A pretty girl in pleated dress of red,
with collar laced in white beneath her throat
and matching bow upon her small blonde head,
is glancing round the chapel. I take note.
Though nails on little hands show grown-up paint,
she emanates no guile. She’s unaware
That in this world are some who wish to taint
all innocence; for no one do they care!
She nuzzles her dad’s face as on his knee
she’s sitting now - his sweet beloved daughter.
What menace lurks, from which she could not flee?
What evil lessons might one day be taught her?
She hugs her daddy’s chest; I watch and pray
she’ll live to hold a child her own one day.
In Memory of the 20 + 7 new angles of heaven~ "our own little poetry soup VIGIL"
I know a very fine poet, a dear colleague, who’s so exquisitely talented and bright,
And has a superb facility with words and themes making all fit perfect and right;
She has an unrivaled mastery of the poetic art and writes with the best approach,
And has an unparalleled ability to write the finest verse beyond any reproach.
This poet’s sense of depth, empathy, and poetic variety is quite splendid to behold,
And she brings such compassion and power to her work worth its weight in gold;
With well-conceived themes and images she invites readers to her special dimension,
While enchanting them magically with sublime verses and holding their attention.
This poet communes with Our Poetry Muse, seeking her scope and enchanted vision,
And shares amply all with her readers with enraptured intent and a perfect precision.
Our friend’s poetry reflects always the human dynamic with such power and grace,
And she finds the right tone, tenor, pitch and rhyme—putting them in proper place.
I must say I’m very proud of our colleague’s work and appreciate so her fine poetry,
And I’m so glad she’s with us and gives us such beauty and elegance in her poetry!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(November 9, 2014) (Shakespearean Sonnet in a Rhyme poetic format)
*****Written for the “It’s All About Me Contest,” December 4, 2014*****
A lonely bard can paint and write more songs,
Which birds loftily warble all day long,
Every note taps the heart of each flower,
Sprinkles dew drops while silent wind meanders.
Her ballad - a gem of all creations,
A home, hollowed not with admiration,
Chasm within draws perfect harmony
For stars to play a perfect symphony.
With knowledge and love, ink surges so deep,
The feather outshines the wind on its tip,
Lifting up dry leaves lying underneath
Every tale is treasured by golden sheath.
Lonely bard pens the lyrics of our hearts,
Where weary souls can find their road to start.
Aug 9, 2013 11.50am
By: Leonora Galinta
“I am a lonely bard
I have no song to sing.
This empty ballad is my home.
A feather against the dying wind-
-my only expression.”
-by my dearest sis, Poet Destroyer from her poem, “Umbrella”
This poem is a loving dedication/ homage to my all time greatest & most favourite poet, my loving sis & friend of mine & my number 1 inspiration.
Contest: Pick a line, any line from a poem of fav. poet
Sponsor: Richard Lamourex
A child's beauty contest I watched in such awe;
young girl in a wheelchair to her father, his all.
Escorting her on stage with such grace and pride;
each so blessed to be at the others' side.
A fragile princess in a purple pageant dress;
twirling her first in her chair then lifting her to his chest.
Their dance so inspiring; such an enchanting sight;
so gently he lifted her high up to the sky.
Sparkling, bright eyes and the most beautiful smile;
none deserving of a crown more than this precious child.
An imperfect body, viewed as a gift from above;
her beauty matched only by a father's boundless love.
Beauty in my eyes is not found in perfection;
but in acceptance, uniqueness, love and dedication.
June 29, 2014
Contest: Encore-anonymous positive new sonnet
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Those Glory Days, Long Gone
Those glory days resting so far bygone
I trek ahead, sad and so all alone
Treasures left upon lofty mountain tops
Rushing ever foward, no time for stops
Days, we resting under a shading oak
loving in vows that we forever spoke
Coolest mornings, breezing days easing minds
days of joy in all the many new finds
Those views of life sing forever above
crystal dreams set in our undying love
Nights of magic in epic love unbound
blisses in every kiss our wet lips found
Memories of days and nights now alone
holding memories of life so long gone!
