ben Ehlong-Dei is an alias people often use after all, or part, of a 24 hour period of time filled 
with unpleasantness or boredom 

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry Contests

Check i out

Details | Shape | |

O h i o

*OHIO*     O     O     OHIO     *OHIO*
 H     H      H     H         !         H     H
 I      I       I---- I         !          I      I
*OHIO*    O     O      OHIO    *OHIO*

Details | Sonnet | |

Sweet Inspiration

As if the words beg to float from my throat, But only spill with the ink of my pen; Only with nature's embrace and sweet coat Do I feel truth form in words and begin. Solitary confinement- I'll find peace; Only within, I can feel the soft hum . . With each stroke, and spill, a gentle release To nature's sweet music, pluck, and soft strum. Nature shall comfort, wherever I go; No matter the warm breeze, or the cold bite. . Caressed by nature, rocking to and fro' While I admire each beautiful sight. So now that no one's here to inspire love, I'll find it around, within, and above.

Details | Free verse | |

Dripping Pages

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Details | Concrete | |

Please Don't Asked For My Decision On Anything

Please don't anybody ask me to decide anything. I do not know
The difference between, the Concord or a Jet Plane
The Republican or the Democrats, 
White lies or some faker boldfaces fibbers 
 The donkey audible or the gold $$$ signs
Each of them has his or hers agenda to threaten small businesses
Like our MA & Pa's Country Stores
What is next to give city contract to street whores?

You stole from poor and you gave to the rich
how unfortunate:
investing billions of dollars into useless political funds 
let wait and see which canidiate is going to get the job done

To send a man to the moon is costly 
taking care of a homeless shelter is leisure: and tax deductible
However, giving millions dollars companies a hefty tax break:
                                                                       not so sensible. 

Please don't anybody ask me to decide anything. I do not know
How is the weather outside, it is raining? Sunny or simply gloomy
Because I guarantee one day someone is going to sue me.
Either for libel or slander

 Or just for being a party pooper: Like our famous America future 
Sarah P
Please don’t anybody ask me to decide anything.
 because my views on world politics is shilly-shally.

Details | Couplet | |

Where does the Time go

I feel as though time is slipping away,
And more is gone each passing day…

Details | Free verse | |

I am Poetry

I read words on a page
Through my eyes
Traveling to my brain
Deceminated to my heart
Absorbed by my soul
Changed in subtle ways
The extending of me

Breath added to my breath
Mingling with my dreams
All my pain and laughter
Inside me crying to be free

Essential vibration
My whole body sings
I am poetry
Filled to the brim
Unable to be contained 

From my soul 
Flowing through my heart
Traveling to my brain
My hand grabs a pen
Soon there are words on a page

Before my very eyes
A new child is born
I am the father of poetry
I am also it's child
Please embrace the scent of me
The emotion of my being

Parts of you in me
All are connected
Creativities stream
Out there to be seen
Until we all see

Each life is poetry

How poetry has become me contest

Written march 12th 2013

Details | Rhyme | |


Inscribe it all down 
Just read it do not make a sound
Leave nothing behind 
Poetry is the world of creative minds 
Some words quite short-lived
Support and respect is what you need to give
Poets are possessed of senses 
That allowed them to perceive
Read it with a thoughtful mind and you will receive
For tomorrow is never yesterday
Far beyond what words can say 
Or any eyes could see 
Keep reading just do not believe me
We have perception and knowledge 
That is what makes us skilled and polished
Like water the words flow 
Very gifted as a prophet as well;
Friend to Gods and heroes, 
With so many tales to tell? 
I do not depend on man’s well-being or material prosperity
It is like trying to cure the outward symptoms and neglect the main cause of the malady
Poetry is generally viewed as the look of human joys and sorrows
I will always put pen to paper whether it is today or tomorrow
Poetry has reached a higher level of consciousness and inspiration
There is no other explanation 
It renovates a satisfying experience and delights
That is why I love to write

Details | Quatern | |


Her way was so graceful -- yet bold...
She'd left her mark on many hearts,
With soft spoken words she controlled...
Refined beauty ne'er to depart...

He looked upon this beautiful face,
Her way was so graceful -- yet bold...
He thought that time had slowed its pace
She heard his thoughts and took control...

Dressed in lace she had caught his gaze
The initiative would be hers...
Her way was so graceful -- yet bold...
This left his head spinning for days.

Have her he must, this beautiful thing
Possibilities un-foretold....
Essence was caught in his paintings
Her way was so graceful -- yet bold...

Details | Rhyme | |

The Soup Hall of Fame

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Details | Free verse | |

The Bookworm

Words Bound Together Thoughts Formed Between Lines Knowledge To Absorb Learns The Bookworm Wishes Expressed By Letters Ideas For All To Share Building Blocks For Peace Believes The Bookworm Fact or Fiction Penned Expressions of Desire Mystery Exposed, Secrets Veiled Hunted By The Bookworm

Details | Free verse | |

One Spark To Burn My Forest Down.

Cinder snaps
Lightning wings
You are this
and many things
Wrapping print
paper ink
Caught amongst
the lines, I think
Pomp and light
Candle wane
On the verge
but always sane
Liquid sugar
Sweet intake
Watching ripples
in your wake
Rainbow glow
Air to touch
Catch my ears
It's just too much
Marble mind
Cinder skin
Wishing you 
would let me in...

Details | Free verse | |


were scheduled to visit ARTURO FUENTE at the DREW ESTATE in ASHTON. 
However, the count of MONTE CRISTO stopped their trip at SAN MIGUEL 
because of the possibilty of BROCATUS intercepting them and searching 
them for PIRATE'S GOLD near the GRAYCLIFF off the ISLA DEL SOL. 
He had the ROBUSTO to use a TORPEDO on their ship,

Their friend ALEC BRADLEY had heard of the plan while
speaking with DON PEPIN GARCIA as they were both seeking
he cried..."what can we do but try to warn them."  

However, they were already at sea, and the only way to reach
them was PERDOMO which was transmitted by DAVIDOFF
in a ROBUSTO BELICOSO manner.  It took nearly 60 RINGS,
but he finally reached ROMEO Y JULIETA who then passed 
their message via OLIVA on the PUROS INDIOS which
was sailing near CORONA.

He had been a member of the GURKHA brigade in WWII,
and given the CU-AVIAN, summoned his comrades 
PADILLA, MACANUDO, and MADURO to help him stop
this attempt in the NUB.  Using a DIESEL TORO, they 
successfully sent a signal over the LA PERLA HABANA Mountains,

For the uneducated, all CAPS are names of Cigars, Cigar Companies,
or related to the industry.

Details | Rhyme | |

Dancing Sheep

When the pen has lost its way
When ideas and ink run dry
Leave the desk and turn away
Take what wings you have and fly
Leave facts and figures on the page
Free your dreams from fettered sleep
And let them take you from the stage
To floating fields and dancing sheep.

For all we are is never told
Nor ever measured by the eye
Mostly unseen we just grow old
And no one sees us passing by
We are the tethered fantasy
Most of the time we do not care
For most of what the others see
Is only what we choose to wear

But in the mind's eye's overview
We see the parts, the acts we play
We know the scripts we follow through
Just waiting for the perfect day
And maybe, one untroubled night,
We'll quietly wish upon a star
And in that moment's grip, we might,
Have just a glimpse of who we are.

Details | Quatrain | |

Hats Off To You {Vignette}

heart flutters bearing the news
appointed poet laureate
bows comrades honoring name
gift gabble raising thy brows
expectations of nil
inspirations for others

Tribute To Poetry

And To All The Wonderful Poets
Here In The Soup Bowl
I Bow To Each

Also Entry For
Brian Strand's 
Poet Laureate Contest
GL All

Details | Sonnet | |

Addiction and Withdraw

Keep your liquor and your meth cigarettes;
stow away your needles and white powder.
My mind craves stimulation without sweats
caused by vices others choose for regrets.

Give me words, inky scrawl across a page,
the fluid cadence of a verbal dance
freeing the psyche from an iron cage
imprisoned by a mundane daily trance.

Prohibit fresh diction to discover
the foul temper that lies within my breast.
Prevent access to verse and uncover
an exhausted maudlin beast is expressed.

I get my fix within a library.
It’s cheap to be hooked onto poetry.

Details | Light Poetry | |

A Shoulder Above Its Neck And Fame Above Its Name

whence place thy sight up above thine shoulders, as it tarries to see no one but thee alone, even when thy path seemeth crooked, and goest astray like a lost wondering sheep, ye durst wax in the Barn of thine selfishness. Thy ego seem so high to accept rebuke and chastisement, at war with thy virtues. Been sober, thy countenance speaketh not, submitting only to thy will and thy will alone. Always wanting to so'er up high, but impatient to beget wings. Ye only bequeath Love for thy honour and thy appreciation, dost for thy increase. Art thou worthy of thine brag? Nay! But thy acclaim, betwixt fame and glory. Loudest in the proclamation of thy victories, like a conqueror from whence sing of his battles and a Merchant, fullsome and majestic. Thy Robe, when touched or felt by she below, light up fire from the fuel of thy Anger. Henceforth, beseech not thy friends, for their company art thou ruthlessly bargained with the proceedings of thy wanton folly. Verily, verily this cancer-worm soweth deeply, like the root of a deciduous Tree and just before its leaves wither away, the path to destruction befalls thee and behold! the time to take heed hath by-passed thee. Thy redemption, more difficult than building Rome because the cup of thy transgression hath gone full.

Details | Free verse | |

Roll Call

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Details | I do not know? | |

My Wishes are Simple

My Wishes are Simple

My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.

My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.

My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.

Details | Cinquain | |

Doublee Bleu (reversed-verse)

for me a song
so blue, that doves dare swoon
'pon gentle breeze, hear elfin cries
'pon gentle breeze, hear elfin cries
so blue, that doves dare swoon
for me a song

Details | Free verse | |


Tight grip on my sword
whispers shatter my mind
slash the dark in a straight line
find the dawn of my life
thoughts flutter around me
greedily eats my desire

agony of doubt consumed my dreams
ignorance deceived my sight
pale stars float in the emptiness
crooked wings of fairy tales

many times I've seen a dream 
tonight i give the world my sight
paper and ink will be my knight
hazy visions of the night
help me see the light
words carved in my heart
sky bleeding in my eyes

feather is my soul
ink is my path
paper is my life

Details | Free verse | |

The Plunge

It takes but one notion
to bounce off a springboard of words
into a pool of ideas.

Details | Haiku | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part I

Gathering grey clouds
Whip crack of frothing thunder
Is this Africa?

Details | Couplet | |

The Pleasure Has Been All Mine

<               I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it's my gift to you
                 Now use it wisely and write about some captioned caught views

                 thus that of an snow-capped mountain with an eagle that soars
                 or white sandy beaches where ribbed tides rolls back to it's shores

                 maybe stars and moon dance reflecting off stilled bay's port
                 in ones head you must determine choice of words to now sort

                 from beautiful to just pleasure does not hit it's mark
                 beneath recant memory that caused the ignited spark

                observer of denial you can not destroy ones voice
                within pens stroke there comes a poet with another choice

                seize the day and come bow to the chosen word of the day
                dont let an overpowering object just get away

Written By Katherine Stella  6/26/11

Entry For A Rambling Poet's

Writing In The Sublime

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 | Iambic Pentameter | |

Death Of A Believer

The death of soul steals slowly through the years
the fog of mind that's never known to be;
brought on by laughter, love, and hate and tears
the fate of all that few can ever see.

It brings the withering of life, and all its leaves,
once green and shining in the morning sun,
now setting on it all, in evening grieves
for lack of interest in what life has done.

Compassion leaves the mind, once fired and prime
and old and tired now beats the heart we knew
life now mundaned by passing of all time,
there's nothing left the heart would like to do.

     Old man, you're numbered to your final breath
      and no one cares for all your sweat and tears,
    your rest is not until it's done in death,
      but keep the faith in what you've done for years.
            © ron wilson

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 | Verse | |

An ORacle's Lament

Or, always a quandary the perpetual choices
the delight of suggestion pales with the anxiety necessary

Or, often a dichotomy, balanced like the scales of justice
matched with //either// this mere two letter word makes quite a stir.

Or. what? Some ask in tones ripe, rancid, with belligerence
brimming with the vitriol evident in slicked-back hair.

The fate of the world can balance on an OR
the continued existence of a proposed reality can fall OR...

I would not want the pivotal pressure or continued strain
of being an OR for I would stretch and choose never to let go.

Contest: Do Due or Dew
 "Choose one of the above words and write a poem." I chose OR

Details | Free verse | |

Mapping the Imagination

It sounded so cool,
coming from the master
wordsmith there on the cover
of "Poets and Writers".
didn't he look like he knew?
White hair and beard,
impeccable, black turtleneck,
coarse cloth overcoat,
turned out, casual and
More like mapping the magi or
apping the magus.
Maybe lassoing the ocean.
Ma, put the pin in Gina.
Look for the ion in nation.
Start small yet the boundaries
are an obsessive killer
getting rid of fingerprints,
it never ends.
I want to be like Mike!
Casual discipline, throwing
out the red herrings
with the bath water.
It is after all a wash and
pretty soiled to boot,
and reboot.
My god, I've only gone
from left to right
on this mapping thing.
Dare I go from right to left?
Damn! I give up. You have
a thirty year headstart.
I'll just have to draw
my own darn maps.

Details | Couplet | |

Writer's Block

You know what I hate about writer’s block,
How my creativity is hidden behind a lock;

Time ticks away as I stare at my screen,
My heart beating faster from the strain of caffeine;

The cursor flashing lulls me to doze,
Til a fly lands smack on the tip of my nose;

I swing at the fly and glance at the clock,
How did 10 AM turn into 5 O’clock;

I stand and I stretch and then walk away,
And say goodbye to another wasted day;

Maybe tomorrow will inspire my brain,
Or I could be slowly going insane…

Details | Free verse | |

Torture on the Parchment.

Oh, empty quill
On brittle parchment
Why with such zeal
Do you deride me?
Such power to prevent
A single word 
From being scratched out
Repudiating inspiration
For the moment
Forbidding me
To imbibe of breath

Tell me of that
With which I have sinned
That warrants this pain
This censure…
Necessitates from accusation
This allegation
Which I must answer
Before judgment
Surges forth
Washing over me

If I bloody those pages
Dirty your eyes
Holding my verse 
I shall answer you
Without vanity’s mask
To abstain from
Penning my verse 
Upon your note paper

My compositions
Will be now penned
In the blood of autumn frost
On the windblown foliage
Contented throughout
That no evil can be read
On wind scattered verses
Of me…

Details | Diamante | |


                                              hardcover, paperback:
                                           inspiring, alluring, fulfilling.
                     Buy one at your book store, or get one at your public library: 
                                         fascinating, thrilling, educating.
                                                        New, old...

Details | Haiku | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part VI

Water licks your feet
Far cry from the beating sun
Desert sand to sea

Details | Free verse | |

My Jar of Stories

I have kept all my stories, since the day I was born
Safe in a jar, some new and some worn
I will pour out a few, to use as my muse
When the light bulb denys me, or my pen has no use

Battered, and chipped, and dusty with childhood
Filled to the brim with my plans and my schemes
Losses and triumphs, friendships and kindness 
Goals and ambitions, are mixed with my dreams

It is fragile and slippery as a wet bar of soap
I have stored all my heartache, and mixed it with love
I have poured in some worry, with the good and the bad
My jar holds my stories, from the day I was born

For Susan Burch's Contest: " Jars"

Details | Bio | |

Untitled...for now

‘my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with 
iridescent shapes of

I'm reading this again...
probably not the best thing 
for me to read at this moment.

sending off...hmm? 
do you still feel the same?

a ramble of unpoetic lines
shoved together haphazardly

if the power of words can kill
I’m butchering a pig—
—blood as virtual ink!

not poetic…

comparing my ‘poetry’
to yours
my UNpoetry

you say—
—you claim to love it

sending off—

—do you still feel the same?

‘my eyes’
-coming ‘round full circle-
‘with a film over them’
—just incase—
you’ve forgotten

[my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with 
iridescent shapes of

‘clouding them with’
‘iridescent shapes of’
—not quite—

sending off—

—do you still feel the same?

do you 
feel the same?

Details | Free verse | |

Silent Wonder

I like these moments of silence,
When I can go chasing the threads of my thoughts...
Start with a feeling,
Weave a dream...
Gather the moments as they pass by,
To flap my wings and learn to fly...
Learn to fly.

Details | Cinquain | |


P oetry;
R hyming allegory,
O ne poet’s decree.
S ymphony of words floating on coral sea.
E arly entry!

Details | Haiku | |

A Simple Rhyme

Out with the old
And into the new

Coming from black
And turning it blue

Getting through hate
Giving it with love

Coming up from hell
Going to heaven above

Your arms are closed
The wings spread wide

Telling the truth
Turning them to lies

Going from rich
Ending in poor

Never say less
Forever is more

Going from dark
Stepping into the light

What is done wrong
Must make it right

From the brightest day
To the darkest night

Losing a battle
Winning a fight

humans are weak
God is might

coming from sight
going blind

what is yours
is now mine

us wanting 
is to have

dont be sad
just be glad

do smile
please dont frown

going from deaf
hearing those sounds

what was white 
is now black

this is this 
that was that

walking tall
feeling small

maybe weak
but its strong

feeling regret
praying for hope

listen to the do's
never the don'ts

please be quiet
don't make a sound

i hate the city
but love the town

i once was born
and soon i'll die

this is what i call
a simple rhyme

Details | Free verse | |

Reflections: Intellectualism

To Dine, To Die;
Conversations spiral
While thunderous eyes
Grasp concepts to recycle.

Constant debt crisis
A political paradox
Grating social devices
Over the sorting of socks.

An endless groan
Argumental paralysis
The debate grants no throne.

Over a roast
Potatoes won't listen
To who talks the most.

"That point is so interesting"
The floor is open for chat
"What is real?" not a thing
"Meow" adds the cat.

Details | Sonnet | |

Another Sonnet Written at a Coffee House

You sink into the bosom of the chair 
And wonder if I too once sat amidst 
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare— 
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss. 

Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug 
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip 
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog 
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips? 

Did I curl my toes under my feet 
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup 
My yellow molars grinding to the beat 
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups? 

I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted— 
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.

Details | Free verse | |

Find Yourself.

Break and wind
the ribbons through your velvet hair
leveling the light
from moonless shadowed smiles

For all tonight will
know you for your voice
and call you for your
wisdom broken bare

while dignifying moons to velvet miles

Stare the stars
until they mirror metal eyes
dance about in tears
from oblique circumstances

For all tonight will
find you in their heart
and know you for the way
you simply care

it's this which even stars above entrances.

Details | Blank verse | |

Poet's Voice/The Pie Poem

How do I find my poet’s voice?
It’s like turning a cup upside down
and waiting for a drop of water to slide out, 
and it won’t come. 
There’s something there, 
but you can’t get it.
No matter how hard you try. 
You can see it going to the edge 
of the cup,
but it won’t go far enough.
It keeps stopping. 
And you’re 
but you just can’t get the water.

It’s like trying to tie a piece of string around your wrist, 
but it isn’t long enough.  
Trying to make it go farther,
to pull it a little tighter,
and it just won’t go.

It’s like wanting to hold an edge 
just a second longer while skating.
Knowing you’re going to stop.
Knowing you’re screwing up,
And that your posture is bad, and that
no doubt you’ll hear it from your coach.
And you just want to start again.
But you can’t.
So you just keep going.

It’s like trying to cover a pie with a piece of cloth, 
because you don’t want the ants and bees 
to get into it,
but the cloth isn’t big enough.
Checkered cloth,
trying to cover the lattice top 
of a peach pie
sitting in the grass.
But you can still see the crust. 
And the bugs will get in.
And you’ll take a bite,
And instead of pie,
You’ll get ants!
The ants will colonize the pie.
So you have to find a way to 

It’s like trying to write a two-page paper,
and only having one and seven-eights of a page.
Trying to 
as much as you can.

Like trying to make Noah’s hair lie flat,
and it’s always sticking up.
It just keeps on growing.
Like the grass,
teeming with ants,
who colonize the pie.

My poet’s voice.

Details | Couplet | |

Life is an Aventurous Squirrel Run

I have my Hubby’s steadfast belief in me.
He loves how my poems are light and airy.
He’ll give me an idea once in a while…
Then he escapes to come back, later to read my new child.

He calls these run-throughs a squirrel run.
For they can take off in directions, yes, any one.
Crazy thoughts become crazier still…
And story time leads to god knows, where they will.

My thinking is kind of like chasing around a tree.
You never know where the end will be.
But somewhere I eventually become truly still.
And that is where my Hubby adds into the trill.

Then the squirrel run begins again…
Light and fluffy and full to the brim.
Each day a new adventure... waits around the bend.
Live it. Love it. Write it... You'll be happier in the end.

Contest: Emotion: Squirrelly and fun   CSEastman

Details | Free verse | |

The Pristine Society

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

© 2011 JSL

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry: For The Words, Are All Around Me

The secret syllables
and words
surround me
in a morning fog
I absorb them through
the places I wonder
ideas I ponder
they flow into my blood
as they spill from my rose
like shameless water
they sweep into me
like the wind behind my bare knees
they whisper into my ears
within the summers breeze
they creep u on me
like a bottle feeling
emerged from being
cloaked deep within
the search for a pen
and paper, feverishly
into the depths of my soul
the intensity
is hard to control
like a wave, the words
tumble over me
grainy sands distort
my messages vision
as I struggle to write
how I remembered the piece
would begin
it feels like a rush
of electric
lightning bolts of
jolt through my body
shooting from me
stories of grief, and struggles
things I share to help
not to repeat
of loss and love
like a bottled sermon
thrown from above
the words hit me

Details | Verse | |


What intimacy is its cause,perhaps
an immaculate conception of words;
too swift to comprehend,see or
recognise.The moment is there
and then is not.Gone with the wind
the seed of idea remains, to 
germinate and gestate,fanned by a
mental fragrance of elation.Slowly
self-transcending a word into a phrase,
a sentence to a strophe;a rhyme
rides a waterfall of cadence,
into a chasm of verse. Terse or
long, the sonnet becomes a little song,
struggles to arrive.Thrust forth upon
my page;a bastard-born of pain,
ancestry unknown,no more to roam

Hear me read this poem aloud here

 and my other video poetry at this link         

Details | Rhyme | |

Imagination Found

I sit in a chair on the edge of the water and write...
A dreamer told me to Imagine and then you will have sight...
My pencil dances in a rhythm of letters that find a home...
They cover a blank wish with rhymes that are not alone...
Soon the pages are full of my life that has just begun...
And now a scroll of Imagination pours from a life not done...

Details | Free verse | |

'Unquestionable Love'

The scars are slowly fading away
A pity the fear seems to be here to stay
We use to share a love so deep
Heaven knows how we let it just seep

Through our fingers - 

Your love turned to a slap,
A swear word to bring your point across
I didn’t know fear until a few years ago
When you accidently pushed me away

Your sorry still echo until today
You’ve said it so many times

Every other day -

I needed to get away,
Not just for myself but for our unborn child

Now here I sit, with nothing 
But a friend’s unquestionable love,
That gives me the strength to go on
The ability to start anew
Showing me there is a life beyond
Swear words and abuse

I may not have those creature comforts
You use to provide
But I can fall asleep peacefully at night
Knowing our baby is safe
And his mom will not wake up with a
Swollen lip or blue eye in the morning


*not a true story - was written for a writing project the theme was Domestic Violence*

Details | Rhyme | |


something we said so many times before
a crack in the door
a bit of a poet in all of us
red dust
sunset can’t catch
little bits o’memories
tickles under the tongue
a go-out and get you-one. . . of those
strip the rags off the rappers and sell them off for clothes
make math, in the mathematicians’ presuppose
fire sell it off to celeritas
one more big blink in the big goggles
golden fish missing in the adjustment of pince-nez
had to turn out that way
when all we did was

Details | Rhyme | |

Letter K

I am a "K" in life's alphabet soup.
I can be hard or soft,
Or playful like little kids in the park,
Flying their kites aloft.

Kings and kingdoms are under my rule,
Chivalrous knights come from me,
Bringing adventure and romance to light,
In kaleidoscopic esprit.

Kisses soft and sweet are mine,
To kindle flames of passion.
Kindness is my very essence,
Given without ration.

A kindred spirit am I with those,
Who knit words into art.
A kinship of the heart and soul,
That won't soon come apart.

For Nancy Jones' "Alphabet Soup" contest

Details | Light Poetry | |

' The Prince Of The Passionate Land (or) Prince Freakasso ... '

To The Prince Of The Passionate Land
Who Paints, With Both Words and Hands
Lightly Brushing Masterpieces
Riding His Realm, Wherever He Pleases

In A Far Fifth-Dimension of Grandeur
Or On A Different Cubism-Dream-Wonder
Sometimes, He Splash-Blue-Subdued
Oft Times, Just Look At The Hues, He’s Used !

His Word-Pictures Paints Such Fantasies
They Are Prince Freakasso, Styled Originalities
Places, Where Only Imageries, Can Go
Like The ‘Namesake’  Mind of Pablo Picasso

Whose Paintings Shouted, ‘Expressionism’ !
The Same Bold Style Stamps His Individualism
And When Prince Freakasso, Paints With Such Speech
His Lips, Brushes With Words So Sweet

 Prince Freakasso, Of The Passionate Land
Who Paints, With His Lips and Hands
Lightly Brushing Masterpieces
Riding His Realm, Wherever He Pleases

    Aaaah, Sweet Prince
Let Your Painting Commence …

From Your Pearl-Sculptress,


Details | Free verse | |

In League with Others

I am in league with the roses,
Petals askew in a scarlet conspiracy

Oh I am in league with the roses,
Swaying along in this lover’s confederacy;

I’m in league with the devils,
A mob together raging alight

I’m in league with the devils,
Our very breaths fanning our damned plight;

And with the clouds I have marched abreast,
Bringing storm and heavens in tow

For amongst the clouds I have marched abreast, 
Purpose seeded in the sky to grow;

I am a hire sword in league with grander designs,
Through all of which I am never prone

Yes, I am a hireling in league with foreign designs,
Happy that I am never still to stand alone.

Details | Quatrain | |

Creative Juices

Juices are flowing
Like fine red wine
Wetting my appetite
A shower of rhyme

A storm of ideas
Rain down on me
Quenching my zeal
A creative sea

Rivers of words
Relieve my thirst
Drowning in pools
Of eloquent verse

Flooding my soul
With waters so deep
Filling my reservoir
Vast oceans to reap

Juices are flowing
Like fine red wine
Wet with enthusiasm
A shower of rhyme

© Jack Ellison 2012

Details | Free verse | |


I awaken to something awry, I float as a 
Wanderer between the plains of day and night
Amidst the clouds and winding streets. 
An outward compass points opposite the right
Yet, an inner voice shall be my guide

The moon shines in the sky so bright
And the sun awaits it chance to break day
What feet shall travel this road tonight?
Where there is no room for the hearts of the faint
Hurry calls the callous compass, do not stray…

However, the inner voice tells me, Not today
For the route the compass must take 
Seems easy enough, for the fool to follow`
But the long winding road journeys 
Towards brighter tomorrows

No longer adrift — it is the Way of Truth
That this once wandering soul now follows…

Details | Couplet | |

Fade Away

                                                With my hand I wrote across a rainy

                                                 My words dripped down in a poetic

                                                  Messages not read will soon fade

                                            As my hands fold into and rest until another

Details | Ode | |

That Crazy Old Doctor

There've been times in my life
 where I've just had to say,
 "I must, give it all up,
 for, it's that kind of day"!
I must, really say this
 I really, just must;
 if I didn't say it,
 then, it wouldn't be, "just".
There's this crazy, old man
 we'll just call him, "Doc";
 who fills up blank pages
 with, "poetical talk".
He's scribbled, and scrabbled
 'til way, past bed-time,
 trying to finish each poem
 and, complete every rhyme.
If he hadn't done this
 he'd surely gone, "mad",
 his nonsensical nature
 was, all that he had!
No hidden agenda
 when first, he wrote down,
 each poem of nonsense
 to erase a childs' frown.
And, Doc always did this
 manipulate, "clues"... that , all of his poems
 were merely geared, to amuse.
He loved to let nonsense
 be the order of the day,
 and, with every poem
 we all smiled, the same way.
His only intention
 was to set our minds, "free",
 his style, just did it
 so, poetically.
With his own tongue, in cheek
we knew we'd been had,
and his poems rhymed perfectly
proving he was no, "fad"!

The volumes of topics
 that Doc's written of,
 included all that could be
 written.....below, and above.
He's written of magic,
 puzzles, and games...
 ..with, strange little creatures,
 with, strange little, "names".
The, crazier his story,
 the saner he'd feel,
 and, the more that we heard
 convinced us they were, "real"!
His poems, were genius
 as he weaved us, a tale;
 with, nonsensical rhymes
 that did so, without..."fail".
"Old Doc", has quit writing
 he's up in heaven,
 this year, his birthday'd ...
 make him, a hundred, and seven!
He's given advice,
 taught what we must do,
 he said, "Be who you are...'s youer,!"
He's maybe still writing
 in, see,
 that'd be just like him
 as, that's who he must, be!
That, silly old doctor... silly, as a goose;
 we all loved his poems,
 for, we loved Dr. Seuss!

Details | Free verse | |

Written Thanks

I thank you
with every word I write
every confession I pen

I thank you
with tears of joy
shed in tears of jet black ink
to the sound of rapping on gentle plastic
with every tap tap of the keys
I thank you more,

for holding me 
when I run for your embrace unbidden
I thank you so much
when I run from home
escape that place
that begs escape
and rush first and only, to you
so thank you
for reading my words
and embracing me
when the embrace I feel at home
is a pressure that I cannot take

I know to you I can run
and with all the thanks in my heart
embrace you once more.

Details | Free verse | |

Master of Words

Oh thy, great Master of Words
Please bestow upon me great words.
These words I so desire.
Words of fancy, so I may marvel.

Master of Words,
grant me the sensuality of words.
Let them be extravagant.
I yearn for them to gush forth from my soul.

Master of Words,
I ache for perfectly placed words.
Intensely riveting verses.

Master of Words,
Bequest me my wish.

Details | Free verse | |

Shameless Self-Promotion

Here they go again.
anything to win,
in shameless 
layin’ it on thick, 
	makin’ sure it sticks,
		slappin’ it on like lotion.

“click my stuff,
and I’ll click yours too.
wanna feel like the best 
even though 
it ain’t true?”

back n’ forth complements
are so self defeating.
inflating other’s heads for praise 
is a blatant way
of cheating.

“do unto others”
but don’t lie, 
to boost their ego.
misleading them 
to raise their hopes 
should clearly be illegal.

no need to read 
a word
of their work
while scratching their backs 
all’s fair
in tactical 

poets thought to be adored 
while chewin’ truth’s gristle.
before you swallow,
broke a tooth that hurt
like a damn 

feeding on lines 
with hidden agendas 
is worse
than bein’ ignored.
cuz’ when you find 
copy n’ pasted comments, 
your hopes 
are sadly floored.

how about 
reading and endorsing work
you actually enjoy,
instead of 
feedin’ folks a line of crap 
laced with praise 
and “atta-boys!”

Details | Free verse | |

I Chose

I chose  
I could’ve been
A homebound hermit,
Hypnotized by the hum
And hue,
Of a high-tech 
HD computer screen.
A slave 
To the
Rhythmic rap
Clicking keys;
Depriving me 
Of much 
Needed rest.
I’d Search 
For Love 
And friendship 
In a network 
Of strangers,
Oblivious to 
The world 

I would’ve
Made a great 
Defense lawyer.
With my 
Appetite to argue.
I’d rescue 
Common crooks, 
Convicted of crimes;
From the 
Of a cell.
I’d lobby 
For leniency 
With lavish 
Litigation laws. 
Dedicating myself 
To Dissembling 
The Death penalty
I should’ve
The army,
A proud patriot,
My peers 
Through promotion;
From a potato peeling private, 
To a more 
Prominent position.
Pushing my 
Paratroopers out
Of a plane.
Parading my men
On the field 
Of battle.
I’d receive
A war
Winning wound,
Perhaps a
Purple Heart.

I could’ve
Been a detective.
Cleverly cracking
Cold cases-
CSI style,
Coercing confessions 
From criminals
And Con-men.
Collecting  a 
Cheap watch,
As compensation
For my commitment
To the precinct. 
I should’ve 
Been a doctor.
Devoting my life
To curing
The incurable,
Letting long hours
Deprive me
From family.
At the 
Beckon call,  
Of work 
Provided beeper.
Carrying out 
Curative procedures, 
On clients
That are
Scarcely clinging
To life.

I would’ve
Made a 
Terrific teacher.
Choosing to 
Live my life
Through the 
Youthfulness of
My students.
Teaching them 
To take on 
The world
With caution 
And Confidence.
Lecturing them
With lessons 
Of longevity.
My desire-
Jealous of
Their youth.

My choice,
Was not to
Focus on 
One aspect 
Of life,
But to 
Them all. 
With the stroke
Of a pen,
I walk 
All paths.
I chose
All destinies. 

I could’ve 
Been this,
Or been that…

I should’ve 
Done this, 
Or done that…

I would’ve
Made this
Or made that…

I chose to write.

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 | Free verse | |

Coffee Shop

Bustling people and clinking forks
A crowded maze of tables and chairs
The soft conversations meant to be secret
Rise to a horrible din of mingling words and phrases

The smell of stale coffee beans and perfume
Caress my nose with a familiar touch
The morning shines outside the huge windows
Burning brightly, it washes out the crowd

People become shadows in the insane light
The breaking dawn ruins their features
I set alone in this madness of Sun-fire
My senses raped by terrible sights and sound

They fuel my desire to be ...

The smell of unwashed skin and vodka
Drifts in on a fugitive breeze
The rattle of a beggar's cup points to its source
Its owner's suffering passes silently amongst the crowd

An old man sits with his paper in hand
A daytime hooker enjoys her hazelnut creamer
A well-dressed woman curses her cellphone and spills her latte
A child grips her legs and she curses him as well

In a dream
Sepia tones and friendly faces
In a nightmare
Shadow beasts and hungry eyes

They fuel my desire to be ...

My pen begins to glide along the rough paper
A few words, hard pressed, appear like forgotten children
Suddenly their voices are not so loud
My eyes begin to focus only on the paper

A beautiful thing begins to form
An ornament to the chaos around me
I find a wonderful peace
And the words flow gently and with ease

The shadow beings float around me
Trying to disturb my bubble of genesis
There sounds cannot stop me, I do not fear them
These hateful beasts are helping me so

They fuel my desire to be ...

Details | Rhyme | |

Paper Words

                                          Run your hands over my words…
                                           Don’t be shy you won’t disturb…
                                              Paper trails from me to you…
                                           No one sees what’s really true… 
                                     Stones unturned as thoughts pretend…
                                          My tattered lines still don’t bend…

Details | Senryu | |

Nectar Niche

Pure inspiration:
honey combed wax bursting sweet
between mandibles.

Details | Couplet | |

Hieroglyphs unknown by Champollion

Kids are playing with strange blue graffiti
So, they wrote several times: ”Neffertiti” …

And drew the most beautiful queen`s head.
The whole history of Egypt written in red, 

With sacred hieroglyphs unknown by Champollion:
The Pharaons` destiny dandles a dewy dandelion…

Details | I do not know? | |

Unashamed Self-Promotion


Greetings, good and kind fellow Soup-ers!

'Tis wonderful, I say,
to be a Soup-er, so if I may,

I humbly request you to lay down your pen dipped in fine ink,
and visit my blog which can be found at the following link: 

Now if this blatant self-promoting of mine seems rude,
I ask for your generous forgiveness, dear fellow Soup-er,

And wish you a day, that is peaceful, kind, and just plain super!

So cheers from the scribbler for now,
and as I take leave, my fellow Soup-ers,
I, in courtesy, to you all, do bow!


Details | Tetractys | |

Dark Places To Play

by Michael J Falotico
                                         My steps are slowing.

                                 Sunlight fades as shadows crawl..

                                        Soon covered by night.


                                               to write from

                                        where hidden thoughts

                        dance without being seen while they play free..

just having fun with two forms
an Haiku & Tetractys

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 | Free verse | |

The Words, His World

He used
to seek solace,
in the turbulence
found within 
his own
distraught soul.

those words,
it brought him 
close to 
the brim of 
yet another low.

In a state 
of denial and 
could be found.

And where
the lies
glorified truth,
the pain
the fears. 

But soon
he realized,
that a poet
fails to exist
his world.

As his mind
is an utopia,
and his words
hidden tears. 

Details | Free verse | |

In The Landscape Of Cantaloupes

It learns while you learn
In the impossible dream of a mind on top of a tongue,
The landscape of cantaloupes
In the summer-fall.

The birds watch clamming towards barn sales.

My mother was a banjo up until the age of nine.
My father took the goat and sailed to a planet northward
When he was five.

When he was five,
When he was five,
When he was my age at the age of five and I became lonely
And felt much like now.

Yes I have,
I have written this poem many in anothertimesandnother.

Details | Rhyme | |

One For The Poets 2K10

I require not brochers.  
For i've been taken aloft  
Disney-like adventures.  
I've been taken thereto Mother  
Nature's finnest edens;  
Complaments of captivating  
and enchanting pens.  

This heart has been enloped  
of poets devotions.  
This heart has simply come to  
fathom wonderful notions.  

Gifts for all to experience  
such pleasures.  
Read, write, delve further;  
There lies poets tresures.  

One has...  
The appreciation.  
One sees...  
The creation.  
One admires...  
The imagination.  
One draws...  
The inspiration

Details | Cinquain | |

A Trite Write

is hard to get 
away from in writing --
your creativity's quicksand.

Details | Quintain (English) | |

Message In A Bottle

I found it there, left by the morning tide
A green bottle half buried in the sand
With excitement I noted a paper inside
Heart beating fast as I reached out my hand
Feeling that somehow this had  been planned

"I am a poet, perhaps the last of my kind,
On an endless sea of words I am adrift 
Are they all gone now? Can I not find,
Those who use words as a wonderful gift?
 I sit waiting for the winds of poetry to shift.."

Opening my eyes to sunshine on my face
Remembering night's dream once  again
Going back to that strange time and place
I knew I would think of it now and then
Gathered my thoughts and took up my pen

Details | Free verse | |

The Writer

The Writer

Inspired by darkness he writes only at night;
Studying stanzas—seducing spellchecks
With the stroke of a pen he is anyone or anything
His great works are subjected to sabotage—prone to plagiarism
His ideas far exceed his lifespan
He will take them with him so that they remain unforgotten
There are times when he is repulsed by his own thoughts
Ashamed that his open-mindedness is so brave— so brazen
He must be careful with his words
Disguising them to avoid unwanted attention
He masters this skill by the memorizing
His important blueprints: a dictionary and thesaurus
The only two books worthy to his cause
He is a word hunter; silently stalking his prey
Snatching them from songs
Taking them from television 
Scavenging from scripts
He fishes them out in an ocean of conversations—inspecting his catch cautiously
Releasing the insignificant
Filleting the essential
He doesn’t waste words by packing them into passages
He displays them attractively on a canvas of possibilities
He raises them from lonely letters to surprising syllables
He rescues them from reckless writers—saving them from abuse
His message is vivid and clear, he refuses to practice the art of confusion
Without writing he is nothing; another drone in a misguided world
With it, he is unstoppable
Creating creative carnage
Amongst freethinkers and immortalizing injustices…in print
He sees he world in rich detail; analyzing the outline of all creation
Nothing is missed— from the tiniest atom to the utmost wonder
His memory is impeccable—photographic and precise
Every element, since childhood, is engraved in his mind
He has a fetish for fountain pens—collecting them like trophies
Never using them, only worshiping their power, it is mightier than any sword
Writing is his purpose 
Even though he will never be satisfied
Every draft s a rough one— susceptible to alterations
It is his weakness 
He is forever troubled by the idea of revision

Details | Free verse | |

Golden Wings

Pure hearts unite
to metamorphose wings
and completely dance golden.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forking River Dam, Illinois

Forking River Dam, Illinois

Forking River 
Forking Dam 

John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam. They 
went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the Forking City. 
They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station closer to the
Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the Forking Quicksanding place 
there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They turned Forking right there. There
is a 
Forking left turn as well but they had to get to the Forking Store. They bought some
Forking Beer 
made in the Forking Brewery. They were still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the
abbreviation for 
Illinois, so we aer all Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought
Forking beans made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic 
branch of the Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking 
River Motel to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam 
showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River. The 
Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the Forking 
men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to Forking
Dam to 
Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dock and rented a Forking Boat the
Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies speak with Forking tongue. But 
money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men. The Men in Forking Dam City are 
Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows Hall. 
Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and the bites
the love 
all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY at the Forking Prison
Institution they 
have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.

