I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012
Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
Copyright © EMMANUEL SAMSON | Year Posted 2007
I’ve tangled my pointer with my hair
While looking up to gaze on the smiling sun
Over hundred times,
On a bench,
Waiting for your presence
I’ve become boredom conqueror
And unearthed those buried stones under
After I’ve had enough of my android,
On a bench,
You’re still not here
I’ve sent the sun home
And kissed the clouds goodbye
I’ve lost my spirit
And sighed out my stupidity,
Off that bench,
You’re a disappointment
Copyright © Dinda Minardi | Year Posted 2013
Write me a smile with your magic word
And write it nice and wide
Write me a whisper, that's never been heard
To show what you're feeling inside
Write me a tear, as it runs down your cheek
Each time that you need to cry
Write me strength, when you're feeling weak
Or love that will make me sigh
Write me the anger, when it doesn't go your way
Or contentment, each time that it does
Write me tomorrow, instead of today
Or maybe the way that it was
Write me your heartache, with all of your pain
When your heart's been broken in two
Then write me the pieces of you that remain
For I need to feel them too
Write me the morning and evening skies
Or maybe even noon or night
Whatever emotion your lonely heart cries
Like only a poet can write
Copyright © Larry Belt | Year Posted 2011
The last few weeks have been real hard
You see the "dealer of life" deals the cards
As the trials and blessings come and go
It's true we must reap what we sow
At times the trials are many and the blessings are few
Just let the light of your soul shine on through
Yesterday I walked to the bridge over the creek
By the time I got there I was tired and weak
As I sat on the bridge taking a break
Questioning "how much more can I take"
A speeding drunk driver lost control
I watched it unfold nice and slow
Sometimes the blessings are clear to see
They crashed into the rail right next to me
My guardian angel said soft as could be
I'll never give up on you don't give up on me
These last few weeks I have felt rather low
With a deep down emptiness up in my soul
So regardless of the pain or length of the fight
I reckon it's once again time for me to write
For my pen is the tool that I use to see
The power of the Lord working in me
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2007
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
Young Shakespeare didst say to his tutor,
"Methinks I wouldst be much astuter,
And per chance, I wouldst say,
Mightest write a screen play,
If some fool wouldst invent the computer."
Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2005
This now, is who I truly am
as my pen takes liberty.
What now, I write is where I ‘ve been
so much there for all to see.
Good and bad, the in-betweens,
the road walked down through the years,
a panoramic display of scenes
from sunshine highs to darkened tears.
But I am not so unlike you,
you who would glance across this write.
The road you’ve walked that I never knew;
are similar roads not brought to light ?
Know me by the writes you read
and I’ll do the same for you.
Writing is our consuming need
as to ourselves we must stay true.
I was mindful of the syllable count in each line
as we’ve discussed in the past, but I had to let my heart go on this one.
(No reflection on your great teaching ability!!)
Copyright © Douglas Ace | Year Posted 2010
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010
A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE
Viciousness and mystery erupt on arid soil.
Summer heat and idle time can make the spirits boil.
Languishing in stuffy rooms with very little sleep--
Night time flickers of the light-- imagination leaps.
Heat that beckons times long past invade a fevered head—
Athena pleases lovers mid her goddess silken bed,
Grecian legs march bravely –- prelude Olympian races--
Soldiers dream they sail away to see exotic places.
Heat waves shimmer landscape –men will do what they are told--
Spearborn soldiers helmeted sing down a dusty road.
Tho in mind they join their lovers whispering by the sea,
Drink of mountain waters --rest their head on sweetheart’s knee
Helen, when she sailed away –a wayward selfish wife
Without a backward glance she risked the cost of human life--
Was it the heat that made her crazed to do this foolish thing?
A fit of summer boredom could create this witless fling.
Autumn winds are blowing now-- Troy’s nights turn cool and fair--
Does Paris try to ditch her --as naked Helen combs her hair--
Does Hector tell his brother--get this woman out of here--
Does Helen beg to stay-- and tell her lover not to fear?