Robert J. Lindley, 09-07-2014
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Total # Words: 100
Did it , hit exactly one hundred words + ten syllables
per line and great rhyme.. A solid sonnet according to
my own personal standards. Wrote it and had to minor
correct only three lines..
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art much more shrivelled and much more cold
Rough winds shake the withered leaves of today.
And your stomach hath too many a fold.
Sometimes too hot your sister shines,
And often is your grey complexion dimmed;
And you always smell like my uncle’s swine
Except your upper lip is less well trimmed.
Thy eternal summer did long since fade
And lost possession of that fair thou ow'st;
And Satan brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives death to eyes.
How grand it is when blue sky meets the sea,
may sky and sand and water ever be,
reflected in this topsy-turvy lea.
Oh, let the stars fall down, and over we.
Will you meet me where the foam froths and roils,
where waves pound upon glistening soil,
and seagull's squawk in mismatched harmony;
oh, let the stars fall down, and over we.
Sea tossed, the dross shines upon the strand.
Gemstones are born, where the sky meets the land.
meet me down by the rush of lulling sea;
oh, let the stars fall down, and over we.
Here we will lie for all eternity,
with life and death, and our love of the sea.
Scenic Point by Robert Butler
Three dozen Roses, Red ,Yellow and White
To show my affection for POETIC insight
Her Quilled POETRY : Inspirations; ignite
The Pen in my hand as I write through the night
When words from her Heart, in a new POEM appear
I read it twice over 'til message is clear
The image so vivid as Roses "Pure" White
My mind carries her words in Dreams through the night
I wake up refreshed, with a pen in my hand
Thank-YOU Andrea Dietrich; I now understand
I will shout to the World; throughout the whole land
With a feeble Tribute to make YOU feel Grand
As my pen tries to emulate YOUR Talented Quill
Roses for Andrea and Her POETRY skill
Inspired by the Contest "A Soup member worthy of a Tribute"
Sponsored by " Richard Lamoureux "
Dedicated to the LOVELY POETESS
" ANDREA DIETRICH "
The Shaman sits upon the sand,
the sand of ocher clay;
between the walls of ruins tall,
where ancient one did lay.
The sky above, the earth between;
took in her sincere pleas
tinksha’s toned, soft flutes droned,
her mantra’s dire decree.
To be the light on darkened paths,
within the night belayed;
and be the brave dark in the glow,
of God’s pristine light portrayed.
Her life long work no sacrifice
a love of mankind to display.
*One may be of any race or of almost any religion
and walk the Red Road. The Good Red Road is a path,
a way of living. It's full meaning is the way one acts,
the methods one uses, and what directs one's doing.
There is more to the Red Road than spoken word
or written words on paper. It is behavior, attitude,
a way of living, a way of "doing" with reverence -
of walking strong yet softly, so as not to harm
or disturb other life. The Red Road is a pathway to truth,
peace and harmony.
Having had mere minutes to skim your sighs,
anesthetize the tip of teeming thought ...
with platitudes for quandaries which fly bye,
we care for you, our frail flowers wrought.
The breeze, the muse, the bringer, the envoy
lends at days end, the tender bits of heart
as on the keys or sewing seams of joy
our fingers never rest from the day's start.
Hands in the garden smudged with chlorophyll
or wrapped about a naughty childlike pet
oft rest behind a trusty Parker’s quill
all healing touches given without regret.
Small and strong and full of life, they pour.
A woman’s hands give much to be adored.
*Women inspire me especially my mother.