Details | Concrete | |

Knowledge is Infinite

There is a huge sea, that is the class, there is a boat, that is the sitting of that
class, the captain of the boat is navigating, as he is a teacher and teaching, and the
passengers are alike students as they are learning, each and every place they visit they
wonder, they observe a contemporary vision as a lesson, and even the visions are limited
by their eyes as long as they can see which is infinite.

Details | Light Poetry | |

Fun Is: Me

Sitting on a butte, howling at the moon… I fell off and landed on my head.
My Trolls found me, and picked me up, and hauled me all the way home.
They set me at the computer, all cozy, wrapped up, and wouldn’t let me go.
Said they wanted to hear some more, great stories, about themselves, of course.

Life just seems more fun with them, as those marauders wander, all over the place.
But that grumpy dragon, whose been pooping on my flowers, each and every day…
He’s simply, has got to go! It wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t bury them, so deep.
And I think he’s only doing it, cause he wants to make me, freaking, crazy, insane!

He’s become jealous of the others’ stories, and he wants to be the very first, in line.
Leave it to a dragon, to do ANY THING, to try to hog, the very essence of my page.
For he knows that even the most serious poets, are prone to sneak a peak, at times.
Their comments are just, so much fun to read, as they comment on, the ensuing fun.

It seems if I write sonnets about my self, I tend to lose that steady stream, that’s mine.
You see, it’s not as much fun, to hear… how I’m blessed… again… and again, again.
And those wild Trolls do so many crazy stunts, till I simply, can’t leave them alone.
Of course, they’re patterned after my sons, who cringe, run, and hide, when I am near.

But, embarrassing my children, can be seriously, so much fun, with, my Hubby near.
But I’m beginning to wander, again, I think, as my friends start lining up at, my door.
But now I wonder: have my poems become me? Or have I become a part of them? 
Its getting harder to tell, now-a- days… But I don’t really care… as long as …

You read and make comments on what I write… and laugh, a little, along the way. 

Details | Rhyme | |

In the Genes

Poe, Coleridge and Blake she read to me A child of five sitting on her big sister’s knee Lights out at night, but Shakespeare’s stories she told Listening intently, I heard Moby Dick’s tale unfold But Dad’s storytelling skills were very strong He made them up as he went along I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write Imagination was my fantasy flight Atlantis and unicorns intrigued me so much I wrote of them hoping other hearts to touch Short stories at age ten, first play at nine Writing my personality did define Novels came later, then poetry too Learning new forms, my interest grew I like to think this is a family trait And I am just following the gene pool’s fate
*For Michael’s “What brought you to poetry?” contest By Carolyn Devonshire

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 | ABC | |

A Glurmy Gleepcious Glorp

I plurm and glorp with every breath
My existence defies and deifies death

I splurp and glomph amongst your days
Indistinguishable from mud and haze
I slig and slorg, a dark breamy blaze
with unctuous vim I sleam through your days
and go about my large gorptious ways

Slimy, I slawl in shades of grey
leaving glossful drippings to mark my way
and make your life gang aft agley
as I spream and slorl in spurious ways
and glurm and gleep with hideous gaze
I sleam and glort in vorptious dark ways

‘Til you come undone
And my sporphing’s won!

My job’s complete – I’ve sprunked your flaze
My job is done, I’ve gronked your days!

Details | Couplet | |

Poet Tree

A leaf that tumbles in the air
And drifts upon the ground.
A person who sighs and smiles
With eyes that speak no sound.
Poetry is rooted in the earth,
And flies upon the wind.
It is not a sonnet nor a verse,
It’s a feeling from within.

Details | Rhyme | |


If your ultimate goal is a poetry prize,
there are things you must do without compromise.
I had entered some work at considerable cost,
with no clue at all as to why I had lost.

So, I read all the ones recognized in the past,
seeking form and design for words I could cast.
That’s when I discovered a key to their prose;
illogical thoughts in unorganized rows.

Start with an outlandish, irrelevant line,
then something arbitrary to confuse the design.
Like, “In the beginning the ending was near” 
or, “We basked in an ardent recollection of fear.”

Conclude with some incomprehensible phrase, 
like, “The prolific embrace of our foregone days.”
Don’t finish ideas in these literary events,
and avoid any phrases that seem to make sense.

What they don’t understand, becomes a “deep thought.”
In depth they will ponder what meaning you sought.
They'll scoff if you've written a limerick or rhyme,
then cast it aside as a “waste of their time.”

I'll likely be banned, or be forced to concede,
but I'm sharing the secret it takes to succeed;
don't stress over structure, don’t fret about flow,
use thoughts you don’t have and words you don’t know.

This was a fun piece I wrote after reading a $20,000 prize winning poem about brass 
braziers that made absolutely no sense.

Details | Free verse | |

Words No One Hears

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION


Details | I do not know? | |

The story of a Muse

The story of a Muse

A beautiful woman that loved him,
she listened to him, in awe of his genius,
she inspired him, encouraged him, 
to do his best work, she validated for him,
that his thoughts and ideas were otherworldly,
She knew his mind and heart must be heard,
His art could change the world, 
and took on the job of pulling this gift out of him,
she lassoed the tornado that was his soul, 
and directed it, into the brush or pen, 
A symbiotic relationship, of male and female,
at their best, a guided purpose.

It seems as if she always left him in the end, 
A mystical woman with more artists to inspire,
left him crying and wounded, 
to do his crazy works after his genius expired,
no direction, haphazard, psychotic, suicidal
used up, emotions undirected, lost, death. 
but a life of value, influential, inspirational, an immortal,

I do not know where i got this impression,
this story of the muse.

Its not fair, 
all my muse's, 
dont care about my work, 
they only care about how i can help them, 
They listen long enough to find what i am looking for,
Put on the mask, the liar face, manipulative,
just long enough to get what they want, 
or realize that i wont give it to them. 
Try to buy my soul with their sex or money.

My naivety, my love, my hope, my trust, 
used against me, for their selfish motives.
Purity pretended, love mimicked, smile a lie. 

Is the muse a lie, is this why the artists go crazy?
Is the suffering evoked by an evil women inspirational?

I have seen men like me, with experiences like me.
Too wounded to love, to trust, to try again. 
Settle for a weak woman, one that wont hurt them. 

Men, i have always considered cowards
They cant look me in the eyes.

As i am beat down by love, i see their temptation.
Chasing the muse, waiting for her, mistaken mimics,

Dont tell me the muse doesnt exist........... 

Details | Epic | |

Sinful Saint

Yeah I walk around life waitng for death/ 
I live in constant despair looking to be blessed/ 
Lies over truth around here always seem to infect/ 
The more sin I get in life the more saintly I seems less/ 
Im trapped in same dark place ;looking for a lighter quest 
I try and live a life full of goodness still trapped in badness I am yet to confess/
 I try and hold onto what seems like something but theres nothing really but family left/
 I know I am not he best, nor am I like the rest/ 
I know I can master checkers but still downed in chess/. 
I got to clean up my act because my life is a mess/ 

I patiently sit back while I ponder life for death and I wait/ 
I might as well look for something simple because I never find nothing great/ 
I struggle to stay under love and over my own hate/ 
I try and be real with others when to my own self I stay fake/ 
I feel life obstacles jolt my ambition like a chain that never breaks/ 
I want less more in life yet as a daily sinner I continue to both physically and mentally take/
 I try and change my dark ways but still struggle at the fact that it might be too late/
 I usaully catch myself complaining when infact I should be thankful for whats on my plate/
 I usually hang onto the past and get scared of the future when I should worry about today/
 I going to be that better man for my child because that sinner no longer in my heart I aint/
 Sometimes in life we all struggle until we strive, but until then Im trapped between a young lost SINFUL SAINT........

Details | I do not know? | |



By Rachel Heffington

I'm a poetess, an authoress, a gal of story-tell

And I haven't all the fashion of a perfect Southern Belle

And I mayn't be the prettiest or smartest in the land

But I've got a world inside a world inside of my right hand.

Oh I've only got to grasp a pen and all my dreams spill out

Like a tea-pot with an inky-rinky-dinky sort of spout.

I have children by the droves and a husband with a nib

And my baby wears an inky-spotted, blotting-sanded bib.

I am Queen and I am regent, I am rogue and I am cad

And these tumble out my finger-tips onto a paper pad.

Yes I wield enormous power over characters and plot

And my duties: they are many,  and my worries: they're a lot.

But I wouldn't change a bit of it--no, not a single line

For I think that being Authoress is really rather fine.

So I'll keep my ink and paper and my ratchy-scratchy pen

And I'll scribble out my stories till I come upon The End.

Details | Quatrain | |

Mine Old Friend 2K11

Greetings mine olde kith! Sincerely am I, Praying dreams upon thy pillow are kind; Nightmares absent. What joy thou bringest I! May this writer avoid thee not - O mind.

Details | Light Poetry | |

' The Pied Piper Poem ... '

… Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
Where Did He Take
The Children ?

With Gaiety
He Played !
What Childhood
Dreams-Displayed ?

In Each
Cherry-Cheeked Head …
That Followed

… Only Poor Little
Crippled Tom
Sadly, Got Left Behind
At Home

Whose Honest Parents
Were Only Ones Nice
To Pied Piper
And Willing To Pay Price

… and So, Kindly He
Left Their Son
But Took All
 The Other Ones …

Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
They Should Have Paid
 At First, When …

… But Pied Piper Played
His Payback Tune
And Danced Hamlin’s Hearts
…and Raw-Deal To Doom

Details | Free verse | |

Dim the Lights to Encore.

I'm not unhappy with occurrences there in
where moving there upon the silent floor
in undercurrents rippling, marble still
I find your voice as never found before

I'm not uneasy as we dance this dance
where silence reigns the air in static still
as all the sleepers break in dreams at once
You hold me here but not against my will

I'm not unwilling now to take a chance
to blow confusion's wrist a solid kiss
and silently insure the moment's pass
if you would grant me solitude in this

I'm not uncertain as the curtains close
wherein we find ourselves behind the stage
as often what takes place behind the scenes
will pique an interest longing to engage~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Did Santa Claus Broke The Reindeer Back

How Santa Claus broke the reindeer back

I am just disappointed he is such a play ball; he refuses to joined the community gym, he have no consideration for a hard working reindeer like me. Please do us all a favor and stop telling everyone that you’re tall and slim Mr. Claus
Santa put this in your pipe and smokes it. I am forming a union; you can contact my Lawyer Mr. Tin Tin

 I need some Fringe benefits else I am going to quit; year after year after year I chauffeur you around
This is not a smooth ride on green grass, it’s cold, cold snow “please looked around.
Breaking into people houses late at night, dropping off toys, we are plaster on every walls and poles
Santa this reindeer is off radar; you get off your fat ass or hire Casper the friendly ghost.

Details | Tanka | |


Today I dropped words

between cracks in the pavement:

half-written screenplays.

My muse, a cappuccino,

conjures romance while I sip.

Details | Acrostic | |

You Snooze You Loose

<                                        Artist searching for a muse
                                          Creativity is the key
                                          Recant those memories 
                                          Open your heart and soul
                                          Start spreading the news
                                          There's poetry to be found
                                          Inside each and everyone of us
                                          Can't you hear the music

                                          To the beaten drum
                                          Whistle while you work
                                          Or you'll snooze and lose

Entry For
Jared Pickett's Contest
Acrostic 2
G.L. All

Details | Free verse | |


It’s the flight of pregnant birds that I am reminded of
Bloated and cramping
Legs tucked close in, wings beating away with paternal efficacy 
Never towards a nest
Always in flight
As if the very notion of rest a circling falcon
A tireless hunter, promising a swift demise, bodies left to decay…

This, this is a pregnant flock of desires and ideas
Notions and purpose
Encumbered and floating, rolling clouds heavy with rain 
And this flock rolls on
Until with a spasm of wings and anticipated rhythm 
A gush of rains and new life is announced
And from each bird, pregnant from birth
Comes a new flock, each end every belly swollen with life
And new ideas surge forth
And newly feathered wings beat with renewed zeal
And a multitude of pregnant flocks take to the skies,
And it’s these birds I’m reminded off
When I pick up the pen to write
Because in each and every bird I observe
I see that pregnant mother of possibility
Beating her wings, soaring above the ground
To give birth in the skies,
Where my ideas soar, soar and give birth
And I am reminded of them
Every time I come to write
And fear I will write nothing at all.   

Details | Rhyme | |

Thoughts at Night

                               The sun travels down and disappears for the night...
                                           The moon spreads it's wings with a
                                                       cascading height...
                                   Into the darkness my thoughts find their way...
                                       I can then scribble endlessly like letters
                                                           in a parade...
                                   I struggle to finish before the sun finds my sky...
                               And as the light pours down, my thoughts can't hide...

Details | Haiku | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part II

The Med between us
The gusts make me think of you
Storms... it’s just like home.

Details | Free verse | |

Tongue Tied

I can’t write today
my tongue is stuck in my cheek
the pen’s dry
powdered ink like sifting sand 
on greased paper flees.

The well is dry.
Pump priming is required
and my feet are stuck
with my mind and arse to the inside
of a dry mouth.

Click, click, click
the false keys chirp
mimicking the old black
chitter chatter.

Sunbeams have lost their perk
caffeine has lost its BUZZ
the dust bunnies are playing stick ball
between my post caterpillar eyebrows 
even flaxseed oil doesn’t damp the dry mouth.

Perhaps, I’ll have a cold one poured?
Prime numero uno..
grease the wheels of mediocrity?
Sharpen the nib of my font?
“Oh do stop that incessant gibber!”

Details | I do not know? | |

Angry immortal

You dont need no friends
all they will do is hurt you
let them all go, why hold them up?
the family are so far behind,
they will never understand
we are so alone, in this life,
women want what you can give
i wont trade money for sex
or even a bit of attention
or a commitment of ownership
a culture of prostitution...

The poor people steal from you
the rich will rape you
not selling my rear for interest..
and the middle are just stupid
addicted to the drugs, the propaganda

I am the artist, the expressionist, the prophet,
alone, with one mission, 
where are my pleasures?
cursed to teach this selfish culture
pathetic humans, suffering
too stupid to give anything
complaining, whining, frustrated,

They are about to destroy themselves
a collective suicide of selfishness

The other immortals tell me to have hope,
to love them, to teach them,
They arent my friends, so busy 
teaching, and giving to the vampires. 

The christians love war and murder of others
They worship, punishment, hatred, and money
the buddhists wont stand up for themselves and fight,
the middle road is lost.
The muslims are too busy oppressing women
and praying for heaven
The jews know nothing of love, only greed

They tell me i should feel special
i have so much to teach and give,

Jesus taught them forgiveness
helping the poor, loving all people
they crucified him!

The afterlife is so wonderful, they say,
if you teach love and forgiveness.

I am in this life now,
and all i find is tricksters, liers and decievers
I am tired of being alone, 
The body is male, and only half of itself. 
addiction to female energy
no control, clairvoyance gone
the suicidal idiots have something right

I am cursed to sit here and learn compassion,
patience, how to inspire them
teach them to love, and give to others, 
all in the hope that they wont destroy themselves

Why cant i give up on hope?
they are pathetic, i am tired,
of the abuse, and anger, i evoke.

They hate me, unless i pretend,
smile the big smile, 
and pat them on their back for selfishness.
They love you then, 
I do not worship their god, of self-worship.
I wish i could, maybe i would be rich. 

living off of the blood, sweat and tears of others
how nice that would be, to relax, no responsibilty
to give or love anyone except my family.  

I am sure i will feel better tomorrow

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 | Rhyme | |


I feel like an expired crouton when not penning On a soup bowl where spoons are all reeling They would scribble like steam and taste what is read Through minutes and hours, still they are not enough fed As overnight alphabets brew from dandy stewing Soup bowl has spices, purees and great presentation And finest herbs with glories extract dollars and a donation, The best sauce boils till TPS chef rams into a bodge glitch There’s a fly on soup, error shuts down from techno ditch Curdling word-ingredients; spoons like me burn in frustration! © . . .. . David William’s Life Without Soup By nette onclaud

Details | Bio | |

Ischchaduta II


This is a new word in the name of the Infamous Pinkee....I still say that it should be
added to the British and/or American Dictionary!  There is an ongoing campaign to 
implement this change fore it is detrimental to the survival of the total alphabet system.
This, I do in the name of the Pinkster....The only problem with this word is that it's spelling
seem's to change every time that it is used, according to the setence structure. I bet that 
Scholars' will fight over this for years.....

Ischchaduta (ish-chc-duta)

Ishchehaduta do what you want
I can ish-chu-data
The way that I feel
I can isch-cu-duta
When I finally need a break
Or climbing up a hill
That's that old isch-ca-dut-a
Some-time's it could kill
I can isch-chu-du-a
When I'm eating a steak
I can even isch-cu-duta
When it is all just a big mistake
That's the chance we take
I can ischcu-duat
When I say that I love you
When I am alone and feel blue
I truly isch-ca-duta-doo
Especially for you
I can isch-cu-duta
When I am talking on
        The phone
This is the making of
When I just want to play
           All alone
I do seem to isch-ul-ax
When I just want to relax
I isch-cc- to the max
When it is time to pay
The "ISR" their tax'
I ischu-duta-day
In such a seriou's way
As a fact of the matter
I wish that I could Is-cha-duta
         Again to day
Only this time that I ish-co-duta
It won't be for play


Details | Rhyme | |


the dog Charley ate my poem
that's what my excuse is
the wind flew it down my street
the same place that my muse is

my boss said "get back to work NOW!"
"the deadline is here for your idea",
I'd like to get it, but don't know how
now I'm lookin' for some panacea

I was standin' with my stanza
and I dropped it down the john
my face flushed, so did the rhyme
tried to get it back, but - it's gone

the organ grinder with his monkey
came walking down our quiet street
turned tranquility into a noted din
made my mind run in full retreat

then I walked down that same road
on my way to this very recital
a big guy came up said "hand it over"
now I'm empty-handed despite all

of these excuses that I need to explain
I've wracked my brain, tipped toward insane
I'll never have a creative thought again!
can someone actually have a mental sprain?

my best friend, at least I thought so
"be a pal, just lemme borrow it" he says,
told me he'd only need it for a day or two
that's the honest truth of what my excuse is

© Goode Guy 2012-04-22

Details | Couplet | |

Oven of my Heart

by Michael J Falotico

                                               I had a dream when I couldn't sleep..
                                          I chased away tears when I couldn't weep..

                                           Released balloons that stayed in my sight..
                                        And watched them flutter in air with no height..

                                           I swept up letters that fell from my hands..
                                      Planted them in my mind where words now land..

                                           Gravity pulls out my thoughts and desires..
                                          In the oven of my heart that still burns fires..

Details | Free verse | |


Quodlibertarians excel at obacerating
And are skilled in the art of obganiating
They drive people nuts,
No ifs, ands or buts,
Even their perscrutation seems nothing less than excoriating!


The Art of Arguing About Anything

People who argue about any subject excel at contradicting
And are skilled in the art of irritating people with constant reiteration
They drive people nuts,
No ifs, ands or buts,
Even their thorough search and diligent inquiry seem nothing less than condemning!

Details | Tanka | |

'System ErRoR'

it is there again that dreaded system error restless night ahead I'll try again in three hours will set my alarm instead

Details | Free verse | |

Of Words

So much is placed
 in the written word,
 of life, dreams, fantasy 
and gibberish.
We read such written 
words daily, but do we 
take the time to understand
 them and the mind of the
 writer behind them?
From childhood we are
 taught to express through
 our words, yet so much
 is not understood.
The mind is complex,
 it never rests until the
 end when words will
 no more transcend.
When the writer has gone,
 will his words left behind be 
of life, dreams, fantasy 
or gibberish? We leave you
 to decide!

Details | Sijo | |


  The lighted gateway to the spirits of other men waits,

    Ever facing the inner demons that dwell in the writer's heart,

  Screaming unheard by others, for words still left unwritten.

Details | ABC | |

The Letter S

I can use the letter s with so many s words, 
I am the seventh sign supreme soldier from the reservation suburbs, 
I fly like seagull in the open ocean sky supreme like an serpant eagle eating birds,
 I am so solid Im siked and sipped up from the sizzy sizzurp, 
I stagger until I swerve swiftly as snake in the souless society lost curbs, 
life so crooked it stained with soaked blood life around death curves, 
I cant believe so many lost soveriegn souls *****on they own siblings as the culture turns,
 I know I am sure of being sure of what I sought to learn, 
The brain with suicide can sometimes burn. 

Souless savage in society I be among little certain satans, lost in circles saying "7th Sign Empire Engraving"like my own still souls of savage culture on certain colors discriminating,
 But whats even worse is soul on souls hating, 
Society severed in broken circles still forsaken, 
Serpants searching society split in seven different groups of seven hundred seventy-two,
 Forsake my Se7en and I forsake thee seven times seven fold because truth be said Im souless to you,
 Se7enth Sign Supreme Solid Serene Soldier of of the sacred seven, 
I say I have always said society on my word S

Details | Free verse | |

Blinkink Cursor

Blinking Cursor 

Why do you taunt me so?
A hungry hatchling eager to eat from my nest of ideas
An exotic dancer alone on a white stage— taking text for tips
I cannot walk away I am drawn to your blinking body
Hypnotized by the deformed piano key daring me to play suicidal notes of an unknown tragedy
Revived by the flat line, black and brave against a pasty piece of paper resuscitating my imagination 
A weak Samaritan to the beggar that bothers me for change; and correction of my written work
My lonely lover waiting to make literary love on plain white sheets
The hero that rescues all my forgotten memories
Essential to the healing of my sanity
So why must you taunt me with endless possibilities?

Details | I do not know? | |

Brain Dead

There I lay.

Remained, unchanged.
Mind numb, thoughts blank,
Only visions of snowy white project onto the black backs of my eyelids.

Was I paralyzed? Or perhaps I had reached my final destination six feet under the earth...

No. Worse...
Writer's block.

I look around me. Nothing but enclosed darkness. No windows, no doors. 
The air is thick and cold...not yet cold enough to see my breath, but just cold enough for an uncomfortable setting...the monotonous silence is deafening...

I panic, running around frantically in the chilling prison walls of my mind, screaming, clawing, kicking, hoping to somehow break through and see the light of day. 
I stop after what seems like endless useless hours of fighting. Hands bruised and drenched in stale dried blood. 

I'm sitting on the ground now. I yell into the emptiness but receive nothing in return, no echo, nothing. I yawn wildly in fear I have gone deaf...but then I hear a voice. Soft and faint, so gentle that I'm ambushed with another attack of yawns to once again reassure that the tiny whispers are more than my blank labrynthed mind playing tricks on me.

There is a light. A small light, bright and inviting. Shining through an old fashion key hole, to an old fashion door that seemed to appear from thin air.

On hands and knees I approach it with caution. I hear the innocent voice again and I pause. I take a deep breath and look into the peep hole. 

I find myself locked eyes in the reflection of the wild appearance man in my computer screen and awaken.

Details | Cowboy | |

saline through time-

social dishonesty, 
in a word, 
in a moment, 
without reason or hope, 
saline through time… 


Details | Quatrain | |


Did you ever suffer writer's block, 
When you couldn't write a line?  
When you struggled, hoped, and waited  
For that inspiration shine?

Did you ever beg the muses 
To intervene on your behalf, 
And find them in a stubborn mood, 
When they'd only sit and laugh?

They've been playing coy with me, now,
For far too many days.
They nearly drive me up the wall,
With their mean, contrary ways.

But I still love 'em, don't you know, 
And I'm sure that they love me.
I know they'll sing and dance again,
If I wait patiently.

Details | Lyric | |

I call up the wind - - -

Whipping my raven hair I write of a dream, I dreamt Raw with my fantastic imagination I call up the wind I call the voice of silence I have wings to soar high There is a voice dwelling deep inside It is always calling and beckoning to me The night is sad blue velvet O, stars be gentle with this soul As I wander between earth and heaven I call up the wind I call the voice of silence My words are my beauty Eternity is my final destination Each poem written is carved in my soul Lyric December 11, 2012

Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Baggage Claim

Drained to my very heart by our slow-paced arrival, 
          I wander through tasteless decor to the metal arches 
                                                Beyond which a future is unfurled.
My bag’s innards are spilled like blood in the Bible
          Before the cold gaze of the armed man who marches;
                                                He holds the key to this new world.

The mechanistic arch stands and takes quasi-sentience 
          Beside passport control, piercing my finely popped 
                                                Eardrums with sonic solemnity.
I am refused by technology but stagger forward hence 
          Into baggage claim where a suitcase pile is propped 
                                                Up like a holiday Tetris calamity.

My suitcase is soul black and with difficulty is found,
          In its lucid eagerness to fasten itself a faux family;
			   Airports are filled with pretences.
Now we are away again, small trolley safe and sound,
          On the road from snow, heat is where I plan to be.
                                                Our intrepid journey commences...

Details | Imagism | |

Ooh Lord Give me time to pen a verse

Ooh Lord,
Lost between files, forgotten in daily schedules
slipping away  in the daily humdrum of dear life
 and quietly  ebbing from  my mind is  a verse.
Of the warm embrace of the yellow orb that attends my mornings,
And of the friendly chatter and heavy pats that at times encapsulate my afternoons,
Of the sounds of lowing of cattle with their clanging bells that I yearn for in my evening, sauntering from the rolling hills yonder into the open kraals besides the warm smoking huts, 
And of the patter patter of the of the pearly ocean waves, quietly muffling the hooting madness to gently lull me in my nights.
Or better still of that first warm smile replete with promise, or that parting embrace heavy with looming tear,
Or of gentle pets and carefree laughter in the lush park, or one of a forlorn bench beside a moat of solitude.

 Give me time 
Before the tender caress of the yellow orb no longer thaws my frame,
And the friendly chatter is quieted to soft sobs,
The heavy pats emasculated to pale caresses of loss,
The lowing of cattle is supplanted by solemn sermon,
The clanging bells begin tolling atop a turret 
and the soft patter patter eases in to  the unbroken still of placid waters

To pen a verse
Before a warm  smile I can no longer partake,
And a sad embrace and the welling tear no longer prick a steely heart,
And a cold frame is no longer attuned to gentle touches   and gaily laughter 
Before busy schedules ebb away, deadlines fleet, and files dissipate,
Before waters yonder muffle the humdrum  of a busy life,
Till only the dregs of a forlorn bench besides the moat of disappointment
quietly attended by all the time I should have penned a verse, is all that remains,
Ooh lord give me time to pen a verse.

Details | Rhyme | |

Stubborn or Gifted

I'm working on a poem
And it's giving me fits
I guess I'll have to work it out
Or just call it quits.

But if I call it quits
I fear what you might miss
So I'll just bow my neck
And pray it will make sense.

Details | Rhyme | |


Introduction: This is a new word which should be added to the English language
to the English dictionary, as in that it is not already there!  I am now introducing
this newest of word's and if you ask me why, well then " I don't Know!  It mean's
just that I don't know.  This word can sometime's deplict to be graphic and sometime's taken literally in it's most common form.

Ishcaduata   (ish-ca-duata)

Some say that it could be British
But, I don't know
You can call it American
And here we go
Because I could ish-ca-duata anywhere
I can do it in a chair
No matter how many times we do it
The people, they only stare
You can ish-ca-duata any time
You can ish-ca-duata
Your house or mind
You can ish-ca-duata
Ish-ca-duata with a close friend'
You can do it in the kitchen
You can do it in the den
I like to ish-ca-duata
I do it in my jeans
I can ish-ca-duata wearing
Almost anything
I can ish-ca-duata-du
I can ish-ca-duata-di
I can ish-ca-duata-cee
Till it make's me pee
I, Ish-ca-duata when it's kind of slow
I even ish-ca-duata in the snow
But, if you want to know
Exactly what it mean's
Well, I can tell you
That is is exactly what it seem's
All that I can say is that 
It mean's I don't know
And that is just about as far
As it go
And when I go to the spell-check
To ask the question
It always' tell me
Their is no suggestion
O'h, Ishcaduata

Details | Rhyme | |

The Eyes of a Poet

When the world sees a broken-down shack
A poet sees a castle on a hill
Though both will look at the very same thing
A poet will look with his quill

When the world sees an old man and wife
A poet sees the first time they kissed
When the world sees the age in their eyes
A poet sees the love that they missed

When the world sees a dark rainy day
A poet sees a time for romance
When the rain keeps the world locked away
A poet sees a good time to dance

When the world sees young people in love
They say they're only pretending
But the poet will see Romeo and Juliet
And write them a happy ending

The world can see the same things we do
But somehow they just don't know it
For they choose to look with their worldly eyes
And not through the eyes of a poet

Details | Quatrain | |

Poetry's Legions 2K11

Poetry's Legions, for asker's are we;  
Asking for open minds and open hearts?  
Poetry's Legions, for basker's are we;  
Basking therein soothing warmth of much hearts.  

Details | Blank verse | |

PERSPECTACLES-the sight of the blind

PERSPECTACLES’-‘the sight of the blind’
Perspectives according to the eyes
Spectacles perspectives
Spectacular perspectives
The eyes perspectives
The perspectives of the eyes
The thoughts of the eyes
Fired by eye-sight
The in-sight; the sight within
In my own eyes
In the eyes of my mind
In my mind eyes
For the eyes do think
With a horn-rimmed spectacles
It is spectacular! 
It’s the sight of the blind
The vision of the visualless
It’s insight; the hindsight and sight within
It is perspectacles! 
And its spectacular
The blind see
The blind see still blind
Is it a miracle? 
No, it is a spectacle
It is particular
Well, maybe a miracle
But it is spectacular

Details | Senryu | |

Hungry For Words

senryu provides
with wit or irony some
ilk of food for thought.

Details | Free verse | |


Words can only be spoken
But then again they can be written.
But when written they have less or more meaning

When spoken, they are ignored.
So, when one wants others to stop
And listen they sit and write.

But no one can understand the feeling!
For when they spoke it the feeling it was meant to be
People took one look and dissed it
Saying it just them being attention hungry.

One is in pain
One is in joy
No one really cares
They want them to shut up.

When when gone those words
They haunt all who refuse to listen
Those who brush it off
Those who just walk away.

Then those once so called annoying words
Not written, become more important
And easily forgotten.

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 | Rhyme | |

The World Needs Stupid Poems About Sheep

There's many speeches made upon the battlefield of life
And much advice both wise and otherwise
There's words to spur us on to overcome all sorts of strife
Some honest truths and some just hopeful lies.

The pep talk to build up the team so they go out and win;
The mantras found in simple battle cries;
The politics of power delivered with an extra spin;
The prophets' words reduced to sermon size;

The burning words of hatred that can send a man to kill
To light the fire that must be quenched with blood;
The prophecies long written that the blind seek to fulfil;
The word that lifts the fallen from the mud.

The lovers speak in whispers in the darkness of the night
And plight to each their troth in sickly verse
And the righteous lift up their voice to praise God, good and right
And hide the fact that they do something worse.

But if there is humanity and sanity to keep
The world needs stupid poems about sheep.

Details | I do not know? | |

'the twitch'

This is the story of ‘the twitch’.  
We have all had it:  
   That bit of movement before we sleep.  
We have been awakened by it when we were younger. . . it threw our arm out to catch us 
before we fell out of bed.
   It was even younger than that for us.  
   It was sometimes confused with a kick --  from our mothers’ tummies  to the swaddle of 
   As we grew, the arm no longer flew. . . and thus. . . ‘the twitch’.
   It is thought that we started with 
a parting of the energy that mathematicians make Einsteins 
of, or, 
sounds of the aria that Mozart’d 
into our echoes of the day --  a marriage of concept and conceptual.  
   It took us through the outreach of awkward doubt. . . brought us ‘round the curve 
of nerve 
for monkey bars toward the first dance; drew blood in our mouths before we got the first 
punch – given/taken.
The part of ‘the twitch’ 
that is worthy of noting now is that 
   it has never wanted to be caught:  
   It wanted more than nothing to be left alone – perhaps; conceived that 
   it would be an occasion for cause. . . effect – the drive our parents tried to delay 
with Dr. Seuss and Disney books.  A teenage indifference took us away from 
We all fall asleep. . . as we’ve always done.  
The story of ‘the twitch’ begins at the thumb; carries on. . . for the course of fingers
   it touched.
Brings  us a little closer to the edge of our beds.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Level Of Intention 
eye had to pay for internet by the hour the word the line 
eye ran out of money in 1995 
the Computor had a dollar slot and a coin changer on the side 
the people eye worked for had all the consoles set up to lock me out 
the internet worked for my anyway if eye fed them enough coins online they let 
me out of the dungeon chamber long enough to smurf someone gave me coins 
for blood eye dripped enough to make the online hound sit up and beg inn 
Eiderdown the motel stray the bed is bound and wet just toss it out the bed 
cannot be found to dry it takes a never day just burn all of the buildings down In 
2003, lecturers and students from the UP Media Lab Arts course used a £2,000 
grant from the Artistic Console to study the literary output of real monkeys. They 
left a computer keyboard in the enclosure of six monkeys in a ZOO in Briton for a 
month, with a radio link to broadcast the results on a website. One researcher, 
Mike Phillips, defended the expenditure as being cheaper than reality TV and 
still "very stimulating and fascinating viewing". Not only did the monkeys produce 
nothing but five pages consisting largely of the letter S, the lead male began by 
bashing the keyboard with a stone, and the monkeys continued by urinating and 
defecating on it. The zoo's scientific officer remarked that the experiment 
had "little scientific value, except to show that the 'infinite monkey' theory is 
flawed". Phillips said that the artist-funded project was primarily performance art, 
and they had learned "an awful lot" from it. He concluded that monkeys "are not 
random generators. They're more complex than that. … They were quite 
interested in the screen, and they saw that when they typed a letter, something 
happened. There was a level of intention there." 
Given enough time, a hypothetical Monkey typing at random would, as part of its 
output produce one of Shakespeare's plays (or any other text) when the eye was 
a boy they were saying it was the Gettysburg Address. Placing 100 monkeys 
inside the computer room and letting them type the sound of the keyboards is 
deafening making a poor noise of institutionalistical importance. They did not 
type the Gettysburg address they typed and typed and this is what they typed they 
made it gibberish there is nothing much a monkey types that a poet can ever 

Details | Free verse | |



To get someone to read my poems… Contests there must be.
They must be bleeping nuts thinking I can follow all those cockeyed rules.
Out of a zillion types of poems they always pick the weirdest ones.
Allowed only 16 lines… I found I stopped at ninety-one.
And for a topic they want a bird throwing glitter from a tree.
How about I spank them as I put them across my knee!!!
And why must I name it… as they told me? Where’s that for creativity?
Then they want a special comment added in the poem…
I would rather not add plagiarism… I’d rather call it my own.
But, you know, I am so very needy that I’ll do whatever they want.
Well… I’ll do, maybe one or two… of the things they want.
I know this makes it harder to judge the poems that are found therein.
But to me a poem… is a funny bent on my crazy whim.
Then suddenly, Lord Have Mercy… my poem didn’t win.
But I’m happy as punch for even with their strained smile…
I’m sure they read one of my poems yet again. :)

(Meant only for fun) I'm not really complaining. Just having fun.

Details | Free verse | |

Thoughts of A Song Writer

From my thoughts on the paper in which it lies, 
My everlasting passion is inked as it dries.
The way I feel inside, you might want to spy,
But if you pry, how will my lyrics surprise?
A song for thought will only leave a thought.
May sound difficult, but that’s just how I talk.
I was lost, but I found me.
Dreaming and believing that writing was my key.
The way it flows and the way that it goes pumps me to speak
the very thoughts that many minds chose to keep.
Many rocks I’ve kicked and many decisions I’ve made.
Any wrongs I take the blame.
Tic-tac-toe is only a game.
I plagiarize your eyes with the notes that I’ve taken,
A high note here and a low note there-
You’d swear I’m in your head when my song hits your ear.
Pain recognizes pain
And I’ve have my share of bandages.
 My vibes from life heals the permanent damages.
Thoughts of a Songwriter,
Reaches farther beyond the beat,
Over the lyrics on the sheet,
Not only is it about the speech,
 But more of what the message seeks.
True enough a theme is touched and a heart is rushed.
With the mind-throbbing picture disappearing 
Through the ink of my pen and revealed through your lens,
You can’t hear me, but do you feel me?
I cherish my talent and where it could possibly sweep me.
My doubts and my worries are beneath me.
I love for brighter days and pray for more things to pave.
Call my life my number because its infinite.
Thoughts of a Songwriter,
My mentality drips it.

Details | Blank verse | |


I got
        CRAZY words!

Y’all should see ‘em –
         They’s a
         N’Awleens jumpin’ jazz

    wit’ stilt-walkin’, trash-talkin’
   ‘n’ flamin’ side-show
  sword swallowers

(Voodoo princess in the corner –
   Doncha think y’oughtta warn ‘er?)

They’s ju-ju in the air
  & frantic dancin’ lewd &
         high-life thugs

Well – they jist ain’t
    in control 
    of they senses

  an’ they sho’ ain’t in control
    of the fences --


have been

   s t a m p e d e d

I got CRAZY,
   words make hocus-pocus pie
    wit’ jumbalaya ‘n’ sweet paella
      ‘n’ eggplant parmesan --

I think 
   I’ll eat them words –
      I’m sho’ they taste

‘n’ they ain’t too bad
    digested ‘n’ re-
    gurgitated, neither!

Yeah! Taste them words
  Wit’ yo’ ears,
   Wit’ yo’ eyes
Wit’ da pre-rational room
In yo’ mind
‘n’ dance, dance to they samba –

Starlit night time
    Drunken, shoutin’ revelers
Aswirl in a frenzy
    Of passion ‘n’ despair

Skirts ‘n’ voices
        Flappin’ in the stompin,
Stomped-up dust storm


Got crazy –


Details | Haiku | |



cracks reminding us 
a calender hangs silence 
by all irony.


Practice for the blind 
circulation shutting down
shall twist towards plot


Running for their skin,
civilised sugar paper , 
for response alone.


Details | Free verse | |

My Eternal

everywhere but the nape of my neck fills with goosebumps
his deathly kiss is cold, but Intense
i know what is soon to come, but I cannot feel Afraid
that would only hasten My emanate bloody death
my skin is pierced and my spine has a surge of electricity shocking my system
i collapse into his Viscous grasp

the world has never been this Auroral 
My heart has never felt darker
is an eternity in hell worth an almost infinite life of extraordinary feats to be overcome?
i know my Power is great
but now I weaken with thirst

i am not better
i am simply a slave to blood now
i could write for infinity, but i'd Rather Earn my way into hell
starting with the death of my maker

Details | Free verse | |

Indalomena Mnemosyna

'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'
All that chess-
Recall for a moment
That idle chit-chat,
That verbal bric-a-brac,
such flamboyant suppositional consciousness,
Let it noodle around the edges-
Blow this metaphor off.
Ratings challenge lies.
The deep magenta shadows,
The haze of grass smoke
'My face is my own, I thought'.
We need to remember,
Weaving around caftans
with a duodecimal swivel-
I think of Ben Johnson
And 'Shards of God',
Who is Hanibal?
Collapsing the elements,
My question is a part of the point of these lines,
A faked head,
A form of women,
I can do nothing.
Other discourses speak on it's behalf,
There is a cost to the silent critique,
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'.

Details | Quatrain | |

Hitting a Writer's Block

I've hit a Writer's Block, I fear,
For now nothing makes sense,
My subject matter is farily bland,
I can't make it intense.

Perhaps I need a break from writing
But such ideas I cannot bear,
For I find joy in intriguing
All of my readers out there.

I've hit a Writer's Block, I think
It took out the rear tire
Of all the dreams I rode upon
Of the goals to which I aspire.

I look to the sky and beg for help,
Or some weird idea; I'd try
To use what I'm given to fix my dreams,
For if I don't write, I will die.

I've hit a Writer's Block; I might
Have injured it somewhat badly,
Unfortunately, as blocks don't die,
It will pursue me, madly.

What does a writer do, to have 
Earned such horrid fate?
Should I have had a headlight on
When I was writing late?

