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Best Iamb Poems

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Details | Iamb Poem | |

Now and Then

Is this the world that was so young and fresh and fair but yesterday? From leafy bows the robin sung Is this the world that was so young? Wild bees upon the clover swung And grove and field with bloom were gay Is this the world that was so young and fresh and fair but yesterday? Is this the world that was so young and fresh and fair but yesterday? Sere leaves beneath our feet are flung Is this the world that was so young? As if wild hands spectre wrung Hither and thither, sobbing, sway Is this the world that was so young and fresh and fair but yesterday?
+++ October 9, 2014 Form: Triolet (Iamb Tetrameter) Dr. Ram Mehta Second place win Contest: Structured Forms Iamb Verse III by Giorgio V.

Details | Iamb Poem | |

A season's dance


What art thou, splendid maid, inclined to verse?
Upon the skies, the stars thy words rehearse.

The darkness cometh with a Fall's request
while in thy kitchen, Gail, should do your best;

for spicy tastes the famous bard now begs
but you regaled his pleas with two boiled eggs.

The Eros Iamb feet, sung by the sire,
repeated are by stray cats' alto choire.

while resonant, of music flaws he shuns,
cats meow at him, from two deep tin trash cans.

Your bucket-full of water then, is thrown,
to fall upon his head and new iphone.

Enchanted so, thou callest the fine bard,
to dance with you Fall's jazzy avant-garde.

© G. V., 10-03-2013
(Iambic pentameter)

Details | Iamb Poem | |

A FORMal Evening

Haibun trying to read your mind from afar,
sitting acrostic from you at the bar.
Iamb itching to sit on the stool beside you,
but somebody's sonnet - and I don't think she'll move.
Are we just a couplet of friends having drinks?
Maybe you quintella me what you think.
I feel giddy and dizain without any warning,
and I know I'm going to feel verse in the morning.
But we've been playing footles and it feels so right,
so why not just tanka me home tonight?

Details | Iamb Poem | |

Await The Breeze

Oh pity, my decrepit frame,
With every step I cry,
To see thine self through clouded eyes
And hardly know my name.
Oh God! To be that youth again
When skyward I could fly,
Bereft lament that now abides
With not a knave to blame.

So should I ride that plaintive wind
Or wait the gentle breeze,
To climb with wings on upward drafts
Or stay where I have been ...
I think I shall await the breeze
And ride it till my last.

This is an Italian sonnet rhyme scheme but written in Hymn Meter to echo a style that Emily Dickinson often used. Although she admired and studied Shakespeare she didn't write true sonnets and rarely wrote pentameter but often used iamb meter in this tetra and tri form.

Details | Iamb Poem | |

If I were...

If I were a sonnet poem
A lover would read my proem
she’d recite all my lines
and would stress my end rhymes
and love the syllables iamb.

Details | Iamb Poem | |

A Child Jabbers Spondees

Its feet are tiny dimeter,
Body, spirit, soul, trimeter,
Would you look at those ears and eyes
Whose tetrameter rhyme defies

Its foot with pentameter toes,
Smelled by monometer nose!
Don’t fret when its iamb voice speaks 
Cheerful quatrains for days and weeks.

Stand still while it jabbers spondee,
In stanzas of metered trochee.
Well, my friend, please do not pretend,
Or you’ll cause more stress at the end.

Each verse it speaks is oh, so sweet
For it’s growing Longfellow feet!
Sit back, relax, put on a smile,
You’ve been zapped by a poet’s grandchild!

Details | Iamb Poem | |


iamb song,or
long-short trochaic,taut,
spondaic long,with syllables
octa,which choice numbers for my
and anapestic
with syllables three-
this poetry's a stress to far..
for me !

Details | Iamb Poem | |

Hear this

in my poem they do sit
each the others opposite;

a foot is two syllables long,
lines of them make up my song
any such fine
if this topic still makes you yawn
just keep on with open form!

