Best Writing Poems
A Poet's Gift
A poet writes to share a secret depth
Of feelings within their soulful breast.
They write to grasp onto immortality,
To be remembered beyond their death.
A poet shares emotions inked upon the
Page that cannot verbally be conveyed.
They dwell in a world of dreams, of dark
And light, of imagination, of metaphors,
Where heartbreak heaves and love believes.
Poets dwell where nature inspires, and
Longing desires may elevate or decimate.
They feel compelled to write day or night
From their innate state of expressiveness.
Music, dance, and art entwined, are all a part
Of creating that sonnet, free verse or rhyme
Which may capture hearts in belabored sigh,
Cause tears to well, the heart to swell, joy to
Bloom, cause lovers to swoon in blissful reverie.
Poetry...the greatest gift a poet yearns to share
With sensitivity, with their open heart laid bare.
7-23-19
A STRAND (1048) Poetry Contest N/A
Sponsor Brian Strand
In November I write of winter
for I am weary of the old year and tired bones
I visualize all hardships blanketed with fresh snowfall
geese in a "V" as they flee on trade winds to the south
season's celebrations, toasting in the new year
senior couples delighting in a luminous sunset
knowing it might be their last together
In February I write of spring
for I am weary of the bone-chilling cold
I envision the circle of life resurrecting dormant earth and tired souls
zephyr winds teasing nascent flower petals and young hummingbirds
mayday flower crowns adorning laughing children
young lovers sharing kisses, dreaming dreams of
infinite possibilities
In May I write of summer
for I am weary of the bone-soaking rain
I forecast cloudless skies and longer days
Santa Ana winds dismissing every chill
a lark's lilting lullaby lulling loons on the lake
vacationing families basking in the warm outdoors
brides and grooms viewing limitless horizons
In August I write of autumn
for I am weary of the bone-dry heat
I anticipate bewitching fall winds tantalizing neon maple leaves
turkeys gobbling, ducks wobbling, thrushes warbling
harvest home throbbing with the aroma of fresh pie
middle age couples cuddling by the fireplace
giving thanks for all that lies behind and ahead
Lord, help me to view the past with grace,
the future with hope,
the present with contentment,
and to write of November
in November.
written 25 October 2021
"Rhyming poems have nothing of substance to say
They're childish! Ridiculous! Silly! Passe!
What's that - 'The Raven,' fine prose, you assure?
Pshaw, a talking bird is not Literature!
'The Road Not Taken' - how indecisively trite
'Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day' ~ why, out of spite?
'How Do I Love Thee' - such female nonsense!
'She Walks in Beauty,' not even past tense!
'Oh Captain, my Captain' just repeats and repeats
'Death Be Not Proud' - indeed, no great feat
Rhyme is over and done, finite, dead
Give me a rambling run-on sentence, instead!"
Sure, it's easy to call Dr. Seuss poppycock
HIS books are world-famous, what have YOU got?
12/11/18
Entered in 'Living It Up for Laughter' contest
~ for my fellow poets ~
as slaves to the pen
or our keyboard, more apt
this molding of words
in a word, holds us rapt
fine fancies or fears
take us places unknown
our muse and our craft
better focused alone
the voice of our id -
the bounce of our rhyme
thus, charming or edgy
depending the time
midst romantic puddles
and whimsical trees
we splash our ideas
casting love to the breeze
a danger or hope or
a scorched trist-or-two
occur mind-to-matter
with the lines we imbue
the light AND the dark,
they both hold allure
our child's heart within -
just a tad bit impure
for tho we adore all the
things blithe and bright
we also know beauty
blooms deep in the night
if somber or joyous
thru passage or pain
it’s creatively ordered
thru rhyme and refrain
it's not that we're allied
- that we always agree
it's how we can sculpt
all the wonders we see
so although we may be
as different as spices
we’re thrall to our verses
whatever that price is
for it's a rare language
that few can command
but we speak it together
with a pen in our hand
so you may be a person
whom I've never met
but the gift of your writing
I'll never ...
forget.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "What Do We Have In Common" Poetry Contest, Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor.
~ Poem of the Day ~ featured on Poetry Soup.com on May 11, 2018 - many thanks to those in charge for the honor.
Painting with Words
If I were an artist instead of a poet
I’d paint what I knew as others would know it.
I’d be a Renoir and never a Klee
I’d paint what I saw as others would see.
If I were a painting instead of a poem
I’d use vivid colors on flowers or crone.
It’s the texture that matters , the curl of the line
Not the meter or syntax or even the rhyme.
I’d paint up a heaven, bright stars in the sky.
My colors would dazzle and make people cry.
I’d paint with abandon but nothing too styled.
I’d paint a dog barking, the cry of a child.
The blush of the morning, awash with the dew,
The eyes of a lover I’d capture for you.
But I’m just a poem, a small little rhyme
So I’ll paint with my words while you paint with your mind.
