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Below are the all-time best Pen poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of pen poems written by PoetrySoup members

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With a Pen by Jennings, CayCay
Before My Pen Is Hushed by Wings, Broken
Pen and a dream by Duffy, Alex
The Sword is Mightier Than The Pen by Jones, Ian
from my pen to yours by hunjeri, njeri
Can I Borrow Your Pen by Y., Alexis
With Pen in Hand by Gragg, Charles
TO MY WORDS , MY PEN I am bound by Smith, Bev
With This Pen by Stephenson, Brandon
senryu 11 - dripping pen by Wings, Broken

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The Best Pen Poems

Details | Pen Poem | |

The Poet Who Never Was

I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
With clear access to writing that was mature and bold.
I thought I could go roaming beside the foaming sea
And watch the seagulls gliding to give a show for free.

I thought I was a poet who walked along the beach
In awe I stood and wondered, my hand stretched out to reach
The silver thread dividing the water from the sky
And traced Selena’s features as slowly she went by. 

I thought I was a poet who knew what joy could be
On hearing water roaring cascading down with glee.
I looked for inspiration, experienced utmost thrill
When climbing down the valley or up the verdant hill.

I thought I was a poet in charge of heat and cold
But lost my true emotions when I was duped and told
I had to reach perfection to please my heart and mind
By means of imitation. My soul I left behind.

I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
But now all of a sudden I’m weary, frail and old.
I thought I was a poet. My pen is of no use.
With teary eyes I whisper to my dejected muse. 


-------------------------------------------------------------
Author: Paul Callus
Contest: Million Dollar Poem
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st  ~  13th June 2015
Chosen Poem of the day ~ 8th May 2015

Copyright © Paul Callus

More great poems below...


Details | Pen Poem | |

Death of the Poet Destroyer

~The Untold Fatal Attraction Poem~

Mid-morning she sees the sun ahead
Her death flowed in a messaged bottle
Gazing into her brown eyes upon all open sores,
Her conscience dark and gray a never-ending war!
A giant cyclone of a thousand thoughts swirled around this little girl.
Inflicting away the pain, through the comfort of others pen
The way she twisted and twisted life’s perception was out of her control
Inside she knew the glass slipper was never hers to show off
 
She is baring nothing but a tainted pen, walking throughout eternity’s sand
A prosecutor of misdeeds, accomplishing what, without knowing the way
Departing from her fractured self, she begins to slip into a righteous form,
Twirling her twilight's pen like a baton, spinning it to one final stand
 
She awakens in a dream, where her sadness does not allow the light to reform
Her body is weak and pale against the birth of her undying sun
Staring down into the deepness of every-bodies abyss
Inside all souls is where she felt lighter, than the retarded sun gives
A crimson sky follows her just to reveal her diminished soul,
A life of shunning out the city glow will always dwell deep inside her
Sleeping under society as one, insulting the taste of innocent blood
Forgetting the vengeance, in a dimension where the pen is mightier than the sword
 
How did she let it come to this?
In one feeling she fell in love with the spirit of the living rhyme 
Watching from a cave, with a diabolical look
Refusing to grasp the self - nature and kill off the destroyer's will
A price beyond this enigmatic world, craving to be just like them
Condemning her meaning to a blasphemy of white butterflies
Destroying her poetic meaning that was destined to dance a tangle of endless rage
In love with the essence of her deceased will
She clings on to the dimness and brilliance at the same time
All corpses lost beyond the girl in question,
Sympathetic in a bizarre language, she mutters out sweetness
Her heart mended, recognizing all the adoration and poetic addiction
Exchanging the real terror, fixated by the life force of her poetic destruction
Giving birth to a new revelation
Now she will never deceive her love for the making of true art,
Not wanting to belong in this wretched world with her destroying criteria,
Her soul sails looking for a new era where love will no longer generate
As she loathes the love and decides not to destroy this generation with hate

At last, longing this one day with the angel of death
With a closing teardrop, one last thought
My death will not be the end; only the ascension~

by;pd

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

The Ballad of the Poet

*The Dead Poet*

Many blocks along the road, 
Kicking down walls of heavy stones, 
Yet no one could draw through the walls of her lonely bones.
A poet who could not write what's inside. 
Her pen had gone ink dry. 
Her beady eyes lost the feel of an angelic realm.
She tried! 
She tried until she could no longer cry!
A poet who stuttered with the mind and out came no words.
This poet hangs on a mound with a picture that tells a sad tale.
A poem that broke verses in a Carpe diem dream.
She ruffled her arms once more as if she could fly.
Still nothing, 
Everything felt dead inside. 