Details | Iamb Poem | |

Lyric a la Mode

I am a true contemporary
who knows how to acceptably 

write a poem.  First with a tangible
aroma of burnt toast, I will run on

my imaginary couplets like a stroke
victim of the modern prejudices.

(Strophe’s choice is put aside, and 
Iamb not going to count my feet.)

Once cute, most common figures of speech have 
worn out their fashion like poorly matched metaphors.

(Do not rhyme, remember, do not rhyme,
as you wax nostalgic for some childhood time… damn!)

Pent up pentameter oozes with therapeutic 
confessionals that spring or dance or likewise

incongruently twist uncomfortably on the page,
while conjuring an image both shamefully personal

and embarrassingly boring from a tourist’s slide show 
or the shoebox full of faded, classic Polaroids.

Sardonically satiristic, I’ll reach-around to reference
an obscurely erudite portrait of some saint, like 

Christina The Astonishing’s flight into the rafters
of the church to avoid the stink of her own kind.

And at the end of a turbulent typhoon of irregular lines
washing deeply into the recesses of nowhere in particular,

I will, after too long a time, finally and hopefully declare:
une mule morte sur les clefs du piano.

Self satisfied, I’ll end my rant -- non sequitur but unchallenged…
or would you prefer a tantalizing inquiry of you, Dear Reader?

Details | Iamb Poem | |

An Explosion In The Poem Factory

I told him not to mix metaphors
But he wouldn't listen

In the back room
Behind thick steel door
Diction is ground
Into ever smaller bits 

Raw material
In the early stages
Of production 

Must be
Carefully handled 

Rhyme scheme
Followed meticulously 

All aspects of alliteration
Albeit artfully 

Along with assonance
Quickly mixed 

A cautious choice
Of iamb
Or trochee 

Or anapest 

And measured 

To the proportion
Of your rhetoric 

Remembering to always
Watch the meter 


Somewhere between
Adage and axiom 

And metaphor 

A mistake was made 

Too much hyperbole
Added perhaps 

Setting off a repetition
Of rhythm 


Until language itself
Could no longer hold 

A massive blast 


Heard for miles around
And all that they found 



 * (creation in destruction) 

Details | Iamb Poem | |

Mystery in Black and White


It looks like a kiwi
No, kiwis are fuzzy.
Then maybe a lemon?
or lime? I'm obsessed.

Am I getting closer?
Misshapened? an orange?
A colorless photo,
confusing at best.

The white seems so hazy
while black’s overriding
and grays run together,
an image in stress.

The point of this quand’ry -
I’m missing my colors,
the clues that enlighten
my eyes to the quest.

written and posted first here at Poetry Soup - 5 Mar 2015 
by Reason A. Poteet
for Giorgio's Black and White Photography contest

This is my first try at using amphibrachic dimeter.
The amphibrach is a metrical foot of three syllables with the stress on the second syllable, or one long syllable between two short syllables, da DUM da

I used amphibrachic dimeter for lines 1, 2, and 3, da DUM da, da DUM da;
with a variation in the 4th line in each stanza which features 
an amphibrach followed by an iamb, da DUM da, da DUM. 
These fourth lines contain the only rhymes in the piece.

(Your photos are lovely, Giogio, I'm just having a little fun with them.  Although, most would agree, color is better at times.)

Details | Iamb Poem | |

Fourteen Verses

My passion is to write modern sonnets
Yes indeed modern not traditional.
Iambic pentameter I regret
Is too restrictive and conditional.
I had observed that many years ago.
Expression of thought is more important
Than any well-placed iamb, apropos.
These little songs* are not songs at all; shan’t
Pretend when they're not. Mine are messages
That I compose within fourteen verses: 
Some assurances, other presages.
They are my work for better or for worse.
If I fail to convey in fourteen lines
I'd nothing to say and wasted your time.

* Sonnet means little song.