I've hit a Writer's Block; it's true,
Even as I now pen;
But the Writer's Block hit back,
And it will hit again.

Details | Rhyme | |


It comes almost as quickly as it goes.
But I know that if you feed it, it grows.
It is a brilliant spark.
A flash of light in the dark.
Nothing that I can see, touch, or hear.
Perhaps it has always been there.
Waiting to be brought into the light.
Waiting for wings to take flight...
Ready and ripe, to be cultivated.
Just willing to be motivated.
There waiting for me to breathe the life into it.
Prepared and ready inside of my own intuit.
Calling it to life, setting it into motion.
Created from a spark of my emotion.
Molded by my own creation.
Brought to life out of my imagination.
Blossoming is the seed I have sown,
Now it takes on a life of its own,
And it burns with light from my fire,
To go forth into the wide world and inspire.

Sarah Comstock

Details | I do not know? | |

The Meeting Place of Poets

Your opinions make me feel welcome
Your inspiration keeps me going
Going like the Energizer bunny
Going like a train on a high speed chase
Chase with a passion
Chase for the sake of it
It is with love and kindness you share
It is the simple knowledge that you care
Care for what I say
Care with a dripping honesty
Honesty that speaks volumes
Honesty that helps me improve
Improve steadily
Improve gracefully
Gracefully I take it all in
Gracefully tasting
Tasting the sweetest triumph
Tasting the most bitter pill
Pill that fills me
Pill that becomes obsession
Obsession that swallows whole
Obsession over little things
Things are but possessions
Thing can't compare to the human thought
Thought that turns into action
Thought counts, but useless without motivation
Motivation is hard to find, but
Motivation is your specialty
Specialty, sweeter that grandma's cookies
Specialty to die for!
For morning when my day begins
For late at night to calm the stress
Stress of the constant tug-a-war
Stress that you my friends can relieve
Relieve like ice on a hot summers day
Relieve like spray to keep mosquitoes away
Away on opalescent wings
Away my worries fly
Fly to the top I will!
Fly beside me, for you seek the same place
Place where jigsaw puzzles reset themselves
Place where poet exchange greeting cards
Cards in flowery pink and violet
Cards in onix and dreary gray
Gray seems bland I know, but
Gray is black and white, the marriage of war and peace
Peace isn't easy to find,
Peace resides here I believe

NOTE: This poetry form actually does have a name. It's called a Blitz. However it wasn't in the list of writing forms on the Soup.

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 | Free verse | |


 in the corner
 of a pub
I write vows
 and eulogies
 I speak
 of the dead
 the departed
speaking of love
 waxing of life
 on the breath
 of a baby 

I take minutes
 of hours
 I wrap my hands
 in cheesecloth
stained with black
 my fingernails
 have loosened
 from their beds
life passes through
 my pen, surging
 and ebbing
 with each tragedy
 or celebration 

I read lips
 hear tones
 watching from afar
 the faces
but unable
 to touch
 the life in them

Details | Free verse | |


Biding peace laid for some pariah, 
spinning all mind's lie.
Vision gliding ever higher, 
	soaring ecstasy; exquisite sapphire sky

Yet wing Wired,  we catch earthbound, 
	nothing but shifting twilight sight.
cutting thy hand short. 
	Records wake, flash bright white.

Formed half here, half there.
Lost by laughter and fear, 
	A stolen shadow's
		 path to nowhere.

Within this vista of pure visual;
	,  ghostly green shine. 
		lit from MOON'S far dream.
The soothe sayer of dazed worry, 
		forgetting past fright of 
yet another scene.

Igniting matters .. all grey 
		coloured shock. 
 slumbering his career
spent, clinging by the scraps
		 scraping slow dawn 
drawing ever near

to mislead by a prized pun .. if not ... REMember. 
	gathering with a shaded kind,
left now, dust, dry light. slipping as a fade out mind

dashed on mourning 
	stealing yet another oblique view.
Aimless day-walker disjointed from the world; 
		so bland and blue.
Joy bursts from chest when ever pen hits
nothing compares to thy writing; 
			Alls elated fits.

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 | Free verse | |

Dreams of Children, Realities of Men

As children, we all dream,
tales of magic, of mystery,
and our own imagined destinies;
we dream of future prowess, of our own fantastic wyrds –
of our glorious, important place in the cosmos.

Whether those dreams are of firemen, police,
soldiers, artists, scientists,
writers, musicians, or something that isn't there,
like superheroes or the princes and princesses of old,
we all want to be something greater, even in youth.

I, too, dreamt these childhood dreams
of glory and legend, enchantment and song;
I too felt their pull,
heeded their call and let imagination sweep me away –
for a time.

Eventually we move on from the past,
accepting its existence, its wonder, sometimes its pain,
its place in who we have since become –
and so did I, from the fanciful paths of yesterday
to the more grounded ones of today and tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

For, of late, and a litte while before,
I have been tending a magic all my own;
not the magic I'd envisioned, the kind of fire and ice,
light and fury –
the kind of word and verse.

Now I voice my thoughts in phrase and letter,
birthing a new, separate being;
a being of explanation, of concepts and sensation,
with a life all its own, on the page and in my heart –
parts of me, grown in my mind and given form as poetry.

And now I've discovered, it's this kind of magic I prefer –
the dreams of the past truly can't compare
to the realities of today;
not when I can take the barest thought, slightest inspiration,
and change it into something so much more.

Not when I've become not only myself, but a vessel,
a repository for idyllic words to come coursing through –
for my muse inhabits my mind, beside me,
forever changing my outlook and my output;
yes, that's my kind of magic.

Details | Ballad | |

My pet poem

To write a poem everyday ,wasn't such a task,  
Just a little rhyming ode is all I really ask.

A simple ode that rythms out it wasn't much to say,
to breath some life into some words and brighten up your day.

I had to feed it constantly, morning, noon and night,
and soon it took up all my time, it gave me such a fright.

It smelled a foul of yukky stench and grew too long I feared,
Soon it would be far to big to keep it locked down here.

Midnight grumbles form the words that would not make its stay,
And gurgling chorts of snorts and warts it gave off everyday.

It killed grandmother, then the cat before it broke its chain,
And left a trail of slimy gunk dripping down the drain.

Details | Haiku | |


Writing non-sense words
to keep this mind occupied
and avoid madness.

Wandering in streets,
when nobody greets and smiles...
alone seeking rare ideas.

So bored, unispired  
and tense...writing non-sense words
'till sunrise arrives.

Details | Verse | |

My Style

So many people ask my why
my lines are so hypnotic
and why my eyes cry for the world

I learned a lesson as a little girl
Music took the pain away
in a way that I never really understood
But somewhere I found my rhythm
and it felt good

I learned to enjoy the breeze
I learned to smile when mama would sing
I copied her vibe
but when my vibe came to me
The words would resignate as a song
but when I opened my mouth 
it became poetry
I claim full responsibility of this gift

When the sun rises and the moon resides
I thank the Creator for this shift
Melodies became attached to my DNA
in such a way that the process
where jazz, blue and hip hop relate;
poetic tendencies were relative to my mind state
Music is my soul
But poetry is the gate

Details | Free verse | |


An instrument of beauty,
poetry is art at its best
with its verses of passion
penned with love
in assorted and variegated
metrical composition
with sublime and
aesthetically satisfying flow.

It is a creative exposition 
that unfolds and enlightens
with enchanting constructs 
the demonstrative and
effusive characterization 
of language by utilizing, 
promoting and bestowing 
the nature and power of words.

Proclaiming ideas and ideals
of principled excellence
with creations anew
and history of old,
poetry exhibits an appetite
for knowledge and wisdom
and a profound propensity 
for purposeful revelation
with an insatiable desire
for intimation and meaning
displayed with heartfelt emotion.

With its aspiration to show case
in magnificent scribal splendor,
poetry entices and compels
the artist and consumer
to explore and transcend
imagination and intrigue,
and solicit introspection
with unfathomable penetrating thought 
that is calmed by grace and elegance.

Philosophical and spiritual,
entertaining and healing,
poetry commands laughter and tears
or sorrow and joy,
Its clamorous and powerful
phonologically expressive morphemes
can awaken and stir passion and romance
or summon logic and reason.

resplendent in wisdom, 
captures love,
inspires hope,
provoke curiosity,
resonates drama,
evokes mystery,
uplifts spirits
and expresses grief.
So magnificent,
so powerful,
so wondrous
is the nature and
the majesty of poetry.

Details | Epic | |

A New Collection to the Eye Forest

Crackling blood lies in these forest grounds
Grass growing by its lively effect…
Growing a grimace to the environment    
As the predators hung her on the branches,
carving her left eye on the oak tree
and carving her right eye on the olive tree

They grow livelier…
sucking up the carrions from off the ground
Drowning the vines that try to 
suffocate and remove them for life
left to be in history…unceasingly forgotten 

Now the forest has industrialized into an Eye Forest
Eyes protruding…extorting on the tree trunks
Liquefied by anguish…they had wished to escape
Their pupils punctured by arrows of death 
They grow more affectionate towards the lively soul… 
watching people suffer in indignity and disproof
Here’s that living evidence! Hidden proof!
Hunted by the worst predator out there
in the deepest of the forest

The eyes seem to stare into your own
Locked with your frightening vibes 
Feeling your dangling fears and pain 
Weeping them insane…
there is no one out there to be blamed,
even in the deepest of the forest

Oh you carrion heart, soul and body
you are accepted to the collection
and grow insanely and look into a world of reflection

You are one of those who lie in the midst of obscurity 
JUST wait till the day of Resurrection... 

Oh you carrion soul and body 
Surviving through the shadows of the forest, 
roaming along the compacted forest, 
moping about in displeasure 
because without a doubt 
you are a magnificent collection 
to the eye generation 
to look upon a cheerless, remorseful life,
Given away by the predator

They soon diminish the evidence…
Here’s that living evidence! Hidden proof!
You’re left for dead after all

Allow them to spread one of your eyes
on this tantalizing tree
Let them do their job as a hunter
Your awareness is diminished

Allow yourself to not be startled 
Lose yourself,
and later on, you’ll break free of pain and fear

Details | Free verse | |


knobby-knee’d, toes that stop 
bend and pick up 
penny, marble, rock 
outside chalk 
on concrete, begging, for me to turn around 
for one more try 

Details | Bio | |

Artificial Intelligence

A mind will listen by expanding 
knowledge to learn; or explore 

In these teachings of technology
we figure out what we know is:
just A various combination of what
was programmed into our mind.

As time passes, we'll adjust to
evolve ourselfs into becoming
artificial intelligence; amoung
society and indulge it's greatest

Until they soon take mind; over
body and loose all self~control
to empower the world.

I will not be your robot to control, 
I am my own individual person.

Details | Heroic Couplets | |

Cynecdoche The figures of speech

Cynecdoche The figures of speech
The Village rose at midnight
And each house wore delight
The festive mood squated on roofs
In hectic rhythm moved the hoofs
Horse race was followed by buffalo contest
Then human legs were put to test
The fairsex put on maiden attire
And the ageing lot sat near fire
The green calves cracked fireworks
while blind birds sat on treeperks
The daybreak was still very far
when in distant sky I saw a pulsar



Details | Sonnet | |

Sonnet 15

As technology has progressed , bound leaps ,
within the nanny state , Man simply sleeps .
Replaced Automatic ; Manual Labour.
Solved by Machine mind's , Binary No more .
For synthetic constructs for your whim , creeps
pumping cheese-its into bulging wheeze heaps.

So keep That lard thru blood , spotless , can ignore
such irritations as ; Clearing the floor .

While Digital duty serves ; watch those beeps 
streaming 24/7 fiction keeps
sake in sight , forms pixel ; away those flaws 
by Avatar's dream , away life's true claws.

While around , leashed , the world quietly leaps ,
Attended by metal hands ; Left
	Man Sleeps....

Details | Tail-rhyme | |









Details | Free verse | |


A desire of a mind noetic Into ample authors What hence may be poetic If soon imagination will enter in Thus, inspiring set hands off Into accelerated motions Conscious and naissance As these, now expressions Are more to personal words Then, creating newer realms of reality Or even more, embellishing What were once, merely less distinctive worlds

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 | Rhyme | |

What lurks within

A mystery within the cottage sublime                                                                          Whose the villian whose the hero                                                                                 The stranger looking in a view of time                                                                            An assassin or trusting soul                                                                                         The harrows of perspectives force                                                                                     When swooning the lampoon                                                                                       Not lest the heroine of course                                                                                          When crooning the attuned                                                                                              All the while we wait to see                                                                               Doomsday or wedding day                                                                                            As for me let mystery lie where it be

Details | Rhyme | |

Morning Motivation

Here and there life is everywhere 

Listen the noise what the birds are making there

Just open your visions and set the missions

Feel near as happiness here

Details | Free verse | |

New York Style

This is New York!
   creamy cheesecake,
     chinese takeout,
        dirty dawgs,
           flaming steak strips,
              street vendors galore.

This is New York!
   hot, piping,
     scorching, gooeyness,
        thick, tangy,
           sweet smoothness.

This is New York!
  high style,
    lit miles,
      street style,
         free style,
           all the while.

This is New York!
  crispy, crunchy,
     sizzling, bubbling,
        tasty, saucy spread
           velvety goodness on powdery bread.

Details | Burlesque | |

Tom's TidBits

Cinqo De Mayo...When a Brooklyn thug target shoots at a floating jar of Hellman's.

Dutch- Where do they come from?  I've looked at atlases dozens of times, and 
can't find a country called Dutch, or Dutchland.

Dusty Springfield- why doesn't someone get her a dust-buster, or dust rag, or 

Refried Beans- What's that about? Didn't they fry them right the first time?

Chigger- defamatory label for a person half Chinese, and half Black.

Endomorph- Quitting a serious drug habit.

Hoe-Down- 1)Dropping your garden tool.  2)A prostitute rendered unconscious.

Ignoramus- A hippo who failed in high-school.

Knee-Jerk-A person whose brains are in his shins.

Primate- A burglar's cohort with the crowbar.

More may be added later, and all are welcome to contribute, either in comments, 
or e-mail me and I'll add them.

Details | Rhyme | |

The Wonderful World of Words

Within this realm I can converse
Palaver, prattle or parley
So many words from which to choose
A choice to winnow, will and weigh

With words I can tell a story
Anecdote, fable or novel
Or just convey some useless facts
Unmistakable, data,  gospel

They can tell you what I’m feeling
Sensations, semblance, perception
Even describe the way I look
Visualize, perceive, envision

Words can induce feelings of love
Affection, fervor, ardency
And all to often inflict pain
Suffering, anguish, misery

Sometimes words are thought provoking
Impelling, cogent, alluring
While others can keep you guessing
Uncertain, assume, surmising

With words there are no boundaries
Barriers, brims, extremities
So free your imagination
Invention, idea, artistry

Details | Free verse | |

Rare Book

Curator rings last bells
Closing for the night

In a deep dark sea
Behind blackened windows
Lies shelves in mystical infatuations
Where rare tomes must dwell away from modern day
Among ancient particles of manuscript saturation 
Mysteries here they have no end
But, initiate in the middle of a murder; suicide
Drama, gradually unfolds as volumes friend
Forever reaching into mind

But, when romance grows placid or even thinks to die
That’s when passion for adventure begins
And the creator’s world comes to life
Swashbuckling across the places
Of both space and time
Islands are the pages
Where all are meant to be
But, the concern is for that something
A hope, for enlightenment inside thy keep
It’s a hand that simply chooses wise
Either, mingled fantasy or truthful care
A will to be cast away or thrills abound
Is the self among folios rare

Become the one held captive
Adrift in compelling song
Following upon knowledge
A walking traveler
That soon, will begin to run
Ageless secrets
And heroes
Do exist
Do them justice
Merely, turn a page
Of any book

Details | I do not know? | |

Tragic Birth

Awake to this fastness,
drunkenly greet the new morn;
discover such gladness
of loss amongst rows of corn;
rejoice in this madness,
not like you' ve yet to be born;
gaze to fullest darkness,
shudder without any scorn;
exclaim it's vast blackness,
until all you've known's been torn;
then, slouch through the sadness, 
and share that for which you mourn.

Details | Free verse | |

No Enlightened Poet am I Proclaimed

No enlightened poet am I proclaimed,
Rhyming high-flown philosophies in poesy,

(Instead, I only scratch out my words
In verses of winds and scents of spring--

Of the shades of the light crowning wintertime clouds,
Sing the grace of the wings in a homecoming sky.)

For I am no more a poet than you,
And you, with your verses, no more than I.

(And so I write of the white blush of moon
Not referencing love, neither lost nor found

And rhyme the rhythm of the lapping sea
With the throb of the heart in the desert heat.)

For what more, oh poets, are poems than beauty?

(Write: The ethereal river spills sheens iridescent
Beneath the expanse of the heavenly lights)

And what more than beauty is life?

(Breathing perfumes and sparkles of nectars and grass 
Spelling effervescence within the infinite hues.)

Details | I do not know? | |






Details | Lyric | |

Between and About

Twixt And between
Never quite there
But never will I stop.
I work and ponder
Forever moving 
Searching around and about.

There are times I wonder, where I really am?
Will I ever achieve my goals?
And what are the goals I’m searching for?
Are they really what I want?
Do I know which way to go?
Or should I start all over and begin again?

We’re all here at times in our lives…
Till every thing will finally become clear.
Then, some how I’ll be there again:
Twixt and between
Never quite there…
Here I go again.

Fluff Contest: This poem is definately full of fluff.

Details | ABC | |

Street Soldier

My baseball cap is my helmet and my Nike's are my boots, 
My country is my hood and my colors on my flag are niether red white or blue, 
My weapon of choice is my two hands, 
sometimes it can be whatever when I am threatened with a great fall from my stand,
 I have no general or soldiers but I have family and above all I got heart. 
My battlegrounds remain in my own home and sometimes even in the local Wal-Mart.
 Every inch of my hood is up for friendly fire, 
Violence remains apart of life around here searching for peace is far from desire,
 Everyday remains but another day someone will die, 
but more importantly is that another mother, brother, sister or father will cry.
 But I am a street soldier so I am prepared for anothers or worse yet my own demise,
 And as a street soldier I must keep the battle in check, no not with what I see with my two eyes, but what war is really going on inside the mind,
 My battles dont come from without but from within......I am a street soldier fighting through time.....

Details | Free verse | |


Words flow out, 
like darkness swallowing the day.
Becoming all I see,
around and around, 
swarming like bees.
Captured between two sheets 
growing, moving, living 
in a page.

Details | Rhyme | |

To The Casual Observers

Speaking my understanding, attained in lonely isolation,
I'm harried by those with their hive mentality's insulation,
as they peer at me from their consolidated consolation;
I cannot recieve a sense of some abiding satisfaction
in daily performed chores, assumed so mindlessly, by each faction,
as though, carrying out repetitive orders grants life traction.

Though, finding no faith in given conceptions of divinity,
those about me serve in fear of some diefied royalty,
seeing the simple tellings of leaves on the surface of their tea;
with a fervent desire of a greater future, I pluck each tree;
despised by those who yearn insect-like inevitability,
they want, only, to rest on a clinging, shriveled leaf, yet unfree.

On increasingly distant lands does the brightness of my sight glow,
unlike the far too many, who travel the same meadow,
always pitched downward, their eyes limiting their gazes, oh, so low;
I, however, forever search for some newer trails to follow,
as others, always beholden to the same, scented flower's tow,
as though they're prisoners to that rotting orchid's unmoving show.

Details | Limerick | |

Four Limericks

There once was a girl named Ana,
Who loved to eat ice cream and banana,
THen her treat did disappear,
And Ana shed some tears,
Everyone felt bad for Ana Banana,

There once was a boy named Peter,
Who was known as the school's best cheater,
One day he was caught,
And detention he got,
Everyone felt bad for Peter the Cheater.

There once was a boy named Michael,
Who had a new motorcycle,
He went on a ride,
And fell off the side,
Everyone felt bad for Michael.

There once was a girl named Fina,
WHo dreamed she was a ballerina,
She would gracefully twirl,
Until she could hurl,
Everyone felt bad for Fina.

Details | Free verse | |

and we are gone

... And be one eye , one soul 
as the world recedes , gone ,
away far climbs. Vanished like a 
driven cloud.
		He is merely flesh and blood Reality ;
slaughterhouse stumbling through script
	typed in selfless pursuit.
Wanting only quickened wit & Pupil's Needs.

Mortal simian image, which we , the living 
only feel and bear and tremble and 
are gone. 
Upon my Darling's beaming eyes The summit 
of everest slurs into a bog or quagmire , deep 
and dank.
	So gazing with the boldness which prevails
love, and peace and gracious mirth.
	with a voice less loud though its 
joys and fears show wool in dissembled 
colours shine.
	As the passers by near us drew 
the Need to know from our stares, going further...
	" O Merciless Lady & Vulture Poet
when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall
I will turn my bewildered eyes out 
of soil and darkness , to run through 
every alternate scene 
Where I  used to play on the green
in goodly colours gloriously arrayed.

And a voice less loud brought me 
breathless to Aphrodite , throned in 
flowers beyond this pale picture ; 
be the dream. Roaing with laughter 
as a fallow deer is clear cut through 
the sun seen peering out the skull.
vast lilliputin language cannot describe
an Echo of the Time, after the rainbow.
Then , as if some strange mystery aware
that you should remember & be sad.
Now memory feels itself grow weak , I can 
not endure,
	I am merely flesh and blood "
"it will be found once more , I say to
thee with furtive flagons , white and red.
Now get back retreat, depart."
	She of the tribunal did command
great at sea, and the Heaven. From some 
touch of pity which may still restrain 
she let him pass.

A leaf fallling softly at my feet,
but I saw it was not as thought , 
only inked. Falling in Heaven's crescendo.
Climax always brushing distance out 
of reach.
As to long panoramas of Visions, of 
my faith , I'd give whole to see the architect
of my dreams once more. I am 
waiting here for thee, flesh and blood , merely.

	Ne'er to be found again. I am 
like a flag unfurled in space. Oh ! Lost 
to Her and all thy race to wit
 faces of scorn , stuttering ends 
this morn ; O Weak Heart. I long 
to rise. Never being a Poet of God's making ,
laughter to thy lips, wandering to sigh 
among mortal men dust ; shall return to 
dust. As the storm cries everynight 
and those that know me confirm that it is thus.
Easing a new epilogue , tremble 
and we are gone...

Details | Senryu | |

A Fairy Tale

grasping a bright bloom
enchanting words he whispers
the birds sing praises

Details | Free verse | |


Eyes pierce;
words penetrate;
countenance corrodes…
pity those tough hearts
of rough masculinity
tender muliebrity.

Just think of poor God
…He dares once in a while
out of Maya-muffle
to eavesdrop His devotees’ troubles.

Got encapsulated in Her
enchanting shell, spell
…the God became a helpless manikin
caught within Her tall
woo-prison walls.

What to say
of frail mortal man;
truly gullible
to sirens’ smirks,
swings, snits and whiffs!

O’ man, O’ man…always gets tangled, wangled
and ‘woman’gled
like a fish in an angler’s net.

Details | Couplet | |

The Monster

The monster became a living, walking nightmare
my dive into insanity, no longer perfect, containing a blank stare

I should resist, the monster will find me, run away with me
Pretend to hear my meager complaints, force me to see what I'm afraid to see

Blame and guilt, volleying right and left, up and down
It's crashing me closer, with every step, I'm falling to the ground

It's all a game, just play along, play the game, play it well
Brimming confidence, dissolved in thoughts, of what? I won’t tell

Demons, devil born souls, run quick, run fast, stand my ground
No sense of fear, n sense of foreboding, not even a slight sound

High speed, pursuit of hell, bent on going, bent on crashing
Giving into the power, life's faster, lights flashing

Crash and torment me again, my eyes close after all
The beginning of the end for me, feeling numb after the fall

Is there a way out? I'm different, distant and moved on
Listen to the water, calling, coaxing into death, I'm gone

Endless, empty cloud; dreamless oblivion; oxygen, exhalation
Am I dead? Still alive? Broken into pieces, I need motivation

Reality closes in, walls me in; until there’s nothing there
Death comes behind me, containing a blank stare.

Details | I do not know? | |

An Unexpected Turn of Events

A right became an unexpected left; 
Nothing more important than subliminal 
country miles that pulled me forward, 
no destination or thought to why, 
just my surprise. Some ten miles gone, 
I felt a ray of grace; the reason 
for this race, and as I chased a trace 
of errant time – I thought of a line. 

I felt a now in my existence, 
and shared a smile with the corn silk 
light that fed my way, and the wind 
that blew the hair around my face. 

A chance to share some thoughts of mine, 
Within the realm of reason, street and rhyme. 

Once upon a time, in Everyday, 
the minutes and hours of the human 
condition, the hopes and dreams, sadness 
and screams, the cries of sedition, 
the plight of the lost, intolerance 
and ignorance, expressions of love 
for country and man, were duly recorded 
by a poet's hand, a composer who scored the lay 
of the land. And mouth to ear, where needed, 
we shared his composition, in celebration 
of the word's intended mission- 
food for thought. And then it stopped. 

We gave poetry away to obscurity, 
to the teachers of form and craft, 
who slipped overboard in their zeal 
to define the titles for the times, 
of what is a "must read", for greed, 
and intellectualizing need, 
to feed their egos and their jobs. 

With speed, they redefined 
and refined the voice of inspiration; 
imagination served with a mutant strain 
of peas. Poetry beyond the realm 
of good digestion, the cause 
of painful indigestion in the mind. 

They built a world of poetry, 
that will never sing a child to sleep; 
Mutant peas engender nightmares 
in the young. 

She said, 
"I love the way my body moves when I read Seuss." 
(For any traditional poet, this mom's good news) 

"But what of street, the beat and passion; 
the march of voices crying to be heard, 
the visualizations from a well-wrapped word? 
Can you read one and exclude the other; 
is it all about the prize and what's in fashion?" 

"No, it's about what I like. Last night, 
I drank in Whitman's leaves, with a little 
Shakespeare chaser. and tonight, I might 
guzzle Ginsberg and savor Kerouac 
like a fine wine in meandering 
subconscious streams." 

Who could disagree with her taste in words? 
So I drank a little more Baudelaire and went 
to sleep myself. 


Details | I do not know? | |

The 3 sided woman

A woman with a vision is hard to deceive.
A woman with a goal is hard to distract.
A woman with a dream is hard to please.

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet

It is a fever.

The poet

They found the poet outside the park

His steps spoke many words of wine

His upper half seemed half asleep

And his feet walked a crooked line

His arms were spread as if to fly

His lips apart as though to speak

The telltale flush of liquid joy

Told tales of  rum from cheek to cheek

The night herself caroused with him

Drunk on sadness, drunk on care

And drink they drank, the weary lovers

Setting wine against despair

The bonds of reason, broken down

His mind amok, and absent sense

The world in woe, the world in glory

Lay before his presidence


And it was then they walked to him

Rudely rousing man from dream

Casting eye on village bard

Taking man as man would seem

"Sing for us again, o bard

Cast your words at senses keen"

This was why they broke his peace

Winters twice his summers seen

"Sing for us again o bard

Spin sweet words from bitter truth

Stir the embers of your heart

Dig through elder years to youth. And

Let the fountain spring with might!!

Showering us with wisdom earned

Showing us the link in hand

Of teachers harsh and lessons learned

Free yourself from wine's embrace!

We would hear a tale or two"

Turns to them, a wizened face

"Ask not man, but what is due."

Graying eyes regard the gathered

Moving on, from face to face

"The world whirls in the hands of time

And yet all things remain in place"

"As yet all men remain the same

The board reset a dozen times

Pi-eces unaltered, so is game

Though rearranged, the given lines

You come to me as bank to debtor

You plague me with unbridled want

Says at last, man to tormentor

'Cease at once your unjust haunt""

It is a fever

"It is not a gift so given

It is not a boon bestowed

Nor is sight beheld as blessing

When the eyes have overflowed

With the sorrows of existence

Pain cavorts with all men born

Know the price of your persistence

Hear the words of man forlorn

What is loss compared to weakness?

What is pain compared to need?

When the soul suffers from sickness

To give blood to those who bleed

O for those suffering in secret

O for hidden scars concealed

Know a secret's mark of secrets

Is in wounds that never healed

The world at large, and I remain

Numb in spirit, numb of mind

My inner coldness feed by pain

Reaped from years left far behind


It is a fever that I have

It is an illness I possess

It is a symptom that you worship

It is a sign that you profess

To love, to need, to love to hear

While I remain diseased of soul

You chant and clap then disappear

Then falls to me, each telling's toll


It is a sadness that I feel

It is madness that I suffer

When the muses offer gifts

Turn your backs and run for cover

Talent has a price, and paid

This price I have, each passing day

Rise to cup and rise to can

Drink my fill then come what may

All my masters come before me

Warned me of the poet's curse

Know you all of Byron's story

Know you all that Poe's was worse

Happiness is bound to beauty

Joy to all that beauty, see

But for those that birth said beauty

All is pain and tragedy

Listen to my fading voice, now

Listen to my silent plea

Know the doom of every poet

And ask of this, no more from me

I will fellowship with Bacchus

Gimlets of the finest sort

Rise to can and drunken glory

Fall to pleasure and cavort

Now my night bids me return

Wine is all that shields from sorrow

Sets me free from all concern

Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"

His soul unburdened, back unbent

All is caught in a lengthy pause

He turns to go, the air is rent

With sounds of cheer, and of applause

Now lowering balding head to ground

"Man may speak but none may hear

Sing for us again o Bard,

Has now become a thing to fear"

Details | Free verse | |

Noble Knight

My love,
You are the honey I put in my sandwich.
You are the rose I avoid to step on.
You are so digestive.
You have a glowing smile.
Your smell is better than Channel perfumes,
so I don’t have to buy you Channel.
You are my apple I love to eat.
You cause sounds of bombs in my room
because you make me explode in laughter.
You melt when you are shy.
You are not short in your duties.
You are my heart’s beat.
You are my Aspirin. 
I love you.

P.S: Oh Love, forgive my writing, because I just came out of my first English course   
       and I wanted to share my joy with you =D

              Noble Knight <3 <3

*Digestive: humorous.
*Short in your duties: late in duties.
*The P.S is the Noble Knight himself talking and telling his beloved.

Details | Haiku | |


dancing with my muse
twisting desire into dreams-
my pencil lead breaks

Details | Rictameter | |

Quiet Things

information that tries
to remain unnoticed.  they're a
tease, when their fingerprints are found where they
should not be.  always suitors of 
mysteries, they dine and
dance with what is

don't tell
what is on your
mind; it gives you away.
show the opposite of what you
feel.  you just might save your own neck or that
of someone else.  secrets may help
you keep your friends but not
always inner
peace.  shhh!

Details | I do not know? | |

Caught Up In The Rock And Roll Game

Don’t get caught up in the game 
Don’t get caught up in the fame
It will drive you insane
It’s only you to blame 
When you get caught up in the game*Refrain: 

Because you walk through the crowd
They all know your name
The road twists and twists
 With a surprise each turn
Try to stay above it all or you’ll soon learn
 That the eyes looking in are hungry for your blood
Don’t mistake it for the love
Cause they all want a piece 
Of the music, rhythm, and soul
They love the Rock n Roll
Then there’s the girl who writes the rhymes  
Loves the love and soon you’ll find
Her spirit is so real and her sex appeal
I know you feel 
The fire that burns from the words she writes to you
It’s a powerful heat that makes your heart feel new
She loves the melody you put in her soul
It warms her heart, it makes her whole
Her spirit soars so high 
When you look into her eyes
The fire is so hot between the girl and this rock n roll guy               

Don’t get caught up in the game
Don’t get caught up in the fame
It will drive you insane
It’s only you to blame
When you get caught up in the game

Details | Blank verse | |

The Puppeteer

She's running toward the light.
She's chased it all her life.
She wants it all to end so bad,
But she will never reach salvation.

She sold her soul.
He tricked her.
The master of deception.
The puppeteer.

She thought he wanted more,
More than just her mind,
But that's all he wanted,
To put strings attached.

She has to break free,
Before he comes.
She must cut the strings,
Pull them apart.

But she doesn't know how.
She's desperate.
She cuts her wrist.
She thinks she just reached salvation.

But she just let him forever have her.
She completed the deal.
She shed the blood.
She killed herself.

Now the light goes out,
And she's all alone.
She starts to cry,
Then she hears footsteps.
He's come for her...

Details | Quatrain | |


Alluring are all these things in life in 
which one may become fond in 
Calling upon all to climb up on their 
own stage; free will regardless of 
the age
When it comes to receiving nothing 
in life grants you knowledge more 
than does reading
Engage in life to gain experience this 
sets up a phase, be your own sage

Those of you who can come to 
understand now is the time climb 
up out of the sand
Tuning into one’s own inner yang, 
requires one to hear the bells when 
the ring
Believing that you sit in his right 
hand one comes to realize that life 
is grand
It all depends on the choice of 
words which you cling they display 
the song you sing

The Creator always comes to your 
aide, no matter your individual 
A clue to each and every perversion 
exist inside all culprits arson
The sound of the first grenade is the 
signal to the enemy; begin the raid
The soul is the intent to blacken in 
the words discharged by these evil 

In there attempt to acquire all 
things delicious they embrace the 
If one does want to recognize their 
spin, all you have to is see how they 
Why they stay so furious, their will 
belongs to all things they find 
Failing to see their despicable yin
leads all down the path of 
committing sin

There will be way far too few able to 
pay the bill on the last day it is due
After relentless tearing your soul 
will continue its everlasting searing
After you realize that there has been 
a coup you will not all be able to sue
Tortured and tormented you are 
now filet and sauteed burning 
without ending 

*****  For the "Word Game 
Contest" sponsored by Catie 

Details | Blank verse | |

An Open Mind

Cracked open like a jar of peanut-butter,

             the mind is emptied

With a certain medicative methodism

That would be habitual,

             were it done more frequently.

A few things escape,

Like the shopping list left behind on the coffee table

Or the milk that was to be purchased.

So many other things, which were only just things really,

Seem to linger like the plague.

Old telephone numbers cling to the crevices,

Rotting away with the names of former lovers

And something that once resembled guilt.

A constant ticker tape of obligations and responsibility

Clicks as it spits out the duties of the hour,

Constantly moving along to its unheard song

Between two unlistening ears.

In between are flashes of color,

Of autumn leaves and unseasonably bare legs

That grow goosebumps in short shorts

                 and a cold breeze.

Observations couple with imagination

To form shapes and sounds

And olfactory stimulation

That was never anything more

            than perfume in the wind.

To finalize the transaction,

The doorway to the mind

         collapses upon itself,

Smothering hot embers into nothing more

         than dank smoke and steam.

As the last gasp of airflow is fused shut

By the rush of busy-ness and day to day

A single breath leaks out, that had once simmered

On the lips of a beautiful woman.

"Un besito," she had whispered passionate once,

Two words that meant more than the world.

Details | Lyric | |

Fascinate View Picture

The picture standing up hanged by the wood
redo..., at blueness painted livingroom alike is a horizon
she by carry out veiling white over her torso
and, a big lasso in her large black hairs ---
up designed of greenery-print flowers by the fabric
by evinced motion splendid gleams are color
by famous been knowledge enkindling the scene  
from Victorian art odes “Flaming June” 
Dreamy gussy mulls ... alike fashion are virgins.

Standing by hanged from vividness wood blueness
at glances fascinates is drawn, once picture
where the expiration will in divine rebirths, easy
up mind of any spontaneous written ... 
by the winter, by snowing or faraway deeply time 
by the spring-fall its raining
By the fire rising of chimneys, room is around.
away in slight, –by whom seeing her
rising eyes by,  at fulling of illusion
when, glance touch the call attention is scenes
Into magical dreamy playing, at Angel are words. 

Oh! ... memory sightly—as romantic is standard
in profound dismay time, nothing better thy enduring
by multi colored scene is livingroom
evenly—in big or small dimensions ...
in red, green, yellow, blue, orange, at prismatic colors
Looking is the region alike heaven, by rainbow.

Details | I do not know? | |

A poem

  Flowing along like a rushing river.
Un-sure of its' destination untill it glides to a stop.
 Along with it sweeps thoughts and hopes of a single person.
Its creator, its maker 
The person that brought it life.
What is it? 
What could it be?
A poem, a poem,
What else could it be?

Details | Rhyme | |


A muse never inspires me,
does she really exist?
I rely on the inner voice
more believable than others,
even less confusing and more encouraging;
one will get the profoundness of feeling
when surrounded by certainty:
laying down to dream, not to rest!

Who's been engulfed by false inspiration?
Don't be too hasty for any deception
that offers the illusion of greatness...
consider every idea that tackles;
be smarter than a salesperson,
or more alert than a new visitor in town...
rely on that confident, inner voice
when truth is the only choice!

Details | Free verse | |

Number Eighteen

July 3, 2006

It’s a great day and I’m filled with the Holy Ghost and the Spirit of God surrounds 

Trickles of pain shoot through my parts signaling another moment given over to 

There are solutions that loom large and require thought and conscious study 
and I have so much work to do to be a craftswoman.

Even of life.

What about focus?  What about children’s writing?  What about?  Pick and 
choose and do, this is my message to you.

Details | Free verse | |

Curious as a Poet

I am a cat to most things.
With nimble thoughts falling through 
white padding paws I skirt about 
My place on earth, as though it’s 
a dream, a painted scene
except for me.
 I am too slick to stick
to a boundless place 
like this, reality.

Though the mundane springs
with novelty and perks my 
ears so easily
life’s unfair and can’t think to care
of a woman fraught with dreams
or prayer.

I could love the sand
and salty sea
which gathers soft around my feet
thinking hard on words to please 
the oceans’ rolling breeze.
But the water’s hands are cold and quick
To claim a life or render sick
The mouths that sing its praise

Such is the laughter of reality
When it knows not a bond to me
And moves without a thought to see
My genuine concern

I’m here alive with
 moments to keep 
my eyes transfixed 
to this curious circumstance.
My pillaring feline
Limbs are still and prepared,
Ready for a beginning but
Aware of an end.

What preoccupies me this day?
Maybe the green traces of
frayed blades, my
childhood smell, my love,
that earthy carpet
that crunched under my feet
like water chestnuts.
It clung to me like a lover
On those lingering summer afternoons
and I was happy for that
But even if now I toss the thought
like a finite game
and I roll it about my tongue
like cold coffee,
My attention to that day
is stifled by the movement of now
and I remain a cat
wondering how,
I could be what I am,
an ageless spirit
ready to spring
but happy to watch

Details | Free verse | |

Free Range

Often my thoughts do range far and wide.
But it’s not just my thoughts that skim the tides.
When my Hubby asks and I don’t reply…
He says I’m free ranging again with my mind.
He laughs and tells me to please wake up…
But I’ve already been there, thank you, so much.

Deep in thought and so far away,
He’s still my muse in every way.
But once I get going on that thought…
Look out boys, my mind is set and lost
But don’t you worry. No Sireeee.
When the typing slows you’ll know I’m back, you see.

Those free-range chickens have nothing on me…
I way surpass them in productivity.
And as my words free range far and wide
You’ll find… others may be joyfully joining  me for a time.

Details | Grook | |

A Knight's Parody

A magic knight coursing on in brilliance

On lean hack in clanging, cleaving aegis,

Crunching incantation-dark, blunt, and grunt.

So light illumines his cold, whiskered phiz

And it predates the warrior in night hunt.

Chase is stashed by shade then stir lulls to prance

When periphery is gorged by a mist.

Pitches of bolts burst ahead ere he cries.

His corpus recoils from cuffs in the breasts;

Wide-flat nose lights down to the ground; he dies.

Details | Free verse | |

Star seeding

How many nights awake as thoughts tumble so fast from the heavens that sense just needs to
be made?
Grab the pad always nearby, for when the rains come
and pour your heart out with them.
It’s understated to say inspired,
conversations with clouds,
allowed and understood.
Good. When that thunder rolls you know that flash is going to illuminate a lot.
All you’ve got
is a few minutes to get that down, a word a code a sign.
To remind your mind again.
It’s like that for all of us, but we,
we who have learned to pay attention,
not to mention
that we like it,
we listen. That’s all it is.
Nothing mystic
or fatalistic in it.
We like to dance naked in the rain.
And let that rain wash right through us.
We’re not afraid of lightning, we know it comes from the Earth.
And we’re rooted there. Deep.
So keep
your judgments to yourself about what’s right.
There ain’t no St. Peter checking for baptismal certificates at the Pearly Gate.
And Fate
can be re-written any time by intent.
Well meant
wishes sent to you do good and keep you strong.
So that rain of inspiration won’t burn you up, keep you watered long
After you’ve apologized.
So we let it through in verse, in muse, in story disguised
As truth. Star seedings through us all
Watching as seeds fall
And sprout in the rain
on Earth.