Trap in a mental state that clots the willing vein.
Isolating her form in a room with no door.
She stays this away from the feel of the marvel pen.
To never go back, and feel again.

In the most ominous way,
She lets out a cry, 
A cry, never heard before. 
Running from this evil, that stain her world. 
 
Words buried deep and behind a new exterior box, 
Her insides grasp all the air of airs once alive. 
A talon drop into the next,
This troublesome poet gave up on everything. 
Had nothing left, but the empty space within. 

Next!
She curls herself into a fetal world.
At last, she closes her eyes, to feel no more.
A poet who died the day, joy wiped the glee from her face.

by;PD

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

Silent Page

Silent Heart

Sad, as it maybe, I had to break my OWN heart, 
Too many nights, I sat there all torn apart
A dream girl, 
Sitting under its own corrupted auspices sky 
You the poet, in disguise
Telling white lies about, your love for me
Saying I'm a born from the sky....
A match, a queen, your muse, your everything
I'm no good, I admit this once more, 
Your advice, I forever adorn 

It's time to follow the crying crows and praise what is left
Afraid to listen my rhymes weren't cutting it, 
I release it all!
Your smiles, words, and worn out shoulders
I walked away
Silently--
I acted on
Without a word, in a fetal stage I awake
Tonight you carry a tune for others
A story of a man who stole my soul of sins
A poet, I long forevermore
Always, you will own the only sound that still beats inside
To live alone, in silence, asleep in my own world
I had to let go, 
-Of him, whose name I whisper in darkness
The only thing that remains is the echoes of pouring rain

Too many reasons, writer's block, took full moon
You are a poet, from another lifetime, 
Down in Mandalay, I can no longer ask you to stay
Reading everything about my life, silent and old
Alliterating poems, greeting every dark shadow, normally yours
Many nights I waited, long for the moment of my OWN return
Instead, I found myself alone
Trying to dust off yesterday's verse, yesterday's dirt
Cobweb remains on my page
My pen now sits like a twig
No motion, since the day I decided I am not worthy of the wait
You the poet, who walks my way
I pressured less of me every day
Like Aspen, a forever winter cold! 
Isolated to the world
In your eyes, you wonder why, 
I trace the white smoke standing in your place?

To savor your words, once more 
It's too soon to breathe again. 

I hope you understand, 
How can I continue to love when I don't even love myself?

By:PD

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

Of Ink

   Partial Paper
 -A poet in heat-

Ink carries its own tale,
When moonshine intoxicates your pen
Bottles of ink fill your mind
Composing symphonies on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails

This part of you 
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The tough skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking  words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger plus anger "GIVE ME MORE!"

You have a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions 
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet:  "Ink Never Lies."

Pretty pink acrostic ink when she's nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Ode's of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth

by;)

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

More great poems below...


Details | Pen Poem | |

Plethora of Poetry

~STRIP TEASE~     Featuring:) SKAT

Silver Skimpy Ink, String, A POET DESTROYER's bling, bling
Think of me as a human ditty delicious decoration,
Something along the line of a sweet tooth temptation
Cherry tastes, between the slit of tender toast 
Fine jumble jam slams down the tongueless throat 
Dance like a diamond on The tight South Pacific Rim
I'll feed you with a slithering seductive sound
My hair soaking, -wet and wild, tonight I trim
A dulcet apple acrostic bottom, to squeeze the greed
Feathers, on top, poetic diction describing to please
At times, I'm in deep dire need of something sweet, and sour 
Endless epic words, and ode to the naked poetic world
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, the freaking awesome
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)

---

Symbol of the spiritual Sexy SKAT Slang
--Provocative-- A slippery succulent, scrumptious kiss 
Counterparts working the tension, another arrant appetite
I am the Illuminati illusion, laminating luscious illustrated letters  
Indulging in the, satire of one stilt spoken sunset
Like a child's spiking temperature, I often throw tantrums, 
Teasing attentions, by incorporating a pole, paper and pen, 
If someone is uncomfortable with facing the fact, 
When I reveal everything, without removing my high heels
Then you must not be worldly or women and man enough 
I love to spoil and slur my scenery, using my best assets
My strength and power parallel, any unique universe 
That's how confident the audience makes me feel
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, fantastic and fabulous
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)


~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

Whisky Moment

~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!