A guardian poet you have been to me
Much like an angel, there protecting me
When I was silent, lost in dark of night
You read my words and brought me back to light
You told me that my words were ever true
That in my writes were thoughts profound and new
You would not let me simply drift away
A word of hope you’d send to greet each day
Your name is there below each thing I write
To tear dimmed eyes you brought a vision bright
“The Queen of Passion,” how I love the name
You gave to me and life is not the same
To you, my Guardian Poet, thanks I bring
You fool me not; I see your angel wing
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Richard Lamoureux and I joined Poetry Soup at about the same time a year and eight months ago. Richard has been like a mentor to me. I’ve recently been very unwell emotionally and unable to write. I have appreciated the fact that he did not give up on me and kept daily visiting my previous writes and leaving words of encouragement. My words are my soul, so, in a way, he was affirming my worth as a person, which is what I was in need of. Richard has written a poem for me entitled, "Queen of the Romantic Pen."
Richard, your friendship is precious and dear. You are a man of faith and integrity. May God bless your home, your loved ones, and your heart with all that brings you joy. Thank you for standing by me through my dark times.
NIGHTINGALE'S SOUL LIGHTS
Plain spotless uniform so pure and white
Modest neat gear rendering tender loving fight
Day, night 'till wee hours, eyes a must wide awake
Extending a hand, shaking off all aches
Tiptoeing like a sly in and out of rooms
Dim ~ quiet same as white garden tombs
Grace under pressure upon first newborn's cry
Wiping tears from a gentle old man's dying eye
Evenings so dark and mornings so bright
Everyday a nurse sees life kaleidoscope lights
Despite some voice rudeness to foul remarks
Kindness,her soul's sweet perfume, larks
A nurse appears unfeeling firm when mankind bleeds
Within her are hidden soft golden beauty deeds
July 06, 2014
The greatest loves and tragedies are lost
Without a brilliant pen to write the plays
And trace romantic love and evil thoughts
That carry through the years until today.
When first the bard quilled page and manuscript
On comedies and histories of his time,
And then to tragedies where daggers dripped,
Romantic sonnets filled with metered rhyme.
But most of all he left us with a gift,
A treasure trove of witches, kings and knaves,
Ideas and dreams through which a mind can sift,
When stagnancy would otherwise pervade.
Now to the bard I bow on bended knee
With what Victorians called bardolatry.
Written by Craig Cornish - Historical
I open her book of poetry
When I need to run away.
Serenity washes over me,
Banishing stresses of the day.
Her melodic rhymes entice me,
My imagination begins to soar.
The kind of poet I strive to be,
Her work leaves me wanting more.
Passionate words and phrases
In rhyme and rhythmic flow.
Each poem awes and amazes
Causing my inspiration to grow.
She writes with flourish and with flair.
A poetess beyond compare.
for Elizabeth Wesley, poetess beyond compare
'Tis a heavenly honeybee
with a honeyed tongue
drippin' dulcet words accompany
by the rhythm of her buzzin' song.
...Sweet appetible verses flavourin' my soul
with the nectar fetch from tasty seasons of Springs;
Mmm! a bunch of saccharine syrup to behold.
Aliment from the supernal honeycomb she ev'r brings.
O' lofty queenbee! a noble subject clings
to your pleasurable condiment,
and to the chorus of your iridescent wings
swarming with merriment.
So, hail to Moonbee
with a vow of Jubilee.
A dedication to MoonBee.
She mostly sits on the outside looking
into the worlds around her. Day by day
gazing into strong hearts interlocking
with others, bonding in the friendly way.
Her rationale, by and large is to cope
with life as a mom, with a two year old
and the love of a husband giving hope
that neither will be left out in the cold.
She is assured by his drive and his verve.
He - - in return lets her live her own life.
Sometimes her other self loses her nerve:
she revives, being mom, poet and wife
She offers a sonnet for sweet respite,
for life, being young, and living outright
I am looking right at you and you don’t even know it.
I will deter your intent and throw you off a steep cliff.
But in the air will be my snuff and gruff you can sniff.
Eventually I will have some sort of mercy of just a bit.
Surely we are above empowering manners of tat for tit.
Maybe I’ll light a scented candle and blow you my whiff.
Or maybe I will strand you grounding your bones to stiff.
Opposed or decomposed and still composed I won’t quit.
Inside or out,
I’ll throw down.
I am the clout.