Details | Free verse | |

Almost Psychedelic

It's almost like clockwork,almost second nature
It's alive to me
Yet there's no name for It.
It's like the air I breathe-
It is the air I breathe.
Its the pleasure of pain,
The joy in sorrow
Call it what you may.

It might be love
I like to think otherwise
I think it's the thoughts of those around me
In awesome motley of colours-
It defines everything I see.
It's funny...
I'm beginning to think
It might

Details | Rhyme | |


We are sullenly mourning
For security from the demoralizing night
I am despairingly probing
For mercy to carry us back to our divine flight

We are all wishing for infinite freedom
We are all seeking for an abundant kingdom

If we are living in pure happiness, why are we so emotional inside and out?
Why are we painstakingly tracking down a getaway away from this mystifying dilemma? What is all this venturing about?
If we are swaying in the rhythm of faultless jolliness, why are we vexing about the departure of our best friend?
It isn’t in our control…so get a grip or we'll fall!
If we build up our friendship, we'll have wounds to mend
So stop your blaming and cursing or we'll be in appall 

If we are all leaders, why are we panicking?

We are all leaders…we aren’t senseless pleaders!
So face your phobias and get out of the deserted state!
We are all leaders…we will not give in, vile deceivers!
Saunter out of sight, so we won’t meet our unsettling fate!

You meddled with our cries
So don't point fingers, you insidious devil
And forced us to believe your jaded lies
SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I don't want to consider your excuses, for our truth stands still

If we are living in pure happiness, why are we not meant to be?
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we battered and bent?
If I am living in pure happiness, why am I not free?
Could we ever discard this horrifying dilemma that pounds on us like cement?

We must act like a leader—tough and vigilant
Striving to survive!
We must mimic like a leader—buff and independent
Struggling to stay alive!

Disregard the mourning state;
Drive out the defiant enemies and make them face their damnations
So we can joyfully integrate and negotiate
You’d do me a favor to cease your supplications!  

Details | Rhyme | |

The Sun's Rays

The sun’s devouring rays
Reveals an astounding sensation against the marvelous universe
It caresses the earth with warm hugs and gives life to the motionless gaze
Its auras are above nature’s designating exteriors
Its swaying beauty is beyond Earth’s inhabitants, deserving my praise

It treasures the sky with joyousness and forms swarms of jeering birds
The sighs of the wind attracts clamoring herds

The sun’s appalling flames
Unshackles a zealous tune that reveals the Earth’s accord
It embraces the atmosphere with remarkable claims
Unraveling my curiosity; my ears are pleading to hear more, so I go forward!

It prizes the ocean with eagerness and forms swarms of screeching seagulls 
The strength of the waves draws in scorching souls 

The sun's unattainable rays 
Motivate life to trail on till its duty is done
Its auras seep through the whirling sky and strays
Embracing ambitious love like a father and son  

Details | Diminished Hexaverse | |

Simple Unoccupied Bench

The simple bench sits
Unoccupied now
Classic table holds
Intent to write poems

Light sweater blown
Onto yellow
Roses, walkway
Empty no one

Garden neat
Perfect plants
Fenced closed

Where is.......


("The Bench"(The Garden Of Versailles) Edouard Manet (1832-1883/French) Oil On Canvas)

Details | Free verse | |

Not Done With You Yet

Waiting for a response
Stumbling upon it for months
Fiddling with decaying words
Unlocking birdcages,
Letting go of birds
Will I ever be let go
By troublesome guilt, 
Fluttering and squealing with joy?
Waiting for an entrance
I try to break through it for years
But I'm shattered by denied words
I'm trying to find a path to go through
But...I'm trapped by the thought of you

Details | Blank verse | |


Twenty-four hours of pure silence
Time devoid of human speech and sound
When a word is not uttered
A day in the world of profound dumbness
The tongue, the teeth and lips
Observe a break of twenty-fours hours
 The ears hear 
The rhythm of the air, water and fire
And enjoy the lyrics of the birds
With the rhythmical dance of the trees and plants
Gossips, rumors and curses took flight
Deceit lies and tongue wagging expelled
Splits and spits of the tongues avoided
World’s day of quietude and tranquility
A day of inner communication
When the deep calls to the deep
And people transits the limits of spoken words
Into perceptions and intuitions 
Birthing profound thoughts and ideas 
As each make contact with the inner person
A day without speech
How beautiful, how priceless!
Oh! How I long for that day!!

Details | Lyric | |









Details | Rhyme | |

Requiescat Dum Resurgat

The province of delayed gratification
Poetry is dead.

There is now no appetite for deep reflection
In this far from limpid pool.
Abhorrent is meditation
To  the present lords of all misrule.
Carpe diem once was for the nonce
Its writ now runs for aye.

Omnivorous science depredates
The very bones of our being.
Gradgrindery completely disintegrates
The very heart of our seeing.
Dawkins' dogma aims to destroy the spirit
And we are not the better for it.

Thus shrivels the soul and all that resides there,
Are we but creatures of accident,totally threadbare?
Until economic Armageddon strips us of cultural shame
Our choice is but to shroud the flame.

Depredation must needs be followed by reparation.
And then that rara avis,the phoenix anew
Will rise from the ashes,bright feathers in view.

We will illumine our world once more
When the bright flame of poetry  once again soars.

Details | Couplet | |


When cadence is the key

A open verse flies free

Details | Free verse | |



Words; to me
Have always been like tears
Faint traces
Stain the page
Like a key in a lock
They would set me free
Because I could never leave…
Never leave the cage

I’ll never leave the cage…

Details | Rhyme | |

A Blank Page

A blank page,
A fresh start,
A canvas for the heart.

Simple beauty sustained.

No blemish on reflection.

No telling,
What future storms rage,
On a blank page.

Details | Free verse | |

my favourite path

i see it before me 
i have not stepped towards, nor walked along its direction 
it is clearly there for me to do so 
the decision 
can stray left or right of the way I go 
and all I know 
is that it starts 
before me

Details | Free verse | |

Through lack...he finds

Lacking inspiration he presses on the keys
Fluid in motion, forward he proceeds
To continue to write about his thoughts for the moment
Knowing they will change for he knows his mind
Never constant but continuing to unwind
Like a see saw ride going up and down
Fluid in motion, up and down and not around
A constant state he seeks and he has expressed this before
In his poem “Equilibrium” about a sense of balance
His hand aches from the typing and he rests for a second
Finding himself once more his thoughts stream out
Like the wireless network on his lap top before him
His mind is a processor of enormous speed
Sometimes too much quickness is not good in itself
For thoughts come and go and he tries to capture them all
Expressing in free verse he remembers a time
Driving and thinking about the concept of fear
A quote came to him
“Do not give power to fear; sometimes it is wise not to listen to that inner voice”
He is again poised to achieve
Assure of himself, he writes in the third person, he will get that job
And all will be well
He is confident of this for someone high above is looking after him
Through his angels on this planet we call Earth

Details | Haiku | |

7 Deadly Sins

gluttony, envy
un-proudly~ guilty

Details | Free verse | |

A Verse for Algie

A challenge has been put to me 
To create some more poetry
I’ll do my best to be creative 
And not to rhyme while I’m talking to people
In real time 
My favorite type of poem
Is one that’s metered and rhymes 
But I understand that nowadays
That really isn’t a factor anymore
I think the very best poetry
Is the kind that opens doors to imagination
That inspires the artist and moves a nation
That lifts you up through depression and inflation
And leads you to self actualization
The kind that paints a picture in your mind
And takes you from the daily grind
Transporting you to far off lands
Where there is no war, there is no despair
And the lion lies down with the lamb
Peace out!

Details | Free verse | |

Broadcast # 2

Shouldn't Pilsner glasses come in six packs?

Details | Dramatic monologue | |



Details | Monorhyme | |


Rumble bars ~ the education
is slowing down  to advocation,
a better choice, or celebration
this hereto reason of duration!

The poet's handle, co-relation
wants time to think, their own creation
is rhyme, is rhyme, its' innovation,
composite thought, for allocation!

We dinker here, we speed, then ration
what facts could flaunt, we're our own nation,
the poet's poet, the graced sensation,
all else gets caught by time's invasion!

Stop now ~ the sign is mind's abrasion
it must be taught, fine art's embraced run,
a line, so brought with meaning's phase one,
the poem, the wrought, soul's recreation ~

Is hereby drought .  .  .  .  spectrum's persuasion!

Details | Lyric | |

The Other Side

A two pedal flower
growing in a meadow
no one around to watch
the growth of such a wonderful thing

The infinite nature of outer space
A soul left to wander the great world
your first maybe last trip away from home

In the deepest part of my mind
sits the keeper of the world
In the mind of another
sits the darkness we all seek

A shadow which is always with us
We fall on our way to the light
getting further off track
and closer to the darkness

The secret of the womens face on the moon
what does she know that we dont?
the wilderness the other side of the world
i have left to see.

once again i will be one with nature
one with the angels
and one with freedom

Details | I do not know? | |

bard's East Side recitation

ya can't recite a sonnet 
without a union card
we got rules here ya know
now move along, 
you're not da bard

ya can't be a narrated narrative
neither an alliterative comparative
voiced onomatopoeia sounds like a panacea
but the aesthetics don't fit the phonetics

ya can't be a couple-a-couplets
droppin' duo doubles as doublets

ya can't be a Limerick either
now ya don't look Irish neither
so, authentic you ain't
don't make no complaint
got no chew but yer one last incisor

ya can't get on the open-mic
an' recite jus' anything ya like
it takes rules and forms
to fit into da norms
without causin' a riot or strike

so jus' be aware, we got rules here 
acrostics will get cha put down
Iambic pentameter - is the wroong parameter,
and the villanelle - don't go over so well
your calligraphy don't mean nutin' ta dem - or me
so jus' know, how we blow...
'cause, youse ain't da bard

© Goode Guy 2012-11-15

Details | Pantoum | |


Vivid imagination spins,
when one creates
a fine literary work...
life would never be happier.

When one creates,
ideas keep on flowing...
life would never be happier
with thoughts swifter than light.

Ideas keep on flowing
like water from a waterfall
with thoughts swifter than light
I am glad to reach my home.

Like water from a waterfall
that's pure and refreshing
I am glad to reach my home
without worry, sadness or doubt.

That's pure and refreshing 
as I drink it with great delight...
without worry, sadness or doubt,
to satisfy my unquenchable thirst.

I'm still writing my first Pantoum,
seeing shadows advancing...
without worry, sadness or doubt,
I pay more attention to form than rhyme.

Perched on the power line, owls stare at me
and wonder what I am doing at such hour
by this bright
vivid imagination spins.

Details | Free verse | |


On this parchment
I am forced to write
That of which I cannot speak

On this oh so delicate paper
I am enraptured
by my under lying thoughts

On this meager piece of material
And this once sharp pencil
I try to express the deepest of emotions

On this once blank loose leaf
That I now read to it's fullest
I find that though I wrote about nothing

On this one piece of parchment
About nothing at all it seems
Is full of something you feel, not just see

Details | Couplet | |


   It's a mystery to write when you have nothing in mind
   Especially when every thought seems to be unkind.

   "Write from the Heart" is what they say
   But, if your head isn't in it, there's trouble along the way.

   So you trot out ideas that may be plain
   Then you bring out the ones that are completely inane.

   Oh, for an idea to get something started
   Only the heart and the brain have long since parted.

   In desperation you ask someone to give a title to you
   They give you that blank look, because they think you a fool.

   But, even their negative response can trigger the flow...
   I just heard one when they said,

   "Don't ask me, because I don't know".

Details | Free verse | |


Her plane’s a poem 
that dissolves its words behind it 
	as it flies,
an ars poetica
that takes its chances on blue sky.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

I hear the music of the heavenly angels 
Coming softly through the blue sky from above 
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops 
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love. 

The song birds are singing to the angels' music 
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear, 
"All of earth's people are more alike than different 
And to help each other will leave no room for fear". 

Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes 
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill 
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits 
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still

Details | Rhyme | |

A Season of Verse

Days in seasons gather As due storms, above a setting sun Memories holding me in stillness By living out, in each and every one In verse, a vessel to amble on, with Or mere ways which a man journeys back As pages become the stir of echoes By outward, inking thoughts into black Some are turned, with smiles stained Others in very tender tears Evermore simply by aural laughter Freeing imagery of foregone years And in eye of mind I see thee read To turn another, then one more page And feel in your heart, my envision bleed

Details | Lyric | |

I'm Thinking naga-uta lyric form

with muse in my hand
and wire tapping on brain
I begin journey
to explore imagination 
to find a story
for sheer enjoyment
when bounty is truely found
on that given day I sought

Entry For 
Brian Strand's 
Lyric Contest

Details | Narrative | |

Working in a Factory of Words n Poetry Soup is the Hub

A hub stays put
But around it the wheel rolls
A hub only feels the weight of the load on the road
But the wheel rubs on the surface of it all

In mud, on dirt, on tar
The wheel is not afraid to roll for it fits within its purpose
The hub always stays put in the middle of the wheel
But with it everywhere it goes

Poetry soup is the hub
And around it like a wheel I’m gonna roll
Sometimes the surface maybe on a tarmac so smooth
Sometimes I may wade through mud so sticky and deep 
Sometimes I may leave so much dust rising on my trail
But an artist is all I am
A creature of emotions working shifts in the factory of words

Mine is just to pack
The emotions endeared to me in the wrappers of words
Each day different from the one gone past
Sometimes it’s heaven is on a roll
Sometimes it’s hell in a storm
But being the servant I am 
My position at the factory
Impels me to wrap it all in the assembly line of words

So please understand
Don’t blame the packer working shifts in the factory of words
Blame the company for producing all the sincere stuff

Details | Alliteration | |


What'll I Write... he
Muses, surveilles the nil 
Wind, windowy visage, 

& gateswayed key-pad, 
like a cyber abacus
to touch & stroke, counted-

on to reveal it's 
whilom Mysterlex, vener-
able... Sunday, a 

small gaggle of Ibis, like a 
short-stack @ the Pamcake House,
gather to beak the 

night-sogged sand & soil - 
Yes, it is Raining, & what'll 
I Write onto this 

Sky heavy with no 
sound, Divemy - to Alpha-Bet- 
souper-bowl-Day to score 

& yield 1st-touch-Words, 
off-costume, aplenty like 
Muskmelonseeds al 

centro, resplendent 
like an occasion, of the 
Yes-twoDay's a mazed 

Prosetrycopia!, huh! - 
What shall I Write, In-
Deed!?, but Linnear... 

and Quantumescent,
A Sirge in Time to the
Muse of Rhyme, I Am...   


Details | Free verse | |

Abstract or Concrete

What are the words that give meaning to a page,
what is a page, what is a word.
Who is the audience that drives the poet’s ambition,
what is the desire to fulfil this ambition.
Is it the satisfaction of knowing their words are meaningful,
a line upon line rhyme or verse occupied by limitless thoughtmanifested as ink.
What is a poem but a bold statement,
fearless of interpretation.

For more poetry goodness, visit my website: 

Details | I do not know? | |


Such quaint conviction; a mess of uninformed prejudice.
In place to Hate on High, for British bird-eye views .
Inherently bias? Yes but still English.
The  Self appointed wardens, for inferiority of every
other male female, race.
	So not to much to solve ,
just every other Male , Female,
	race. As all together brutish suits 
pray on the pace of nationalism 
and Xenophobia to boost numbers.
Based on some deluded natives;
  oddity's becoming cause;
Before Those Wide eye grins 
setting people on fire;
While seeing elegant gnarl of features
indicating strong sense of .....
Vatican champagne , 1676, uncorked,
fizz emptied all over the blank white,
	Stain spreads,
National Front Members, or in other words;

Details | Free verse | |

Broadcast #4

Well, Mary O, I don't know if chicken feed's 
the way to go, to catch the faultless phrase, 
to turn a poet from a dame who's dazed 
by right-side brain overload and malnutrition. 

I'm Irish and a female; 
Isn't that enough? 

Details | Free verse | |

To the beginning and over but Never Out

Oh please, I plead
Listen to my beseech
I raise my hands out to you
take them please

In this dark void I walk through
there is no comfort
no warmth
no joy

slowly it leaches out all that I hold
when will I ever reach the end?
Do you know where the end is?
Is the end where the end of the end is?

Lost, dazed, confused
Did God pluck me out
and strand me here?

three doors, three paths, three choices
one Mundane

ransom me out
an open cage, such as this atramentous nightmare
no end
no path

Is there hope? 
Hope is where light is
is the light at the end where darkness is not?
is the light where the light always materializes from?


Details | Free verse | |


Wisdom being crushed
by the weight of knowledge

The arrogance of knowledge
balanced by the humility of wisdom

Simple words trapped
under the debris of meaning

One word lost
in complexities of interpretation


Without which the "whole" becomes disrupted

Details | Free verse | |

The Tale

With paper and pen in hand,
She sat down to tell the tale
Of a love once known
And now gone forever.
Tears stain the paper
And smear the ink
As she reminisces
Over the young boy she met
At the church picnic
That beautiful day so long ago.
Of the fairy-tale courtship
And story book wedding
Of a couple so in love.
She in her long, flowing dress
Glowing, more radiant than
The pearls and sequins that covered her.
He looking like a prince
In long white tails and top hat.
She smiles gently as she tells
Of the children brought in love
Raised to walk with heads held high.
The words flow easily,
Like the ink from the pen,
Speaking of the grandchildren to come,
The days of growing old together,
The good days and those less happy,
The love shared and the hopes expressed,
The promises made and the lives lost.
With pen and paper still in hand
She begins to weep silently again
Wishing only that this story book life
Had been her own.

Details | Quatrain | |

Meltdown in Iambic Tetrameter

I chose to fight and not to flee,
From troubled feelings haunting me.
One look, within my weary soul,
Exposed an ever-gaping hole.

With introspective ink I write,
To bring foreclosure to my plight.
On form and meter I rely,
While keeping free verse standing by.

In healing cadence, new to me.
(Stagnation came from living free.)
A new persona will be found,
Before I leave this form-go-round.

Through sonnets, nonets, villanelle,
My metered fears I hope to quell.
Shall I find comfort in these forms
Or run back to my free verse norms?

I might be seeking, after all,
The haven of a hallowed hall.
Long known to poets of great worth,
And find therein my own re-birth.

Details | Quatrain | |

How Will I Write

How Will I Write?

There is no limit to the ideas I have;
Too many, sometimes, in fact.
So I cannot say for certain how I
Will write or to this question react.

Perhaps I will gaze for a while at
The photos I have, here in my hand,
Until the images speak out to me;
And their hidden message understand.

If that does not work, then I will sleep
And in dreams my inspiration find;
For there is no limit to the ideas I have
Hidden deep within my mind.

Details | Free verse | |

I Got Dough {Solfege}

Do -  do   -        a female la beer
Re -  re    -        a drop of re beer
Mi  -  mi             without my mi beer  
Fa-    fa -           place to drive to get ti beer
So  -  so   -        you ran out of mi beer
La   -  la   -         la de da la de da I'll wait for la beer
Ti  -    ti    -        spilt spilt ti beer so no more more of la beer

Do - Do              Do la la think I'm sexy after about six six so beers  LOL 

Got Beer !
Over The Lips Thru The Gums
Look-out Stomach Here It Comes LOL

Also Entry For Izzy Gumbo's Solfege Contest

Details | I do not know? | |

Table For Two

Unequivocal strangers, you and I,
both of us bear an apparent aspect;
you, demanding that we meet eye to eye,
yet, I must charge as to my own respect.
How else can the full bill be divided,
if we two were, too soon, to take our seats?
Our stranger tastes will, then, be collided,
as we order near Olympian feasts.
Though you've waved to dismiss all the children,
perhaps, I'm not quite ready to do so;
I'll await the results of the cauldron,
before dousing embers beneath that glow.
But, here I am, able to take my place
at this table you have set before me,
now, prepared to find myself face to face
with you, who questions everything I see.

Details | Light Poetry | |

I Give You Poetry

I give you poetry,
fresh and captivating as a woman's hips 
and perfume; vivid and colourful as the 
imagery of 
a tropical sunset.
Flavourful and lingering as the 
cadence of pop songs and
leaves set to music.

I give you poetry,
mellow, tuneful, special
as the jewels of dew drops;
sharp as arrow points,
scarring the deep 
recesses of the soul, the imagination.

I pour you poetry,
concocted in awe, love , fascination;
rhythmic as the beat of raindrops
on the roof and 
on parched ground.

I give you poetry.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Game

Rap is quick, witty and fun.

Poetry is smooth, rhythmic and heartfelt.

Rap and poetry had a love child.

A daughter, named Spoken Word.

She grew to maintain the better characteristics of her parents;

From Rap, she took freestyle, freedom, and grass roots movement.

From Poetry, she took imagery, theme, and voice.

Together, all three, as common forms of expression,

spread to every rapper, poet and storyteller in the world.

Details | I do not know? | |

My Periwinkle Pace

I have found, without any doubt,
I am no marathon man,
as I squint to see one ahead
who's breached the nine-hundred yard mark,
leaving sure-footed impressions
in the infinite beach shore sand;
while, my breathing is convulsing 
into a strange, worrisome bark,
I'm afraid I'll soon keel over
in the tide, to be left to die;
in a ragged awe, I wonder,
" How the Hell does he run so fast?
At that kind of determined pace,
I would swear he could almost fly."
Me, I'm just happy not to fall,
and have my lot, again, re-cast.

Details | Cinquain | |

No Reprieve

deprived --
main course only!
no chocolate ice cream,
when you sup at the restaurant.
no treat.

Details | I do not know? | |


Art is art is Art,

and as such it will be confrontational to someone,

and will at some point in it’s existence, 

piss someone off every minute of the day

( CLiPiCs AKA Kriss Lee: 03-06-09)

Details | Rhyme | |


You lay in the surf waiting for me
Although Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr we could not be.
Trying at love with the incoming tide
Kelp and seaweed stuck to my side.

"Great gods", thought I, as I wrote the rhyme
Use "Adonis" and "Poseidon" from another time.
I'll let love be the center of the poem I write
And show all who read it, my emotional insight.

The pounding of the waters blue
Will be my metaphor of a love so true.
And I'll have to sex it up a bit
For passion plays a big part in it.

I will use "penetration" and words like "breech"
To add to that image of us on the beach.
With the romantic beginning I have said
And to the altar of love that I've been led.

Because I  finish with our pledge on the shore
The reader will always want to have more.
So, the green eyed girls will be my poetic night
And close the verse, so crisp and tight.

Note:  It took sum lookin' fer me to find,
          Which of yer verses to redo in kind.
          I be such a nut on rime y'see...
          This'n be the one fer me.

          Not only be the words of it I do,
          But "Glad Tidings" title caught me good eye, too!
          'Cause it be 'ard fer me to act on yer quirk,
          Me spleen to trash one o' yer better werks.

          As I be not 'fraid of a few typed words,
          Trashin' me stuff as if'n they be turds.
          So, 'ere y'ar matey, me own attempt whilst I be sprawl,
          To change them words that ye did scrawl.

          Me words 're somwhat boggin'
          'Cause me be thinkin' what was in 'er noggin'.
          And if'n ye take offense at me 'ritin' a bit,
          "RRRRRRRRRRR emember that ye asked fer it!

Details | Rhyme | |

Rains Of Surreal

There were clouds from the sky
To be a little darker then before
Some thoughts in sacrifice to deny
The ever mist in darken haze to recall

And the walked path was an unsheltered one
He who bears the weight of unnoticed vapour
Should be realized to have unflustered thoughts come undone
For he who thinks will thoughts be flooded lesser!

That be pure and impure to see
For a path of evil may well be a course to undertake
To understand the substances of purity
To then walk perhaps the dream-fill path in wake

As the rain becomes heavier in turn
It only meant for the routes be harder to view
To be drench toward a point of no-return
Guess not the unseen road but be sure of surreal!

Mayhaps an after-rain be of rain an after
To share the affair and to embrace as one… the unknown
And to walk is the path already be taken forever
Yet the rain, hasn’t me to recall of those being shown

Details | Senryu | |

Plastic Dreams

                                                        Poetic pages
                                           Scribbled plastic dreams unfold
                                               House of cards with depth

Details | Free verse | |




SP ("FAM") TO THE END!!! With A little sweet n' sour!!!!!!

Written By: 


Tribute to all soup FAM!!!

Details | Blank verse | |

Certain Poems Need to Be Released from Their Cages

I stopped what I was doing.  I got very still, and I breathed like I do when I hear noise
outside my room at night.  
I listened to my poem.  
It told me to stop expecting, stop thinking 
and just be there for it.

I quickly squeezed one out. 
I wanted to be a chef and 
feed my friends a poem. 
That wasn’t it.

The poem peeked out at me again and said 
I want to say to you what the wind says to you and what the warm breezes say.  
Now, listen.

I stopped to listen. 
I took from my book of seeds and crumbs.  
I wanted to share a story like the stories that begin with, “Yesterday, I…”, or “I heard
this…”, or “Can you imagine…”.

I stopped chasing the poems. 
I let the poem catch me.  
The poem may hold you for a moment, then let you go, or it may become part of you 
-- and you are one.

Title quote-attributed to Robt. Bly

Details | Sonnet | |

Sonnet 6

Now ... tell me the truth at 80 spaces .
Oh yes monthly at no extracted cost ,
trumpet swans announcing "All-New" "Chases"
... Gameshow w-/ only purpose " Just stay lost".
scratch that ... start at the count ... three Faces.
flicker on screen , once more , spider webbed frost.
Pulse of cheekbone ; paper Artic traces ...
Hailing to the Fanatic's RoseArm crossed.

	... Why just imagine , All times // All places ...
Daydream reality clearly embossed 
by Our pristine chords reading "All's Debased" ...
Job to do ... hands join ... Avert as off tossed 
I may stain ... lip gloss ... gulp of life wasted.

All Presents, Our Situation Hostage .

Details | Lyric | |


I felt a drunkard in my fanciful sixth sense.
The pond seemed to me the Sea of Aegean
And the floating leaves warships of Greece,
Thousands in number that fought for Helen.

Now, my mind finds infinite amidst finite
And beholds freedom in a free flying kite,
Discovers beauty in a dazzling little dew,
In metamorphoses of bug seeks life anew.

Slowly, my outer sight sinks in shadow
As the closing eyelids sleep in meadow.
Eyes are closing only to open in insight
As if bathed with celestial divine light.

Details | Rhyme royal | |

The Orange Rhyme Challenge

Thusly, as per Good Sir John's contest prize contest, I humbly submit the 

Dear Sir John,of your poetic rhyme request,
I will now do my very best;
Sir John's  Poetry rhyme request,
Though some may consider it rather strange,
And, perhaps, to some, a mighty challenge,
I think I might be able to arrange,
With a pilgrimage to mystic Stonehenge,
Where I may, in fact, rearrange...

those lenticular aspects of your family flange,
And, though the poetic quality may appear...
Somewhat mensa- menge',
I trust you'll find my work of acceptable range.

Once again, Good Sir King John the First,
Congratulations on a job well done!!

Your humble serf servant, tom bell.

Details | Free verse | |


withpen in hand awake, apparations of immortality
consumed inward. This straight heart's delight 
yelling Tiny Nicaragua's a big threat 
	to undernourished Mexico.
By common sense , common law , common tenderness
& common tranquility I want to know what
happens after I rot. 

shooting Gasoline electric speed ; empty soul'd 
exploding at viaducts heavy bound and 
manacled upon the City's Heart.

	... Was that a shot ! backfire 
or cherrybomb? jiggling yr knees there blankeyed
	in the rain.
While each flower Buddha eye repeats this story 
with teenage boys , The Red Police and grunts &
screams & shouts ...
	... eyes , tongue and heart ...
theres' just too much to see ; world-wide 
and full of money. Count yourself Greatness 
in their pointy empire accumalating on the margin
with broken plumes of sensation. As 
I lie 
here naked in the dark , dreaming....

Details | Burlesque | |

Poetry loves Porn

I hate the words
when I can not touch them
I love life more than I can say
This is the reason why
I tried to seduce Poetry

But she was a whore
Dressed like a slut
Eating like a horse
And talking like... me

I saw Her walking in the streets
She never noticed me
I eat Her just like I use to eat my brain
She never noticed me
She was in love with another Man

She never knew what love was
Because she never had a soul

Poetry loves in a porn way
She gives everything
Because she do not have to give

Details | Verse | |


"Tick, Tock", says the clock.
I see your eye brows rise,
Though it never went to school
A little clock can still 'Tock' too.

Details | Senryu | |

Yank Away

Midnight is waving a keen goodbye
It's time to yank away the galling music box 
Let the dawn echo your lullaby

Details | Free verse | |

Face Take Two

understanging nothing 
of radios,
cars or aristocratic
past to
w-/ out figures
turning from 
an ambigious image
To suggest 
it is easy to concede 
behind barbwire fences.

...Years ago ; memory....
sober in the spotlight
Facts that 
are for once 
cherished in a world.

Reluctant to 
beneath democratic 
just Hold you 
a foreign face.

Details | Rhyme | |

When Muses Die

We buried a muse the other day
For a poet laid down his quill
He said he'd never write again
For he simply refused to feel

Muses came from miles around
To tell their friend goodbye
Inspiration was everywhere
You should have heard them cry

They buried him in a special place
Up on Inspiration Hill
Paper flowers covered his grave
His tombstone was his quill

No one knows where muses go
When poets refuse to write
Maybe they simply disappear
Or maybe follow the light

The next time you get your writer's block
And you're feeling empty inside
Your inspiration has gone to a funeral
For another muse has died

Details | Free verse | |

Loss of Creativity

You reside behind my eyeballs,
but you most enjoy paralyzing my fingertips.
You feast on the thought-clots 
plugging my brain.
You see what I once saw
because you watch what is stolen from me,
as I desperately grasp at what
was digested long ago.
When will my mind be freed?
When will my imagination be reborn?

Details | Free verse | |

Pro Predicament

Circuitous circular departures cleverly Sequester and  
embrace Inexpressible  moments of time.

Reexamine status, prevent  consciousness apathy, 
fabricate and reflect acceptance of self. 

precisely propose  to expose fallaciously filtered 
fantastical trickery touched theories.

Turn tasteless translucent tall tales into stable, sturdy, 
structured strands and threads of reality.

Penniless pocketless Poets put the points paralleled 
and placed above onto pure white pieces of paper.

 Once they find the ramble in their role they carefully 
command,Clever creative content to appear from thin vapor.

Amusement, bemusement, a resplendent  daring drawn 
out dark dance down a solitary diabolical descent. 

Lingering Layers let love live in a finely spun web of 
lazy, lofty, lyrical linguistic letters; lost lurking spiders cant
 reach the heights that sadness fled.

Poets are pros, pronounced proponents, that precisely 
reconstruct a feelings components that fails to leave any 
audience in a stoic state of stoney discontent..... 

Though they tirelessly endeavor to gain a fans approval 
and respect, they fail in fortunes favor. 
 Yet each day they commit make their art 
when most would be right to quit. 

Anyone can become a pro poet, 
you can tell we are devoted, though it should be noted 
if that's the readers intent, not a paid pro among us can 
come close to turning our 
thoughts into rent!

Details | Free verse | |

As Soon As I Get There

I can see through
The soggy afternoon,
Your words inspired
By ancient pines,
Sapping laughter,
And mining ingenuity.

Paper amusement,
Midnight pens,
Pause only for a moment,
To let me in.

I am nothing more than a mirage,
A psychedelic relief
Expressed on a napkin,
Then soaked in the marinade
Of memories
Not belonging to me.

Certified dreams,
Moonlit poise,
Pause only for a moment,
To let me in.

I’m half-naked,
A bellowing delight
In proof of Emerson’s
Wildest imaginings,
And once again,
Three times as happy.

Documented joy,
Beneath my tree of reality,
Sometimes I pause
To let me in.

Details | Rhyme | |

Metamorphic - a change for the better

And did you really know before
What on earth is a meta for?
It makes you understand, I think
What changes when you have a drink
Another example might well be
What changes when you carve a tree
And as for metabolic rate
That’s why your fat me dear old mate
Whereas a metaphor If sought
Might just give you some food for thought

Details | Free verse | |

Pens 'n Needles

Ink spreads, Forming A pattern your Heart understands. Lines that Make up your Mind. A trivial Victory A battle betweem Body & Mind. Heart & Soul. Eternal on Paper...

Details | Pantoum | |

Christmas Celebration

Make Merry!
Put on Your best dress!
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Make Merry!
Kick up your Heels!
Rejoice! Rejoice!
It's Christmas Time!
Kick up Your Heels!
Put on Your best dress!
It's Christmas Time!

Details | I do not know? | |


Please understand what I have to say,
for I would give all to be as Homer;
my writing become part of a great over-lay
for some Peisistratus to later recover.
Yes, in those imagined, far-future ages,
my name would have long-since been lost;
but, to think, my words amongst those pages;
my perceptions would have escaped Fate's cost!
My God, my observations being templated
amongst the gathered truths of our time,
even after my ashes have deteriorated,
they'll continue as part of an eternal rhyme.
I'm now willing to give it up and embrace it,
since my life's spent chasing my own doom,
I accept that, like no one, meager candle lit
can forever light the fullness of, even, one room;
no one, single poet's work can hope to truly
enlighten the beauty of any entire era.
I yearn my gift be set in the stars, a wedding tiara;
no longer desiring the twin role of mother and father
to my own impossibly virtuous daughter;
I'm made to think of Keats, and I remember,
his final wish was his name be writ in water.

Details | I do not know? | |

If I Were a Poem Inside of my Head

If I were a poem inside of my head

I'd want everyone to know what I said, 

I'd bug me and bug me till I'm going insane

Trying to find that perfect poem again,

I'd make me write nonsensical lines

Just tryin to find any words that might rhyme

I'd play out a verse with a rhythm in time,

Just like a drumbeat playing inside my mind, 

If I were a poem inside of my head, 

I'd weigh on my mind like a two ton lead, 

I wouldn't let me get any sleep, 

Into my mind I'd always creep, 

I'd play on my head everyday for a week

Until I was finally just too weak

And I'd have to come up with some jingley rhyme, 

Just to get me out of my mind!

Details | Free verse | |

what not to do

most people,
they don't get out of bed
in the morning
until they've heard the news.
or the weather.

all we need in the morning
is bad news and coffee,
tips on traffic routes,
tips on wardrobe.

no one wants to hear about
success anymore.
tragedy always seemed
so much more interesting.
no one reads milton,
but everyone reads shakespeare.

lifestyles of the rich & famous is gone,
but cops is still around.

no one likes to be told what to do,
but everyone needs examples of what
not to do.

i guess even poets still have a place
in society.

Details | Free verse | |


While back to the head in the 
sand tricks 
	Mountains become just another 
comma ; diagram.
	Caught by this flash....

Daylight surfing past my window ,
	drawn , 
please to our begging. Sailing 
out to record.
	Rooms congealed w-/ smoke 
as the last cigarette falls from yellow
fingers , a cough ignites the body ;
left ventricle collapse and the rest is...
Profit ... Mr billion dollar money suit 
falling flat on his face.	Punishment 
always for the capital.
		They say 
As LOGIC above 
	shoots this expected expression....

Details | Lyric | |

The toys are Broken

I dreampt that everyone
vanished without a trace
and I was the only one
wearing blue that day
never felt soo happy
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
lived in houses that were all the same
and I was the only one
who couldn't slide
never felt soo lonely 
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
was famous
and I was the only one
smiling that day
never felt soo special
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
had the same dream as me
but I was the only one
God spoke to
Never felt so righteous
never felt so alive

One room leads to the next
it goes on and on
but it just never ends
One story
alone cannot make proper sense
so they go on and on and on and on
but it just never ends
One thought
uncovers all the rest
it goes on and on and on and on
until everyone forgets
One song
breaks the code of silence
but goes on and on and on
until everyone forgets
One memory
leads to the next room
it goes on and on and on
but never makes sense

Details | Bio | |


I should be writing books,
Screenplays and sitcoms
But I'm not...
Sloth has dug its claws into me

I shouldn't be watching
Have I Got News For You
From 1999 on UK Gold
But I am...
Sloth has dug its claws into me

I should be doing something
Better with my free time
Than slowly vegetating
But I'm not...
Sloth has dug its claws into me

I shouldn't be content
With the easy answer
Instant gratification, copping out
But I am...
Sloth has dug its claws into me

I really should write
Another verse in this poem
Something witty and insightful
But I won't...
It's that infernal sloth again

Details | Rhyme | |


Life can be an awesome adventure for the one who dares;
shouldn't it also be for those in love,
who leave their dreamy hearts in a blossoming grove,
and will it, in definite time, turn into dreams?
Seek yours in forbidden realms,
let it come in form of fantasy...
await the blissful joy of a discover at sea,
or that one that mounts hide on their peaks!

Sail away as Columbus and Cabot did by reciting Hail Mary,
have faith by proving it to yourself, but ignore derisive laughs;
your ship will have you as captain and nobody else,
don't lose your way among crashing waves that make you afraid.
Remember your ambition when you left shore for glory...
don't let doubt discourage you from achieving what you planned!

My aspiration is to be an accomplished writer,
and starting off this adventure, I will use ample imagination;
madness some will say...weren't the explorers' minds driven by conviction?
Follow me and I'll prove them wrong: unearth my literary treasure!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mr. Copperhead went to the copper mines
to see what fortunes he could find
Pick and shovel followed close behind
On a burrow named Ole Bleu

Mr. Copperhead was boon-town sick
He struck so much ore 
Even pranced around like he was city slick

Though Ole Bleu toted the pick and shovel
And now the sacks of ore too
With all the excitement Mr. Copperhead had forgot
As he should not 
To give Good Ole Bleu the Lil Sugar that 
He had promised once they got back into town
Instead he slithered into the nearest saloon
Asked Saray Jane to play him a tune

She was obliging to do so of course
When out came Lil Sugar to sing a little tune
Sweet as can be she looked round the room 
For Ole Bleu
Who was no where's to see 

Upon finishing the chord 
Mr. Copperhead was trashed
Said he would finish all that he'd started 
After taking a nap
Well Ole Bleu didn't take to kindly to that
In fact that Ole Burrow knew a trick or two of his own

He made sure Ole Mr. Copperhead was asleep 
Then down to the minters he did creep
Made a lot of cents or so they say
Got gussied up for his Lil Sugar
They drank carrot juice and ate bales of hay

Mr. Copperhead awoke after three days to learn 
That Ole Bleu had made the mint and laid claims
On the ore mines leaving him to hiss in a fit 
As he slithered out of town

Thinking that if he had only given Ole Bleu the Sugar 
He had promised he'd still have his ore
Mean while Ole Bleu and His lil Filly Sugar 
Were down at the livery getting ready to be hitched
Seeing as now they were filthy rich
As Mr. Copperhead slithered 
Down to a town called old dusty ditch

Copyright Adell1 © 2006

Details | Free verse | |

Destruction and Decadence

I have no idea what you are facing in this segment of life
You are like a labyrinth; I can’t untangle the mayhem without any clues
Spill out your emotions…there’s a waterfall in your eyes ready to collapse
I don’t have the time and willpower to hike on your colossal mountain

Are you fit enough to climb with my echoing praise?
I doubt I ever have the strength to crawl into your agonizing thoughts
Of destruction and decadence
Of despondent dreams and isolated guidance

Do you accept my benevolence towards you?
Do you believe that I can mend your shattered dreams?
Do you accept my fondness towards a friend like you?
Do you have faith that I can make your dreams a reality as it truly seems?

Your contemplation is another expedition to trek
You are like an island, separating cramming chaos from undying peace
Rise from the cave and attack…there’s a bear in your nature, watching over her cubs
I don’t have the ability and determination to trudge in your soggy wasteland

Are you slick enough to trek with my shielding gaze?
I doubt I’m nowhere to be found in your thoughts of desolation
And destructive formation,
Springing forth the equipment of your
Turmoil and damnation

With any luck, I hope we can arrive in one piece
On the other hand, I wish that we both escape from this horrifying journey
Because I want to discard the labyrinth, crafting puzzling pathways that draw me back to
Destruction and recklessness
That I, by no means, address

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 | I do not know? | |

Broadcast #1

If I were stung by a bumble bee, 
Would it make you any less an ant?

