These Tribute Sonnet poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Tribute. These are the best examples of Tribute Sonnet poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
We haven’t been formally acquainted
Though your words now travel in me
A picture of harmony you’ve painted
Love truest, in the very highest degree
Trouble in the midst, but don’t stress
Look into the windows of the soul
Therein you’ll find your happiness
Where two parts become a whole
Partake of this newfound pleasure
Two rivers now flowing into one
The joy contained has no measure
Warmth radiating like rays of sun
On this road of destiny or now call it fate
To encounter true love, it’s never too late
Based on In Deepened Harmony by Nette Onclaud
I do not know you, but your friends desire you back. You must truly be a light and inspiration to them.
O for the skills to calm a flighty horse.
Compact its trombone limbs with reins and legs.
Exact perfection without noticeable force,
all trouble and delight that beauty begs.
One horse, one rider, indivisible;
sky-born with earth-bound duty to endorse.
Control from legs and seat must be invisible,
obeying smooth transitions on the course.
Struck by awe, crowds watch, as in a trance
a pleasure trip controlled by aids precise.
Such liveliness contained in equine dance,
by what divine device - this Paradise?
Each discipline involved must scarce be seen.
Before our eyes must seem a floating dream.
He stood bravely before me
with a medal of honor in his right hand
and a bandage of agony around his left knee
It seemed like he had struggled to stand,
his crutches lay useless on the ground
I found it hard to understand why,
a soldier in pain didn't even frown
With a voice firm but dry
his words shook me like thunder
"You're now the man of this house"
he uttered like a worn-out hunter
quivering up my legs like a terrified mouse
Drowning my mind through cold ears
he passed his sincere respect and sunken tears
Walking down the hallway,
Seeing all the doorways,
And all the choices in life,
Making it difficult to choose,
The right room from all the other rooms,
Bringing you the wisdom and truth,
For the imperfection is within us all,
Which makes us all crawl at times,
On our hands and knees in the dark,
To discover what is right and survive,
In life as long as we can accept,
What life brings to us in our hearts,
Which we patiently accept the pleasures,
And push away the sacrifices much in our lives,
Yet, to correct our flaws we have,
Which causes most our struggles,
Till we open our eyes,
And see what we have and must believe,
That our lives are greater than we ever know,
Cause God created it all for us,
But the choices are ours to make,
To find the happiness,
Which is ours to be found and kept.
While dreaming of my childhood ocean ties,
mem'ry's chandelier sheds light, somewhat eclipsed.
The essence of the salt still stings my eyes;
the rusty taste of iron hangs on my lips.
The ocean’s fragrant spray not quite so fair
as I recall; it makes me think of death.
Many a moon has set since I was there;
destiny speaks to me - my own last breath.
The ocean’s soft waves bring dulcet mem’ries,
my mama’s silk scarf brushing ‘gainst my face.
Turbulent storms always left me on my knees
under safe precipice back of our place.
It is there my dreams rest as I stand by;
it’s there I shall be buried when I die.
inspired by nette onclaud's poem from 6/12/11, Even After Twilight Loves
We miss you, nette, and long for inspirations from your pen as you have time and
energy. Meanwhile we read your poetry and pray for whatever keeps you away from us to end.
A squad of cavalries turns up at first
their flag flutters at every angle
proud and their poor fate stubbornly reversed
the youngest one of them blows the bugle
Next, day strips itself of night, boisterous
the survivors step over the fallen
to the summit, wounded but victorious
the bravest one sags all of a sudden
That happens and will do, when justice is sliced
it was worth it and it will since God pleads
It's a cause for which our lives are sacrificed
as blooded swords are put back into sheaths
Honor befalls me, who made it public
in a lonely sonnet, epic and lyric
Who shall dare to die or to love among the Furies?
Not carry us by lustiness rather by the purpose, wisdom
Whose radiant rage welcomes you and the ambiguities?
And if that unfair, dropsy with pain, then none creates martyrdom;
To recall part of our age, oh bone! The hide prize
From our own mistake in front of the angers and crimes
Aside what left, for in the bloody world that appear to allegorize
And the hate melt cannot freeze from the above cleomes;
Remember we pass through, seal by a target unseen
From a God to subserve in massive, superlove, with such thing
Longingly upon the unforgiving hills from that delirious tween
Of the idea, screaming from every angles the abjuring
Horizon in red; and throw into inflammation,
A day end, nothing to reconcile, a caste of passion.
Sweet little girl who snuck upon her mom
without plans already in place to meet,
you’re a tiny hero, a bitter balm
for the wound that left an empty car seat.
A routine visit that ended in tears,
and an operation for the next week.
My sister’s truth was a mother’s worst fear,
never to hold her babe, to stroke her cheek.
After the grim appointment, her eyes glazed
her heart rate jumped high, and her fever raised.
Illness would have stolen her, but for fate.
You had asked a favor at heaven’s gate.
Thank you for saving my sister, sweet one.
I wish though, it didn’t mean your life was done.
His words calm me when I'm restless
bringing beauty to my world.
I get shivers, I must confess
when his passionate verse is unfurled.
I once threw a penny of brown
to see if love, I might find.
Like a princess with jewelled crown,
my dreams of starry nights shined.
Soft words of romance, he brings to life
with every stroke from his gifted pen.
Of sunlight, moon shadows, peace and strife,
I read his poems time and again.
His words bring smiles and move me to tears.
He inspires me to write of feelings, sincere.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, June 20, 2012
Tribute to WB Yeats
To write Shakespearean, sonnet of peer,
A tender write may bear him a story.
Though soul may roll over as spirit stirs,
As poets sit twain and shares much glory,
As pens do stir adding beauty a verse.
Write I may truly in renown fashion,
Thus pens unite as twain spirits rehearse.
Thus renown soul tells of renown’s passion.
Maybe in slumber, thus spell be broken,
Whence comes then, of renown a feather quill?
No scorn of renown was ever spoken,
In graceful discourse, nary of ink spill.
Thus dwells in heaven a renown true soul,
Love’s quill in hand , soul has perfect control!!
For: Even A Name can Be Poetry
In Honor of: Constance ~ A Rambling Poet~