Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions
Burning fire you are
Consuming my whole
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated
To be understood
To be expressed!
A Herculean task it is,
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained
And mold you into:
And still retain
No language exists,
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!
Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
The one that the
The universe alone
The language of
That we humans
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!
28 January 2013
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine.
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.
My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.
Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.
Once, later on in my own life,
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . .
and found that even those less valuable could shine!
A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade,
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen!
The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
I didn't crumble or drift off into a fade...
I shrugged off goodbyes faster then they were made...
Watched as they were dipped and soaked in my poetic rage...
As I threw a fist full of words against a framed blank page...
I sat and watched my emotions scatter artistically...
Like candles on a wall it poured in colors so intensely...
A portrait of a misguided soul that has lost its way...
To a poet who paints with a pen in seductive disarray...
Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012
Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
Copyright © EMMANUEL SAMSON | Year Posted 2007
There's a river that twists in the mind
that I plunder and ravish with sieves,
on crusades to the summit of rhyme
where my Phoenix of tropes and schemes live.
In a war to free diction's fair Queen
where the Soldiers of Babel bemuse
and the modern day graceless regimes
are in battles to stifle my muse!
In my quest for her verse of prestige
I have traveled a nexus of words
with this Lexis of language on siege;
where the dissonant hum drum is heard!
Oh, the poise of my bayonet firm
as I pin down my thoughts in a rush!
Oh, the will of the language it squirms
as her essence of glory I brush!
She's the Queen Muse that whispers within
as she watches me battle with style,
she supplies me the yarn that I spin
as she lends me her rhythm awhile.
It's the moment her Highness is freed
that the Armies of Dissonance fall
and the sound of Perfection can bleed
in those lyrical sounds that enthrall!
Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2006
I do not know?
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
I do not know?
Your written words roll off my tongue, and I savor the taste
Captivating my desires, with your nostalgic embrace
Your verses I desire, your poesies I crave
Your sensual phrases place me in a daze
Rhythmically in sync, steadying the pace
Melodies in motion, no need for haste
Intoxicated by the scent of your lyrical fragrance
My imagination climaxes from your melodic persuasion
Your hypnotic undertones send chills down my spine
It’s like poetic seduction when I read between your lines
Chiquita Chiamaka Baity
Copyright © ChiquitaChiamaka Baity | Year Posted 2011
The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.
The Desk, once alive,
But wanting not,
A Wooden Chair, dusty,
For the Comfort,
Time, a mystery gone,
Never to be recovered,
Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Wisdom, once known.
Copyright © Kenneth Fordham | Year Posted 2008
Some people are voices
On the edge of rocks
With steep slopes and cliffs.
Some people are echoes
At the bottom of walls
Carved by rushing waters.
Copyright © Leon Stacey | Year Posted 2007
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
It was “Death” you drew.
You rolled that slip of paper
between your fingers
thin as onionskin,
and dropped it in your pocket.
did you wish to spare
us? You fluttered fingers
over the basket, and drew out
a subject we must address
before we meet again.
How many great poems
have been penned on Death?
How many on a
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2005
While doing my daily internet loop
I read some poems at Poetry Soup
Some souls were bared
By a wonderfully talented group
So many unknowns are gathered together
Brandishing their talents without a tether
From gifted quills
Flocking together like birds of a feather
Whether mundane or totally bizarre
Through words they express just who they are
Some young, some old
Some shy, some bold
Each as marvelous as a shooting star
To the nameless owners of this great site
Thank you for giving our poetry flight
No longer adrift
Because of your gift
You are the beacon that brings us to light
Copyright © Dawn Drickman | Year Posted 2006
I do not know?
As I place the pen
my soul beings
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla
fog around me, allowing
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams
of being a published poet
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
into an early sun
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Copyright © Elizabeth Nathaniel | Year Posted 2012
We seine them up
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
And like those before,
we toss them absently
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
they seem to flit
pale night insects
infestations of night
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.
Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2011
Writing words across a clear blank page…
Sharing thoughts let out of a cage…
Toss it up into the sky…
Watch it scream as it flies...
Over bent back treetops that hide rainbows…
Grabbing colors like a picture show…
From my fingers to your eyes…
The words read clear in soulful cries…
Toss it back up with your smile…
And blow a kiss that covers miles…
To my hand it returns with peace…
As poetry glides with tender ease…
Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2013
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012
I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel
into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal
from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within
the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins.
I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word
or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard
to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined
unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine.
I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony
between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me
I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while
to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile.
I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all
with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls
pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion
washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion.
I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse
expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use
composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy,
I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.
Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013
In the rain I see clear...
Through the clouds I can hear...
Behind a wall I can write...
Scribing words in the night...
Moonlight shines on every line...
Sunrise brings the final rhyme...
See the world in my view...
From dreams to words it all grew...
Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
quarter moon in sight,
partially hidden by clouds.
just like my verses.
Copyright © dennis lee | Year Posted 2006
Come, my muse, to that mystical realm
And shower me with imagination at the helm,
Let’s run again along green meadows fair
Floating, flirting like fairy wings of exalted air
If it just be for a sweep time, or only some hours,
Yet for a long while my words, they will flower
To weave threads on loose pages, now like weeds
Once bathed in fountains of blooming seeds,
Then without care, a burst of moonlight shall claim
A birthing of free spirit, hands daring without shame
. . ……..
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2012
Black as both the crow and the cat that Edgar Allen Poe wrote of.
More meaningful than you might think.
Words penetrate our hearts and minds, but
ink does both and sinks deep within and between the pages, binding, and lines.
Dark and mysterious.