Details | Free verse | |

I, Poet

Heap humor upon the scholars
Philosophers and thinkers alike
For, "-Ologies or -tists” to ending of names
Do not facts of science make

A place must needs be 
Where emotions may eclipse
To experience adventures of love 
Delve into fantasy, breakout and escape 

Then, might I suggest to be led away...
By thrill of poeteer
And his penned verse escapades

Swashbuckling gay through history's pages
Living on life's raw edge commotion
Into passions inner darkness 
When heartbreak questions every sense

And word's musical essence lingers on 
Amidst, what some shall christen
The wild and untamed spirits
But, this is where beheld and captive
Are those ageless forever notions

Where sonnets were early birthed
From simplicity within a complex existence
Onto ancient stone walls, tablets chipped
To books from scrolls
Across the ages, sailing out on poems ship

Breathing in new life 
Unto once withered words
The ones that merely give 
The heart and mind 
Its many reasons to exist 

Details | Free verse | |

dark stage

what do you do
when to one's self you're true
lay down on the guillotine
let them scream off with her head
leaving your soul naked for all to see
under the glare of the red queen
when all who look
only see the dark stage
all the puppets you set
not the woman behind the puppets
not the writer of the page
only the actors chose to act
in the strange little play (c) M.J.Richter

Details | Free verse | |

What I Find Pointless

What I find pointless are some words we speak
Like isotope, calamity and wretch
Wandering through a meadow of steel
I see the cold field outstretch.
And upon the bottom of the left side’s right
The top begins to bend
A sight so ghastly, grisly and pure
That no one could portend

When the clock tics slowly to 25 o’clock
When the seas’ waves crash no more
Against the November rainy sky
The ground will hit the floor
And resound around, around and around
‘Til there is no sound in the dell
And the spiky clouds swell high in to the sky
Through the heart of the pimpernel

So the reason without scorn 
And the thought without a glance
To the occasion, rise to meet the ire
Expressing words that are absurd
They interrupt the blubbered bird
To the point where it begins to sound dire

But don’t you fret or worry 
for the answer you will find
is in the meaning of the words left yet to speak
And if less is to the point then the point is to the less
And the very meaning changes, oh mystique! 

Details | Rhyme | |

Poet Awakens

Forward, grasping for my steady step.
Now speaking the tongue of poetic mimes..
Awaken now, so  long I have slept.

Sunny phrases with  shady relief.
Tugging upon honeysuckle vines.
Hoping verse may flow beyond belief.

Let phrase roll into a craft all alone.
Poignant juxtiposition now shines.
Ponderous  balloons  can  float  a heavy stone..

Details | I do not know? | |

Letting Thoughts Run

Letting thoughts run, fun 
happily eager to meet one another in a clash of ideas
each as unique as the last they mingle, and greet as individuals in a mind of mentality, a 
party pulling out poetry in an attempt to define definition of self, indefinite.

interesting to see thoughts of wisdom, timeless and now 
advise thoughts of hopelessness in a sea of certainty
washing up possibilities washing away concerns
cleaning the soul of poisonous thoughts with purity.

Pure is energy
Pure is light from the sun
Pure is compassion and empathy
Pure is initial
Pure is without thought

Thoughts live one at a time
Thoughts travel in a single line

You can only hold one thought at any moment
so make it a good one, a positive one
one that makes you smile

Good thoughts bring about good things
bad thoughts bring you trouble

Manifestation of thoughts into the physical.
The thought of thoughts being materialized, in a vessel
visible, tangible,
in itself shapes these very thoughts.
Creation is consciousness.

Thoughts are free until you put them on paper, or
type them, now imprisoned behind digital bars
these words will never be the same
as the moment they were created in my brain.
spontaneous words can be, here there everywhere at once
with no real connection or responsibility except to the writer writing them
and the reader.

Details | Free verse | |


You can't say 
months or years 
w-/ out trying 
to grasp the scale 
of Time
Rubber bands 
pinging off one 
two three 
kidneybean cans,
chosen simply for 
occupation of space
line space,
in a cage. Thats 
how I'll write 
from now on
pacing the 
paperbacked floor
fingernails my only fuel.
Scritch scratching down
the blackboard.
If only to make you 

Details | Rhyme | |

A poem

I can not think what to write,
I have thought with all my might,
I have gone through every adjective every verb and every noun,
I have thought of every jewel you can put on a crown,
I've climbed the wall.... but now to get down,
My smile is now a frown,
I can not think what to write.

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #292 / Words weave a spell

Words weave a spell,
binding men’s souls to action.
Who said sorcerers and witches belonged to other worlds?

Details | ABC | |


To write poetry
Is to master an art
Where simple becomes artistic
Where ugly becomes beautiful
Where you give your thoughts
An appealing outlet
Poetry is like blood
Flowing in the nerves
Dripping from the tips of pen
onto paper
It is the words
that speak directly to heart
Poetry is a way to tell
to inspire
Without speaking... 

Details | Concrete | |

The Bird

                                        Soaring high, 
                                                         Up into the
                                                                  Limitless sky,
                                                                          A traveler,
                                                                    With its red feathers
                                                                 Exploded, into force, like    
                                                                An airborne ranger, enjoying
                                                                 Its freedom and it never 
                                                                   Worries what to eat
                                                 And, what to wear like a poet
                                      With his silvery quill, glowing
                    Inside, his soul, yesterday….…
                                                   Tomorrow and forever!
                                                   A master, of his words
                                                     His life, free to write
                                                    And, never worries
                                                 When to stop, nor 
                                                   To die, for his  
                                              Poetry, will be 

Details | Haiku | |


words spill from the pen
imaginations paintbrush~
thoughts drawn on paper

Details | Imagism | |

Leading Behind

the painting of pictures in the minds of readers of words 
Needs wetlip brush stroke consonants as complementary colors
Rhythmic connotation rhymed alliteration as wet accentuation 
so their lack of concentration will allow initiation 
by sleight of hands of invitation to let forgiving magics fluidic
flow in streams of splashing dashing flashing activation 
that lets the wetness of the darkness whisper slithery reactive
to the  painted light of reason reflecting faintly wetly on the wall
Is it really there at all? A shiver of sensation a tingle in a fingertip
That empty tasteless hollow feeling behind or in the ears 
some words are hard to follow and harder yet to find
Using them is easier than leaving them behind
In the walled wet halls of darkness 
By the looking glass of fears
Instinctive genuflection
Self reflective tears
Salty recollections
Chill cold years
Sharp honed
A shiver
It's gone again 
Or was it really

Details | I do not know? | |

Embrace Me

I have the mind and strength of love
My hands has an arkward touch and movements
My eye's has the sight of beauty 
 and love that goes skin deep
My breath that touches the side of her right ear
Sends a tingle up and down her spine
My heart pours out the most touching and loving words
That really has never been heard
I feel hypnotize by her sexy perfume and her sexy legs
crossing each orther in those sexy steletose
The night is getting late
The feeling awaits
The touch of her is untouchable
My mind began to hesitate
As i began to create
The motion of real love attraction
Getting a good satisfaction
This is not a production
I'm just feeling the seduction

Details | Rhyme | |


Thank you all for coming out tonight
Thanks for listening
You probably just want to see what I got
Well thanks for witnessing
My words will run right through you
No bowel movement
Just my combination
Of vowels and consonants
My show
So lyrical
Rhymes so nice
They make you feel
Get to your feet
When I speak
Because I’m the main event
Talent is heaven sent
Blessed by God
To make your head nod
And really get into it
Real life
Real talk
No fabrication
I tell you,
So much truth
It’s eye-raising
Ain’t it
So pay attention
Don’t miss it
Because I have so much to offer
Giving you insight
Into my life
Get ready to take flight
Sky is the limit
Think twice
No limit
I’m going so high
Travel with me
Don’t come down
Until we touch the ground
From our long night
Of rhythm and rhymes
But that won’t be for sometime
So stay right there
I have so much to share
If a good show, you expect
Sorry to disappoint
It’s going to be excellent
So put your eyes and ears to work
So you get your money’s worth
Have some fun
Because there’s no refund
So enjoy
Even if you think
You won’t
Sit back,
And have a nice drink
Until your mind goes numb
So everything I say
Sounds entertaining and such
Sit back
In your seats, so plush 
And when props are due,
Don’t be a hater
Give it up
Again I thank you for coming
I just want to let you know
Again I say,
Sit back, relax
Enjoy the show

Details | Senryu | |

Write Away

a poem a day
keeps the doctor at bay with
good  hand exercise.

Details | Free verse | |

Art Imitating

is better found in the voices of lovers.
merely play with words and
search the canvas for visual seduction.

Details | Lyric | |

A Gift

I feel it in my own two hands
and I know it’s in my heart.
It’s always been there waiting,
with me from the start.
I don’t know where it comes from
but I know it’s here to stay
to help me when I just can’t seem
to say what I need to say.
When I’m alone, in a crowded room,
and at the strangest times,
I’m oblivious to the world around me
and I find myself thinking in rhymes.
I know my mother feels it too,
but it seems to come and go.
She says it only fills her heart
when God wants her to know
that He needs her to hear His word
for herself and the ones she loves.
For strangers too, and all those who
have doubts about the Lord above.
So many nights, I’m kept awake
with thoughts left unspoken too long.
But no more will it linger, for it goes through my finger.
And with paper and pen, I can do no wrong.

Details | Concrete | |

Invisible Within

Pain is my beauty, rage is my sadness.
Laughing is my soul crying out silently.
Yet you do not see, these truths that lie within,
instead you turn a deaf ear, blinded from the darkness of your sight.
You only feel your sympathic ear, reflecting my hearts expression.
Powerless daily, I struggle to allow my invisible voice from within, 
To speak and to shine thru.
A moment in time
The music bringing you back to places in time which 
affected you with an emotional
consequence But since all this time has passed now it 
has become a remanicent memorie of
all the uplifting, downsizing, 
and overwhelming roller coaster rides.
A message in time to come, if you choose to see it. 
An immediate refreshing of the emotional
in combination with your intellectual self. 
Then it becomes not just a message anymore.
Instead it has grown into a great metamorphosis of spirt to embrace; 
consuming your sinful
nature, leaving only the lambs blood, 
giving you clarity, peace and serenity.

Details | I do not know? | |

A Knight's Hunt

A magic knight coursing on in brilliance

On lean hack in clanging, cleaving aegis,

Crunching incantation-dark, blunt, and grunt.

So light illumines his cold, whiskered phiz

And it predates the warrior in night hunt.

Chase is stashed by shade then stir lulls to prance

When periphery is gorged by a mist.

Pitches of bolts burst ahead ere a miss.

Startle angers his shield of sparks in haste;

Shots hotfoot through with explosions, vanish.

Details | Quatrain | |


Since childhood my vivid and alluring aspirations
painted my rainbows with different colors,
not the ones I was after and truly adored...
who has ever heard of a teenager being bored?

Anytime I saw a train leave the station with its smooth rhythm,
I wanted to be that conductor who could never fall asleep,
and at every stop he would look carefully before closing the doors...
then, laid-back, watch the changing landscape and whistle his tunes!

If imagination had not been there to tackle my reflective tendencies
that were, indeed, rooted in all aspects of the present wilderness,
I wouldn't have cultivated this passion and turn it into a realistic dream...
which allowed inspiration to enter the subconsciousness of this thinker's realm!    

The fast-paced postman delivering mail to mailboxes seldom locked, thrilled me;
he looked so sharp and handsome greeting folks, and it would have been an honor
to chat with them, listening to their suggestions and helping them thoroughly...
I visualized myself as such, and even practiced it daily in front of large mirror!

If tons of ideas hadn't fed the urge to jot down details with ebullient imagery,
unless I wasn't aware of their poignant meaning and powerful message,
I wouldn't have let fantasy create an extraordinary dreamer out of someone so ordinary...
to adorn dullness with my cheerfulness and change winter to spring!

Details | Sestina | |


Inspiration sparks when
a shooting star crosses
the starry, twinkling Heavens,
revealing its gradeur, beauty and sadness;
and if we follow it to its destination...
where it will finally land.

Inspiration sparks when it is stirred up by a sudden impulse,
and to miss to lose another literary gem to outlast the ages,
that's why I constantly glance and run after one faster than a horse...
when it is about to take off with impetuous speed;
just chasing that luminous trail vanishing in distance...
fills one's heart with an incomparable feeling indeed.

Inspiration sparks when
we allow thoughts of serenity
enter the occupied mind burdened by a plan,
not letting it aimlessly wander somewhere else;
and its search might be long or terse,
to rise above those ideas too ordinary.

Inspiration sparks when
the least we expect it, to bewilder us;
transforming our silence into a powerful voice,
louder than the roar of an airplane,
of the thundering sound of a volcano in eruption...
making many tremble without waging war. 

Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci

Details | I do not know? | |

Mental Affair

I gaze a stalky single-helix cradle,
Squished so in seemingly hydrous blue cover,
Attracts square substantial planes in a bundle.

I embrace now feather's mass helve to ladle
Psychic portraits siphon to it in wander.
My fist fiddles as it scribbles on oodles.

Cuts of a suckling tree, soil, river fondle
Paper, pen, poet in cahoots as lovers
Rupture of a skeptic smug gnostic noodle

Details | Quatrain | |


The warm spring rain still falls on the cherry trees,
pelting on the sodden and drooping *lavender lilies...
forming a small lake, where playful robins
bathe and fend off the thrusting, thirsty shrikes.

Soon children will come out and act dippy...
chased by wild puppies and mousy kitties
fighting over their stuffed, torn bears;
oh, there goes my peace and *tranquility!  

The *fragrant lilacs are in dire need of growth and color,
lately they haven't soaked up enough sun and raindrops:
tingeing them, allowing them to revel in their *splendor;
never denying lovers the *dulcet tones of their voices.

The tranquil skies conjure up a past *bliss,
can a poet's unrhymed words, emitted in a *whisper, go on *lilting?
He will delightfully inhale the strong perfume of the breeze *wafting!
And will he create verses with *eloquence?

Entered in Andrea Dietrich's contest,
Word Warrior Challenge: Beautiful Words

Details | Free verse | |


People talking everyday,
But what are they really trying to say?
Words bounce back and forth
Off walls and trees.
Some strike a spark.
Most fall flat.
In the blaze,
Do we actually hear?
With our ears, our hearts?
Words so ineffective.
How to make them know
What the heart understands?
Perseverance and patience.
All will one day be told
And known
In the heart.

Details | Free verse | |

An old motto renewed

woke up this morning
to an epiphany
of how your world works
be the best you can be
the best human 3 coil double flusher you can be
at first i was upset
in denial
that i too could live up to such high standards
how could i ever compete with such human waste
when they practice being a walking talking waste of skin everyday
acting it out
singing it
and making more money just by practicing an old motto renewed

Thats the only power you have over me
to be or not to be
a huge clog in the toilet we know as life
and i could practice it
all day and all night
no point in dancing around it in denial
but that might make me worth something
if i could pull off the feat of unequal measure
and finding someone to label what they really are
and laugh at the fact that they are oblivious to how your world works

Practicing being a total waste of skin
and then blame it on someone else
and hang their dead baby off my neck
but nope i'm better than that
i can be the best 3 coiler double flusher i can be
without any practice
just human nature at this point

Act 1 scene 2
making one person living a lie
look like a good person
as the rest of the play is all about everybody competes for the reward of being a clog in the 
toilet we call life
Song and dance
still the same glory
and yet soo many of you basking in your power
of who is or isnt in denial of how your world works
practice makes perfect i guess
no point in trying to change anything
just go dangle someone elses dead baby off your neck

an old motto renewed
be the best double flusher i can be
live it, sing it, paractice it to one day show the world their brand new lie
and next lesson of how to be succesfull at something
that will only come naturaly
why not?

Details | Etheree | |

Writer's Block

You stumbled
In my Path way.
A block stopping my
Pen from forming fine words.
Creativity bound tight.
No thoughts Appearing on Paper.
I rest Atop your grayness and sing.
I then write a poem to you; Writer's Block.

Details | Bio | |

Mental Prose

Inside the poet's mind lays ideas and thoughts and plans to unwind.
In its thicket are the seeds of imagination which dares to wander out; out of her 
pen to paper and dazzle the reader or amuse herself.
Inside the metal machine of the prose queen is the craft of genius that drives her 
to write, to read and recite ...the click, click, snap, snap...of the spoken word of her 
Fine tuned but ever sharpening her tools of quick wit and quicker response to a 
perhaps, " coined phrase". Yes inside the poet's mind is justice untold and 
stories unfolded to the tender young ears of her audience or the seasoned circle 
of her lyrical peers.
Inside the imagination of rhymes an music that create her own blend of 
linguistical rhythm that moves men to their feet and yet soothing enough to cradle 
her sweet angels to sleep.
Ah yes, the mind of a poet, it holds mystery, romance, questions, history, 
laughter, and elegant language..and yet it is able to convey the feelings, hurts, 
surprises and loves of life in a simple statement.
A poetic mind? Absolutely spontaneous genius.

Details | Free verse | |


Off the market I dashed
In search of ingredients
To soup my poetry.
To all kiosk and stall I went
Yet I find none of it.

Fagged out on my fro home
Lost in thought of how 
To soup my poetry.
There I stumbled on it
Ingredients of my soup.

On my way I paused
For the first stanza 
My thinking personified
With a poetic licence.

I smiled with an imagery of simile
All over me was a pun of metaphor.
Only in consonance with an
Hyperbole of alliteration.

Paradox became my ordeal
With an echo of onomatopoeia
Still in an irony of oxymoron
Dancing with a metonym.

I got home with more
Ingredients from my mind
Then and there, I began to
Soup my poetry in poetrysoup.

Alayande Stephen.T
17th August 2006

On my way to Apagbon in Lagos on the behest of 
IPC Chairman,Lanre Arogundade.
Specially packaged for, as a wonderful family.

Details | Free verse | |


To write a poem,
some say, is the easiest
thing to do.
That may be true.
Can you put on paper,
what's in your heart,
that's only the start.
A vivid imagination,
you must have too.
If I could paint like I write,
then maybe I would have
a masterpiece overnight.
I have been to Paris and Rome,
but never left home.
My imagination lets me go,
no stopping once in flow.
I could fly to you tonight,
while I'm sat here tight.
That's what poetry is to me,
it sets me free.
Free to go ,
free to do.
nothing to stop dreams coming true.
Is it  the same for you.
If so then tell me, please,
I want to know.

Details | Free verse | |

Broadcast #3

If I ask for this, and you give me that, 
who's having the problem? 

Details | Rhyme | |

00:56 - Fire from Faith

It surprises me still, how devoted I am,
You're a form of religion, I will be your lamb.
To herd or to slaughter, or do what you will,
I'm yours for the taking, a vessel to fill.

I've found my addiction, but it's one that won't feed
On a liquid or tablet, but a different need.
For it's writing of you that's my ultimate vice,
And no matter the danger I'll pay any price.

It kills me that you are the prize I can't get,
For the moment at least, so I can't touch you yet.
And I hold you in my world of paper and ink,
But the pages are fragile, you burn and you sink.

Details | I do not know? | |


lightnings picturesque

vehement wind full of zest

pulchritude caution

natural snarl best

do not nictate the eyes lest

it will seem to rest

a relief by waves

racketry from wave breakage

dulcet stir to ears

light illuminates

through a box it radiates

mere simulation


Details | Free verse | |

the beginnings (of laying it down)

I am a woman
with a pen
Sounds lame
but listen again.

I am a woman
with a pen.

Stories and schemes
Weaver of fairy tales
or broken dreams.
Little girls at wishing wells
pretty pink dresses with piggy tales.
Adventure to sew.
Hearts to win.

I am a woman
with a pen.

Strong boys, stiff upper lips
muddy shoes, frogs clutched in fists.
Fishing poles or computer screens
little boys with man sized dreams.
Dragons to slay
Hearts to win

I am a woman
With a pen

It’s deceptive
this power I claim.
Makes me believe
I can do anything.

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 | Bio | |

Newfound Inspiration

Leopard print, yellow brick
  smoke in the air, not thick.
Shadows cast upon the wall,
  people all around, some short, some tall.
Mellow music out the speakers flow,
  sitting with those I know.
Rock & Rye, artwork catching my eye.
Poems flowing from my fingertips,
  casting a sideways glimpse.
Inspiration flowing from the Red Eye.

Details | Rhyme | |

Poet's Pen

I wield the almighty pen
The poets mighty sword
Drawing blood or drawing fancy
Pen the sensible or the absurd

I can launch a thousand ships
Put birds afoot or on the fly
On a sad man write a smile
Or put a happy man to cry

The moon turned on to brightness
My pen being my switch
Or turn it off to darkness
If it's darkness that I wish

Make two lovers angry
Have them have a lovers spat
Or holding hands and kissing 
Without worry or regret

I can travel back in time
Or travel all the land
I can tear or build new worlds
I can do it with my pen

Details | Cinquain | |

Wonderment Unveiled

sleight-of-hand art
paints amusement, and it's
conceived to undo what's perceived.
mind tricks.

Details | Rhyme | |


I admit to have been influenced as Keats
by some remarkable poets who used unusual beats, 
slowly delving into their very logical and intellectual minds...
so amazed by what they wrote despite their struggling times. 

The first written poem came from Egypt: a hymn to Aron her god,
the Greeks copied the form and style with great skills:
Homer wrote the famous Odyssey, then the Romans
did the same and Virgil wrote, the long epic poem, " Aeneid. "

Who has ever doubted that my poetry isn't authentic?
It came from an unexpected idea that spread like wild fire at a very young age, 
empowering my senses to feel, see, touch and hear without being too frantic...  
by letting words flow as I stood by a river of knowledge.

Details | I do not know? | |

The Sorcerer and the Stone

Dry tangle of strands like leaves of a pine.
Neck-long sable yet lemon to close a beaming line.

Decked by two sharp wan visage processes.
Shut some-screened eyes and jaw- high and breadthless.

Dangling armor is woven garb of chains.
Bony hands impose his thin scrawny mien.

Spread them down to ignite an incipient
Of electric qeues like sunspot lightning

Toward a floating smooth stone before him.
Struck bouy makes a devious glow as his grin.

Growing fulgence throbbing to explosion
in lieu he is sucked like dusts by the stone.

Details | Rhyme | |

Cinema of the Minds Eye

particles of light,
two portals shine,
lifelike images
thoughts entwine,

mesmeric dreams,
wonders combine,
majestic melodies
in concert divine,

rhythmic pictorials,
scenic poetry refine,
vivid verbal prose
each narrative aline,

imagined fantasies, 
artistic idyllic mime,
motion picture shows
one’s cinematic mind

© Eugene Harvey

Details | Epigram | |

Your Great { Epigram }

I have joined a really great group
none other then poetry soup

Tribute To All My Rowdy Friends 
in the soup bowl   Luv Ya
Thanks For Your Support

Epigram is derived from the Greek word “epigramma” 
meaning “inscription.” The epigram is short, satiric, humorous, and witty. It used 
at times to express social criticism or political satire, and is often written as a 
single rhyming couplet. 

Details | I do not know? | |

Our Time

Finally our time has come,
We slowly start becoming one,
The rose pedals piled on the bed,
Will cushion as you lay your head...
Tugging on your lingerie,
Struggling which words to say,
That will touch or calm you down,
As I pull it half way down...
Starting with the softest kiss,
While I gently pin each wrist,
And softly blow aside your hair,
So I can fall inside your stare...
Touching you in every place,
So much you have to turn your face,
While everything below your hips,
Start trembling beneath my lips...
Locking me between your knees,
And stopping right before you squeeze,
So the climax won’t portend,
What you want me to start again...

Details | Rhyme | |


A poem can be a heartbeat
Or just a simple smile
Meant to mend a broken soul
That's smothered with denial

It can be about forgiveness
Words your lips can't speak
"I'm sorry" written on paper
That solace that you seek

It can be about the sunshine
Or the tears that's in the rain
Maybe a long lost memory
That fills your heart with pain

It can be about relationships
Written with your pain
Built on broken promises
With the lies that now remain

A poem can tell us who we are
Or who we used to be
But most of all a poem is written
To set our emotions free

Details | Free verse | |

Past, Present, and Future Forever

Stick to the pen, not to the sword
this is the oath, long ago sworn
by the writers, who became the ignitors
of the free thinkers revolution

Now that I'm a soldier
don't cry on my shoulder
for I know its never right
I'm like you, imprisoned
in this War of Attrition
we are the seekers of the light

Wrongness is winning
in this, the beginning
jaded as it seems 
the hope has not faded
for someday we'll make it
grow as a beanstalk from a seed

Yes this tiny hope, forever shall float
the same way it has carried me thus
through the street of desire
fly over the liars
and the evil that swallows them up

I'll stick to the pen, like my old dearest friend
as tyrants cut us down with their blade
I shall get back up, and come back with such
fury as ink fills the page
exposing the lies, I shall have mine
for the pen is almighty, and forever in time

Details | Free verse | |

I Dream In Rain

I'm off to nowhere
As tired eyes
Close to sleep
To a different life
I see mist and gray
Void of color shade
This bleak wonderland
Of my heart reflected scenes
The broken smiles
Treaded miles
Flashed back picture reruns
Of bittersweet life
This dream tonight
Dark and wet
Pouring tear falls
Washing dread
Here is where I make amends
Solace waits
as Closure speaks
To tie loose ends
My dreams, I forgive
My dreams are places cherished
I begin again
The pouring tears of
Long lost pain
Trips down my memory
Are vivid
Because I dream in Rain

Details | Light Poetry | |


The next time that you take a shower,
Prepare to stay for about an hour,
Run yourself the hottest water,
Keep in mind how much your thought of...
One hand holds the towel around you,
The other holds the thing you're bound to,
So let it drop below your waist side,
As I spot just one place to hide ...
Caressing you in perfume soap,
Compressing it on every slope,
Like the water making you wet,
And at the same time making you sweat...
Before you close the shower door,
You'll see my name in glass once more,
Just slowly wrap yourself again,
But know that it won't be the end...
Cuz as you lay upon your bed,
You'll wrap yourself in me instead,
So you won't think its just a dream,
That you left rising in the steam...


Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #74 / A ylw submaryne

A ylw submaryne
I hate the stupyd thyng!
Paynt yt gryn!

Details | Rhyme | |


Its been such a long time since I have sat down to write,
although many a word has haunted me at night,
us writers you know are seldom yet always uptight!

When the words just don't flow in a special kind of way,
we rarely have anything to say,
I'm writing today with this to say if I may.

If your one of us and need to express feelings inside by writing indeed,
than let nothing stop you from planting this seed,
we are people with a great need.

A need, infact a compulsion to speak to someone,
take time and write, don't turn away and run.

This message I feel I must get to you and I,
To Hell with writers block, don't let the ink dry...

Details | Verse | |

A blood pool

Why should I worship you?
If I need to die innocently,
Why should I respect you?
If you should rape me pregnantly.
Why should I honour you?
If you shall kill me decently?
I am pointing you,
You are also dying as me cowardly.
But I never claimed my death,
Because I am poor,
I have no source to compel you,
For reconsidering on recommendations,
Nobody can alter your coffin,
With my sucking blood.
But my sighs shall chase you,
When my children will learn that,
You were born in a sucking blood pool.

Details | Free verse | |

Writing Class 101

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

It goes on and on
It's about everything

An open channel

It's a brave new voyage
into the concepts

of poetry

It's an amazing new journey
into the paradox

of reality

It is the Omega of Class
the First of it's talent

The leader of the way
for those to express

the feelings from their chest
into metaphors
and profound stanzas

It is a nightmare worth rereading
A dream
worth reliving
and a chapter

to your

Never ending story

Some are there to mess
Some are there to impress
Some are there to learn
Some are there to burn for a turn

Some get better
and everyone moves on

As the beat of the soul
It's the inspiration of a nation
its the nexus
of dreamscapes
and the Hearts of sleeves
for the Queen 
The Queen of all hearts

Details | Cinquain | |

Wanted: Only Alive

wants desires
instantly with a thought
or with a blackout until real.
dream on.

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #155 / Your voice is a pearl

Your voice is a pearl,
you must dive deep to find it

Details | I do not know? | |

What causes me to write poetry

It's when I am deep in emotion
That sets the wheels in motion
When my heart bleeds to the core
And my heart pleads, more...more...
My senses they race
Thinking of passion, love, disgrace
There isn't a single thing that is not thought of in my little mind
Letting the bustle of life, like a scroll unwind...
What is it that I really see?
Life's passionate reality
Forever dreaming of what never was
Thinking of what's to come...
Because life is a dream's reality
A love's frivolity
Always searching for a new tomorrow
Trying to get over the endless sorrow
Of life's pain and dissapointment
Until visions are sent...
Through the clouds of fantasy
Although it may be imaginary reality
It's the only world I'll ever love
And the only need to love life
In expression of a poem

Details | Rhyme | |

The Test of Time

When a poem leaves the writer's quill
The ink flows through his veins
The words are hidden inside his soul
And only his scar remains

What happens to the writer's words,
When everything's been said?
Do his words live on to set souls free?
Or discarded after they're read?

Some live on for hundreds of years
Long after the poet dies
While others are simply cast aside
But still the poet tries

Some poems are hard to understand
Using words to impress
Others are written with simple words
With meanings they're trying to stress

When a poem leaves the writer's quill
It's more than just a rhyme
He prays it's something to heal his soul
And stand the test of time

Details | Alliteration | |


Ok I have never heard of alliterations…….. And was wondering if words like 
abbey, acme, and acne would go along with alliterations …  and just maybe the 
meaty mossy messy mold at the mucky muddy murky waters of the slightly 
slippery sloppy backwaters were on the right track of this choicely choosy classy 
way of expressing earthlings eating elephants in the early evening with a 
beautiful sunset easily edging ending a really nice time and how do they all 
come together and not torture the toddler that is tougher than the trader tracking 
the tractor up the tower with the trainer  trotting with the trooper right behind 
looking for the treasure and the traitor trekking with the trucker loosing his 
trousers while trolling in the backwater. , I thought even if it isn't it is different.

Details | Cinquain | |


gets attention
as you break into that
fortress.  all will sense your presence.
small bomb.

Details | Free verse | |


I am but an ordinary woman resting in my easy chair after a long day of work.
However I am about to transform myself into a great explorer. 
I travel through the many realms of space and time all from the safety of home.
My journeys cost me nothing but time spent in their enjoyment. 
I close my eyes tightly to contemplate whom I shall visit this night. 
Shall I sup with King Arthur and the knights of the table round as bards entertain,
Or feast on nectar and ambrosia with Zeus and Hera on Mount Olympus?
I could feel the angst of Cyrano’s unconfessed love for Lady Roxanne,
Or that of souls from Poe’s pen with his mocking raven quote it “nevermore.”
Choose to learn the life cycle of the bee, lion, or bear through a scientific work,
Or fly through space on a star ship with the creator of a masterpiece of science fiction.
I can recapture the whimsy of childhood while chasing cars with Clifford the big red dog,
Or take a brisk run with Pooh and Tigger through the hundred-acre wood. 
I may celebrate glorious new beginnings with Mother Mary and Baby Jesus, 
This holy birth portrayed forever within our sacred Bible.
I might also choose to contemplate death along with Caesar during his last moments.
Only the playwright Shakespeare could portray these with such tragic effect.
I may discover the secrets of gourmet recipes from master chefs,
Or learn how to sew a patchwork quilt of old fashion.
Vicariously visit the culture and religion of various peoples, 
Or study the history of my fellow Americans.
Maybe I should check the financial reports to see how the stock market is doing,
Or it might be pertinent to examine the latest advances in law.
Let me discover the origins of favorite words in a volume of etymology, 
Or distinguish quartz from quartzite whilst leafing through a book of gemology.
Books, yes volumes hold the secret keys to my voyage,
It is they that conduct me each night worldwide exploring.
I need not to plan ahead pack luggage or gather tickets,
Fore when I wish to escape this world a book is always close at hand.
I may travel safe and undisturbed through numerous times and places,
And leap out of one adventure headlong into the next without moving a limb.
When I am weary from the road or have chased enough beasts as warier fine,
I simply mark my place, fold the pages together gently, and retire to sweet sleep.

Details | Acrostic | |

Swim With Me Tonight

Slip into the pool of season
Lose yourself in indecision
I'll shake your hand for this very reason
Purity sparks ignite...

For as much as you dissolve me
Abalone shine to guide me
Love the wind through your words tonight
Love the fall and gauge...

Swim like mad through the raging waters
Wishes liquid spiral daughter
I tread soft in the silky shallows
Moon shine - we're all star dust...

Choose my moment,  lose my spirit
Reasoning you'll tread to hear it
Every gulp of salty water
Amounts to my own birth
Tip of your tongue lights the night's blue eye
Each of your words a heaving star bite

Match me in stride and we'll swim 'till sunlight
Enter the current and ride...

Details | Verse | |

Hiding Myself

Life is easy to a lover of books
reality slips away
no matter how dreary everything looks
the stories can brighten the day.
But I need no pages to make my egress
from life's daily drama
I switch off my mind so my thoughts can digress
from the bitterness and the trauma.
I can make up stories in my head
to get me through each day
I know perhaps that might sound sad
but it works in every way.
Fairy tales and adventures, and stories of love
my imagination works away
characters of beauty, angels from above
whole fantasies played in a day.
Maybe it sounds like I have no life
well I do, but perhaps I don't want it
I give my normality as a tithe
in exchange for the stories that haunt it.
But I'm hiding, I know, from the truth
of a life that is just so mundane
though I would give my eye tooth
just to liven it up all the same
perhaps if I focused on real life instead
my life would form some direction
if the mist could clear from around my head
instead of trying to be my protection.
If I write my stories on paper
they seem so childish and immature
when in my mind's cloudy vapour
they held quite an exciting allure. 
Oh, whatever, I'll just keep dreaming
my life has no point anyway
my stories will go on forever
until my life slips away.

Details | Free verse | |

Mea Culpa, Extol Belles-Lettres

The Jackal's line of demarcation ye souls' furlough for interim...
Today, cockcrows perturb in a gala thrice for thee quiescent stay,
God's Park of Ephemera, sashays the daggled the minder harks,
a chest not in to rest, of dais edicts, cudgels so contagious; 
haughty wheels peddle rashly between two havocked hearts,
foisting wintry fobs of progeny pleating to let pigeons exeunt,
if bedlam trotting by pothers ye, the cob, yet calmly sings, 
"Fare-thee-well, Oh snowflake in dwindle, hallow me next spring,
via crepuscules, cleaved like vacant aulas crescendo conveyance,
wholly abutting city lights, this chimney calling cannot sight!"
Jolly pedestrians twinge at our capitol! Touring a mindful chance,
Ample of verve, knowing mortuary amblers must get their fight!
"Fountains, thawing ye? Janitor, what does the blind really see?"
tryst squelch time, squirm squander squalors n' ante antiquated feet,
Jocund or beh£s belief! Ye! Behind bellicose belletrists by beggars!
When baubles full-fledged, hast consummated thee to hobnob no more,
jongleur sloshed anchors on mimes bare laid laic stoolie, loupe aims,
Headmost, request lasting breaths above broadcasting fortune n' fame,
Then fated fires the Sniper jostles from home to goad n' prod,
Ye kindred stanchion and I, skimmed, the sunset even with me...

Details | Rhyme | |

Dreamscape of the Lovelorn

As I sit once more in this chair,
trying to fit word to page in some nice way,
inspiration seems, this evening, rare;
my muse is distracted, keeping melancholy at bay.

I long for a soft, pliant embrace,
shared by a maiden draped in silken thread;
moonlight brightening her already radiant face,
and her enchanting smile, at what could lie ahead.

Her shining hair pours down her back,
like the rain in which we stand;
the right way she seems to lack,
as she looks to me for a guiding hand.

These hands glide down, around her waist,
and slowly we begin to dance.
Underneath the stars, our own new path is traced,
as we float along, in our lover's trance.

The feel of her, so near and so warm,
I cling to, like a drowner's lifeline;
her every sigh, her very form,
beyond my imaginings of the divine.

To go on like this, held enchanted
in her eyes, serenity's sweet founts,
I feel would be my heaven granted;
my trials, her affection surmounts.

The haze shimmers, the dream recedes,
leaving me dazed, shaken in its wake;
as ever and always, my heart bleeds,
craving an end to its boundless, yearning ache.

Details | Verse | |

Cornfields Have Ears

Mother warned 
Never make love in a cornfield
For the corn-- has ears 
And they just may tell...

Upon hearing this 
I laughed and replied mom
They might have ears 
But they do not have lips 
With which to speak...

Not so fast, Careful daughter said she with a smile
They have husks that are tough 
And when shucked the silk and shucks will make you tell

Yeah, I've ran through the fields 
Playing hide and seek
The itch form those husks --
Sure did make me shriek...

Ahh… Shucks... I guess you're right Mama
You don't have to worry about me
With great bliss--I promise you this... 
I'll never make love in a cornfield.

Comments:  The lesson was corny but true to form as I will never make love nor hide in a 
field of corn -- ears and all 0;-)

Details | Fibonacci | |


with old
rhythms in
a precise image.

Tribute to T E HULME creator of imagism

Details | I do not know? | |

Familiar Poesy

I was quiescent and reposing on a wooden chair

to a faraway distance the vista seemed nothing.

I was engrossedly thoughtful in an empty stare;

In this somber fixation i did not sound maudlin.

In the surrounding, in a room, there was naught to care

even how vociferous the unaffecting din.

I was vacant without a frown or grin.

Then, an astonishment by an abrupt interruption

awakened me chop-chop from the pensive exertion.

An instinctively soft guffaw was my reaction

and an immediate beam marked down my emotion.

From a study to a stir was the alteration;

I uttered a word or two in continuation.

It was a spectacle of fruition.

Sometimes it is diverting to father relation

of familiar episodes in consecution;

Even how minute is their banausic condition.

It can be reported engagingly in a verse

with welcome alternate rhyming association

and with no contemplation to secure confusion

so as any sage mortal can immerse.

Details | Free verse | |


The poetry that emanates
From creative mind is like
A resplendent sun rising
From behind a horizon 

Metre music metaphor
Cannot be separated in sch creation 
As everything operate in unison

Alliteration,not deliberate
Rhymes not contrived or forced
Imagery nevr coerced

Throughout a matrix of 
coherence runs and thoughts rotate 
Round the central axis
In such creation
Emotions are not stuck on sleeves
Nor sentimentality wails on crossroads
No pleonism muffles theme like blind
Blankets heaped over newborn babe- 



Details | Haiku | |

cultivate my thoughts

            cultivate my thoughts
near the crystal stream, like blooms
              penned in a poem

Details | Couplet | |

it grows

The white page reflects onto my face,
Out come the words woven like lace,
Here I spill from, my heart does bleed,
The pattern grows, like a tree from seed.
And now it's done, my thoughts perceived,
I leave for you, to open and read.

Details | Free verse | |

Endless Thoughts

A blank sheet of paper 
becons you to come and 
do an evenings bidding.
Evening has drawn into
a night of bliss.
Words, running through
your mind, forming into 
an endless task that
draws to a close.
Known as a poem.

Details | Blank verse | |


Hundreds of words written 
waiting to be read
each letter a note
waiting to be heard
some are discordent
and harsh to our ears
others carry a sweet melody
and are like honey to our soul
there are a few that carry an unusial sound
we stop to listen to something new
and others that we listen to
because we have to
These songs are the very soul of us
waiting to be heard
but if we never write them down
then who but you will listen

Details | I do not know? | |

Quiz No. 14

It sounds like a laundry detergent.

Details | Quatrain | |

Copy this Poem

Please copy this poem.
Post it on your office wall,
next to your bed,
or the toilet paper roll.

Memorize each word.
Recite it to your teacher.
Spin it into a song
and preach it like a preacher.

Use sign language.
Transcribe it into Braille,
Aramaic, Chinese and
Spanish. Let the world

know that this poem
and any other poem
that you or I write
is worth the daylight.

So, please copy this poem.
Post it on your office wall,
next to your bed,
or the toilet paper roll. 

Details | I do not know? | |


Behold the pulchritude overhead exalts to about a spread. 

It is o full swift which greatly outstrips thunder and gale added, 

Yet ocular to sigh from more than a score of hillocks afar. 

It is yet not as harefooted as my head can proceed thinking, 

Wending in raining sands anyway in the world; I am, warping. 