   And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down 
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying  gigolos 
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub

I am drunk-- in his eye, 
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness 
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness 

Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne 
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade 
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name 

Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood 
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note 
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not  jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo 
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say

"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"

by: PD

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

The Poetess

Words flowing like magic, explode off my page
Taking me on journeys, I didn't seek
My mind is just floating, feelings do race
Her spirit is leading, to heaven I think

Reading but living, each chosen word
Caught up in beauty, emotions I trace
My heart is a flutter, tears sometimes fall
In awe of her verses, as much as her grace

Passion and love, I can feel her heartbeat
Sorrow and pain, mistakes made again
Dancing with nature, you take me by hand
Simply you're beautiful, I'm in love with your pen

Spilling of emotions, out onto the page
Poems come alive, for sure they are real
Confide in me please, all that's concealed
My dearest poetess, you make me feel


Copyright © Tim Smith


Details | Pen Poem | |

Words - The Heart of Imagination


This seasoned evening sported a full faced  Orange Kool-Aid moon. Fully aware it was a marvel it shot me an arrogant wink. Not once but twice. I think i heard it laugh. It certainly flashed me an impish smile. Not much different than my own. No camera could ever capture a moment this precious. This needed, words- the heart of my imagination. I stepped inside. Pen in hand, iPad at my right side, laptop in front of me, desktop computer behind me, electric typewriter on my left side I was ready. I only hoped I would be able to express in words what  I had experienced. I penned this. This seasoned evening sported a full faced  Orange Kool Aid moon. Fully aware it was a marvel it shot me an arrogant wink. Not once but twice. I think i heard it laugh. It certainly flashed me an impish smile. Not much different than my own. 09~11~2014 Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A Contest Name: Best Poem of 2014

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne


Details | Pen Poem | |

A Solstice

.

God ... thoughts of death mourning a loss,
one after another, like falling hailstones cracking the tiles
of the substance of things not seen            but feared. I could care less
 
God ... it's the longest night of my years                   caught in the toils 
of doubts, of despair, of the sound of falling ice
that reverberates inside                                  my faith in sudden slices
and outside this pen for sheep-raising                          still in fertile soil
I fail to get over the fence without a stile

Impotent to kiss resignation's toes
advocated by those who want my obedience             and my tithes at all costs 
A version of the interpretation of the oral traditions already translated into lies
Greeks, Romans, Monarchs, Despots, Rulers, Reformists, Stoics... 

Impotent to listen to the duty of the silken stole
              that pulls my crackling faith into its coils
Impotent to accept sacred writings chosen by lot
Impotent of praying more and thinking less
Impotent to breathe, to see, to walk through wind-blown salt and s  i  l  t 
measuring a time ... dark and lost

God, a profuse bleeding from a ruptured soul                           refusing to clot
Thoughts of death like tears of ice

when the electrocardiogram yells  h     h     h 
                                                   e  p  e  p  e
                                                      l      l       l p ... Where will be the lice 
to suck my sins and tics?
to cough and gag and vomit my unfulfilled temptations into a cist? 

My time of death has expired long time ago. Do you noticed it?
                                                            do you care about it?

Thoughts of death tickling upon my bare soles
I'll be nobody without a tag swaying from my toe

The night at its farthest point from                      the Sun and still so close
I need to believe it
God ... You need to believe it
I can kill you if my faith is lost 





.

Copyright © Ruben O.


Details | Pen Poem | |

23 warning signs that you are severely addicted to poetrysoup dot com



1) Since you have such a crazy drive to post every thought which goes through your mind, you consider posting your grocery lists.

