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Best Write Poems

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

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Details | Write Poem | |

PLAGIARIZING

"Mine all Mine!"

A thief I long to be
Your eyes original like the moon and sea

A lover in the world............
An Anthology, you walk and talk like the word "AMOR."

The words you send, I nicely tuck under my pillow
Every note every line you left behind 
I memorized till they became all mine
Word-for-word, 
Unauthorized I scrape the concrete calluses off the tongue
Pirating the perfect dramatic monologue look,
Basking through the passage around your Bio, 
Lost in the musky scent -around the sonnet of your aura light 
Epic enough, I reach inside to feel every idyllic rhyme
A strong iambic meter curse, conjuring up the perfect verse
In you I lift a copy paste from your lips, 
No need to credit the sources in your bliss
The sweetest undamaged sensual memorandum book
A moment I stole and sealed without copyright proof

My dearest Poet, 
When you move across the room
I see a thousand arrows that follow from behind, 
Indulged when you speak and point out verse per verse
I am a victim pampered by your words,
Sponging every line, adding them to my crib notes 
Improved wordplay that infringed my everyday diary
A haiku so tangible, it sets the perfect images in my dream,
Hypnotize after I read your first love poem
A printed feeling--
Borrowed from the sun

pd

Details | Write 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 sung 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 propagandas
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth

by;)

Details | Write Poem | |

The Greatest Poet Ever

I got to wonderin' the other day
who was the greatest poet ever?
Was it a guy named Willie Shakespeare
or someone much more clever?

I thought it over for quite a while
just who this guy might be.
Then suddenly a light went on!
By God, it could be me!

So I'm gonna write a Masterpiece.
Just you wait and see.
It'll be the best poem ever wrote
and the author will be me!

Everyone from near and far
will know my famous name.
The poem I write will be so great
it will bring me worldwide fame!

I'll be chauffeured 'round in limousines
and flown in private jets.
Everyone will call me "sir"
and I'll have no regrets.

I'll be treated just like Royalty,
No matter where I go.
I'll be waited on hand and foot,
just to let you know.

So when you're in my presence
don't you forget to bow,
cause I'll be the greatest poet ever,
I'm tellin' you right now!

That's it - My mind's made up
and since I'm gonna be so great,
I decided I won't write it now,
you're just gonna have to wait!

  written 3/5/11

Details | Write Poem | |

Goodbye, My Child

Where cradled canyons sing
Of ebony wood in the forest
There lies a gurgling spring
Where cockcrows sing their chorus
To the melody of singsong birds
There I’ve concealed my sensuous words
Filled with befitted signs
The saccharine whiff of my designs

Come to me my mortal youth
To the wild realm of your truth
Where nymphs and gnomes abound
For the earth is filled with weeping
And only your tears be found

Where the fogs of night are fountains
Spills of glistened moon ignite
By distant silhouette mountains
We dance with passion of fight
Entwining ancient stance 
Mingling hand in hand we dance
Till the mountains smile on high
Near and far we spring
To pursue the realest of dreams
While the world cries at its seams
Anxious in trouble to cling

Come to me my mortal youth
To the wild realm of your truth
Where nymphs and gnomes abound
For the earth is filled with weeping
And only your tears be found

To where the ridges merry make 
From the beaks of wooden bright
In sparkly pools the ghouls awake
That scarce to stir our night
We watch for seekers down under
Muttering secrets in their soul
We bid them lucks of shivers
Dipping gently in
From reeds that hide a tear of a foal
Under the gentle rivers

Come to me my mortal youth
To the wild realm of your truth
Where nymphs and gnomes abound
For the earth is filled with weeping
And only your tears be found

Far away she shall ever churn
The taciturn eyed
She’ll listen no more to turn
To the working mills beside
Or the scrubbing of the barn
May peace weave in her song
She shall wave in the yarn
To a haven known as Belong  

Come to me my mortal youth
To the wild realm of your truth
Where nymphs and gnomes abound
For the earth is filled with weeping
And only your tears be found

For she comes, the mortal youth
To the wild realm of her truth
Where nymphs and gnomes abound
For the earth is filled with weeping
And only her tears be found


Details | Write Poem | |

This Song is for my Mother

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
I couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
A song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created and cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Memory of a mother
Shared my dreams and really cared

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Mama…
I know I wasn’t there……

For you

Would have placed 
A magic carpet 
‘neath your weak and shaky legs

Would have raised
A strong west wind
Let you breathe with ease again

Would have bribed 
God’s venal angels
Come and soothe your endless pain

Would have vanquished
All the demons
And bring peace to you again

Be the child
I never knew
In a land
We won’t grow old

Be the light
I always loved
Warmed my dark 
And lonely soul

Be the girl
Playing games
In a world 
The sun won’t set

Be the laughter
Calms my heart
I never will forget
I won’t forget, won’t forget

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
Couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
Song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created….cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

I broke my promises, oh mama
Now you’ve gone away 
I’m broken
Drowning in the pain each day

I’m  drowning…drowning...drowning…drowning

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me…….



Details | Write Poem | |

Reflections from a Toiling Sonneteer

One’s poetry not always will unfold beneath its author’s pen as some suppose. And poetry one is to yet behold might slowly bloom before one plucks that rose. At times the lines come breech, the labor hard. A trial of thought; a repositioning of words emerging, offspring of the bard! And then at last, the poet’s heart will sing. The poet must write always, lest his mind grow barren, for not always can he know his muse will be there. She’s not always kind, but oh, the joy, when verses want to flow! 1/8/13 For Russell Sivey's Poetry About Poetry Contest

Details | Write Poem | |

Careful Cursive

I write each letter by hand in careful cursive. 
I want every sentence to be pretty,
to look feminine and delicate -
to soften the ugliness you face everyday.
After each line, I let the ink dry.
You don't deserve smudges.
You don't deserve any of this.

My words are foolish, 
full of meaningless descriptions
of meaningless events. 
But I can't sit here at this polished desk -
in this cozy room in this quiet house 
on this peaceful street
and write what I'm really thinking.
I can't be selfish.

So I keep writing my careful cursive
on my pretty stationary.
I keep sending my meaningless letters
into the ugly world - to wherever you are.
And no matter how many times
I open the mailbox, I'm never prepared 
for that hideous stamp,
that heartless phrase:
"Return to Sender."


Written: 1/27/2013
For Michael's "Boomerang" contest

Details | Write Poem | |

The Write of You

Inspired by the write of you
creamed through a paper sieve to cup
with both hands the leavings that you trail
 the write of you

like the chewed edge of hand pressed paper
like the apostrophe of lash on the cheeky page
I ogle the syncopated semen-antic drop of
 the write of you

how often does the wonder of you flash
across the film of my eyes unable reach
for I am so enchanted with the coffee-au-lait
 write of you



Details | Write Poem | |

I Don't Write Poems

I don’t write poems, 
I drink them like wine, 
I become tipsy 
with each coming line. 

I don’t write poems, 
I breathe them like air, 
I become so happy 
when each one I share.   

I don’t write poems, 
I live with them; 
they prolong my years, 
they are as true as I am. 

I don’t write poems, 
I weave into verses 
sadness, joy, tears, 
prayers, love, curses… 

My poems talk and sing, 
Sense of living they bring. 


©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)

Details | Write Poem | |

Exposure: Part I

Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.

And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.

I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.

I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon 
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave, 
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.

"What does hate feel like?"

"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."

(cont'd)

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