Eclipsing, rising flowering is stalking to a lightning hark. 

Fit ratherish hebetates the wit seeing the fleeting on-dit. 

Wights excitedly get unaware and err without a merit. 

Thunderstorm is a marvel, a thrill, and opposite to a pit. 

To expand the concept in top glass, I can only compound it 

To a bit, as Oak's nether jut loud rackets; I lief bracket it 

To daunted lit fibrils in an electric, animated chit. 

Grandiosity and haste of german "Blitz" allure me pretty, 

Puffing sinew of great intensity as exit gratefully. 

No wonder Homer, a sage, enkindled Zeus with it slatefully. 

Withal, Gandalf scragged up a demon by a bolt, hit it fatefully. 

I fumble in night to kiss spits heard in my inner olio. 

To fancy, a mountain of clouds on the stratosphere sits and flows. 

Ergo, zenith and nadir fascinate each other, pitch and tow. 

Lightning is jars of macedoines of grits afloat as dominoes. 

A scad of millesimals in a galaxy: shrunk, shot, and blows. 

Such dragons breathe snows wee of infinitesimal ratio, 

So snows sock the gullible cherub in me so as hue arrows. 

A bolt o real as it speeds, is so so vivid; No nod, it glows. 

A man tranquil in a head, able or wicked, it's good to know, 

Mental heaven to if it is full facile to trow; Thor follows.

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 | Free verse | |

VII: Conquered

A single, unnoticed ray of light
shooting across the sky at night
straight down to my head
in our conversations 
it is, as it has always been
between the King and I.

He tells me what he sees, 
and he feels for the unworthy
he cares for the damned
though he see the lies
that are fed from the lies
of the leaders

Return soon, brother in arms
return from the sea, comrade
walk upon the shore
or walk on water
once more for the doubters
the King knows all about us
alas, he has not returned yet
I will know that day
once, twice, more like seven times
to the exact the moment he's raised

Conquered by all of the hope 
of your allies
the few that still dare to 
believe in you
very same as the ones
who keep feeding you
in the outskirts of our realizations
the dreadful dreary dreamy illusions

The King best exists in the pretense 
of pretendness
at the moment just before, your mind intervened
and cast in just a shadow of doubt
that spread rapidly far, and between
this now makes him limited,
now I have my chance
to pull the wool off the greatest wolf
the world shall break its trance
I am now your lord
I feel all the world
I am always yours,
your Magus.

Details | Free verse | |

I Saw Him Standing There

I see you there, painting a literary facade, thumbing through Cervantes as though it has usurped your very being. Your unenthused stance reveals your ruse as do your constant glances in my direction. In my quixotic state, I wonder if you fancy me your Dulcinea or if you merely question why I scribble so wildly upon the page. You, Sir, are my current inspiration and I shall not tire until our story ends. Peripherally I register how slowly you move toward the books behind my chair. I want to turn to you and recommend Solzhenitsyn, third shelf down on the right; but hesitate to be so revelatory about my interests. Now I feel your eyes discreetly moving up and down my page, ingesting my words. Realization hits. Our eyes meet. Yours ablaze with the knowledge of immortalization in my poetry, mine wickedly feigning innocence. You turn on your heels and stalk off, undoubtedly in search of a windmill to best for your lady fair.

Details | Sestina | |

Stubborn Words (Sestina)

My pregnant psyche labors over words
and somber fetuses embalmed in ink.
A restless scribble knots my burdened nerves
with these encrypted ciphers I can't grasp.
Interpretations drip from severed tongues,
absurd perceptions form a distant mood.

My prying, inquisition probes my mood
with midnight sockets strained on anxious words.
Judicial eyes echo in hollow tongues
as condemnation blots out ink with ink.
The choreography beyond my grasp,
and too much cursive panic braids my nerves.

A juxtapose of hope and doubt lace nerves
to uttered oaths that constipate my mood
and steal coherent visions from my grasp.
Yet still, I itemize all of my words
and weigh them each as if more valued ink
could form a lexis between paper tongues.

Cacophonies amassed on corded tongues
are stretched out over sapped and springless nerves
no longer seeking sense from contoured ink.
A conquered revelation stirs my mood
as scrawled ideas seem only wasted words
just loose impossibilities to grasp.

But, Ah! Defeat has never felt the grasp
of proud, defiant pens or styptic tongues
and I have never knelt before my words
or gave into a desperate play on nerves.
I forge from pathos-strands that strike a mood
translating patterns born of crisscrossed ink.

My muse cannot be humbled by the ink
nor pen that consecrates a poets grasp.
It cannot cringe beneath a vicious mood
or beg for mercy from those cryptic tongues.
My style depends upon elastic nerves
that stretch around the depth of single words.

Frustration spilled the ink and tied the tongues,
my mind froze in its grasp and strained my nerves
but no mood intercepts my stubborn words. 

Details | Tail-rhyme | |

Casandra Riggs

Designed as a secret sister,
Hiding in form of a blister,
Not at all real
Becoming a pseudonym name,
Writing in stylish poet game,
Words that feel,

Caught notions of reality,
Conscious of false ability,
She remained,
Not meaning no harm or deceit,
She faded into death complete.
Truth explained.

a double Tail Ryhme poem,,,some of you may or may not know of this person,she is me and 
i am her,,she was created when I first started on the net,afarid of placing my real 
name,because of all the stories of identity theft,,though since I seen names like rosebud, 
stargazer, bunny flower,,I seen no harm,,,,I did not know that names can become somewhat 
real on the net ,,,when she become known by a few and a life was needed, I retired her 
name,,though she still has poetry listed on the net at some places,those words are mine.
She is totally ficticious,true though I learned so many things about poetry and life.

Details | Rhyme | |

Stories Are

Stories can tell of so many things:
Of witches and wizards, princesses and kings.
They can recount tales of legend and myth
Of thieves and treasures, fairies and gifts.
Stories hold people's fascination,
For they are gateways to imagination.

Details | Blank verse | |

the Burning of a Masterpiece

On the easel of my horizon 
Monet was painting 
an autumn twilight,
but I watched as smoke 
gray fingers 
smeared his pastel
and my visions wisp-ed away 

a god spoke of burning
the testament of life, 
every single letter 
of every verse, 

they feather to ash 
on the breeze,
I burnt them,

I woke yester-year
with a poet in residence, 
but today, today?
I awoke the scribbler
living on the nothing 
of me 

before each page 
passed over the flames
and consumed in the 
reaching fingers of black,
melting to mould 
each strip of my flesh,

I close my eyes
and feel the ridge
of a word, a letter
I allowed them 
to sear my palms, 

I brush caked salt 
from the corner 
of my mouth,

as I handed each poem 
to a quick death, 
I read the Misery 
of each page 
that flares,

those black fingers
now curl black strips 
of my mantel, 
like scrapping paint 

flaccid but not broken,
I pick at a piece of ash
in hopes of piecing, 
a poet back together

but Monet has left  
and I can only sketch 
in the charcoal 

with a god, 
whispering in my ear, 
that I must burn for nothing 

Details | Haiku | |


Illusions darken
Poets following pigs plod
glass reflections gripe.

Details | Narrative | |

Ben Ja Min

on Jan 17th 1706 Benjamin Franklin was born 
became a printers apprentice 
established the first lending library
was known as an uncommom comman man 
that taught self in science and inventions

Benjamin Franklin 1706-1790

Also Entry For Brian Strand's   Vignette
A Literary Love Affair Contest
         GL All

Details | Senryu | |

Dream Writer

  unhinged flight of mind
wings unfurled to catch the stars
  writing in your dreams

Details | Free verse | |

Brain Storm

bright red
against the gray
a thought startles
my everyday
meanders through
in a sluggish insistence	
that defies my ignoring
to push its color on me
beckons like a bloody finger
I'm drawn, there's no denying
evidenced by words
that chew their way
across this page

Details | Light Poetry | |

Dead Poets

when I die
and go wherever
the first thing that
I will do
Is ask the
powers-that-be there
If I can see
"Dead Poets Society" too!

Details | Free verse | |

My Mind Races

My mind races 
when I should be sleeping.
These thoughts run in my head
and my words are dripping.
It's 2 AM 
and my fingers won't stop typing.
The poems keep flowing fast,
quickly they come through.
I keep thinking I should be sleeping
but my voice wants to be heard too.

Details | Free verse | |

poetry wadi

Will the well run dry
This think and feel flow?

Or maybe there's an alchemy down here
Catalytically constructing stanzas
Like spiders to kill prey weave webs...

A little spit - that's all it takes
Voila!  Another catching verse
But is it too terse
Too trite too cliche?

Touche!  A score to the heart
With the epistemological epee
Evoking lovers truths
And could-be living issues.

Is this water fresh?
Come, make us an oasis
Where camel-backed readerettes
Store up their own ponderings greening

'gainst east-winded wanderings driving
A dry thirst through deserts without
Wellsprings of a wet word heard
By travel-wearied women.

And this poetry wadi...
A mirage maybe merely
But perhaps only mostly
Deep weeps of mad me.

Details | Villanelle | |

When you compete with no one

Follow your heart, to thyself be true
do not fear the coming of the day
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you

See the gray as gray, the blue as blue
your eyes are your greatest gift, don’t let them slip away
follow your heart, to thyself be true

Men will argue, women will croon
but in your mind the decision will be made
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you

Ghosts from without and from within will try to spook you
but you need never feel afraid
follow your heart, to thyself be true

Strangers try to hold you down and keep you to the rules
but it does not matter what they have to say!
When you compete with no one, no one compete with you

You are the maestro, call the tune
and your symphony you shall hear the whole world play
follow your heart, to thyself be true
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you.

Details | I do not know? | |


Do I refer to a note?
How do I know what to say?
And then, do they expect me to quote
From some obscure latin text
Which no one would understand anyway?

I should have been a giant chainsaw
Cutting through the trunk of a thousand trees.

How do you interpret the fall of an empire?
The end of an age? Or the beginning of one?
How do you prove there’s a third side to things
Flitting between rhyme and reason
On filigree wings?

Do they think single mothers never dote? 
Do they think blind politicians do not vote?

What should I say? What goes unsaid?
At the next auction I’ll put down a price for my head.

Abstract abstract poetry
And blank blank verse
An angel’s blessing
A gypsy’s curse.

Rhymes and ramblings go hand in hand
While non-existent footprints get erased from the sand
The night is always creepy, the day sublime.
In the patio old ladies chime
Talking of doctors and smelling of lime.

Hearts ache, drowsy numbnesses pain
And promises fly over miles to be kept.
Out flow webs and float far and wide
And woods just wait to be swept.

Will they criticize it? Will they ostracize it?
Will it be written up or written down?
I’m fortunate: there’s a year - long waiting list
For the only mental hospital in town.

Details | Alliteration | |

Read This Fast!

So we’re going on a picnic with the pygmy, Pixie Poggly, being the quirky queenly 
quaintly quickly person she is and her friend a raunchy rascal reverently named 
Andy Bailey. As you remember he was in the Aussie army association, barely 
battling the banshee that were bawdy blackly bloody in the boggy boundary briefly 
in the outback, and lets not forget pixie’s perky prominent pal that is a bossy, 
bluntly, brainy, bookie, breathing brashly, balmy, bits of boogie bookie chatter to 
all the cheery, choicely, chunky crowd around his choosey, cheesy, cheaply 
choice of chummy spots, and in his coarsely cocky way, he coyly clamors crafty 
creepy words that really don’t say what they needs to say, but confuses even the 
gentle, ghostly, gaudy, gawky, gabby, gypsy genie down in the gaily, gabby, 
ghastly valley town called Gatsby. I hear even Fatty Fannie the fancy, fleecy, 
flimsy, flowery, and foxy maiden that has her doggie, “Dotty” watching her dreamy, 
dressy, downy, dowry. And to make things easier Pixie’s dumpy daffy deafly, dinky 
donkey named Dixie is going to carry all the supplies, and we are going to the 
daffy damply dainty little dairy where the daisies  grow daily in the deeply densely 
droopy grasses next to the hay, and it sounds like it will be a giddy, giggly, goodly, 
goofy, goosey, grabby good grammar in all its Grammy award wining grandeur 
Parts of this poem were copied from another poem that I cannot display here, but 
that I did write, it is called “The Picnic” and I thought this would be some fun 
reading for all here.

Details | Rhyme | |

T'was The Night Of Thanksgiving

(Humorous silly holiday poem)

T'was the night of Thanksgiving,and I couldn't just fall asleep
I tried everything I knew,even trying to count  some dumb sheep,
But nothing happened and I was getting more angry and mad at myself,
The leftovers were still on my mind and my stomach went just bleat!

I jumped over my bed and I raced to the door with all my power and might,
And right in the kitchen I landed,where some food was still on sight,
My heart beat it so fast like a train gone bad,when I saw all the turkey leftover galore,
White and dark meat were waiting there just for me, to my profounded delight!

There was cranberry sauce,apple pie and the most wonderfully sweet, pumpkin pie!
My heart aglowed and my mouth watered all over in front of all this sight,
For there I saw some chocolate pudding just sitting upon  a tray,
So I gobbled and gobbled, till I thought I couldn't see another new day!

I felt myself swelling up all the sudden, right to the size of the house!
Then I heard this  terrible noise,and I've just burst and rip off my blouse!
As I went off straight to the ceiling like a Speeding Gonzalez balloon!
I felt again so sick and so big as I went flying right past the face of the moon

But I still managed to YEEELLL to everyone in the whole town,
Happy Thanksgiving to you all!and pass me all your chocolate PUDDING! Please!



Dorian Petersen Potter
aka laydp2000


Details | Epigram | |

Catch As Catch Can (Epigram)

Roy sought to catch himself the lil greased sow…
‘Til old boar caught and made him holler~ Ouch!

Details | Free verse | |

My Song- (Solfège)

Do- Re- Mi-

Do..Dodo flightless bird
fearless of humans; easy prey!
Extinct so long many believe you a myth....

Re master of universe
mirror image of Ra...worshiped
by millions seeking a ray of hope..
a ray of sunshine warming heart and soul...

Mi.. Mi.. ME
Calm me.. breath..deeply breath..
help me.. bless me.. sing my song..
Do - Re- Mi-

Fa- So- La-

Fa away from everything;
everyone I love.. wishing..
dreaming.. desolate..

So- so- Sewing
Grandma's old sewing machine..
bright colors.. tiny stitches..
warm quilts... So- so- Sew!

La- La- La-
Sadness.. Dark.. gloomy..
overwhelmed.. lonely.. Tears..
La-La-La-...LA! LA! LA!

La- Ti- Do-

ti-Ti- piercing.. Heart weary.. 
Ti.. Ti.. Tea!
a hot cup with lemon and honey..
faith....hope.. a ray..

Do- stronger now!
Do- Do- Do what you have to!
find strength.. it's there..deep inside you..
survive! grow! learn! LIVE!!

do- re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do...
DO- RE- MI- Fa-So- La- ti-  do!

Details | Burlesque | |

Ten Thousand Torturously Terrible Tom's Tidbits (Three)

46)Gangsta' Rap- When a wanted felon knocks on your door.

47)Nostalgia- A towel specifically for one's nose.

48)Breakfast Schnook- An idiot who will eat carpet tacks when asked.

49)Scorpion- A bullseye when urinating on a schmuck.

50)Eye-Shot- A dummy so drunk he tries to take a measure of whisky through his 

51)Postulate- When the damn mailman finally shows up.

52)Short-Ton- A 4 foot, 3 inch woman who weighs in at 2125 pounds.

Details | Rhyme | |



Papers hadn't held her words
For twenty years or more
But ‘published’ didn’t scare her
words were sizzle branded in her core--
Past the corner soul that hides
The little suffering blueblack fears
The place within the fears
That hides the insubstantial tears

There ragged brands had healed
From raging blood to shiny scars
Blood-- now cold-- congealed
As graceful life was wrenched apart

Thus, publishing and some such
triggered not an ounce of fright
far worse black filthy dreads that
danced ablaze in burnt-out lights

So publish me, Be done with me--
she mused as on she walked--
Better to be done with it--
May end the verbiage stalk.

And though she knew
Would never end
The words that came in streams
Was truly voice of true heart friend
That called her in her dreams
And deep she knew she had no wish
To end her lifelong song--

But not to share a single word 
Seemed selfish--deadly wrong.

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 | Burlesque | |

Ten Thousand Torturously Terrible Tom's Tidbits (two)

12)Coddle- Two fish enrapt in love.

13)Mustard- A diarrhea victim who can wait no longer.

14)Jam Session- A gathering of sweet-toothed weirdos with various jams and 

15)Coffee Table- An occasional table made of stale and hard coffee beans.

16)Condom- A very stupid prisoner.

17)Confederate- An inmate who nourishes his cellmate with food he sneaks 
from the mess hall.

18)Condiment- A mint left on the pillow of Condolezza Rice's hotel room bed.

19)Metaphor- The reason you met her.

20)Meteor Shower- Cleaning meteors in your shower.

21)Osmosis- A female relative of the Osmond Brothers.

22)Gradute- A successfully educated studend ingested by a cannibal.

23)Grab Bag- A purse snatcher's job.

24)Wind Instrument- A guitar lifted and tossed in a hurricane.

25)Destitute- A broke prostitute.

26)Easygoing- Being tied in a wheelchair and pushed down the steepest street 
in San Francisco.

27)Castrated- Judging who belongs in what pecking order in the movie cast.

28)Animosity- Dislike of mice.

29)Barn Dance- A group of barns dancing in a hurricane.

30)Carpeting- Gently stroking an automobile you love.

31)Chirk- A Cherokee idiot.

32)Coddle- Embracing your fish prior to frying.

33)Extraterrestials- Coming from another planet, or from Camden, New Jersey.

34)Hail Mary- A religious woman bombarded in a hail storm.

35)Hair Dresser- The absurd practice of putting dresses on one's head.

36)Homely- When poor ugly Lee is home.

37)Antacid- A psychological hallucinogenic drug favoered by hippy garden 

38)Moron- An overdressed person of limited intelligence with far too much 
cologne on.

39)Precession- The last days leading up to an economic downturn.

40)Martial Arts- Paintings done by Western town Sheriffs.

41)Spouse- A married rodent.

42)Consort- Dividing criminals by crime categories.

43)Debaunchery- When de bunch of us Brooklyn guys goes out on de town.

44)Drag Queen- When us guys from Brooklyn beat up and haul around 
somebuddy from Queens.

45)Dragoon- Da dumb guy from Queens dat we got above.

Details | List | |

East and West Swing

Give me your wide cup
I will open your bottom
shell and lift you up.
I will ring your bell,
press your ears against
the sky,
holler to the moon until
the doves shaves Mozart's

Where did the butterflies
High above to the bad apple
Are wings born to fly
like a boat?
Red ribbons waving hello. 

Tomorrow bring your book and we will
read about Dylan.
Such a young voice for healing.

Mother is in France riding
a horse wearing a low cut dress.
Shape your breasts.
Numb your skin.
Buckle up now.
Ride free boy sin.

I heard the shackles.
Hands swinging in
the gutter.
I caught the trash
and lit up the light
like a going away Cash.

Sleep, sweet lady.
I see your hair all
dirty and ugly.
Your eyes don't even
look alive.
Your eyelashes cold
to my nose.
I cuddle you up
but your trash boy lost
his nerve.
His shoes hanging from
the curb.
He knows where he is going
maybe you can nail him down
and play with his frown.

I call you sweet ugly Mary
the drink of beer by
the fairy,
and her wings couldn't break
Bad boys couldn't take you.
Only your teeth danced inside
the bar silhouette light.

Details | Free verse | |

The Master Mind

 Words are the minds tool. A new world is made and released.
The master mind at work. Words flow with furry and that of a beast.
Lined paper becomes a canvas. A pen, the brush filled with life.
Master mind thinks and writes. Creating all sorts, maybe even a wife.
A world filled with this and that. Filled with all kinds of emotions.
A far away land with a castle perhaps. or a sailor sailing the wild oceans.

Oh, master mind, how you do write. The world you see and draw.
Your mind draws such interesting life. A house of brick, or a hut of straw.
Skies a blue, or maybe a touch of red. A human like you and me, or not.
A stranger stalking through the warm night. Maybe a knight resting on a cot.
How we look into the eyes of the master mind. See his work come to such life.
A dragon and a knight, a fairy tale you might say. Or a pauper finding a beautiful wife.

No matter who is the master mind. It all comes from the mind using words as a tool.
We can laugh or maybe we might cry. Whatever it is, a tale of some sort rich and full.
One word after another, forming an adventure. A readers mind seeking great treasure.
We create a place for guests to come and see. A universe for all to visit with pleasure.
Whatever our likes or dislikes might be. Our minds can always be sure to explore and find.
No matter our backgrounds, our whereabouts. We are all our own creative master mind.

Details | Epigram | |


to adorn-
the creative

Details | Free verse | |

In A Room

I penned-
a poem, 
where I slumped 

my mind 
in a book, 

the return 
of my gaze
as I listen 

to the gasping
of a night-
that never complains

Details | Free verse | |

The book the wizard wrote part three

find the messenger and shoot
she smiles and looks art me and says
you don’t know do you?

plant the seed to take care of number one first
censor defaults of sentiments left to chance
head east head west head north head south
It makes me blind s
Save some time and ask may I go
It might save some time
Just wake up 
I feel like nothing
Nothing at all
I cant take it no more
BY E BYE baby

in the morning and know you’re doing right
Slide slide slide
May I go
Ask yourself
Chant for the ending but ask where do I start?
Would I crumble
Up or down the stairs
I’m oblivious
Such a stupid riddle

And out the door

Right or left? 
blind man leading the blind its gonna be something else 

I will survive
and in this world where I lead this brainwashed believer into the realm 
where the sucker patrol saw him coming 

Dear Jesus
Right tight left Lucy
Whispered Mary

What you’re doin to me!
I think the lambs of god are dieing
And the words that lingered slipped and fell

Because you wont believe a word I say!
So what is it like for you she asked
As long as I know how to love oh go on now walk out the door

we'll all predict his surrounding and his reality have prayers of virtues and 
poisons to discover our own brave and cowardice selves 

but the clincher is this 
every family has this book
I don’t want to miss you baby 
and the last page reveals another hidden truth sparkling
shining tired defeated 
another layer of this perfected riddle of missing layers 
and oxymorons  
stay I go

if I go I stay
If I stay I go
Coast to coast
Smooth smooth smooth
Coast to coast
My operator

Nothing at all

Coast to coast key largo
Nothing at all
Lover Boy we’re face to face
With this champagne
Shadowboxing the double crossed

around the block and method to the madness totally beaten of every 
alliteration ,made easy to hurt
this major puzzle 
is a conspiracy fast love poem and its slow masterpiece of every easy families 
hurting creation 

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 | Free verse | |

Faux Fur Jacket on a Hot Day

Starlight, star fight

I hope no one cries tonight
I hope that life 

is more than the sun

and more than that book I read

about the horses,

more than the dirt on the floor,

sitting there like a 

fairy dust covers a flower.

The flower blows in the wind

and I weep 

for the day that comes when

life no longer 

has an end

or really a beginning.

This jacket is itchy

and I itch it like my mind

hurts, it hurts when I think of 

how sick I am of

running away from 

the life that is coming

to me.       

Details | Acrostic | |


Little moments; big ideas; grand schemes and flops!
Intimacies shared; secrets held; pennies saved in a box.
Friends laughing; enemies kept close; bills; brooms and Mops.
Every breath a different thing; a rose; a bird; or an Ox!

Details | Free verse | |

Unhinged flight(must we be Mad)

hair around my head,
something tells me I'm not dead.
Swallowing fireflys to light up
my insides................

Tasseled shawl against the chill,
taken by a darker thrill.........
              Leftover noises,
         a wanton world ,
   chaos in a ballooning ballroom 
          of confetti dreams.

       frozen fusion of the pupils,
    whispered passions 
melting mountains,
                a spark..........
to shatter perfect darkness,
          bright emerald reasons 
for the waking Dragon's
     slashing through the wisps
of silence
    wrapped in crimson
static stillness
          adrift in spangled
    space   as
      as winter,
      heaving lost horizons
out beyond the last eliptic,

               Sun Seeker..........
Striking out across the cosmic sea
on the streams of black hole winds

        A Summit of Escape!
    raking in a comet's tail
and on beyond the spiral stars,

   Oh,   Onyx Hearted
              pouring forth your 
     coal black roses
        through the portals wet with grieving
    tearing back through
          time eternal
   to the howling end 
      of mind.

Must we be Mad?

Details | Imagism | |

Shaper then ever

you thought 
seeing me at my 
but i was just 

trying to burst
threw super stardom
from a post of dirt
you know the 
insults i dodge

the type your kin folk
just when it was dull
i scrape and scarpe 
till there was 

able bitter and cold 
now i glitter like gold 
the narrow point
seeks into everyinch 
of your soul... 
with my mouth open

i heat up 
ice cold area's like 
miss smith apple pies
i lost my spunk or did i
only to return 
sharper then ever

Details | Free verse | |

The Rebooting Boogie

Late one night
I decided to write...
While musing in silence
My computer was in defiance

As I scooted to the keys
My thoughts began to be un-eased
As the program stood still
I kept rebooting until~

I realized what was happening
That ole boy needed new programming
He kept doing the rebooting boogie
‘Til every virus was gleaned, and tossed away-- Happily
There’ll be no more of that boogying today

Details | Free verse | |

Coiling the Energy

On blunt edges, speak.
Hollow out the wheel of flowing windmill slurs
and words still in their buckets
Dripping, overflowing silver
into hydraulic rivers
on their way to mirror seas.
Worn down wood to hold the world
of all you want to say
Just now, speak.
Let the power of sustenance cool the feet
of flaxen haired children in a spark of the sun
on the edge of the sugared bank
They'll hear your hum, your rhythm
and nod their heads with a thought
that the wind might pick up at any moment.
Creaking mechanics jar the mind
to better days of oils slicking the wheels
and yet you still run.
You still speak.
And the town lights up all it's peppered white
street lights with your energy.
Little pops of heat against midnight's cold breath.
Children learn to read by the strung taffy sap
pulled through wires no longer touched by 
your electrified water.
And the sea pulls all it's soul together in the eagerness
to taste the warmth from your river's mouth.
All from your spinning wheel
with blunt edges
worn to perfection from gentle persuasion
and winsome words.
The whole town holds their breath,
the wheels shine liquid wood,
and you speak.

Details | ABC | |

Dairy Headlines

Brie cheese develops
Each fungus. 
Giving Humor in
Just knowing
Lactose might never
Openly penetrate,
Some tummies
Underwent very
Weary x-rays,

Details | Rhyme | |

A poem moves only its pawn

I have been to the brink
And I am not going back again
Less I shall not return. Insane
Some shall go and sink 
Into the blackhole of reason.
Did you know a man is composed
Only of his thoughts? I'm exposed
Too much to curve of season,
This world is all a candle of poetry.
I could not blow it out, yet
It has burned all to death,
And now is burning fabled history.
I think winds are impotent too,
Every tree they blow down
Gets up again. I do not frown
For the forest so close at view;
I was only a month gone
And jungle moved to my lawn;
Only a night precedes each dawn.
A poem moves only its pawn.

Details | Couplet | |

The Healing Time

  The sign swings like the wings
of a tethered bird
thrashing in the wind
offering succor to a friend
  Before the storm you duck inside
shelter over riding pride
Lightning flashes cross the room
a face,a figure,heavy gloom
  Two candles flicker
shadows dance
Y ou crave the healing 
 pour out your pockets
spill the filling
  everything inside that's
all the rhythem and the rhyme
come on in it's healing time
  Quill and parchment on the desk
you are the invited guest
Blood red ink or black and blue
everything is there for you
  Pour it out upon the line
come on now it's healing time
  children running in the rain
dancers dance,in love again
spiders weaving webs forever
silky thoughts you thread together
   You feel the wonder wrap around you
once again your muse has found you!

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 | Cinqku | |

a cinqka

all those years
writing no words
inspiration came - pen

Details | Epigram | |


and done with-
may spring forth new

Details | Free verse | |

Buzz of an Idea

Like the buzzing of my alarm clock,
the push to write won't leave me alone.
The drone and buzz of ideas
requiring words continue to haunt me
and whir in my mind.
Not the buzz and drone of a bee,
but the hiss of steam,
like something that must be stopped,
and will only occur if I organize thoughts
and stop the buzzing, droning and whirring.
I hum a tune as I set down ideas
and the buzzing goes from forte to piano;
with the final period the hissing ends,
and the buzzing leaves my mind.

Details | Senryu | |

Silly Senryu

puts pencil point in poet's
paisley pants pocket

Details | Blank verse | |

all or not at

take it all
take everything
i'll give it up
(all) give it away
or not at
for the sake
the taste
the temptation
the tossed aside remnants
the last drop
at the bottom 
of the once empty cup
with the polka dots
imprinted on my mind
or the shape 
of sheets & blankness
imprinted on my back
your eyes
consuming thought
take away the focus
& blur for me
the rough edges
& harder lines
take away need
remove the emptiness
from the core of light
the center spreads
forgetting myself
in blind sensation
my mental undoing
be for me,
the last thought
(before the end of thoughts)
erase it all
with one stroke
of skilled ink 
& spilled
indistinct intutition

Details | Acrostic | |


Totally peaceful~ a picnic in the park.
Restful~  relaxing~ fishing~ riverside.
Amazing~ building castles~ at oceans edge.
No strife ~ no stress~ cloud watching.
Quiet and calming~ a  misty midnight walk.
Untroubled ~ unusual~ under the moss draped oaks.
Idyllic ~ impressive~ stars on a black velvet sky.
Longed for~ nature's music~ lovers hand in hand.

Details | Tanka | |

Prayer Of A Poet

lyre accompany me
as i write the poetry
of the celestial.
make the words have the magic
of rhyme and of imagery.

Details | I do not know? | |

A Round Of Applause

For all you semi finalists, I salute each, one and all. I'd contact each of you,but the
intense pain I'm suffering has kept me from the most basic activities.  It is trurely
a struggle just to walk to an adjacent room.  No matter who wins, you're all 
winners to me.   tom

Details | Free verse | |

Inspirations Journey.

                                                     This moment
                                                  Breath deeply and
                                               Place your pen aside
                                             It has little power left in it
                                        Although you have endeavored
                                  These are not your moments inspiring
                            But are too transparent in simplicity to record
                        Where is your racking anger and troubled solace?
                You always compose through those eyes filled with sorrow
            The meter of your verse will be painted with a dangerous divinity
          And a spiritual suggestion as you put blindfolds over our true eyes
       Light that flame within us that directs us past fear as a radiant beacon
   That astonishes the most naïve in us with an exhilarated spiritual moment 
      Only you will hear its approach echoing deep within your creative heart
          The tides of time will cleanse away obscurity corrupting your mind
            The long deceased will reanimate as the verse flows unfettered
                    Those thoughts are fetal now wait to put pen to paper
                         While they grow under the blanket of fulfillment
                           Soon they will all surface and wash ashore
                                    On the eternity of the rising sun
                                         With the storms passing
                                           In the hour of their birth
                                             Let the moment rise
                                               But breathe deep
                                                 This moment

Details | I do not know? | |


Are we asleep,
When we're awake,
Is it touching that's real,
Or the feeling that's fake...
Once we close our eyes, 
Just where do we go,
To a place in our minds,
Or a space in our souls...
Wherever it is,
I know I can be,
Who ever I want,
Or whatever I need...
So when I succumb,
My sleeper awakes,
And slowly I fall,
To much deeper states...
Until it provides,
Or until it adjourns, 
Is where I reside,
Until it returns...

Details | Sijo | |

Just Open Me

Lithographed Japanese butterfly frost on the cover
Lime green unlined paper frozen and daring this Indian ink
to seep into her soul, marrying two cultures in word thaw.

Details | I do not know? | |

How I Think And Write

My words don’t exactly flow in consistency,
But in the end (in something like a personal essay),
They eventually all tie together.
My own kind of thinking
Depends on only whether I should
Or really want to take things (and meanings)
Out of their original context
And make (turn it all into) something of mine, my own.

Details | I do not know? | |

air transport

To fly without wings
Higher and higher,soar
Above the stormy region
Set on high above the waves,
At the sky,with birds of the air competes

Details | Blank verse | |


I try to write the words in my soul. These precious bits of thoughts and images 
that seem to flow so naturally from my soul. can find no solace in the written form 
for when written down they seem incomplete as if part of my dream is still in my 
head at that distant shore so far away yet so often tread that I think that I know it’s 
every curve and contour. yet when written it shows me how incomplete is my 
understanding of something that is so integral to my soul that extends beyond 
my soul to the places unknown that reaching within is like reaching without. I call 
it a path but it is more then that yet less to the point where any descriptive word 
falls short of its very nature that there seems to be no point in trying to describe 
yet it so calls to be described that I beat my head against the door trying to unlock 
the words that I need searching through text and voice to find the proper rhythm 
and sound. Still the waves beckon me taunting me to the point I want to break 
down and cry. Nothing fits I have tried please I gave it my all can you not see the 
words you demand are not within me to command go find someone new and be 
their muse. I Just Wish To Be Alone.

Details | Free verse | |

A Jocyean Image

Deada in ashes fallin to lamar cold
Unsing it vanity in time concealed
Like leaveslight winglesssta
Listlessly lain where unburried we wither away

Lull inkfro fettered eternity
I call dull life what it is
Greycoated only dream
Hanging athwart the ending stream until sunset
Totell moreonce the story old

End under streetlamps invisible names in shame
Narrating oursins
Diligently like blackbirds cawing
Sweet nothingican understandin grant.

Details | Haiku | |

She Did

She asked me to stay
but I had writing to do
now you’re reading it

Details | Ballad | |

never any peace

you take the seat anyway,
hoping to be caught.
hoping to catch 
someone else as gullible.
you ask yourself if it's worth it
to wait until it wears off.
drink & inspiration 
never leave you any peace.
you ask yourself if it's worth it-
chasing shadows into gutters,
following well-worn trails 
to barroom bathrooms, 
flushing lines that 
were never written.
you wonder if you'll ever get anywhere
asking if anything is ever worth anything.
had you caught the chair as it was full,
had you caught the gutter's shadow,
had you found the few flushed lines,
you'd still be nothing more than
saddlemarks on some caged beast.
you smoke a cigarette outside, 
spitting in the gutter.
if the muse wants anything of you,
you decide she can come find you.
back inside, the jukebox just
clicks for a few seconds 
& a bottle lands on your table
& the waitress, jerking her thumb
just loud enough
over the next song says,
"this here's from that brunette at the bar."

Details | List | |

Zebra Plastered on your Glue Right-Hand Knot

Zebra plastered on your glue right-hand knot
near the end sorry.
Painted girls tossed in the air
hiding spoken truth.
Guitars bleached their long
silk hair.

I played with civil war's eternity
dust and held your wings
in the air's trust.
Catching butterfly spots.
Rainbow cream pies.
Remorse hides behind
deep pain.
I hide behind lonely eyes.

Everything is pretty between
your painted purple cream
but the dirty laundry
fades and degrades our
freedom's insane frame.
Bombs ticking away on
the side of years.

Dust a model that paints
the sun and once the art
is done, dead inside
an antique bottle, 
we will all be like
your dead zebra broken
by the giraffe's dirty ear.

Silver through the nostrils
and we plucked out our
seed under the dirt, cheap
from the monkey paw.

A buried bone sticks through
born eyes and we believe
our giraffe ear has a bad
infection or a near reaction
to save God from taking our
We must not hide.
Bones will fly just like
lonely spirit's suicide
and nature kept
the glory, our key.

Details | Free verse | |

the day you broke my heart

i wondered why 
i was smotherd 
with pain 
when you left 
a cloud 
hovered over in
being breach 
in insult 
afaid of being
when it poured rain 

like everlasting
water from 
the mount everest
the day you broke 
my heart 
was the best 
day of my life
even though

i struggled 
and suffered to
gain pulse
swearing you was heaven sent
i came to find my 
stronger and tougher
as each day closed
the day you broke my heart

you blosom a rose
i found my 
soul lover.
now i can live 
like the person 
i'am mister soul brother
with soul

Details | I do not know? | |

For The Birds

I heard from this girl,
not too long ago,
but, her words seemed to furl
the joy that used to flow.
So, I listened carefully,
as she went on to tell me
about an air-borne bully
and the ruin of her glee.
She said, one day, out of the blue,
while she was busy outside
feeling all white-washed and new,
a bird crapped on her so she cried.
Well, I just had to smile
as I went on to explain,
the bird wasn't evil or vile,
it's intent wasn't to cause pain;
it was a sign from the heavens,
bestowing it's favour upon her,
that it actually enleavens,
and she should've seen it with humour.

Details | Free verse | |

Porcelain Midnight

Indebted to defining darkness
a fortress of pained souls crying a chorus
fearless and bonded by religious rites
reviving the dada movement fueled by absinthe
driven by inertia in absentia calling forth
dementia dripping with sorrow 
and steeped in anxiety to say nothing at all
as smooth as glass pitch black as night
my self loathing pity is as to death 
as porcelain is to midnight

Details | Free verse | |

Quiz Meg-a-Clue

Nice try Meg, answers-no, no, and Ho,ho,ho

Details | I do not know? | |

No. 14 Winner!!

Once again, the undisputed Grand High Exaulted Mistress Of the Quiz Universe;
Ms. Sharon!!  Oxymoron (Billy Mays).  Congratulations!!  You win a dozen cases of
OxymoronClean hand delivered by the silver tongued bearded Osama-Bin-
of the airwaves, whose name I feel too disgusted to repeat again....

Details | I do not know? | |

The Sketch

The ebony pencil marks up the ivory paper
It's silent strokes fill the page 
With hopes of a better portrait
Than the girl was given to begin with.

Its strokes collectively make up the face of a girl
A face of pure skin and pouty lips
Perfect in idea
And perfect in the image of the girls mind.

Shimmering hair reaches for the girls back
As it grasped to her perfect scalp
The tiny strands fill the head of the girl in the picture
Like a JEWELIZED crown upon a beauty queens head.

A slender figure fills the page
The limbs reaching for her sides
The snake like fingers perfect for the hold of a man
While her hips and chest plaster themselves
In the perfect hourglass shape.

The dark skies fill her vacant eyes
As they search your soul for the truth 
And allow you to see her passionate soul.

The eraser covers any imperfection
As it gently glides over each mistake
With skin perfect
And eyes so beautiful no man can resist her.

She is perfection at its best
She is exactly what every man dreams
She's a self-portrait
Made by a broken girl and shattered soul.

She is what the artist wished to be.

She is what I wish to be.

Details | Free verse | |

All Verse Fly Coach

Attention all poetry:
This is your stewardess Free Verse speaking.
Please make sure that your seatbelts are
securely fastened and your tray table is
positioned upright in the seatback in front
of you.
Thank you and have a nice trip.
My poem's batteries have run out. 
They died somewhere over Kansas while
listening to The Talking Heads. 
My poem is sitting aisle. He can't see
Kansas or anywhere else.
Sitting next to him is a very interesting
fellow. A man who keeps on mumbling and
repeating sentences,
but my poem likes him, with his shaggy
blonde hair covered by a tilted green beret, 
his devilish smile, his funny French accent.
The name embroidered onto his vest is,

Details | Free verse | |

Mobile In Memories

My phone’s a funny statue now,
A frieze, antique, a relic,
Who’s arrogant in silence,
Probably enjoying the respite,
Released from my hand.

It’s speechless and it’s faceless,
No usual miniature letter arrives and illuminates,
So it’s solid, quiet, and unusually untouched.

So I search for words elsewhere, 
In the only other world I trust.
It works for a while, Mayer’s almost been read,
But then, on the page, a film clip begins,
Clattering and spotted,
Of a November coach and the back of your head
Which turns, and I’m fixed, as you look
Not at, not through, but into me.

I try again, I pick up Zarin,
But I find each word is left unread 
As I wander happily through my head
To recall some words with amazing grace
That you once wrote for me.

I apologise to Greenlaw, her world looks so serene,
But my messy head wants nothing other
Than you,
So reading bows out nobly 
And allows me to lie here and live within
Each sparkling memory. 

And just as if my mind made it happen,
My phone wakes up and hums and screams,
And there you are, where you belong,
You miss and kiss me through the screen. 

Details | Rhyme | |

The Word

The word,
But spoken,
Even broken,
It’s heard.
It’s a soup stirred,
A flavored token,
Even when woken.
It’s blurred.
It comes through me through you,
Touched by our blessings in a day,
It simply just passes through.
It sets you well on your way.
The word is your physical suture,
Mending you for an awesome future!