2) You come up with another lame senryu just to post something new(and create a cheap entry for yet another contest).

3) Even though you post everything which comes to mind, post 3+ poems per day, every day, you believe all of your posts to be exemplary pieces.

4) (in relation to #3) You believe all of the "This is a masterpiece!" comments left on your poems, to be completely sincere.

5) You have the tendency to ignore that you are nearing 60 years of age. You put up avatars of yourself, circa 1971, and flirt with nearly every Souper below the supposed age of 30.

6) Instead of having a romantic evening with your significant other, you end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.

7) After being single for 15 years, a completely compatible person asks you on a date. You decline the offer, end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.

8) The admin makes an announcement concerning site maintenance, how the site might be down for 24 hrs -- upon reading the announcement, your stomach drops-out, you are filled with a phantasmagoric sense of doom which escalates into a bout of nihilism so strong, you consider methadone treatment to prepare yourself for the upcoming site-shutdown.

9) You begin methadone treatment in preparation for the two hours you will be away from the Soup(and awake)attending your best friend's funeral.

10) Your sleep-time has drastically altered to less than 4 hours of sleep per night. This is for various reasons, one of these being that every week you feel the need to leave a minimum of 1000 comments on poems, so whenever you post something new, the 'return' comments on said post, help push it up the 'Top 100 Recent Poems' list. You consider this to be an accomplishment akin to winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. You are awesome.

11) Instead of watching your favourite soap opera on the booby, you follow the soaps happening between Soupers in the blogs.

12) Every time you get a splinter, you have a strong urge to put up a blog about it to gain support and sympathy during your ordeal.

13) You put up blogs telling members that you are going to be 'gone' for 2 days, and apologize for not "being there for everyone" while away from the site.

14) After not seeing daylight for months on end, you put up a blog about seeing the most amazing thing .... you finally went outside and saw this blazing orb in the .... in the .... in the whatchamacallit, sky?

15) You forget to say "Merry Christmas!" to your family at home, but 'say' it in the Christmas blog that you put up on the Soup.

16) You forget your significant other's Birthday, but remember the Birthday of your favourite 'platonic' Souper.

17) Whenever you see or hear the word "Soup", your palms become itchy and you can barely contain yourself from using a computer/phone to login to poetrysoup.com.

18) You believe that if a poem rhymes, it is automatically a decently written poem.

19) In desperation, your family members and friends create accounts on the Soup, believing this to be the only way left to interact with you. In return, you have your account deleted and open a new one under an assumed pen-name.

20) You make the rounds each new day leaving "Good Morning!" comments on your friend's poems.

21) You go on vacation to an exotic beach location. The weather is gorgeous. The water is wonderfully warm. The sand is splendid. You don't swim in the wonderfully warm water. You don't take in the sights of the beach. You barely even notice the beach. Instead, you log onto the Soup via your laptop/phone.

22) Your children are hungry. You barely even know who your children are anymore. You don't care. *click* *clickety-click*

23) Your significant other finally offers to "do THAT thing"(yes, THAT one!)you've always fantasized him/her doing with you, but until now, he/she has always refused to fulfill for you. Now .... you don't care. *click* *clickety-click* 










+/-

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner


Details | Pen Poem | |

My Last Poem -of 2012-

The last poem…

Standing against the wall. 
The longest teardrop made its fall. 
Making one final call.
Never will I write about my letters again.

This prison is my pen.
*INK* My enemy~ at the same times my only friend.
*INK* My guardian~ the escort of words into my desires. 
This pen is my prison.

No longer will I let it defend and comfort me.
No longer will I let it sit there and take control of my imagery.
No longer will I share it with you...
These visions have been the birth and death to what is reality.
I have no reason to lie; it is time to set my thoughts free.
And say goodbye…………. 

As I walk alone to the open skies of 2013.

~~The End~~

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


Details | Pen Poem | |

The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven - A Tribute to Chan Hurst 1979-2014

A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)

I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.


"A Rational Explanation"

What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world I never knew?
For all I've seen hath been untrue,
As all I've felt hath plagued me, too!
I am no more, past Deaths before
I've reached the end of Living War-
(to see through eyes both blind and closed)
A life to touch, but never know...