Don’t mistake my identity,
Either or, it’s your eternity.
® Registered: Ann Rich 2009
Angelic words she places in lines with care.
Never heard a discouraging word, she did share.
Deeper emotions she does write so clear.
Reality is her concern, realism so sincere.
Excitement sometimes rules her lines.
A woman of deep and emotional designs,
Deeply passionate about so many things in life,
I never met her though read her poetic rife.
Each time she visits others words she reads.
Telling others so sweetly she plants seeds,
Respectfully she instills poetic writings in another.
I saw onetime she felt like a sonnet unwritten.
Carefully I wrote this for her, an earth mother.
Having friendship in mind never was smitten.
I have a sort of gift that allows me to sense certain feelings about people without even meeting them....and usually my first intuition if you want to call it that is perfectly correct.
....no matter what it is about or who it is about I have to write it or my soul is clouded and pain grows within...Blessings..Cecil
Inspired by; Constance La France’s Native American Portrait
Nikan is a man who once stood proud and true all across this land
in symbiotic relation with nature endowed by the great creators hand
passed onto him by his ancestors to never take more than his fair share
and always be kind to this land for it’s the Mother to all whom she shall bare
When times are lean we all will grow thin together for together we are one
with one voice to sing in harmony for bountiful harvest to our Father the Sun
and give him thanks and praise for warming and making fertile our Mother
who blessed new life into the birthing seasons for every Sister and Brother
Great spirit hear my song of hope that I sing for my people who will cry
we are mighty on the earth give us protection or your children they will die
and our people’s blood will flow upon our Mother like deep rivers of raging red
O’ Father I can see no solution will you spare us from the white mans dread
I could never make claim to imagine this great man’s woeful sorry or despair
Nikan's song is a lonely tune played for the spirit of his people upon the air.
Nikan traslation from the Potawatomi "MY Friend"
Baamaapii Nikan.......until we meet again my friend
The cold, is here again.
Our lips, are getting dried again.
Lip gloss sellers, are inflating its price again
Men will bear this brunt, all again.
The leaves are littering the ground again.
Late student will have to pick again and again.
Sweaters would be in vogue again.
The rich won’t boast to us again.
Cos the natural cool air condition is here again.
The lotion cream has no effects again.
B’cos it’s the Vaseline’s time again.
It’s Harmattan again.
The farewell to ember months is here again.
Let’s play safe, perhaps to witness another one again!
So you shall not be disappointed again
So you shall not search this tree still in vain
I've left no flowers here, but more mature
Their fruits love laden to the liquid core
Where swims the litany of my rich heart
Bringing you to hive in songs here, sweet heart
Come from the clammy chambers of the day
The endless buzz wing dried white pupal dreams
The pained routine that fans intruders away
Come brood with me by my billowing streams
Inside my cornucopia build your nest
Make yourself queen here, pollinate me bright
With billowing pillows of your sweet breast
Let me fragrant you with jasmines tonight
OUR MIDNIGHT PLACE
As certain as the rains do fall in spring,
will be my love, for you to have and hold,
and know you now--my rain of love will bring
to you, all joy of which all love is told.
No one could ever count the drops that fall,
and so is put together, love for you,
numbers cannot be given them at all,
though put together, one is what will do.
And every single drop adds beauty there
to something we can call a rainy day,
to fill with love, made up, from everywhere,
the drops of life that make love what we say.
Our midnight place, your front porch, dreaming of
each drop of rain that's filled with so much love.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa
FIRST KISS OF OUR LOVE
I've just some things I thought your heart should hear,
since they've been weighing heav'ly on my mind,
so list' and I shall whisper to thine ear
with all compassion my poor heart can find.
You've touched me deeply with the way you smile;
such lips could sooth the beast of anyone;
and spreading love with looks must be your style
for every time our eyes meet, love comes on.
Now I'm about to kiss the lips of you
for this first time, I pray the memory
shall linger on through years life takes us through,
together, as I'm certain this will be.
This first kiss of our love will never end
and changes whom you guessed was just your friend.