Is it a crime
To pry apart rhyme
Stitch lines, unhitched
From native consequence
To warily marry
Unmetered time
By forced remorse
Unrehearsed
In patchwork verse
In my malaise
My daydreams ablaze
I long for eloquence...
to drip, untripped
From my lips
The devil rides
my prideful hide
Chastise with whip and spur
Damning the span
Between who I am
And who I wish I were.
3/6/20
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
I've thrown my quill in quiet rage
sometimes, when mocked by empty page.
I read such vibrant poetry
in awe, and ask how can this be?
Fresh imagery splashed on the page
with wisdom of the ancient sage,
allusions from the well-read shelf
with rhymes to please the Bard himself.
Thus insecure, I feel defeat -
believing I cannot compete.
My words like sap from maple trees,
I strain as others write with ease.
Poetic thoughts freeze like a creek -
why does my muse play hide and seek?
Why grow downcast when I compare
their gifts to mine - what gain is there?
It's then I spot a butterfly
and see my story flitting by,
with wings unique and delicate,
in colors bold and elegant.
It draws the flower's nectar sweet
and knows that it need not compete,
for nature's bounty will abound -
there's plenty there to go around.
My double-helix DNA
will dance its own distinct ballet,
no other tale could I design,
no other poet could write mine.
So I retrieve neglected quill
and vow to write again! I will
share thoughts to fill another's cup
with odes to hope, not giving up.
If insecure, make this your creed:
to learn from poets - read, read, read.
Let thoughts ascend to soaring height
to hone your craft then write, write, write!
Wait patiently upon your muse
to send fresh words to speak your views,
for only YOU can speak what's there
within your heart, your poet heart
so rare.
Written 19 May 2022
I long to write a poem just right
Between the somber and the light
To tease the edges of a heart
To hook the reader from the start
Seduce them with a metered plea
A nuanced message: “follow me”
For I invite you to ascend
The peaks we’ll reach before the end.
To wander lost across the page
To tap the knowledge of the sage
To walk away wondering why
The answer is the endless sigh
Why poetry will never die
For words are fashioned without guilt
In whispering poetic lilt
That holds a hand, that tugs a heart
Bids you adieu as you depart
Rejoices in that gentle touch
That poems long for oh so much.
©5/24/2022
I try on words
Like hats and shoes
To see which look
Best fits my muse.
7/30/20
Poem of the Day
August 1st, 2020
A poet needs dip his pen
in the ink of his heart
Lest his verse be reduced
to sterile, soulless art
Note : This poem is inspired by the artwork and we chose to focus on it from a mental health perspective and how inner demons can play a significant role in relationships as well as considering siren myth and legend.
I am the eclipsed dawn,
swathed in searing blooms,
hemorrhaging the heat of restless smoke
into perfumed thorns
and sighing thistles ~
whilst aching to be loved
beyond the damage I cast,
like the queen of darkness,
dancing with demons.
Let your exhaustion cascade into me,
all being healed between this madness and rest.
Incessant pull caresses insistent longing;
collapse and captivation fuse to desire.
Flesh and energy intoxicate these bodies
in the time before hunger evaporates.
Death charges on
as you follow me into the stillness.
And what if the first spark of stars
hardened our night into a kingdom
of ice and frost,
of hurt and hollowness ~
would we not remain infatuated lovers,
pouring poison into
the grass that breathes
in chronic colors of this doomed devotion?
Without surrender, we sing in silence,
yet our swooned hearts remain drowsy from swirling strings,
twisting and turning on a surface seared severely by the sun.
What better way to fill the air with the fragrance of our thirst?
Let us fade into the dim fog
as we cosmically flourish ~
a forest of lustrous chaos, unseen, unbound.
Hold me in a cluster of all your stars,
the delicate ones you’ve laminated and fear might scar.
I’ll cradle them in the softest scarves ~
but even roses carry thorns all the way down their stems.
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.
Many ingredients bake writing inspiration.
This recipe combines a stirring sensation:
Heaps of desires never realized
as marinated in teary sore eyes;
Quantities of wide open spaces
caramelized by nature’s appeal;
Ageless genuine emotional traces
sifted thru heart rendered graces;
Equal parts family and romantic love
as roasted within, without and above;
Measured creamed ideals of peace
with blanched pain and battle grease;
Diced wishes braised with thrill
bearing aromas of tangy heat or chill;
Slices of awe from a glorious tree
breaded with traits strong and free;
I do not forget sour spices of greed
dusted with mankind’s violent seed;
A mix of fears dredged in anxiety
with stress jelled in complexity;
and, lastly, faith garnished spirit
grown in a soul conscious thicket.
If able, I mix love with ingredients above
before sampling my recipe once warmed up.
I enjoy serving it in a poetry cup.
These are the roads I didn't take
A pause too soon, a turn too late
Lost in the love I never spoke
The poems I never wrote
Gone are the moons I didn't chase
The sun-bloomed wind I didn't taste
The skylines I left incomplete
The stars I didn't seek
Muted are songs which may have brought
A silent music to my thoughts
Fading traces in dim sunsets
Autumns I never kept
Verses yet rise through foggy climes
Reveries of forgotten rhymes
If fractured light once more takes flight
I still have poems to write
10/07/22