"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep"

Every day, to God I pray
For answers to Life's enigmas
Patience lays in wait to stay-
To cleanse our Social Stigmas
We pass the time in our idle Dreams:
Like fallen stars in singing streams


"A Happy Ending"

Remorse and regret, I mustn't forget
Remind me that Life is a process of Learning
Indeed for I sorrow'd; 'twas always upset
As the Truth was met with painful discerning

But now my eyes are open-wide,
Grew to love what I once despised
I am no longer sick inside-
I just feel happy to be alive


"A Master's Approval"

No happier could I ever be,
(Or feel a joy's enormity!)
Than to know a Soul as Poe-
Would say he likes my poetry!


"The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven"

I pray that in my Eternity,
I'll meet Shelley, Poe and Emily
That we'll all sit down at a table round,
And at length discuss our Poetry!

And Longfellow, lest we forget
Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and beloved Keats!
If I prove their favorite Poet,
I could accomplish no greater feat!

For all my many silly musings,
This one I covet above the rest
For my Soul's toil- finally proving
That the Masters love me best!





"Heaven For A Poet"  by Kelly Deschler

My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to bed nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.

My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.



This poem was one of mine that Chan had faved, so I thought it would be appropriate to share this now and dedicate it to him.

I will always miss you, BP, my brother in poetry, but I sense that you are smiling down on us now.

I know that Chan idolized Edgar Allan Poe. I remember him telling me that someday,
he wanted to share a table in heaven with that "good ol' E.A. Poe".

So, Chan, if that is what you're doing now, I envy you, my friend! 

And, you said that you would personally invite me to that little gathering, remember? :)






Copyright © Kelly Deschler


Details | Pen Poem | |

We Push The Pen

We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.

We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.

We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.

We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.

We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.

We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.



Copyright © Kelly Deschler


Details | Pen Poem | |

Night Owl

Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!

Copyright © Kelly Deschler


Details | Pen Poem | |

My Little Soldier Boy

Gary, you are my little soldier boy,
who died on Veteran's Day. ('83)
My sunny, golden-haired soldier boy,
that I still miss in every way.

You had just turned 13,
getting interested in girls.
When CF took you from me,
my heart, like a flag, unfurled.

You fought CF with every breath.
For 13 years you tried.
And four lung collapses later,
after each one, I said, 
"Son, you will survive."
Oh, how I lied!

Now, no more hugs and kisses,
No more birthday wishes,
I watched you go
and please God know,
Heaven, receive my treasure.


Author Note:  This poem was written in memory of my son, Gary,
who died of Cystic Fibrosis at 13, in 1983.  I honor my soldier who so valiantly
fought his fight on the battlefield of a life threatening lung disease, which fills the lungs with sticky mucus and makes it difficult to breathe. With all CF children, 
they struggle with every breath they take just to breathe! My son eventually 
started to have lung collapses. He had four before the last one took his young life  on Veteran's Day weekend in 1983..(Read my poem "A rainbow Glitters") 

I wouldn't be a poet today, if not for my son. He was diagnoses at age three.
As I sat by his hospital bed crying, I reached into my purse for a tissue, but 
instead, I pulled out a pen. I thought to myself, "Ok, God, I get the message.
You want me to write and not cry." So I wrote my first poem that night, "Not 
MY Son!"  Which eventually got published in Elizabeth Kubler Ross' Book "On Children and Death." Later, I wrote humorous poems to entertain my son, who
was often to sick to go to school.  And I'm still writing my poems today. 
 



