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Best Pen Poems

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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Details | Pen Poem |

I saw you yesterday

I saw you yesterday

I saw you yesterday, your features grinned,
some silken scarf was waving in the blue,
I thought of what the rains could not rescind;
our images, that in the fields imbue.

I saw tempestuous, around me shades,
the rain's persistence had engraved your name
upon the slate, around she formed cascades,
inviting flash amid the drops, and flame.

I saw flash yesterday, inside the rain,
how beautiful it was, her kiss of dew
your words became my sails on trip arcane 
the clouds, your messengers, 'mid skies to strew.

I sensed the crooked line reticulate,
the sulfur acrid smell and pale flame's hue,
transmuting to abderian road skate,
zigzagging on a water copper tube.

The flame transformed to runnel flowing laughs;
the rustling of droplets on the leaves,
combined the bright and shapely drawing graphs
with clouds to form above, celestial eaves.

I saw flash yesterday, my features grinned,
like silken scarf was waving in the blue,
I thought of what the rains could not rescind:
two images, amidst the fields imbue.

© G. V., 10-21-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic pentameter)


Details | Pen Poem |

Three Hundred

Three Hundred

The wraiths were ringing dead wrought bells
while closely passed the shady shapes
of woods in dusk, where red indwells
communion made from ghostly grapes.

He ran amidst the winds and passed
across the side where grapevines grew,
it was her presence that amassed
small leaves and droplets of fog's dew.

Inside the winds' lone strings accord,
his Bell full-face, was dropped along
the streamlets and horizon's board,
untamed his scopes, they don't belong.

The Astral Chords! He knew this debt;
the skies demand and kill and draw,
the darkened paths his thought beget,
rose thorny droplets on his brow.

Persephone shall be his wed,
subsiding dew the mist regales,
the stringing roar that reaches red,
his greatest bride resigns his trails.

Shall be the threading of winds' howls,
her plea arises from the shades,
homecoming queen from astral halls,
he harks the northern swashing blades.

Ablution's her enjoining black
"Enfold me in the rising dawn
enfold your sadness in the dark
with magistral the curtains drawn".

Acute of wounds she heals and mends
the asphalt of the mists awaits
pristine her bridal thorns amends
while passing through the Hades gates.

Three hundred reasons drew the drapes,
three hundred strings of diligence;
The winds regaled the bride's agape,
his celebration to commence.

© 10-14-2013, George Venetopoulos
(Iambic Tetrameter - Epic)

Three Hundred = 300 Kilometers per hour. The final speed a super-bike of 1,000cc engine is able to outreach.


Details | Pen Poem |

Cherokee


Cherokee (Tall Warrior of Tanasi)

White smoke ascends above the distant hearths
the softness of the cold, inside connotes;
while snow continues spreading on the earth,
his spotted chestnut snorts, and vapor floats.

Concerned the stalwart stares above the land
where snow flakes in the winter gust rotate
the herds of buffalo tracked down and strand
-were forced to move ahead and relocate. 

The Ag'tanahi-Anisgaya words fly
with crows' invisible fast wings and stray,
they guide his solemn spirit to reply
to calls, the sovereign woods and night convey.

The Warrior of Tanasi harks the sough,
the trees conduct to him along the slope,
what precognitions in the ether strew,
who has the wisdom will translate pines' trope.

The winds transmit the ancestors' same song
to the Tanasi of the Cherokee, Tall soul,
inside the woods they dance with snow along
repetitive crows winging and skies' call.

Inside the night he drifts along death's fare
where sacrifice redeems itself with pride
The Greater Spirit shall bestow his care,
for the Tanasi kindred, will provide.

© G. V., 11-07-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Pentameter)

Ag'ta na hi = wise
A ni s ga ya = men


Details | Pen Poem |

As My Pen Danced

I waited, dressed to kill
in red,
and in love

both, of which 
I could have been coaxed out of

You have turned a pale shade of white,
my Valentine

Al Green sang to me,
as my pen danced as your substitute 
we danced all night long,
stationary, our dance floor.

As we whirled to the emotions
of words' sounds; hand in hand,
we went round and round
and round

No one else in the room
most of all, not you
as my ink turned 
from red to blue


Details | Pen Poem |

The sea-waves touch


The sea-waves touch your open palms;
along the shore, blue waters bid
when stormy sea henceforth becalms,
and tide engulfs what skies forbid.

When solemn eyes their oaths avow
and roses beckon on your dream,
reach out and find his drifting prow
aboard your trip's perpetual stream.

Cause thoughts, like boats, may drift amiss;
for those who lived in old realms,
eternal love's confession is,
the touch of sea, upon the palms.

Cause those beloved, forever pledge
since prior times,
and search those loves on skyline's edge
who kissed their eyes.

© G.V. 12.08.2013 All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)
(first draft)


Details | Pen Poem |

Embrace my love

Embrace my love

Aboard he heard her words amidst the deck's cold winds,
he watched her pictured smile, upon the shelf,
"embrace my love when tides, lone shores engulf
as soon as grayish dusk descends on ripened fields."