Details | Bio | |


in the mind-
paint my private

Details | Free verse | |

what's in your head? predict this!!!!

Did you see squares all over the page?
stars of E.S.P?
wavy lines?
blue circles?
Can we add it  with a plus sign
come a cross something few will known was here?

Was this my test for the prophets?
are we following white rabbits still?
Is this just another complex inkblot
rainbows and angels
metaphors i don't understand to throw into history
for you to hand to someone
to ask what does this mean?
what do you see?

And then popularity and polls
you become subconscious prophets 
leading the world in some direction

was it the vision of a blue rose slowly blooming
but unfortunately due to the icicles
and snow it has black specks all over it
can you see the green moon
or is it red?
can you sense the passion for insensitivity
are you taken a back?
what am i trying to express?

do the pieces fit
is there still a method to my madness
or are you just my game now?

read this please
ink blots and poems
squares and puzzles
tests and perceptions
and only the geniuses and eccentric already controlled stand out
but if you sway, stand out

be careful

is the square inside or outside of the square
is the star spiraling around the triangle that was never there until just now

here's your pen and pencil
heres your paintbrush and canvass
read this ten times
then begin

is it a vase
with angels and humming bird with shapes in eyes
with spirits, ghosts in doorways
is it resting place crowned with intuition
of spheres and other influences
a library of records
that centers around stars and stripes whited out
and denials danced around
struck out
and basically restrained smile
squared off to circle our emotions
like an angel you just met who wrote this
inspire the new muse
be studied that only geniuses
the mentally ill
certain artists can see
or be forever cursed and manipulated until 
you finish your masterpiece inspired by this confusion

whats inside
what sense is here
what is orchestrating
the fruit bowls
and wheels of the mind?
what hypnosis did you fall for?
what do they know you can help others with in the conspiracy of art museums
thats been done before
never been done before
what ghosts and traces of white and yellow are still lingering

what esoteric seeds of psychics are still circling from the squares of the stars 
sprout from the weeds of your mind
heres your pen and pencil
write a poem, draw a picture, paint a painting
what does it mean?
are you crazy?

did you predict this?

Details | Free verse | |

The Poets Point of Separation

A disbanded little colony of wacky souls ensues:

Some will head to the high purple hills 
and live in caves.
They will bring cranberries and beets to crush
up and make paint with.
They will use horse hair brushes to write their
words on the cave walls for future cave dwellers.

Some, will make the long trek down to the sea.
They will bring sail cloth and hollowed out birch trees
and construct fine boats to set out on the blue.
Once past any site of land,
they will take empty oyster shells
and redeposit pearly orbs in them, now wrapped
in silk ribbons with words of poems written and bled on them with Indian ink.
They will plunk each one to the sea, watching them
sink as white stones past the line of sight, 
to the sweeping sands below.

Others, will head to the plains.
Cowboys to horses and tumbleweed hats.
They will ride to the point of exhaustion 
just to locate a piece of land that has never known 
human feet.
After setting up camp, fire burning the smoke signals of life,
they will sing their words to the coyotes and the night birds.

Still others, like me, will retreat to the land within.
Storing up words and prose, muttering rhyme in the shower
toward upward twisting steam.
Eating a breakfast of oatmeal, but living my life's thoughts through the eyes 
of an old man I saw briefly on the street the day before.

This wacky band of expression analysts.

Each as unique as the lands they will travel to:
The consummate lover.
The philosopher.
The artist.
The photographer.
The misfit.
The wonderful, blow your mind, every time, embodiment of inspiration.

A colony about to disband - to cover the earth in rhyme.

Details | Light Poetry | |

The pen


As I put my Pen to paper,
My mind begins to transcend its earthly bounds,
into realms , far greater than presence alone,
Reality but a state of being.
As transcidity, slowly takes me ,
my thoughts alight from there rationality,
they gently flow, into the Seas of quiddity,
A place where thoughts are immersed,
expanded, kneaded, cleansed,
 and allowed to flow freely, amongst the others.
Here the currents turn , the tide ebbs ,
 and all things come together, 
 and as a wave comes to shore, there to comes ,
“ Inspiration “
this thing, that runs from my pen , and flows to paper ,
such are my thoughts,
there complexity beyond  any comprehension,
or so they seem.
So as I sit here and write, so am I written,
my very being, transcribed
I am layed open, a page written,
that but of another chapter, 
each a part of the whole story ,
as yet , A story without end, 
for thoughts are infinite, my life but yet begun.
My Pen , hungry for the paper,
this simple but beautiful implement, 
that allows my self expression to emerge,
this wich allows my thoughts  to converge,
this wich can allow my mind to be purged .
So as I lay my Pen down , and take time to think,
I pray,
Dear God,
please dont let them run out of ink.

Clement Hardy.

Details | I do not know? | |

On the Masses

On The Masses 
How do many poems start?

It is in all I think the desire for expression
The pen or the keys write the painful subject
Or wring the lips in unforced joys

From there the simple marks
The words spoken fresh and free
No longer unite these fledgling
Dreams, masterpieces, written weeping and tortured screaming

Like Eden and the apples bite
The touch of paper upon the words
Brings them to the jungles threshold

To keep your emotions a simple pleasure
Is easy and does not test your measure
Inside the deep the critics lair
Is where the forgotten hopeless and remembered greats dared

Where poems die, screams of passion judged
A flowers description as delicate as the thing
This is where they go be seen, atop the heaps are the standard few

I rarely dig deep, though that is where my own are buried
I'll read the ones seen as great
I'll dream of the ones I'm yet to write
For in a moment they are the same

Details | Free verse | |

my life defined

a series of acts
with a few different scenes
and the script is me knowing yet praying 
that it wont be
a tragedy

Every act i face a series of tests
each test given a name called a scene
I repeat these scenes like life lessons
and when i get them right
like a game show 
i move on to the next act

How many acts are in a Shakespearean tragedy anyway
will i be strong enough
when in this test no matter how near or far from home 
that's always where I'm pointed

I walk out one door
to find myself on set still
outside this time so it should appear
another door i walk into leads me inside
but yet on a yacht going far away
and the actors are always there
asking me dilemmas
choose this choose that
and then I'm right back at the beginning
flashback making it all make sense
like a dram of circles inside my head

the foreshadowing is thick
for we all know the circle routine of the circle of doors
that lead us around on the set
from act one of home to outside
then faraway and jail
to yacht to flashback home again

what is the lesson to be learned
depends on the actors
and the foreshadowing is thick
story lines story lines

this is my life
the show must go on
and i sit here wasting time to write
the actors of my life were never friends
and proof for look they are all on strike
leaving me to walk these circles in my mind
alone on this set blind

open the door
sunrise blue bright outside sky
open the door
I'm on  yacht
open the door
I'm in jail
open the door
I'm in outer space
open the door
I'm home again
and the foreshadowing in this scene is clever but oh soo thick
as i walk in circles by myself
the story seems to stick

how can i make their guts crawl and plan to fail soo tragicly
no one would intervene and it would make us all sick?

Details | Name | |

Arranged Marriage

The family was seeking my acceptance.
Dad told me, his family is very nice,
And he is reserved kind of person,
I was also delighted, he was quite smart.

The day came, he booked a carriage,
To pick me as a bride from the Church,
We had a round in the town and went off,
To attend a celebration, where it was arranged.

My dad presented me a brand new car as a gift,
After finishing the party, we had a honeymoon booked,
We were very happy for this arranged marriage,
My dreams came to touch my sleepy beauty.
I have seen a strange and burning body,
Flames were exciting me and my feelings,
Realised a peace song that was delivering,
A cool and I were nearly nearly exhausted.

When he came, he was a little drunk, 
When he touched my body I melted as ice,
I thought, he will enjoy me whole night a sip,
I was strange as I was lying in a pool.

Details | Rhyme | |


Like a spiders thread that spins her web 
a thought can be written or be said 
Random paths they sometimes take 
or into a pattern a web may make 
Spinning ideas throughout your head 
spooling forth, thread after thread 
Into a story or even a rhyme 
thoughts may be found of any kind
Like silken webs strong and tough 
or fragile threads broken or cut
So many thoughts so many threads 
so many spinning spider webs 
Caught in a maze of designing thought 
tangled and wrapped, threads pulled taut
Cut the thought, let the thread go 
start another web, threaded to sew
On and on another web we spin
thoughts and threads end and begin

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #267 / LOOK

“And remember D.ick and Jane books
and the first word you learned – the 
biggest one of all – 

Details | Free verse | |

Immaculate Reception

Chants ranting
rants chanting
narcissistic voices
deliciously pounding

Vicarious words
devilishly dancing
choruses spewing
copious chords

Muses climax
narcotic pleasure
poets revel
feeling hypnotic drums

Poetic coitus
lend me your ear
cry havoc
the Virgin Mary is hear

Details | I do not know? | |

A Path to No Where

 A path, that twists, and turns, and, never ends.
While life stays motionless, but hours still make a silent, repeating, tick.

Details | I do not know? | |


Aspirations pierced,
blade of sun tears through
panting air. Sound, captured
in the t-bone lungs of a song-bird.
Shadows dance behind glades
casting doubt
as they spray their breath
between roses.
Stirring up pollen, speckled atoms,
Travelers free of charge on the back
of oxygen. As the garden breathes
a sigh of relief
the nation's lungs
contract as velvet flesh.

Details | Lyric | |

Writer's Block?

As I stare this blank page, 
I realize why;
Why could I not spill my thought?

What's wrong with me, the words gone?
All I want is to write, for freedom
Of thought is rejoicing.

But, I can’t do no more;
Lost my style, perhaps?
Is this the so-called writer’s block?

I could not even spell love,
Nor hate, for the spirits dead; 
Long dead, I’m done.

Blinking is what I got;
Pictures on it I see no more; 
Just but a white page.

As I stare this blank page
I realize why;
Why could I not spill my thought?

Ah, this is not…
A writer’s block, simply
I am out of love.

Details | Rhyme | |


Understanding is beyond me.
I have the bare facts.
The reasons for these acts,
I am told that they hold the key,
to unlock the secret door,
to go beyond this pitiful moor,
to the place were imagination lives,
and everything else gives,
to the place called the written word,

Details | Rhyme | |

Bend In The Wind

Creativity is the bend
In the way of the wind

To make static in the fabric
Of  your life or your soul

And know this when you find it
All you can do is stand behind it

Creatively stand back
And watch it grow

Details | Rhyme | |

Wandering Mind

Here I write,
but I don't know why
it's either that 
or stare at the sky,
and as I ponder
what to scribe next,
inspiration fills my text.
The infamous thoughts
swirl all about,
smearing together
until they come out,
creating clear green skies
filled with mingling flies
and rolling red grassy knolls
with fluffy plants sprouting bowls.
As scaly monkeys
swim through the air
I catch a whiff
of a couch tree over there,
supporting burley potatoes
holding a remote and a flair,
throwing their garbage overhead
without a care.
And then without another thought
it fades onto an orange fog,
so thick that all of the images
disappear into the smog.

Details | Imagism | |


How many letters have i written filled with meaningless emotion.
That none can understand and most time half-forgotten,
They seem like so many dreams that fall to short from glory,
That all I can say,
Is please do not read,
These words have no sense.
Their meaning has been lost in translation.
the sound of the horn is as clear as a bell.
But it music seems not to want to be written.
The confusion I feel flows to this paper.
Leaving heart and soul out,
Without even a whimper.
All is left is my mind which does not understand.
So I buried my pen in the shifting sand,
Buried it deep so none may find the torturious beast,
Within its innocent illusion.
The illusion that is torn away to reveal our pain.
So clear as a bell.
So I hide it away so no one can find it.
Yet it is still there waiting for me,
That horror.

Details | Rhyme | |

Hungry for Words

My eyes are hungry,
like a ravionous beast
To eat the words up
like a tasty treat 

no matter how much i read 
i just dont seem to get enough!
i try to take my time with it...
but my eyes just gobble them up

vampires, westerns, 
romance and more
i read till my eyes blur
or till my head is sore

the hours fly by 
paled and insignificant
but who really cares 
when the world your living in
 is so vastly magnificant

adventures your in, they  never end
with prince charming at your side
or stuck on an island 
because your plane crashed and you almost died

you walk into to a library 
and heave a sigh
 a choice has to be made
but its yours to decide 

Details | Free verse | |


Depression is conquering your mind
Your body has no action or sign
Sadness has engulfed your emotion
Your broken heart turn into dissatisfaction

You waited forever, but no one's there
you wished someone for you would care
only hope you ask is to pray
that love is forever and always stay

Your blue eyes is turning red
and teardrops you say wont be shed
that one day your love will return
You realize that your eyes begun to burn.

You pretend to smile but your still alone
Loneliness in your life is only shown
Your learned forever is not enough
You need a lover that's makes you laugh

Like a river flows from your eyes
A million tears is no surprise
I miss you, you say everyday
But crying is not okay

I need you, you said my love
But only god knows i love you from above
Until the end of time we meet again
So your tears will end

Details | I do not know? | |


In early hours she types 
pages she's felt and known
beyond words ,elements ,time 
What has been ,what may become 
Encircled in body and soul
Connected rhythm and rhyme 
Picks beyond words she writes 
To unwritten voyages she roams ...

Details | Free verse | |

Sidewalk Scribbles

CJ scrawls out
his initials
saying in black ink
this is his turf.

I dare not step
on the 4-letter word
engraved in stone
lest it ruin my day.

Some sweet child of God
writes, "GOD IS GOOD"
all over the park
in pink chalk.

Lovers carve
their lettered kisses
into hearts
set in stone
that make me smile;
love is such
a happy thing!

The dog left
thankfully only

Mother Nature
dropped some leaves
to imprint themselves
upon the walk.

I haven't left my mark

maybe I will tomorrow.


Details | I do not know? | |


I walked along life's path one day,
and looked at where I'd been, 
the path was not so rosy,
it was lined with hedges of thorns,
that often left me tattered and torn.

I struggled through the thorns,
with the promise of roses in sight, 
I wasn't giving up on life,
without an unending fight.

Once through the thorns,
in the distance I could see,
the roses that were waiting,
to a part of my life be.

I stood up straight and strong,
as I raced for the roses,
and left behind all that was wrong.

So now I live in roses,
with an occasional thorn,
to remind were where I've been,
from the time I was born.

Details | Free verse | |

The skeletons new found soul

anybody anybody

winding winding
windining winding

hey hey hey
hey hey
hey hey 
hey hey

Now now 
now now now


Sex Sex Sex
Sex Sex Sex SEx
Sex SEx

wicked wicked wicked


baby baby


Details | Couplet | |

A single word

It started with a single word- then came another five.
When I got to my second line, I nearly began to cry.
Chapter two developed in an unsuspected way,
and the characters began to grow a little more each day.
The plot began to thicken by the middle of chapter three,
and ‘he said- she said- who did what?’ was now a mystery.
By the end of chapter four, somebody will die-
and someone else will fall in love by the middle of chapter five.
Chapter six begins with the sound of wedding bells,
and they’ll probably have a baby if chapter seven goes well.
Chapter eight needs more excitement to keep the story strong.
Maybe between nine and ten someone new will come along.
A wondering eye in chapter eleven ignites a love affair
and chapter twelve will begin with a marriage in despair.
Thirteen and fourteen will hold together the threads of a broken heart,
but in chapter fifteen they will finally decide they cannot be apart.
Sixteen will rekindle passion, seventeen a vengeful hate,
and in the beginning of chapter eighteen someone will meet their fate.
Chapter nineteen will be the greatest finale ever heard,
And twenty will be the end of the journey that started with a single word.

Details | Free verse | |

master of thought

Unclear words comb their way into my mind
Putting them on paper
Feels so much better
Not so cluttered and chaotic
Its concrete and mine
A pencil and an eraser
Is all I need
They’re my friends
My allies
Ready when I need them
Working an even pace
Till the job is done
Letting whatever comes to mind
Be shown and presented
Not on a pedestal
Mind you
But the light
Shall caress the words
As their glory rings out
While they fly off your lips
Too woo some mongrel’s mind
In a flash of teeth
And a slip of the tongue
My work as a master of thought.

Details | Rhyme | |


The bread and butterflies 
wake to taste your morning dew,
though innocent they seem 
their intentions will not do,
each grabs a curly lock 
and pulls you to their side,
laughs so small only flowers fathom 
into the mud you slide,
not a tear escapes your eye
no, not a single one,
you sit and wait patiently
they no not what they've done,
a moon struck black book
rises from the goopy mud,
and all the bread and butterflies
they all turned into blood...

Details | I do not know? | |

Every open pore

The roof is a jig-saw of iron 
veins scarred with dead-smoke. 
The occasional un-cracked face 
of glass peers down, remembering steam. 
Each second is full, bubbling with noise to spare 
newspapers crackle, feet tic along cement. 
Machinery breathes as we push from the platform.

Not far enough from the panic, fields lay placid
fierce colors reach for your eyes, wash them
in your marble sockets. Sharp green rivers sway,
the glades sweating, lure you
to exist amidst their mirage.
Crimson curls along your cheeks, its finger rolling
out the creases.

Skies weigh hard again, crunching clouds
hold in the tears. The walls arch
as the tracks merge into tunneled darkness.
Feet tic along cement again, voices echo,
the heat from the person next to me leans
hard against skin. Invading every wrinkle,
every open pore.

Details | Burlesque | |

Tom's Twelve Terrible Tid-Bits

"The Wear B_tch Project"- a truly nasty runway model presents fashions for the 
Monsoon- an alternate description for late Sunday.
Internet- a temporary safely net for trapeze artists.
Cardiac- a generic Pontiac.
Lattice- a very, very stale, and hard, vegetable sandwich condiment.
Alocoholic- a major fan of Al's Hauling Co.
Lavish- a fish in the toilet.
Carrier Pigeon- a bird that craps all over the USS Ronald Reagan.
Pyrex- a vicious carnivor / dinosaur made pastry treat.
Jamboree- shoving a bo up ree's butt.
Janitor- an entertaining supervised excursion for Jan.
Phantom- an appreciator of Tom's Tid-Bits.
Service- a friendly offering of ice cubes.
Serpentine- a Lordly paint thinner.
Cutlass- a female surgeon.
Laureate- a person who consumes "laurs".

Allright, so I can't count!!!!!

Details | Ballad | |

' Legendary ... ' ( Part 4 (of) 4)

‘ Legendary …’  ( Part  4 (of) 4 ) 

Now, that the Maiden was Unaided, Quickly, ‘He’ Located, Her Craftily
Beth, was in A Flurry, Too Much in a Hurry to Hear Turning of A Key 
Alas’ … The Happenstance of Harm, at the Bower, twas’ Done Most Foully !
Alas’ … The Happenstance of Alarm, Maid twas’ Undone for Shameful Villainy!

 * * *  The Maid so Afraid, for The Earl Waylaid – Her, to His Infamy
He Ravaged and Damaged The Maid … and Took Her Innocency …

And She, in Her Distress and Mental-Regress and Misery
Sat Horrified-Aloof, Sitting in Soiled Proof, of Her Plundered Chastity
There Could Nay be Gathered, Her Tattered-Wits twere’ Shattered, even for Modesty
As The Earl snidely Chuckled, and Boastingly Buckled His Belt, Smirking Heinously

Yea, The Earl had Sated His Dissipated Lust and Gloated – Gleefully
Went Back to The Masque-Ball and Unmasked and Called and Mocked Maliciously
Impugned Beth, to One and All, of Her Downfall from Grace to Impropriety
The Earl Made Sure … The Stunned Knight Would Overhear, The Indecency …

But Much to The Earl’s Chagrin and also Akin to Cowardice and Incredulity
… The Knight Spoke Nay a Word, Only The Hissing of His Sword, Struck Accordingly
The Last Look, The Earl Saw Was … Rage and The Fraught-Gaze of  Insanity !
Yea, The Knight, Smote The Gloat off The Face of the Vile Earl, Most Deservedly …

* * *

Thence, The Knight, in Their Sight, Became Legend That Night as He Fought Mightily
He Escaped Royal Guards, His Heart was Beating Hard, as He made it to The Bowery
And by the Window, He could see by Melted Tallow, a piece of cloth hung Raggedly
caught Wherefore Beth … had jumped to Her Death … and Lay Below Crookedly …

* * *

Now, Tis’ Sad To Recite … They Hung The Poor Knight,  tis’ Further Travesty
For The Earl, tho’ Highborn, wast’ a Cur to Be Scorned … a Monstrosity !
Alas’ …  and Aghast, the hope of Lovers Together at Last, Turned into Tragedy
Fie’ and Fain, lest’ we Forget, this be A Story and yet… couldst’ be Reality …

Yea, Fie’ and Fain, lest’ We Forget, …  Why The Earl, His End Met … 

                        … This Too Was Vanity …   Eccl. 1: 14

‘ … Sweet Wine On My Lips … Drip In Ecstasy
Sweet Touch On My Hips … Smooth as Warm Honey
Sweet Love of My Soul … Last An Eternity
Sweetheart, Be Thy Bold in Bravery …
… and if Sweet Talk, Be A Token
And Language Be Spoken …
Be Legendary … Be Thou Legendary ! ‘

                               The End

Details | Free verse | |


Winter's chill
Howling winds
Arctic blasts

Through layer upon layer
To the bone

Turning skin a shade of blue
Normally reserved
For tropical seas
And newborn eyes

Drifts of snow
Piled high as my home
Sleet and snow
Driven by Mother Nature's gales

Through the bone-numbing 
And the blinding storm
Of purest white

One glimpse

Of you


Details | Free verse | |

The book the wizard wrote part four

one day I’ll write this book 
with every possible war in it 
with every possible happy endiNoticedng 
every possible love connection every possible philosophy and holy and evil 
worship in it 
every good and bad intention
Now you got me goin
That you know nothing at all
Gotta do it my way if id oit all
And feel nothing cause you don’t know 
and at the end of leading the believer through the streets 

right left forward back 
One way ticket back to Eden
I reveal this book is perfect but you are going to pass it on to the next generation 
and unfortunately it cant stay intact 
I wanna fly
I wanna fly

With my liscencer to love and memories chained with goldFly

so tear out what you will 
Whose loving me?
will you leave it a book to rise against the government 
a conspiracy amongst the pages I have written in the riddles 
to pass amongst the hands
Tried to break me with goodbye 
will you leave the pages of love and inner wisdom to humble the next generation 
that you didn’t see the future possibilities coming 

And I cant sleep at night
will you tear out the truth that this was all really Gabrielle’s dance 
and test for the souls to see who would climb the highest mountain 
and who would crawl with the royalty at his feet
Fast hearted angels
Hurting the easy 
and in this book all these dreams of houses and statues and gardens 

Don’t know what I’m doing
other realities to create and frontiers of lasting of propaganda sand mans plans 
and utopias and how to get there 

 The wings of changing
 Limitless operating smoothly
Listening to the bounding brook
Changing everything
Today I hold my head up high
Smoothly operating
Sitting in the limits that keep me here
And I'm in this shell
And you make fun or threaten me still

Details | I do not know? | |

This damn television

(This is a fictional poem)

I hate this damn television that my wife just bought.
When I ask people if I'm intelligent, they say I'm not.
This TV only picks up one channel and that really blows.
It only has one program that's about washing clothes.
This one show is irritating and it's starting to make me fume.
Why did my wife put this damn television in the laundry room?

Details | Acrostic | |

Behind the Wall

Willfully erected..obstructing..
    emotional velocity halted..
Armor.. imprisoning..
    safe and secure.. spiritless..
Layers of pain.. eclipse 
    and enclose..restricting ..
Languish not behind the wall..
    surrender to the magnitude of emotion..
Escape the enchantment of safety..
    passions unleashed.. fireworks erupting
Delight in the wonder of Love..
    thrill to the sensations of life!
    ~ rejoice as the bricks tumble..
    ~ shout as the wall falls....

Details | Free verse | |


Beyond Imagination where hope exist
Lies the hand of God's list
Unconditional love is the gift from heaven
Dreams we share is only daven
Far away through cloudy skies
God's Love will grows and never dies.
A promise will be made from the heart
Heaven and Earth will never be apart
We kneel down each day and pray
So God Smile on us Everyday

Details | Rhyme | |

When I Grow Up

when I grow Up
I want to teach the world
how to salute to a flag thats unfurled

when I grow up
I want to take my brothers hand
and march across this beautiful land

when I grow up
I want to find a girl
that makes my heart just swirl

when I grow up
I want to find a job
and not have to beg steal or rob

when I grow up
I want to learn about God
and miracles created through bowing nods

when I grow up
I want alot of friends
who will hold my hand as my time ends

so when I grow up
I hope this fun never ends
of pretending and playing this game once again

Tribute To Childhood
This was seen through a little boy's perspective lol

Details | Free verse | |

Story Telling

It was troubling,
That is memorizing.

Think, thought 
Write, blot.

Something, nothing
Come on anything. 

Sentence structure
Get's me flustered.

Think and Thought.

Smile, stand straight,
Don't twitter or flutter. 

Speak, talk,
Knees unlock.

Succeed, destroy, forgive,
If it's not over soon, I won't live.

Look around
Don't space out

My face is red,
So I stare instead

Don't shake or quiver,
Just speak and deliver

My feelings relate.

Details | Free verse | |

This Poem

This poem is not 
a rhyme, yet words 

flow gracefully 
within. Amber light 

guides my soul to 
a sunken treasure!

Details | Cowboy | |

Bein' Cowboy's a State of Mind

Some say a cowboy’s a cowboy—
It’s a truth he can’t hide behind—
He rides hard on inner ranges—
Bein’ cowboy’s a state of mind.

They say you just ain’t a cowboy,
If you make your wages in town—
You have to have dirt on your hands
And your boots dug deep in the ground.

If you don’t ranch or ride the land,
Some say you can’t write cowboy verse—
They say that you ain’t authentic—
A wannabe or even worse. 

Some say that you can’t do it right
If you’ve never really been one—
So I reckon that I can’t write
‘Bout open range or settin’ sun.

They say you got to live the life,
Be a rancher/workin’ cowpoke—
Feelin’ it in your heart and soul
Is just some Wild West movie joke.

They don’t count imagination
In their new corral trail mix view—
You don’t have to fly to the moon
To figure out that it ain’t blue.

To some, ol’ ways are dead and gone,
It’s ‘puters and pick-ups that’s best—
They want no talk of cattle drives,
Gunfights, outlaws or the Old West.

They talk like we ain’t got no say—
Cowboy poets should be cowboys—
That romantic notions are done
And they just want the real MeCoys.

But tell this to workin’ cowboys:
Don’t dig our graves before we’re dead—
There’s room enough out on the plain—
There’s still heritage in our head.
Still, a cowboy is a cowboy—
It’s a truth he can’t hide behind—
He rides hard on inner ranges—
Bein’ cowboy’s a state of mind.    

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 | Epigram | |

Untitled #156 / Poems are pearls

Poems are pearls,
you must dive deep to find the best

Details | I do not know? | |

Childhood Becomes Impressionism

Remember the games we used to play?
On rainy days under the gray?
In the trees and through the stars,
around the bends and up to Mars.
Over rainbows and in witches' den
oh, the things we could see then.

On paths that only we could take
we flew and galloped in grass we'd make.
With annoying companions in our hand
snuck into places hid'n in the land.
In a world none but we can unlock
full of magic we'd weave with talk, 
colors, solutions; the things we'd devise
predicaments and love seen through our eyes.

To see again what most cannot dream
is simple for those who once have seen.
And such as we've done can be woven again
much samely through words can beasts be slain,
and grottoes built up from the ground.
Here our golden grove IS found.
For what once was can be again
in the world of words and key and pen.

Details | Bio | |


fire my mind-
burning to be penned.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Souper-Men/Souper Woman-Convention Idea

I think we should ask the Soup people about this convention-where to have- how 
much each would need to contribute.  This could be a big promotional coup for 
the Soup people-even if they charge us , say $20 per head to attend- and more 
for site...etc...And perhaps I can get my old band together for entertainment- I'd 
even do some of my stand-up and comedy gratis.  and maybe 
vote for a couple of categories of poetry- romantic, humourous-sad-life-loss- 
and "Grand Master Poet"  Please advise me of your thoughts!  Thank you, and 
God bless you all!!        tom bell

Details | I do not know? | |


Words are like magic,
A journey to the other side
Following the heroes of fiction
into scenarios we hope for ourselves
The flame in the back of a creative mind flickers
Inspiration gathered from the shadowed hearts of mankind
Telling tales of noble deeds and gallant steeds that saved the world as we know it.
The written story takes us somewhere that we could never get to without the help of a 
good book.

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 | Blank verse | |


Gems flow from your finger tips,
Each a priceless jewel,
No struggle, No pain,
Just perfection,
You can do simplicity when it is called for,
and be as complex as a difficult rhyme.
I say you are not an artist.
You create with no feeling,
All is technical skill,
With no passion to fire the imagination,
You are an actor,
Pretender, unreal.
The very feeling you should feed on,
You shun like it is rotten.
Behind me.
Give me someone who cannot rhyme, or cannot write a phrase,
but has the passion of rebel,
Give me that person over you,
You ice queen,
You make me sick,
Be gone from my sight, NOW!
I no longer wish to see you,
You do not care for passion,
then I do not care for you.

Details | Free verse | |

The Moment

For the moment may I…
Be your everything can I 
Look you in your eyes
Take your hand and caress 
Your right & left cheek
Can I be the moment of
Passionate love when you kiss me
Can I be that tear of joy
You shed when your eyes slowly leak
Can I be your everything you’ve been
Searching for, your sunshine your
Moonlight, the feeling you get when 
Were together and I’m holding you tight
And love all of a sudden seems so right
For the moment can I just gaze 
At your beauty, and yeah
I’m your personal sex toy 
So have your way and you use me
Let me be the feeling you
Get when your about to climax 
The prayer you pray in your 
Moment of fasting 
Let me be your long kiss goodnight
The feeling you get when you miss me
When I leave your sight.

Details | Acrostic | |

Pen of a Ready Writer

Many Days should speak, and multitude of 
Years should teach wisdom, I said.  But

There is a spirit in man:  and the inspiration
Of the Almighty giveth him understanding; therefore,
No prophecy is by the will of man, but holy men of
God speak and write the word as they are moved By the
Unction of the Holy Ghost for the edification and 
Exhortation and comfort of those who will hear and read.

Details | Quatrain | |

Upon Reading the Verse of Yvor Winters

He tried to fly to the sun
On wings he made of butter,
Burned his butt and his thumb
So slow his wings would flutter.

For he crashed far out at sea
Survived on an island alone.
Where he lived on butter and tea
There he built a boat of stone.

But, a boat of stone won't float,
As butter makes poor wings.
A poem in the sand he wrote
Yet it told of such sad things.

A tide washed his poem away-
And then this fool poet died.
In the sun his bones still lay
My hero, for at least he tried.

Details | I do not know? | |

Written Words, In My Head

In my head.

Details | Rhyme | |


                                           For as long as I remember
                                           I've always loved to read
                                           It didn't really matter what
                                           It all fulfilled a need
                                           A good love story warmed my heart
                                           I traveled through time with history
                                           The comic pages made me laugh
                                           And I always loved a good mystery
                                           Through the pages of books I have traveled
                                           Across oceans and deserts I've roamed
                                           I've not spent a dime on my journeys
                                           And I just close the book to come home
                                           I get to meet famous people
                                           And though I've never set foot in a college
                                           Every book that I read will help me succeed
                                           To expand in wisdom and knowledge
                                           I must say though I do have a favorite
                                           Tis the greatest book I believe ever written
                                           For treasures untold as the stories unfold
                                           It speaks volumes to those who will listen
                                           Its a little of everything rolled into one
                                           Humor, mystery, history and love
                                           All written by one single author
                                           Our glorious Creator above
                                           Someday I might too be an author
                                           I'll never know lest I try
                                           But regardless of whether I'm published
                                           I'll still love to read till i die


Details | I do not know? | |

Know No Better Part One

I'm a plastic frame with false lenses,
my mind's a domicile of the meek;
I have only earthly posessions,
I pen them within casual fences.

My laughter persuades no one;
socks sold in transparent plastic bags;
I can't say I've considered contrition,
can't say I've even a soul to atone.

My favorites can all be listed,
and my zeal's best kept safely indoors;
I have this general capacity for sympathy,
at times even my vision becomes misted.

My convictions are bloated cardboard,
while opportunities all bleed away;
I have never seen my song too well,
melodies are an unpulled cord.

Don't look into my eyes,
they ain't gettin' no wetter;
all my truths require lies,
I know no better.

"I saw this guy and he was talkin',
Dude!, it was, like, really, really shockin',
he was sayin', ya know, how it'll all end,
like everything's just some big game of make-pretend!"

And, the next morning at nine o'clock, or there about,
Another day begins with no glorious, death-defying shout;
take the chair, take up the pen, scribble on the sign-in sheet,
it's not the cold, but the evaporation of all the heat.

The boss, he grins, as though he's hiding a knife,
and I think to myself,"This is what I've done to my life.";
he leans in real close to continue his pointless meandering,
all I can do is grin 'n nod with total lack of understanding.

Can't seem to shake my practice of telescopic prowess;
those about me can't see that so much more's the less;
their eyes kindle upon me with slavish, greedy need;
my lack of action's the throne from which I lead.

I've a quiet devotion,
quality of an Irish Setter;
My eyes are all emotion,
I know no better.

Details | Free verse | |

Language Arts

A word and a breath but it’s the thought that counts.
Up or down in or out love and trust is what it’s all about.
To you I say can you hear me perked up on the mounts.
You are in or you are out.
A touch and a whisper but it is the kiss of truth.
Knelt or bent I am down on my knees.
And I beg you please.
To me I say can I hear me or am I aloof?
Language arts is a dance in the breeze,
With a summer squeeze,
A winter’s pinch,
The spring’s stench,
Even the autumn’s leaves!
Bathing in the words and dancing like a twit.
Singing in rhythm and painstakingly making a switch.
Language arts is a breeze on the summer Seas.
Lifting you up or pulling you down and spinning you all around,
It will knock you to your knees,
Lifeless and unbound!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2005

Details | Ballad | |

' Legendary ... ' ( Part 3 (of) 4 )

‘ Legendary …’  ( Part  3 (of) 4 ) 

… Now, The Earl, had Spies, to keep Intruding Eyes On The Tryst of Secrecy
Beth’s Tresses, like Raven Wings and Eyes Emerald-Green, Became His Fantasies
Yea, He erstwhile Plotted, for He wast’ Besotted with the Cobbler’s Daughter’s Beauty
All to no Avail … for Beth Knew Well,  Twere’ None, More Wretched, than He !

So, She didst’ Spurn his Declaration and Protestations of Undying Fidelity
She didst’ Return, His Portrait and String of Pearls and His Poems, Peremptorily
Forasmuch, and twas’ this and such, She Rebuffed all His Pleasantries
In Favor of Her Knight, she Reserved This Right, which Enraged, Their Enemy
 - - - - - - -
Now, Twas’ but an Instant, of Insistent Cajoling, that Beth Pleaded Prettily
To Part with Her Swain, til’ Their Hearts Came, to be Joined For Perpetuity
To Compose Herself, for Their Nuptial-Heft, She twould  Prepare Hastily
And Rendezvous for His View, stating … ‘ I  twould’ Look, My Best for Thee!’

And as She left His side, She was Singing Most Merrily …

‘ …  Carry Me in Thine Arms, to Our Beloved Balcony
To a Bed of Blushing-Rose-Petals and Wild-Tossed-Peonies
A Bed Lover’s Designed … Draped in Damask and Brocade -Satiny
And let Moon-Glow, from Yon’ Window, Bathe Us Both Bodily … ‘

… and The Handsomely Styled, Smitten Knight Smiled, as He Heard Her Warm Gaiety …

… Sweet Wine On My Lips … Drip In Ecstasy
Sweet Touch On My Hips … Smooth as Warm Honey
Sweet Love of My Soul … Last An Eternity
Sweetheart, Be Thy Bold in Bravery …
… and if Sweet Talk, Be A Token
And Language Be Spoken …
Be Legendary … Be Thou Legendary !

                                  ( Part 3 (of) 4 )

Details | Acrostic | |


Marvelous and newfangled
  ~ purses and cars

Original or trendsetting
  ~ restaurants and bars

Different and fresh
  ~ opinions and ideas

Elegant or stylish
  ~ show smiles and not tears

Radical and sensational
  ~the headlines each day

New-fashioned or en-Vogue
  ~ Living today's Modern way!


Details | Free verse | |

Poetry The Definition

Poetry The Definition 
Poetry the Definition 
 it is fine 
 making words to rhyme 
  it is like your brain makes 
singing bass and melodies 
  there is no other words to 
  describe it 
endless parodies of love 
  you are making music from words? 
 just trying to get the things to rhyme. 
eenie meenie miinie moe 
 one word stooge and lo 
and behold there were three stooges 
 slapsticking and ribtickling pleasure 
for a small boy so alive in eyes 
 wasted time and life is over now i have ewe 
poetry the definition: 
  it is fine 
just trying to get the words to rhyme. 


Details | I do not know? | |

Know No Better Part Two

This solitude is mine, it's all I've created;
my language is barbed, my words serated;
see my bearing is so damned sophisticated,
the whole of the world should be this liberated.

"Once, I thought, someone was knockin',
swore I heard someone was callin',
but, ya know how it is when this man's rockin',
nuthin's noticed, not even stars fallin'."

The noose I tied's still only a rope,
all the dreams I had, nothing but dead hope;
like washing my hands with a sliver of soap,
kill the bacteria of desire, just so I can cope.

Broken english, dry leaves on skeletal trees;
broken charm bracelet, pocketed for the memories;
broken lines of thought stirring in the breeze;
broken destiny, promise of petty tragedies.

Gaze at me with your scorn;
a strange, heavy sweater,
always lookin' worn;
I know no better.

I find satisfaction in distraction,
finding entertainment one hour at a time;
keep life one long, unending coming attraction,
finding entertainment one hour at a time.

But, I want to think
I did my damndest
not to sink
my sunken chest.

Give me another chance;
give me some more time;
give me this last dance;
give me...I don't know...a lime?

Talk to my eyes so blue,
as their whites get redder;
now ya know it's true,
I know no better.

Read my tortured words,
pour over every letter;
heaps of petrified turds,
I know no better.

Details | Epic | |

Weekender Volume One

(“Radio Free Europe” solemnly mourns our solitary grace.) 

I partitioned thought
Upon his waist
Versace vespers voiced,
Provincial pinstripes caress 
Accentuated vulgarities,
Transparent titillation, 
“Trans- Atlantic
Servile Alex”
Nostalgic nudity,
Consistently demure, 
Brunette, unattainable,
Pre-emptive self depreciation,

Her justice,
His additional mathematics,
Phrasing praise, pulling pints
Unto a lacquered finish,
Convoluted, contrived,
Ultimately perfect,

Impressionistic hues, 
Plaintive perception
Penalised as 
Keane sports the hoops,
McLeish begs to differ,
Paisley feuds rhythmic rues 
Ardently converse,
Platonic tonics 
Botanic Avenue,

Pubs walk the pub talk
Along post natal promenades,
Soluble catheters 
Empathise within,
Awoke by a synthetic kiss;

“Lads, the same time next week?”

“Ai, if you’re buying…”

Details | I do not know? | |

Oh, Please

Oh,return to me
  as I turn to you;
Please don't quickly flee
  far to heaven's blue.
Permit me the time,
  cast the proper spell
To search rhyme's rhythms,
  words as a rain fell.
Do not play me foul,
  yet another ruse;
I loose my lone howl
  for you,my fleet muse.

Details | Tetractys | |

Manners In Seeking Information

request of,
inquire about
become a badger with exclamation.

Details | Lyric | |


Ideas with nowhere to hide
A eureka moment inside
Indistinct ,then becoming clear
Words& pictures coming near-
A passage of light to my soul,
Inspiration to make me whole.

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 | Free verse | |

Lunar Inspiration

In drinking star juice, 
we internal light the fires within
We taffy twist and tug and spin
the wings of self elation
We bluntly burn each ventricle
and cauterize our lungs until
each tendril of our core is skin invading
And when the juice of stars ignites
we dance the dance and fight the fight
with solar flares to shoot our mouths
to moons yet undiscovered
It's in this moment we depart
and shatter long before we start
to lick elixir from the sky
in lunar inspiration.