 

Copyright © Darlene Gifford


Details | Pen Poem | |

GOODBYE

She's had enough of my clever lines
Thinking back on all those times
When my dreams were just a story 
She... wonders if anything's real 
Does he just write or can he feel
And care for anything more than glory

Oh.. Time and time again
You bought in to what felt like lies
But girl, I was honest with you
I didn't even try to disguise
You needed more than lyrics
I understand you wanted a man
A true love and not a writer who
Would hold a pen but not your hand

So you said, Goodbye.. 
The saddest words I've ever read 
Cuts like a knife I'm running red
No yellow brick road for me to tread
And now it's so plain for me to see
You felt this is how it had to be..
The end

She.. Felt like another in the crowd
Echoes abounding seemed so loud
Couldn't see they were simply songs 
She.. Had enough and let me know
She wasn't up for my kind of show
There'd just been one too many wrongs

Oh.. Time and time again
You bought in to what felt like lies
But girl, I was honest with you
I didn't even try to disguise
You needed more than lyrics
I understand you wanted a man
A love true and not a writer who
Would hold a pen but not your hand

So it's, Goodbye.. 
The saddest words I've ever read 
Cuts like a knife I'm running red
No yellow brick road for me to tread
And now it's plain for me to see
You felt this is how it had to be..
The End

Goodbye,
This hurt inside me is very real
If you only knew how much I feel
You needed more than I could deal
And now it's plain for me to see
God, I wish it didn't have to be..
The End

Tonight, I don't see one star in the sky
Tears trickle down.. I begin to cry
I don't have to ask the reasons why
I sadly understand it's.. Goodbye

Oh, Goodbye.. 
The saddest words I've ever read 
Cuts like a knife I'm running red
No yellow brick road for me to tread
And now it's plain for me to see
You felt this is how it had to be..
The End

Goodbye,
This hurt inside me is very real
If you only knew how much I feel
You needed more than I could deal
And now it's plain for me to see
God, I wish it didn't have to be..
The End..
Goodbye
(Goodbye)
(Goodbye)

*One of my break up poems

4-11-15

Copyright © Lyric Man


Details | Pen Poem | |

TO THE FLOWER

TO THE FLOWER Your scent beckoned my weeping heart to painless flight; amidst a garden where God dusts His pretty love. Spring tints are pure and fragrant, free of guilYour Best Poem - Poetry Contest Sponsor Shadow Hamiltone. Your hues painted another sunrise for my eyes; when once I failed to catch the pledge of morn. A seed of hope was born to white petals blush. Though there are silhouettes of bitter yesterdays must all the phantoms of illusions fade and leave...? Your floating aroma stirred and shot my nerves; inspiring a nightingale to sing some joyous laments; It swayed with grace to dance on wind's despotic beat. among the rustling leaves which hug the earth below; So like the sun, which from distant horizon smiles; it roused the sleepy world to begin the pen of baby prose. The unfolding mystery of your petals brought my bewildered mind to peacock's reflection. Alas! All was transient. These eyes probe beneath but were blinded by the intrusion of some stray shine; Ambitions which from afar are building sprout; t'is that which let this self to irksome doubt. Lovely blossom of the wild, this sojourner nigh to tame your perfume's sweet stinging scent. A restless soul by some wicked, destiny pokes; someone called--- but pity, I couldn't tell a note. If by magic, a butterfly I could become; Let it be over my being slowly span. Then with you (though the specters in our midst are fierce), I could jet fly though miseries without fear. But am just a mortal of faith that blows this wish for only covenants call for my journey still? I cannot be forever the one who would share your sweetness; (Harken, fairies of blooms, this wilderness is not my lair.) I shall not want to witness you wilt as no time left to stay. Never again will you see me at day-break's bloom, save something special for others to experience you. This fleeting apparition I so adored; promised me burgeoning petals. "Be not afraid as seasons change, beyond today, I won't be here to see that no harm be done with all intentions to your sacred charm. As today, I leave you to Mother's Nature tender care, for I must go to some greater musing-- heaven's ground. Wilt not, as soon the rain will dash, refreshing you my dear. If I return someday-- will your sublime scent still be here?" __________________________________________________________ Your Best Poem - Poetry Contest Sponsor Shadow Hamilton ~~3rd place~~ Free Verse, Prose Poetry, haibun - Poetry Contest Sponsor Debbie Guzzi ~~2nd Place~~ POEM OF THE DAY: October 21, 2015 Inspired by Susan Seddon Boulet's painting: -----http://media-cache-cd0.pinimg.com/236x/1d/c4/37/1dc437f88c0cfb2fbcc9333bd35bb8c3.jpg ©Olive Eloisa Guillermo October 20, 2014, 10:19 pm

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo


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''and that comes from within''

 ~~

if I had all the money that I ever wanted,
                  I suppose that I could travel the world;

       live in a better home, buy designer clothes and stuff,

  if money was no object in my life . . . 

                     but you see money cannot help me,
each day my health is more delicate, slipping further away;

       and all the money in the universe will not change a thing,
                               this is my struggle and my daily reality . . . 