Upon their rose, abandoned garden coldness casts,
two forms reshape next to the lightless hearth,
much of a void projects above his berth,
her saddened eyes to stare at his departing masts.

A wind-harp voice recalls throughout his time on bridge,
alludes her words when night befalls to dark,
"embrace my love, outside my sorrow's barque,
and after sun comes down, behind a distant ridge."

"embrace me when the currents controvert your route,
with sacred love our bonding I'll regale,
my song will reach you at the oak gunwale,
and shall transform the winds to flawless notes of flute."

© G. V., 11-09-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic alternative Hexameter-Pentameter lines)


Details | Pen Poem |

The Woodcarvers Reward

He walked along the beach a man forlorn
Forgotten were his dreams, his heart was torn
The gentle waves spoke of the years gone by
And drew salt water down from saddened eye  

He saw some driftwood lying on the shore
It sparked his interest and he longed for more
He touched it gently, to his great delight
Sandalwood he’d found:  passion to ignite

The need to carve once more came to his mind
A joy he’d lost and could no longer find
He took it home, that battered piece of wood
With hopes to turn it into something good

A mane of hair took shape beneath his hands
Flowing waves of curly wooden strands
Round shoulders of the woman of his dreams
And breasts and waist of beauty carved supreme

Gracefully her form began to take on shape
When he was done he stood there mouth agape
She was a goddess made of his desire
A love for her consumed him like a fire

At night he wished upon a falling star
She’d come to life and chase his sorrows far
He looked at her before he fell asleep
And smiled for he’d forgotten how to weep

He felt a stirring there beside his bed
A presence seemed to hover near his head
He looked upon his statue now in flesh
Her body like a breeze was young and fresh

She pressed her lips so gently over his
“I need to tell you, love, listen to this
I was discarded, battered, wounded sore
I chose to be a part of life no more

You saw in me my hidden beauty fine
Your wish has reached the heart of the Divine
I stand before you, answer to your prayer
Sent to give you love and tend’rest care.”

She kissed his lips, and veiled him in her hair
His tears she wiped, this answer to his prayer
With him she lay, her breast his pillow sweet
The richest fare of sandalwood, his treat

What else transpires is curtained from our sight
Burning sandalwood…..scents the glowing night

Eileen Manassian Ghali


Details | Pen Poem |

My Pen Collection

As the waves forever kiss the shore
One shot leaves you wanting more
My heart and soul, strong and true
With all the love they hold for you
Sometimes my life leaves me bored
Like a swordsman with no sword
These are the times that I write
Memories can be hard to fight
I write out my heart and soul
Controlling my mind is my goal
Each new word released by my pen
Is another spiritual battle I win
The war rages on day by day
Through the poem prayers I pray
It's a war that I will forever win
Long as there is ink up in my pen
In prison I had quite a collection
Each one held it's own reflection
I saved them after they ran dry
Baptized with the tears I cry
I just couldn't seem to let them go
Little memories of my heart and soul
Sometimes I like to take them out
Little memories of what I'm about
What I'm about angel on my shoulder
Making this world a little less colder


Details | Pen Poem |

A Thousand Years From Now

For he who leans upon the ancient tree
In future’s shade, a thousand years from now
Will you engage a wrinkle in your brow
And ponder ore’ the death of fallen leaves?

Are we so not alike in fairness gained
Or time might choose to forge us enemy?
Would cloak, or hair, or skin, a different blend
Invite those eyes to shun away from me?

If first, those born, have greater weight to bear
Or yours, one day, the lift more heavy lot
Each step by step, we travel blind and torn
Do crossroads come the same or some are not?

Will one day find you leaning by a tree
And find a stone beneath the powdered dust
And wonder if it once belonged to me
To think it bone, or questions turned to rust?

___________________________________________
Iambic Pentameter........By Carrie Richards


Details | Pen Poem |

The birds

The birds! The birds!

Uncountable the subject pronoun words
give tongue to humbleness, henceforth to speak;
contributing to poetry for birds,
our inspiration nested on their beak!

He's watching leaping sparrows eating bread,
while on his terrace sips green Ceylon chai;
it seems to him that poetry has fled,
and gone with the banditos, bidding "byee".

Alas! The birds have taught us all we know,
encyclopedic, scientific, art...
Cause he would not be 'mong ya apropos,
if poetry was meant to be more smart:

{ Thy Tristan I shall be, divine Izolde;
thus, like a bird of valor, debonair,
I'll fly to thee, because I have been told,
that someday I'll become a billionaire.

Among the birds, oh maid, I picture thee
abducted by banditos (or eloped?)
thus I, compose my poetry to be
reminder of the corns that have not popped.

And thus, envisioning, thy magic curves,
I'll be a triumphant filibustier,
my self-igniting foolish verse, and oeuvres,
will reach (oh, dolly bird) thy round derriere.

And then, if not for other, thus, demand,
my manuscripts will serve a strident cause,
vociferous upon the meadowland,
by the banditos will receive applause. }
 
© 02-18-2014, G. Venetopoulos
(Iambic Pentameter)
G.V.


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