© RON WILSON AKA VEE BDOSA
Remembering that night of our last touch,
when nothing was between us we should know,
in love with loving you, and just how much
I wonder where in time do such nights go?
Forbidden like a box that's sealed up tight,
or like the flame that Zeus refused to share
with mortals such as we, and on this night,
Pandora's box was opened everywhere,
you were, that night, my first and only love
and always shall remain that part of me,
created from the earth and waters of
a night that Aphrodite made to be.
And I am more than blessed for loving you
forever and all time, as I shall do.
© RON WILSON aka vee bdosa
(I saw someone post a poem recently about Christopher
Reeves and it reminded me of this oldie of mine)
He didn’t come from Krypton. . . was not sent
to earth with any special kind of power.
He wasn’t a reporter named Clark Kent,
but like that role he played, he didn’t cower
when struck by his own brand of Kryptonite
named quadriplegia, which couldn’t stay
this fellow who inspired with his might,
enduring trials bravely day to day.
He did not have Lex Luther as a foe
but fought for what was right, so now we grieve
because this hero that we came to know
was taken from our world. Dear Mr. Reeves
gave a human face to a fictive name,
then went back to the place from whence he came.
For PD's Contest: "My Latest Poem on the Soup"
(naughty PD, I had only three to choose from, all
the others were in contests,but this is sure a unique
way to do a contest!!)
Upon the Earth in sky or sea, n'er lived
a fairer wonder formed, than such as she.
Oh, Shield Mate, Mother Mary, child of Eve
who is reborn each age, when hope revives.
So soft the breath of human life arrives
awesome in the pearly froth, the sea
a warrior birthed upon a sandy lea
freed of man's cloth restraints, thus she thrives.
For sinless and aglow, she does arise
no need for cloak or length of tress to hide
stalwart is her beauty, her majesty
Enlightened are her follower's guises
with linked hearts may each new spirit confide
the eternal maid rises... a Valkyrie.
I have found many friends on our site
They have helped learn how to live right
Friends encouraged me to find my way
Friends held me in the prayers they pray
During my absence away from this site
My soul and I fought a constant fight
Because deep inside these words are true
I love the time I spend with all of you
I hope you all know without any doubt
I love taking my soul and laying it out
Because when it comes to life it’s my turn
I’ve so much to give so much to learn
I’ve kept my summer free so I can show it
How much I love being a PoetrySoup Poet
When you miss a child,
Of your very own,
That is your flesh and blood,
You begin to wonder,
Where did you go wrong,
In your own life,
Instead of looking,
At the beautiful life,
This you must remember,
So many of the difficult times,
Cause of the times you did share together,
For your children will remember more,
Than you really want to give them credit for,
And they will always remember you,
As their loving parent,
For loving them so much,
More than you will ever know,
And you will never forget them,
Just as you hope,
You will never be forgotten,
From their lives,
Whenever I said green light, you said red
Light, fighting back with a smile on your face;
Racing hearts chased each other to keep pace
With the words that had already been said.
Through all of the formalities, I sped,
Dead set on letting my hand reach that space
Between left and right lanes; The only place
A man, just like me, could truly be fed.
As the beginning of your end drew near,
The truth about my true intentions leaked;
"FIRE TRUCKS NEVER STOP FOR RED LIGHTS..DEAR!"
While being left without a word to speak,
I, too, began to whisper in your ear,
"Remember 'INNOCENCE IS FOR THE WEAK'!"
Which love is not a struggle to the mind?
'tis easier to think love glides along,
regardless of a road not there to find,
or never caring what is right or wrong.
One love, of child, a father's steady hand,
protecting innocence, through many years
as if he knew the way, and had it planned,
to heal each mortal wound as it appears.
As if all things begin with his okay,
the good, the joy of life to build upon;
demanding right, and hoping in some way
he's always with you, even when he's gone.
The banged up knee, your losing of a friend,
are yours to feel, but his to comprehend.
© RON WILSON AKA VEE BDOSA