                                         the things I give myself are simple,

relaxing music to soothe this weary soul;
peace, tranquility and love to ease my pain,
and I ask the Lord for acceptance . . . 

             in meditation I try to fathom the why,
                                           
                      of course, with money I could go to a fancy retreat;
but a corner in my bedroom is set aside for meditation and relaxing,
and it is there I have placed peaceful things that cost very little . . . .

     perhaps with money I could get better drugs,
                but no drug is going to change this girl's destiny;

                                                this I know deep in my heart and soul, 
                       I have for a long, long time . . . 

I think a lot about my past and life so far,

                              the paths I took or did not take;
                              the things I said or did not say,
        could money have changed my journey in any way . . . 

                                     a warm bath, a cozy bed, a sweet purring cat,
                                                    paper and pen so I can write;
               my laptop within reach, a walk in nature listening to the birds,
      a loved one to hold my hand  . . . .

      these are my indulgences and they may not seem like much to you,

                              but I feel like the wealthiest person in this world;
              for money cannot buy happiness nor can it buy life,
                                      all I need is the indulgence of tranquility . . . 

                            ''and that comes from within''



_______________________________-
January 28 , 2015

Narrative


For the contest, Indulgence, sponsor Shadow Hamilton

First Place


Copyright © Broken Wings


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Where my True Love Lives - A Ballade

Seared upon my soul for ever more
That break of dawn upon a summer morn
As I made my way along that rocky shore
Strewn with remnants from a ragging storm
When through a rising mist of gray - so forlorn
I saw a badly broken sinking ship
With canvas wings of white so sadly torn 
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs

And as that mighty fearless ocean roared 
With salty breezy breath so filled with scorn
I saw it rise up from the ocean floor
Wrapped in a velvet coat so frayed and worn 
A red, red, rose impaled upon a thorn 
Where passion bled like rain from ruby lips 
Upon a vivid memory reborn 
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs 
      
The wind - it whispered - in my ear - Lenore		
As black clouds in the sky began to form		
Into a face I’d never seen before			
With hollow cheeks that endless tears adorned	
That fell in frozen crystal drops so foreign..... 		
Then from those clouds his face began to slip  	
And I cried  the tears of a woman scorned 			
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs		