Yet clear and concise.
Hurtful, yet helpful.
A never failing flicker of light.
A tool, a hobby, the hearts design
A love, a passion, a joy and a show of affection, rejoicing, celebration and of all that is mentioned and more combined.
Man's gift, man's privilege, man's pot of knowledge and gold.
Both for the young, the aging, and the old.
A device to say both hello and goodbye.
A way to rejoice, sound sorrow, or joy.
A way to say I love you, to someone for whom which you care.
A way for them to say the same, six words of miscomprehended compare.
A way to convey feeling, to record history and time.
A way to teach us, knowledge that we may not else find.
Forever it stays.
Black as night and yet light as day.
Our greatest invention, always it must stay.
Copyright © Anna Romano | Year Posted 2011
Come on artists
lets play a game
its all different to me and i want you to see how i am different
and let me shine as you sign up another way
as i prove to you my leadership of this new age wave
give them new meanings
like you never knew you could
and lets make the psychics pine through our words to figure out
what they are reading and believing
I wanna see your hearts and spades
dressed in tall grass or lemonaide
i wanna see your cups and wands
inbetween whispering winds and songs lead me there
i know you can come on
come on be strong
like a suit of clubs or diamonds
show me something
and then sprinkle your writings
and we'll make collectors out of all those we invite here
as they read and ponder the meanings of our literature
whats in your hand?
a royal flush a pair?
and as we deal the cards they stumble upon at this endless game
of cribbage or poker
or war who is winning and getting points?
what card means what to who and why
tell me artist as you write with your style on low and high
what makes what suit smile and fade shine and slide?
inside outside sphere of influence
be their collective the object of the psychics to crave?
blind leading the blind
and something they are after for days and days
a few cards your favorite cards play smart or dumb
shuffle the cards pick a game deal a hand
reveal what your playing and one day i'll tell you what we're playing what your
to someone one day when the stumble your way
the mystery of nothing speaks something
and we rebuild the puzzle of cartomancy better and better this way
once you know you can't
blind leadin gthe blind
so after you read this you can't
play along your uninvited
strike it off your list of things to do
round one is over now go find all who wrote
all who write all who have wriitten the masterpieces
of cards and see what they mean today and collect them for that is something no
one else can do
until round two....
Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007
All these words and all these lines
Just keep running through my mind
By the dozens, they drown out sound
And force me to quickly write them down
Lines and lyrics in poetic rhyme
Written within record time
Words so simple and plain to me
Can bring a smile or a tear you see
Though these are more
Than mere words to me
It is a part of my soul,
From way down deep
So please excuse me
While I let it all out
Or these words will drive me crazy
Without any doubt!
Copyright © Christina Fell | Year Posted 2005
In God's own ink
with bloody hands,
he writes his life away.
yet he's free
to have his final say.
Dark and dank,
his tiny cell
becomes a living tome,
to tell a tale of villainy,
and of home.
His maiden fair
returned his love
with evil and deceit.
She led him here into a trap
his enemy to meet.
she saved him
from an end
a death both quick and sure.
She left him in this dungeon dark
forever to endure
of her false heart
and one who stole it all.
He tells it all right from the start
it flows upon the wall,
and when his bright red ink runs dry
the angels come to read.
He falls upon the stones to die
with no words left to bleed.
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006
A prickle about to lodge
In the heart of a Mighty Light
Above the low-dipped setting sun
The Knightly Night prepares to come
To lift me like a rising fog
Up to greet the countless stars -
That twinkle at a Sun's descent.
The horizon painted with lullaby
Of colours and their somber tune
Day's bed is laid behind blue mountains
And quietly it goes to sleep.
Inside the womb of a Sleeping Day
Begins a fierce protest
of dreaming thoughts
Now stirred awake.
Then out of the thick and cluster
And whatever dangers of flight await
Newborn wings of thought emerge
And rise and rise and rise
Captured by the winds of Night -
To wander heights
To kiss the skies
To dance to the gentle humming
Of spirit drums -
A duet with the breeze.
So when day comes breaking through
Dawn is greeted by what was writ
At the festival of it's eve.
With merriment's ink:
A song etched deep:
Art carved out of sky.
Title: Night Poem
Copyright © Camille Casserly | Year Posted 2012
Time has come
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?
I opt for the one
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.
If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again.
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2006
Let the paper be a canvas and the pen, a brush
The words fill the mind like a young girl’s blush
Every color on the palette of the imagination
Becomes a vibrant idea of luscious creation
Open a door of stained glass with swans of white
Made more brilliant by the glowing sunlight
Surrounded by a pool of sapphire blue
Water lilies afloat with teardrops of dew
Beyond the door a walled brick terrace of burgundy red
With a gray flagstone floor in which to tread
Terra cotta pots at the edges with mixed colored flowers
Above a dogwood in blooms like a canopy towers
Wide steps lead to a large flowing fountain
Three flowing tiers sparkle like a crystalline mountain
It towers within a large oval pool
A goldfish swimming like a small orange jewel
Beyond the fountain, a cobblestone path
Followed by a fence of latticework lath
An open field on the other side of the fence
Beyond the field is a forest, dark and dense
Two Belgian horses graze on clover patches of red
Near a large gray stone two-story shed
Nearby a pond of sparkling blue
Reflecting the clouds of a dusky pink hue
The blue sky fades into pink streaks of sunset
Turning the forest trees to a darker silhouette
And the grass to bright emerald green
All to create a tranquil pastoral scene
The words fill the mind like young girl’s blush
With the paper as a canvas and the pen, a brush.
Copyright © Jeanne Berger | Year Posted 2007