Details | Couplet | |

Healing Ellie

I met you hollow as the bones
of sun scorched trees with roots upturned
Worn to smoothness, polished grey
I met you when you'd less to say
But time and temperance green the ground
by pushing growth and sticking 'round
The seeds which scattered, dormant, light
in a gust of wind and time, took flight
They settled with your words and grew
with limbs of strength, they became you
And soon you laughed and bloomed in pink
and unwrapped time as a gift to think
Soon, your roots entwined the earth
You opened your arms to a million birds
and swayed in the wind to their favorite tune
as you etched them into your friend, the moon
Now you speak as all nature does
with a heart full of passion that's rooted in love
Each limb of growth reaching into the wind
Your words are a healing, You're on the mend...

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? | |


What goes on in the gist of his mind?

He anxiously awaits the moment to hold his first love again,
to confine her in his palm and formulate a rhyme so fine,
a line so devine that when the array of stanzas
intertwine a quatrain is solified....
formed and cultivated-
born and recreated-
It's inconceivable to knock a rhyme off it's axis
as this echo of Aeschylus passes thy passion to the masses
repeatedly asking Jesus of Nazareth
for the endless tenacity on a regular basis with tastes of mastery....
formed and cultivated-
born and recreated-
Whatever this talent wrote last dawn had the tendency
of the late Edgar Allen Poe it spawned through his misery.
He breeds with prominent loves readers aw at his little seeds
that endlessly inspires blossoming writers charmed by his poetry.
formed and cultivated-
born and recreated-

What goes on in the gist of his mind?

Details | Free verse | |

Ode to the seaside from the starship

Writing my dieing languagereading continually  aloud
within Brokenwhat sexual mirror
5th line 3rd stanza
critique Nazis(poetry game)
to become
whatever you wanted
No simplistic change causing desired left
crooked crooks
babbling brook
between the lines
Empty replaces nothing
translation of your last poem
Liberate fate to where 
 one line per stanza

The crooked Town
populations Experiencing questionsinfluence
called home
the dead
heroes forgotten
lies born
the dead hero
child of  complex truths
a piece of experience
of myself and the nine of hearts
king of the mysterious world

Loose endedly finish my sentences so they can finish yours
who with audio order ignorance insanity
receive of their right  innovative great health clarity of bliss
give controls to  the forces, discover 
abused  acts a yes 
focus falls on light
 falls lead
give diplomatic minds enterprise secrets and 3 tests sometimes them dictators
geniuses growing a turn away
foresight to an ode to mothers every where
within slow alone Kyle expressive
good spirits confuses masks 
morning cop out conspiracies
curing  seals aware
mysteries gullibility
sees selfless 

art victoms existing
within governments knowledgeable
resurrected and followed
masking demons feeling spheres through separates
Innocent untainted hands dividing possibilities clean works
think lacking 
lacking gaining think

Details | Couplet | |

Butterfly Bones are Lighter, They Say...

Flow with me gently or flutter on by
Your butterfly tears stain green your blue eyes
In rivers and inlets or far away streams
your tears follow currents in search of your dreams
The butterfly swimmers with wings blue and gold
refuse to taste nectar that's any less bold
than you are in flight dipping through night
an eclectical sight, your reflection so tight
in your very own eyes shines bright from the tears
They strengthen your ties and lengthen your years
The spread of your wings cast shadows warm blue
to all that you love, and all who love you...

Details | I do not know? | |

Turning Dreams Into Poetry

I woke up this morning with three new poems
 on my mind.
Now that I’m up and had my coffee, not
one of them can I find.

Each one was a dream that I remembered in 
a half asleep, half awake state.
I had them all etched in my mind, but getting them
on paper was not their ultimate fate.

I laid in bed half asleep and marveled at the brilliance 
of each poem.
But now with my eyes wide open, all my mind wants
to do is roam.

First, I was the bride in a wedding, all beautifully
dressed in white.
Next I was sitting here wondering why my jeans
have been fitting so damn tight.

Then I dreamed I was somewhere in Mexico, on the
beach just soaking up rays.
The next thing that popped up in my mind
was all the bills I need to pay.

The third dream was the hardest to remember. I was driving
down the California coast.
But then the only thing I could think of was, what
time should I put in the roast.

Well, I guess this is the only “great” poem coming from
my mind today.
And I have figured it all out, that in just waking up, there
is a price that you have to pay.
So, now I’ve learned my lesson. A notebook and
pencil now lay beside my bed.
And tomorrow when I wake up, I’ll put on paper,
all those thoughts I have dancing in my head.

Details | Free verse | |

My Fingertips

I can't force the words to my fingertips.
I feel them run through my veins,
they haunt me in my dreams
and taunt me in even the brightest days.
I know that there are expressions in my heart,
but my mind just doesn't know where to start.
The words seem to race inside my head
no sense or form just a crazy haze.
Deep inside I feel their meaning,
but they still confuse these fingertips.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Like it is

Sipping slowly
Fast broken
Reading into
Words unspoken

Sailing into neaps and swollen
Tides of ethereal friendship
Kindled kindred souls 
sailing unseen waters
Blithely sharing
miles apart
Viewpoints of
As daydreams 
of wet canvas
stroke cheeks
of Mersey fog
in salty
dirty brown

Details | Free verse | |

The Vestige of Fifty-Five Words Per Minute

Solvent light diminishes metaphorical seconds,
wiping them with a blur–a stroke–a motion,
challenging the wings of emotion to pulse and live,
To etch and carve something in a flight of furor,
in a whirlwind haze of hapless thoughts in apropos.

A sound made in arresting touches of flesh on plastic
and in the vestige of fifty-five words per minute
I listen to the swift, cool rush of bodiless thoughts;
formed, reformed; given unto the cerulean glow,
like an offering of the internal to the exponential.

Ripped from juxtaposition and highlighted in blue,
a shadow morphs into absently coruscated fog,
crystalized in the act of inciting jubilant ruminations.
A cackle amidst a gaggle of jabbering voices,
and jovial extractions alight succulent glows of nascence.

He is born.

My twin sired with the conscious decision to smile whilst I type
and in the glow, he is pressed–animated–on the wall,
like a moving hypothesis for the enigmatic muse.
Dancing like figments in the light of imagination,
he sits as I do; enfolded in the cerulean glow that refreshes and renews.

Details | I do not know? | |

A milestone plus two

Well , yaba daba do, i did it
I reached my milestone plus two
Just imagine I have lost 102 lbs.
WOW ! i was so long in waiting for
that magic number
Having went as close to 1/2 lb. away
Then getting a muscle gain the next week
Oh no ! i sigh , but i will do it again
Try and try again they say , it will happen
SUre it will, but how long do i have to wait ?
A bit impatient I say
But low and behold this week , i did it
I am so proud of ME yes of myself , and I 
Am as high as a Kite and not coming down
Flying high and don't want to go low 
Well now i must go with the flow 

Details | Blank verse | |


Soothing, calming, exciting, fun.
Loving, laughing, living life.
Sadness, death, anger, and hate,
An exciting adventure awaits.
Moving, touching, inspiring, and such.
An intresting mystery haunting your thougts.
The fantastic future is new and different yet,
The past is familiar and warm.
Whatever your type-
Literature is the paving stone that lights up life.

Details | I do not know? | |

What Power We Speak

   a sibilated soul swiftly flung from two lips embowed, intended to access the 
essence of its recipient and grasp on so tightly that when it is recoiled , the 
unsettled reviler removes a shred. Now inadequate and left immature, the undone 
immortal lashes out with irrelevance of consequence. It recaptures what was once 
lost, only now to find that it has gained a piece of its opposer, It is unconscious 
of the effectiveness of its actions but even now whole again, the affliction 

Details | Free verse | |

Word Play I

tails of cats
grown in marshes
or books on mans'
best friend of a dog
day of barking
up the wrong tree ...

tales of jazz
blowing in lounges
or the cheeks of diz
and a day of jamming
up the scene ...

trails of men
going into deserts
televised like a hurricane
howling on the
day of the dead ...

Wagging, swinging, shooting,
twisting, sliding down
Alices' well into
a word pile
a word play
ground of merry.

Details | Lyric | |


ideas emerge
setting in motion new poems.

Details | Rhyme | |

Embers Lighting the World A'fire

This sparkling thought, 
when just an ember, 
blew from off your lips
I drank it in,
to learn, begin,
the nectar sweet to sip
Blossoms grew, 
left undisturbed,
to ripen into art
Kindred thoughts, 
exchanged and caught,
the fruitage you impart.

Details | Free verse | |


The wind blows through the curtains 
Whiter lace embracing the shape of the wind. 
The last snowflake melts. 
The flame burns on. 
Butterfly wings behind the glass 
Something left behind at the jewelery store 
forgotten, but taken by another. 

The clouds, the fog, 
The thunder, the rain, 
The lightning.  The door left open 

Two flashes in a row 
yes i know you want to speak with me 
and i listen to the rain 
Are you trying to tell me something? 
the thunder claps 
rolling away and back 
giving me a sign 
the thunder returns 
the lightning strikes 

The wind blows through the rain 
Unlike the beauty of the curtain 
The last raindrop dries 
The flame burns on. 
The wise man, the wizard 
the army, the fire 
something taken from the art store, 
remembered and taken by another 
the elder, the soldier 
The bride and the storm 
The window shuts 
The curtain floats 
rises and falls 
the lightning no thunder 
once and for all 

The curtain falls 
elegantly dancing down 
The music at the flower shop 
The diamonds at the catering service 
the instruments at the bridal shop 
the man we dreampt about 

The rain stops 
Are you talking to me? 
Give me a sign 
The curtain settles 
the light outside 
the birds chirp 
The flame burns on 
The bat hears the cricket 
The moth rises from heat 
The chandelier behind the weatherman 
the twelve clocks at the butcher shop 
and the candles 
in the one place they don't belong.

Details | Burlesque | |

A Touching Ton of Tom's Torturously Terrrible Tid-Bits

"The Young and the Breathless"- TV soap opera about youg emphysema 
patients unfaithful to their doctors.

Candid- Something you could do, and did do.

Phone Call- Bidding your phone to come to you.

Binary- What you can purchase with nary any money.

Nascent- Odorless.

Philosophy- Phil Silvers designing soffits.

Surcharge- Driving down Rt. Number One on the Big Sur at 70 mph.

Surplus- The addition of the above's wrecked car to the cliffside base below the 
aforementioned highway.

Supplant- Burying the idiot victims of the above, around dinner time.

Sunglasses- Drinking vessels for our Solar companion.

Sunspots-  Where my male offspring hangs out.

Gnome, Alaska-  The city in Alaska where the Travelocity icon was found frozen 

DVDs-  Defective BVD shorts.

Tuba-fish-  Edible fish from an all-fish marching band.

Leak-Proof-  Applying Super-Glue to the tip of one's penis.

Leave of Absence-  Finding your mate has disappeared into a pile of leaves.

Eavesdrop-  Falling off the edge of your roof.

Ecosystem-  A ritualized style of producing an echo in a jar.

Sentiment-  when a Mob boss orders cement for a mob "funeral".

Cyclone-  an artificially duplicated person's mild vocalization of sadness.

Elfin John-  Small, bespeckled gay singer/songwritter.

Elongate-  Turnstyle in the NYC subway system, to the "E" train, expanded in size 
for fat people.

"It Takes A Leaf"-  How to catch poison ivy.

Hopin' to give a smile to Christy in her time of trouble.

Details | Quatrain | |

Internal Beauty

Oh beautiful one
on the verge of the brink
on the rim of believing
you're oh what you think
Oh beautiful one
to declare delicate
all the virtue you have 
in integrity set
Oh beautiful one
don't be so eclipsed
by the shadow of words
that you hold on your hips
Oh beautiful one
you render and shine
with a thought which emerged
quite unique in design
Oh beautiful one
your wishes are true
on the verge of the brink
this reflection is you...

Details | I do not know? | |


My pen;
Is the source of my greatest power,
Conveys my deepest private thoughts,
Translates the speech of my spirit,
Utters the voice of my very soul,
Thus is my most precious tool.

When I am sad;
My pen may be likened to a lost orphaned child,
Wandering aimlessly through the woods at dusk,
Exposed to the cruelty of this unfeeling world,
Helpless cold fearful and knowingly unwanted.
It drips sluggish tears of ink across the page,
Dragging itself with what little strength remains,
Desperately seeking and end to bitter sorrow.

When I am happy;
My pen is an uncontrollable fluttering butterfly,
Skittering quickly quavering across pure paper,
Touching down so lightly with seraphim feet,
Much penned up energy impossible to contain,
Excited ideas poor forth like ambrosial torrents.

When I am angry;
I unleash the rabid dog that is my weapon,
It launches itself forth with ferocious haste,
Scratching and clawing out loathsome words,
Shredding paper betwixt slavering locked jaws,
Its breath is heavy with the odor of blood lust,
Hungry for vengeance and a taste of the enemy.

Sweet Catharsis; 
Criticize me not for committing my thoughts to paper,
Scorn me no longer for sharing my feelings thus healthily,
Generously give instead credit for self-control and creativity.
Would you rather I go about spilling tears down upon my cheeks,
While depressed unwittingly bringing down the moods of others?
Or shall I act upon the ugly desires that anger may conjure,
Behaving recklessly deliberately injuring those around me?
Though happiness and excitement are meant to be shared,
Even positive emotions must be kept in gentle restraint.
So leave me to my great escape my personal outlet,
Do read enjoy and admire my prudent craft,
And if the fancy strikes you some lonely day,
Empower yourself with the greatest tool known,
Pick up an all mighty pen and write!

Details | Free verse | |

A Perfect Poet

 A Perfect Poet 
A Perfect Poet 
He wrote the poem and spelled the words so incorrectly he must tell his word 
document to ignore the half of it. He tries to make a style stand out to be 
eecummings in his heart he starts an idea and makes it work somewhat then he 
twists the center until it gels and bleeds then he turns the ending until it seems 
like just the ticket for the transfer on the bus ride home a perfect gnome a self 
important man so far from home a place in time already gone so all alone and 
hurt the day will come when attitude will win and all the people lose there hate 
and poets win and a perfect poet rides the wind and the blanket gets so wet at 
times and the life spills out when love arrives. AH HA he cried a perfect poet is 
the plan a perfect poem is a different thing. 

Details | I do not know? | |

Glorified Hermit

Entrance my heart oh silent air
my thoughts allowed to zoom and sail
to bounce off walls of self defeat
and rain back down in liquid sheets.
Like music lost in fingertips
which hum and rest upon my lips
but flee when passerby's arrive
to catch me at my most alive.
Thoughts which dwell in corner closets
dark and warm until I conjure
up their image in my dreams
although quite wide awake I be.
Mournful melody, thoughts of rhythm
surging from the lonely chasm
written out with shaking pencil
fast as they will let me catch them.
Sometimes thoughts come out in oils
sometimes they speak in watercolors
trees with roots running off the page
or a basket of apples in brown and sage.
That look you have with the sun in your eyes
or the mirror of canvas in bright green skies.
Then there are thoughts which will only let go
when the poetry pulls them and lets them flow.
Loosed they are known for sweeping statements grand
and building tall stories on shifting sand.
They won't blink an eye to a passerby
as strangers are known to occasionally lie.
They fuel up the music and hand art a brush
and glare at the air with an infinite "hush"!
For poetry, melody, painting uninhibited
is the limitless gift of the glorified hermit.

Details | I do not know? | |

The Poet's corner (2005)

Where’s the poets corner at?
Where ever lay my hat
On the bus or at work
Wherever my inspiration may lurk 
A poet is a gypsy of every corner 
A savior to a word mourner 
Where ever I lay my hat
That’s where the poet corners at

Details | Senryu | |


                need for muse is myth,

a poet is a wordsmith

                deep in his soul's pith

Details | Alliteration | |


Proses and poems
Pictured prevail
Emotions emancipated 
Feelings of frail

Stances and stanzas
Words weaponry
Therapeutic tensions
Designated decree

Odes of oration 
Verses verily victorious 
Whimsical writes
Grandeur of glorious

© Stacy Lynn Stiles

Details | Free verse | |

Critique Nazi (poetry game) To become what you wanted

for now i am empty
but soon enough i will fill that whole
edit myself
with all you remarks 
and believe you me
the comments that go along
that you write
will be writing me

for now i am a shell
a hollow wonderful thing
and then you come along
tell me a thought or feeling
and i add it in
and leave you to wonder where it went how i did it
and i become everything you said to me

One poem written by many
through my minds eye and hand
one poem right here for you to see
i am the shell of nothing lonely
and waiting for the comment to change me
the inspirational words to satisfy someone
who will unsatisfy someone else
until all are satisfied
and i am something
no longer hollow
no longer shallow
a lesson in learning critiques of nature
and everything you could have would have should have said
is right here

I will become everything you say i should be
everything you say i am
i will exaggerate
everything i should add check or change your will be done
this page becomes everything to somebody
begging for control
this page loses all sense of it
as we take turns leading blindly

Details | Free verse | |

Flavored Repetition

My correspondence has failed
the capacity to dream up newness.
Dull wisdom predicts unoriginal
situations of uninspired flames.

Dark similarity wrestles coherence
grudgingly in filthy muck of unity.
A suitable place of common misuse
to stable forms of weariness dealt dry.

Carnal delusions evaporate exclusively
upon a routine format of placid dreams.
Counting contingency within elusive lives
as vanilla coated images float in uncreative.

Costing my false imagination to flutter by... 

Details | Free verse | |

What Did You Find

with muse in hand 
and wire tapping in brain
I begin this endless journey 
to explore the depths
of my imagination 
to surpass this longevity
called boredom 
I willingly shall
come up with a great story
for others to enjoy when its
bounty is found

Inspired by a 
photo from 
a sister site

Photo showed a blank piece of paper 
and a pencil in a hand    lol

Details | Free verse | |

Help one another!

Encourage one another
and promote each others work;
help them if they're struggling
nurture all their worth.
Advocate or contribute,
stimulate their minds;
Recommend a sponsor,
to assist, support or sign.
Foster them or forward them;
publicize and popularize,
all will help to plug;
every piece that warrants it,

returned with such a hug!

Details | Acrostic | |

Insatiable Desire of the Eternally Inspired

Ignite the fuel tipped silken cord
Nightly wound loosely and limp
Spiraled and braided around my desire
Pressed into wet wax and unkempt
I'll know you before you break open your pen
Remember you as you burn up
Exhausted and wired, you'll feel uninspired but levity won't let you stop

My thoughts have been set quick afire, you've spun me a home molten glass
Entranced and elated, my yearning abated, I sigh knowing this too shall pass...

Details | Verse | |

The Dream No One Seemed to Belive

The Boy Who Was Misunderstood 
The boy who really wished he could
Achive the dream 
Nonone seem to belive 
That the boy could achive such a dream.

Copyrighted  (C)

Jay Thapar 

Details | Burlesque | |

Professional Amateur

I'm real good at excuses,
And syntax abuses,
But my ultimate excuse,
I'm an amateur, what's the use?

What do I know from this stuff?
I ain't no diamond in the rough,
I just put down words that come to me,
From someone or place that I can't see

So blame them if it sucks,
Or makes you laugh with yucks,
The only poems that come from me,
Are those that create a sense of ecstacy.

Details | I do not know? | |

Within the Cover

Spell bound itch
To write words
Unwritten magic
In graceful twirls
And reluctant hooks

But caught, sealed
From the freedom of flow
Until the swiftly forming, 
Fantasy finally sprouts
Wings and takes flight

Unraveling the sheets
Magic cast in curled forms
But only the reader
With a vast imagination
can truly open the door

The door written, cast
Upon the covers and 
Throughout the tome
That will guide someone 
Into a land of unknown

To a land visioned
By the creator
To people and creatures
That dwell within 
The covers of a book

Details | Senryu | |

Brain Dance

Spidered vellum bows
cracked and twisted by the feet
of dancing daydreams.

Details | Rhyme | |

Rhyme and Reason

A pen in my right hand, 
And I am off to la-la land.
I’m zipping through the zoo,
Or just passing by you!

Poetsville is a city to be,
There are great big trees.
Homes are huge there.
Rhyme and reason are pretty fair.

Little people dance in the streets,
Shuffling their tiny little feet’s!
Always a song and always a voice,
Lyrics dangle in the breeze by choice.

There is always a Rhyme with a Reason,
Sprinkling rainbows for the next season!
Rain or shine the poet knows how,
To turn it around making words that wow.

There are deserts and oceans by the shore,
You can count them one, two, three and four.
It is a rhyme and reason just for being,
Right side up with what you are seeing.

So off to la-la Land I will be,
Just my pen and just me!

®Registered: Ann Rich   2006

Details | Rhyme | |

Rhythm of Unwinding

Float to freedom
Burst and pop
to winds of change
on tides of red

Break emotion
Logic stops
as words ignite
and flood your head

Call the story
Conjure dreams
to lips still shaking
cold unthaw

Blow the bubbles
to the trees
and then sit back
and laugh in awe...

Details | Free verse | |

Ah, They Are Here

Ah, they are here, un-still 
and un-relentless. They kept 
whirling and glowing, with great 
lushness and rhythm, offering 

aroma of strange time—
into the pellucid metamorphic rock of my head,
among the fictitious thin threads 
of life. Hmm, they wear 

no clothes, at all, yet their sultry eyes 
were cornflower blue! Taper flames dance 
with my heart; my starwars stained, 
darken. Oh, I should, 

yes, I should perceive of 
how I will be slumbering with them 
when love comes in the night that never complains
…and not where these thoughts will be etched!

Details | Imagism | |

Poetic Anatomy Lesson For Heide'

Heidie, my dear....
Your "cockles" are,
in fact near...
Your "druthers"
Where they just may be,
Grey's Anatomy you
must see...

Details | Rhyme | |

Blank Page

There is nothing worse than this
Staring at you quiet and impassive
What is it that I do miss?
Why is this page so aggressive?

Glaring white blinds the eyes
Like snow fields after a storm
Daring to me words to devise
But the words refuse to form

Why can’t I now express without
The raging storm that’s locked within
Why can’t my words scream and shout
Why won’t my head cease to spin?

The emptiness there mocks me still
My mind is even more daunted
This blank page I will never fill
And my mind be ever haunted

What must I do to free my mind?
This to destroy this cage and lock
Where will the inspiration I find
To solve this terrible writers block

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 | Couplet | |

the Glass Well

  The well was glass when I fell in
I broke the way I've always been
I split the best of me in half
I heard  the echo of a laugh

  you really think that you'll escape
without a potion or a cape?
why yes I said with confidence
I've got  a feather and some sense

  I'm just like Dumbo I can fly 
I've got my feather and the sky
The well was filled with colored ink
I made a quill and in a blink

  I wrote myself  a pair of wings
[my feathered quill can do those things]
then I wrote a patent pending
for Magic Quills....a happy ending.

Details | Free verse | |

The writer

Minutes turn to hours,
as the clock ticks onwards;
still the paper before me
remains crisp, white – untouched.

My right hand is now cramped,
from it’s gripping my pen
and the notation on my pad,
slowly bringing alive my thoughts.

Every scribe I write becomes structured,
I stop to think before every word;
look back over what I have written,
disjointed, yet I know it all.

A play on my script,
tweaking here and there.
Informing every thought I record,
bringing brilliance for my virgin page.

Words form sentences,
pictures are painted; a masterpiece of art,
breathing life to my work,
to be realized by many.

I transfer my scribe,
to my neat sheet waiting.
Ink flows smoothly, a pleasure to see.
Release washes relief over my tense form.

Midnight strikes, not long left now,
before I can lay my pen to rest
and bid ‘Goodnight’,
to another fulfilled and worthy day.

Details | Free verse | |

Gary Soto

Life into words twist
and turn on your pencil point  
Pain onto page Falls.

Details | Quatrain | |

What Ever Will I Do?

Where do I go now?
What can I do?
I wanted to write
But where are you?

I turned on my computer
And you were not there
All I found was empty
I just sat there and stared

I didn’t think I liked it
But now I’m sure I do
I don’t know how I’ll live
Without visiting you

I really didn’t notice
The first thing that I do
I get up in the morning 
I go straight to you

I find my list of poems
And then I start to write
I even catch myself
Looking there at night

No it’s not an addiction
It’s just the way it’s been
I seem to have found a place 
I feel like I fit in

Some may think it’s silly
Maybe obsession
I don’t care what they think
This is my confession

I want to see my poems
Filtered through the loop
I like to have the feedback 
From my friends at Poetry Soup

I wrote this poem this morning while the service was unavailable. This is just for 
fun and I guess I was really bored. LOL  

I want to say thank you to all that have commented on my work and made me feel 
like I fit in. Smiles from Lena "Lolita"

Details | I do not know? | |


A shadowy night,
with flashes of light,
a boom, a tic, a slash,
something whistles then smash,
you're on the floor,
begging no more,
fear is in your past,
you try to run from it fast,
but fear devours you,
you can't overcome it,
you want to out run it,
you're scared,
but you're dared,
to look in the face of your fear,
but when you do,
you find out it's actually you.

Details | I do not know? | |

Clue to Quiz 12 and 11

Quiz 12)- He'd probably like Wes Craven.

Quiz 11)-Maybe he's a member of Sgt. Pepper's Band

Quiz 13)-Strange eyes he never denies.

Details | Personification | |

On The Other Hand

The crying game
The burdened tears,
That follow hearts
Life and all her
The failures 
That she counts,

On one hand
With an empathy,
She aptly calls
To play,
Amongst the 
Soulless symphonies
Whose sympathy

The wistful wit
With which 
She hints
That all has yet
To pass,
The rhythmic
Ridicule that
Only seems 
To last,

As long as we
Remain astute,
Unwilling to deny,
That those who seek
Expect a sure reply.

Details | Burlesque | |

Yet Some More T.B.'s T.B.s

The Caspian Sea; is that where friendly ghosts go for vacation?
Big as a football field: don't you know about foot measurements??
The Swat Team;  I called them when my house was infested with flies.
My psychiatrist asked me if I had any "old reservations" about a desire to end
some bad habits.  I said, "Yeah, I have some old reservations- two unredeemed 
tickets to a 1973 Pink Floyd concert"  this really took place.
How come 2 & 2 isn't 22??

Enough for now, all you dedicated "Soupers"

Details | Imagism | |

paint me as i am

paint me in all my imperfection

and i'll be the pictur of perfection 

paint me in all my faults 

and i'll be flawless  

paint me in all my  wrongs 

so i have none 

paint  me as i am 

becauce i can not be changed

Details | Fibonacci | |


and then-
state of the moment.

Details | Free verse | |

Bad Dreamz

Toss and turn as I might everything in the dark 
surely comes out in the light 
so the light is the truth and I' so used to coping 
wit my own problems I don't know how to 
relinquish my issues to another soul,
and naw my heart ain't cold just lukewarm for the moment
and true my emotions are so open as far as heartbroken 
lets just say it's kinda hard to fix 
and all that drama I been dealing wit in the midst,
so I don't carry mixed emotions, in a way I'm emotionless
but at the same time I'm peaceful and these lyrics is lethal
so what does that make me out to be free or just chained 
eyes wide shut I'm victim to this bad dream, you call 
the American dream but how could it be good look
at everything I visioned and seen

Details | I do not know? | |

Small Sacrifice

I loathe poets,
their lust for constant pain.
Anguish of love,
abused with such disdain.
Pale martyrs,
bearing suff'ring as a yoke;
Their bloody wounds,
they plead of you to poke.
Always yearning
to vanquish the world's doubt
With whatever
torment they're on about.
Scribbled sorrow,
their sole, small sacrifice;
But, to revel
in despair's such sad vice.
Puny bards,
if pain's all they've to offer,
I have to ask,
for whom do they suffer?

Details | Free verse | |

Somebody Let Me Know!

Please advise me if I have used up my allowable quota of writes for today.

Details | Free verse | |

What The Bleep Is Going On Here

                                                     past        .55
                                                  present     2.72
                                                   future      10.00

Scary Thoughts
Mr. President 
Open  Those 
Reserves  Now  Please 

Details | I do not know? | |


Beauty is expressed in the rawest sense of the word
It’s what you see when other’s can’t see
So they call it absurd
Beautiful expresses the quantity
Full of beauty
While beauty expresses the quality
Many love my beautiful words
That slides off of my tongue frolic ally
Some are ignorant to beauty
But just because one’s a cutie with booty
Don’t mean they have beauty
Beauty is more internal than external
It’s abstractly visible
But along with beauty are
Guidelines and principles
To maintain the quantity and quality
Of such a praised appearance
But stress like mildew and ugly dirt
Try to run interference
Beauty is not just an abstract quality
It’s also a goal
Beauty exists in youth
But blossoms when we get old 
In beauty are many things
But no technicalities
Beauty is deeper than looks 
It also includes personalities
My poetry is beautiful in text and substance
One’s who are beautiful are usually modest
They are blind to themselves
But I am just being honest
When I say you are beautiful
So full of beauty
And that’s the beauty of it
…just being so beautiful!!!!!

Details | Senryu | |

Meeting Peter Cottontail

Katherine Stella
Meeting Peter Cottontail, 
What is on her mind?

Inspired by Kathy’s poem Peter Cottontail

Details | Sonnet | |

Just For Us All

If our Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour, were alive today;
He would then diligently be teaching us how to pray;
He would have penned beautiful haiku & senryu & rhyme;
Not the elegy of life, or the A.B.C. of crime.

But haiku, about the birds, the fish, and wonder nature;
The senryu, about mankind, being stubborn and un-pure;
And the hearty rhyme of His peace and love, be the armor
Of faith, for those who long for eternal grace, evermore!

His poetry would be the New Heaven and the New Earth,
And in His holy Church would be the promise of re-birth;
If our Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour, were alive today;
He would then diligently be teaching us how to pray.

Yet, on this perverted Earth, He had opted not to stay;
Indeed, just for us all, from God, we would not be at bay!

Details | Rhyme | |


     My mind shifts into overdrive
     Spinning like a wheel
     Creative juices flowing
     Can't describe quite how I feel
      It seems once I get started
      Inspiration flows like wine
      Thoughts ever bubbling forward
      From this thinking box of mine
      I hope that age will never dim
     This creative light within
     And love of prose will light the way
     For the journey of the pen

Details | Verse | |


On the bed of longing
she turns sheet to sail – 
and steers her craft
on the nightly star – 
across a sea that tides
to all the winged birds’ wail.

Details | I do not know? | |

Comment to the best of Soup's Quiz Wiz's

You have accurately answered your own question at the end of your message; 
No,no, no,

"But keep on tryin'
"Cause I ain't lyin'
When I say you're the best
Solving this sort of test,
No need for cryin'
Or even sighin'
'Cause you are vyin'
For the undenyin'
Master of the Quiz,...

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 | Rhyme | |

Excuses For Not Writing

We make them right and left,
These things that hold us tight—
“I just don’t have the time
To sit and really write.”

It seems we’re too busy
To get around to it—
We have to make ourselves
Relax and just do it!

“I have to feel the muse
To write a good poem”—
That’s all a bunch of bunk—
It takes one to know ‘em.

Seems we’re all too busy
And fill our lives with fluff—
To write, you’ve got to write!
I think I’ve said enough!

You have the time to smoke
Or time to watch TV—
So find the time to write
And set your true self free!  

Make no more excuses
For never having time—
Words are a legacy—
Blank pages are a crime.

Words are writ on water,
Into black space are hurled—
Someone will remember
That we once touched this world.

Details | Rhyme | |

Reading Ondattje

Grind the curry
Balm the wax
and sweep the bits of bellow to wind
Blue the sky
Break the dew
and liquefy reason before we begin
Coral the room
Stilt the walk
in pyramids of brinjals, persimmons and figs
Sleep the fan
Curl the mind
in spirals of sweet burning Sri Lankin sprigs.

Details | Couplet | |

Love, Words And Writing

Such is when writing poetry--
We’re pretty willing to be free

And go to places, anywhere
All ‘cos beauty is out there

When, in haste, words do flow 
The mighty pen and paper glow 

O, we play with them, like love 
That comes like a haloed dove

We take the risk of being hurt--
The pain, hidden behind its skirt

That no one would like to have
What special is how we behave

In any given conditions or forms 
Against any unprecedented storms

We need to work our imagination
For enjoyment and self perfection

Details | Free verse | |

love you and blue

“love you” and “blue”
love ewe and blue aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you 
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude

Details | Free verse | |


Writing on 
that have past
in the mind,
surrounded by the energy
of the green and serene,
ideas wander across the page
and scamper
down the sides.
Trees bend lathargicly
to arange them
in some sort of order.
Shuffling through dried leaves
and snatching them up,
like knarled old hands,
the little oaks
corral the ideas.
Then the older trees
scoop them up,
tossing them in the air
and offer them to the wind.

Details | Free verse | |

5th line 3rd stanza

Every poem he wrote
on every page of his book
in the fifth line of the third stanza
a mistake
a spelling mistake
pointing out some word or just the letter

to him the missing letters spelled a word
the added letter spelled another
and the words the letters were found among 
or without were sentences

If you ask me
in the fifth line and third stanza
one mistake per page to hide a paragraph
who would do that
what wcshould it say?
and would it be worth it at all to read it at last?

the final chapter of the book
and there you are left with all the clues of how to read the ending
through spelling mistakes and missing letters to find words
5th lines and 3rd stanza and what it all means

this literary genius sure had his work cut out for him

Details | Narrative | |


I could say to you:
You are so beautiful to me.
Or something rather like,
You are the only one my eyes can see.
But to say such seems predictable,
True as they may be.

To really love, I would say,
Would be to think of something unimagineable,
But I read poetry every day of people who love one another
That sounds like complete babble.
Now, I could end this poem and say I love you
In a way that is not fictional
And my love would never stray,
But, would tht not be predictable?

Details | I do not know? | |

On Writing

Flowing pencil of emotion
spills into an endless ocean
leaving me with a notion
that love has gone away.

Ceaseless blue eternity
floating cold upon the sea
haunting dreams of sleeping peace
another empty day.

Sunshine soon will fade to black
words of plenty, now I lack
drifting far but never back
to stormy waves of grey.

Questions dancing in my mind
exhausted, swaying, then unwind
two steps closer, just to find
I've nothing more to say.

Details | Free verse | |

Just Dreaming

Strange intricacies penetrate 
Muses invite moonlit intimacies
Breathing in soft delightful rhythms
Music revealed, shimmering ravishing 
Spells of 

Ambition burned...
Now changed to complete 
The ego's born,
Consuming dreams of the future
Desirous dreams close in.

Damsel Dreams 
Of several things;
That Drifted upon
Blazing embers of desire,
Envisioning man’s shadows
Damsel danced like 
Heavens fire. 

Details | Lyric | |

In The Night Rain

pile of 

before me.

tried to 
swing, with them

...yet no one noticed me,

in a 
soup much loved,

shall dance, 
with a rose the night rain’s fast trot! 

Details | Free verse | |

One for Sorrow, Two for Joy...

"One for sorrow,
two for joy,
three for a girl,
four for a boy,
five for silver,
six for gold,
seven for a story, never to be told"

Yes, I know,
That's how it's supposed to be,
but what if you get eight?
Is it "Eight for the desperate girl,
and nine for the boy looking ready to hurl?"
If you get ten,
ooh, that's deep,
do you get somwhere between silver and gold,
or do you get platinum?
And if you get fourteen,
'cause I like that number,
do you get your story told?

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #250 / Why I write

“Why do you write, Jesse?”
I honestly don’t know.
“Struggle to sketch the flow that already
exists intact in the mind”?
It’s spontaneous. It’s a habit. It’s a compulsion.

Details | Epigram | |


of seeing-
knowing how to

A lanterne epigram paraphrasing Alfred Wols words on art

Details | Free verse | |

Distinguished Genttlemen

The laurel wreath
Bestowed on victors
Every four years
Blood, sweat and tears
In Pythian Games
Honoring Apollo
At Delphi onto Greece
In a classic ceremony
The corruptible glory
An immortal crown
Prized to artists
Public officials
The poets of Rome
And here at home
A rebirth of antiquity
With Apollo's oracles
Music and poetry
Prophecy and medicine
Things of God as things of men
The reform defecient renascence

Details | I do not know? | |

Crinkle Crankle Trees

Crinkle crankle trees abound
and copper pennies push the ground
ducklings with their moms in ponds
gonna catch me a gator.

Fallen threads from silken wings
snorkel with bubbles from the blue whale king
laugh as your grandma begins to sing
giggling tears down her face.

Patent leather heart beat shiny
I'll hide as you count  then find me
Floating a bottle out to sea
You grab the captain's hat.

Crinkle crankle trees abound
autumn sings her pumpkin song
Who are we not to sing along
swinging on mosquito swing.

Flutter by the words I say
but a story a day keeps the doctor away
Psychiatry soup is an ear that you pay
to listen to your all of your tales.

So pull up a three legged chair to my table
sound the alarms and send out the cables
(Bring the rose water lemonade if you’re able)
‘cause it looks like we’re in for a whopper...

Details | I do not know? | |

The Demon

The demon entered late one night and boasted he got me.
In bed I cowered filled with fright and hoping he would leave.
"You'll never write again," he said, with dirty awful glee,
"Your course is through, your muse is dead. No fame you shall achieve."
A thousand prayers came to mind but none could I assert.
"Your pleas can't help, for you're assigned, from High, for me to pester."
But why? thought I. The fiend's reply will haunt my days on earth:
"You let your gift too long to dry, it now will reek and fester."
I woke and quaked, my nightmare gone, I thanked it wasn't true,
And running to this desk I've done three days of naught but writing.
One work is good, one sentence bad. I give each word its due,
To keep the beast away I'm glad; I'll give it no inciting.
All gifts are not our own alone. We owe the world our part.
Like Adam back and bone, we hone and sow our grief for art.

Details | Rhyme | |

To the Writer Who Pegged Me Right...

Satsuma button a torn reminder
of the writer who read me and printed my voice
Pages uncut and unevenly binded
with etchings of longing a life filled with choice
Midnight pass quickly and frail me no more
I yearn to delve deeper to see what's in store
but my throat is quite aching and my eyes sting in salt
I stand without blood pressure feeling to fall
So lost in her words, so taken with expressions
of me in her mirror of liquid reflections
Cherry tree blossoms as snow on the ground
as my heart sinks in silence, indelible sound
Satsuma button to start a collection
a reminder of the moment a soul pegs you right
Rice paper marking my book with discretion
as I rise with my countenance and bid you good night...

Details | Imagism | |




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Seventeen Part One

Fabel Seventeen
Rangerer Rangered
There is many words that seem like they should belong to the English language 
but actually on closer examination they do not appear in the dictionary today the 
word is Rangered. If the eye were to try to brag about the flesh it would not help 
the things that happened were to someone else perhaps the rangerer. Now that 
eye am free and in love with the ewe eye am just the rangered not endangered to 
be lost but entitled to be found by the love within us both. A man was talking to 
his spouse “eye have found GOD” said the man “OH tell me where is GOD?”  
Said the woman and the man said “GOD is upon the internet it's a Charlax Poem 
come and see.” The lone rangerer was riding SILVER to the entrance of the mine 
where he makes bullets’ and the shine of a penny caught his eye. The Scout 
pony stopped behind the rangerer and TONTO said “what’s UP 
kemosabe”? “The CharlaX told me that a penny turned tails up is lucky can you 
tell it to me old friend TONTO?” said the lone rangerer. Its heads kemosabe and 
the old Indian kept the coin. The moral of this story is to check pennies for 
yourself the luck will then be thine. The Airborne Ranger was jumping out of the 
tower when the sergeant kicked him out he was heard to yell out “TONTO” 
not “Geronimo” as some are in belief. He fell too earth and broke his rangered 

Details | Free verse | |

Memories {Clarity Pyramid}


recalling previous facts
of mental impressions

drawn from memory

"Of Person Thing Or An Event"

A Clarity Pyramid is a poem consisting of two triplets and a single line. 7 lines in all. The 
poem is center aligned when displayed. The first triplet has 1, 2, and 3 syllables. The title of 
the poem is the one-syllable word of the 1st triplet, which is displayed in all capital letters. 
This line is followed by a two-syllable line, and then a three-syllable line, both of which clarify 
the definition of the poem, or are synonyms for the title. The 2nd triplet has 5, 6, and 7 
syllables. Its design is based around a life event contained within the triplet which helps give 
a poetic view or outlook on the first line - the title. The last line is 8 syllables, and is in 
quotations as this line contains a quote that defines the first word -title. 


Details | Free verse | |

A Memory, A Word