Lenore, the love he would forever mourn
That from his pen on page in words did drip
As I read his poetry and love was born
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs.


~~~~
Author:  Elaine George of Canada
 Written:  February 28, 2011

A tribute to: Edger Allen Poe and his Lenore

Copyright © Elaine George


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The Last Love Letter To the West

         I can't recall 
       the day you left
  Empty words going west
                ***

~To: The West Coast~

My love, my sweet love -- my soulmate
I will cherish our time, with the sun
My love, my friend, my lover
Today we part, on this day June 3rd 15

My love, my sweet love -- my everything
On this day, I will take the long way home
On this day, I will look back and smile
To know it was not a dream

My love, my sweet love -- my true love
With this pen, I write this letter, 
My bed now knits a different sweater, 
Preparing my linens for darker weather
I want you to know, I'm writing this with a swollen heart
It was never you, it was I who grew apart
Patience kept you warm when I was cold
Every night, I cried, I tried to feed you my dreams
My hollow soul sat like a fool under a heavy cloud 
Holding back, the needing of proceeding who I was

My love -- please forgive me
I was inconsiderate of us
I would lay without opening the windows of trust
Your smiles I wiped away with my faults
However you stayed, you watched, 
You meant to kiss and stop the pouring rain 
You kept strong, holding my hand, 
When everything around my life persisted to perish
You soaked every time I stormed, 
I regret, when I refused to let you touched the women in me

My love -- it was never you
I was broken before our hearts met
Like a villain and a thief, 
You took my diamonds in hopes to see them shine again
Your demons found a way into the shadows of my life
Trying to complete what you could not see
You could not feel, still you believed in me
My dreams, you held me close, loving who I am

My love -- you are the sunrise the sunset
Your limbs kept me up when I would fall
I will miss the touch of light in every stare
Thank you for not looking my way, the day you left
I did not want you to see the mask I used to cover it all
Pretending, I was strong when I was weak
Knowing I had fallen in love with you
Forever yours, 

~From: South Texas--

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A


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Multi-Tasking

Wearing wireless headphones as I listen to the news.
I'm outside watching children playing, taking in the views.
There is screaming in my ears two voices disagree.
A little girl serves her playmates imaginary tea.

They're speaking on the pod, unarmed victims shot by police.
Captives tortured in war. I hear our own. I hear their pleas!
There's screaming in my ear a few voices disagree.
Little girls sitting pretend to speak French saying Oui, Oui!

There are typhoons hitting an island, reminds me of a tsunami.
Also officials gathering parts of a plane shot down by an army.
What  happened to the plane that went missing, no one remembers.
Teenagers on the street play basketball great kids, great neighbors.

The president uses his pen, makes some politicians angry.
There is screaming in my ears so many voices disagree.
The girls skip rope, laughter fills the air and singing too.
 Pundits discuss, argue this and that it's what they do.
 Night and day is closer then these scholars and their degrees.
Theres screaming in my ear, voices, everyone disagrees.

The guys still shooting hoops, living the life, always polite.
Protests on the streets, the  police display their might.
Some back peaceful protests others speak accusingly.
There is screaming in my ears, crowds of voices disagree.

I wave goodbye to the boys, we'll talk, I'll see them again soon.
The children want me to skip rope I play along like a buffoon.
They laugh that I can't skip properly. I leave them to their play.
There's screaming in my ear, voices...might as well talk to clay

My sleep will be hard, in the morning the sun will shine, children will wake.
What kind of world will we leave, you smile and laugh but feel like a fake.
Look how well we have done. When did we stop being one, being mild.
What happened to being cohesive? It takes a village to raise a child.
There is too much screaming in my ears, too many voices disagree.
I can only pray, lend my voice to the calm, hope we can all agree.

11~12~2014
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillan
Contest Name: I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems 
 

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne


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Somber Days

I am somber like November days and my words speak weak, as if through tired tongue I see the trees stand naked reaching their limbs across the stream as if touching and comforting each other from the bitter cold that's settling in sometimes I envy them I want to stand naked arch my back reach towards hands and feel the comfort of more than I am allowed and escape the bitterness as it settles in it doesn't seem fair to question a day or night that wears the same veil as me, colorless and silent in the breeze as it whispers through the trees sometimes I want to lean my ear and eavesdrop on them I want to peak beneath the skies veil and see the colors blend to see the rain less clear through colored drops fall upon a canvas and paint a masterpiece I want to feel my hands finger a pen, without tingling from bottled up emotions to feel my soul inside me not as if locked outside looking in, as if a stranger to my own life not be the afterthought or an emotion beyond words of some poet's muse I want to know the meaning of this emptiness I want to understand why the tree is as naked as my thoughts in winter yet dressed heavy in the summer and most beautiful in the fall why does beauty fall become grounded and dance in November's wind somber, like the day....

Copyright © Sandra Adams


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Super Soupers

It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness 
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California 
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?


Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux


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A Poetic Caress

I write of things that are real,
yet can be hard to express.
And encourage hearts to feel,
with a poetic caress.

My pen interrogates pain,
to try and explain the hurt.		
And redefines what is sane,
by exposing all the dirt.
	
My poems describe feelings,
from first breath to death's embrace.
And shattering glass ceilings,
vindicate pride and disgrace.

My words reach out to a few,
going beyond expected norms.
And challenge their point of view,
through rhyme or established forms.

My compassion knows no bounds,
dissecting anguish and tears.
And my fragmented heart pounds
exhuming dead dreams and fears.

My soul pools in broken hearts,
as it leaks upon the page.
And anxiety departs,
from the heart of this old sage.

Copyright © Emile Pinet