Heat can play the brain and make it dance a backward tune--
Clarity as sun tricks down—repeats a former June,
Perhaps there is a lesson learned from heat that sears the soul--
Summertime romance will write us each a tragic role.
Victoria Anderson Throop ©
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2013
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
It's here now under a converted sky
Where daylight has loss it’s might
Hours before the green hills had sight, with
splattered hints of yellow wild flowers so bright
Now time has casts a different light
It here now where the heavens sings an evening song
With twinkled lights on a moon lit prong
Dancing stars and dreaming of mars
Its here on this transformed spot
I will sit and jot
It is here now as I lay back on this cool grass, and write a story
with the heavens the color of quarry
Of jeweled eyes in the skies
that connected to stories, some disguised
With silver spoons and astrological loons
On dream away, dream on by
to the earths motions and lullabies
It is here now time to take a brake
from life’s work ,and worries and heart ache
Try it yourself remember when, you were a child
when you looked up the night and smiled amen
Copyright © Laura Mckenzie | Year Posted 2008
Rising from within my quill
Waves of ink crest and crash
Upon the papered shoreline
Riding in and out on the tides
Of yesterday found…
Sullying the once untainted
With both the rash and tender
Of the restive poetic spirit
An autonomous symbiosis
Of today’s moments…
Endlessly seeking identification
Ink scrawled candle flames illume
Scratched out paths into tomorrow
The journey of the minds eye
Of tomorrows chance…
Each penning a new step forward
Into our own intangible dreams
Our elusive target moves ever further
Where no direction can lead us on
Of our poetic hopes…
Copyright © Charles Fuller | Year Posted 2007
( I left )
) you (
( my )
(note) O oooo
( on )
) a (
( for )
) you (
( to )
(read) O oooo
( ere )
) the (
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2008
When poets bleed they fill their quills
And write their words in red
The letters scream each time they're made
In the hope of being read
The page becomes a sounding board
A mirror to the soul
A reflection meant to bring them peace
To comfort or console
They choose their words so carefully
Not wasting a drop of blood
Writing words that lift them up
As tears begin to flood
They'll write with true conviction
Each time they start to weep
They write sometimes to clear their minds
Before they get to sleep
When poets bleed a word is born
Trying to appease their need
Shining a light to the whole wide world
And all who want to read
Copyright © Larry Belt | Year Posted 2012
scissored shades of Betsycoed
taste of yester youth's sweet tones
splashing sound of forest water
kissing shining sacred stones
Dreams of swirling druids dancing
in the faery water's rill
flash reflective thoughts of flight
The dragon tears yet spill
The druid hymn of waiting
for greed to die of want
a constant scream of tortured winds
belie the curse of can't
What matters ought to those who fought
and died that I be here
to stand beneath a blazing sky
and gaze upon the Western sea
moments of reflective thought
pondered on expressed and caught
to feed an ever growing need
To dig and rap and plant a seed
That blossoms in another mind
Repeated as the finest kind
to be forever sowing seed
And time to spend with thee
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2005
I'm very happy I found this site,
PoetrySoup.com is a lot of fun,
I spend so much time on the computer now
I have time for no other one...
It's a rush, a blast, a challenge...
I'll love it till I die...
Only one thing troubles me,
And that's the reason why..
I spend so much time hunched over,
typing in my silly poems,
Hoping that they'll soon be read
In many far off homes...
But I do appear to have a problem...
A physical one at that...
My neck is hurting so severely,
By hours looking down,
writing and reading..
In the spot I sat...
I gotta make a judgement call...
Is the fun worth more than the pain?
Compared to the fun I have, the pain begins to pall
Who would not prefer the sunshine to the rain??
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
Change is the only constant - we know this to be true,
Some of us wait them out - to see what will ensue.
Still others try to fight them, happy with the way things are,
A few fall into day dreams and wish upon a star.
Some changes are rather easy while others are quite hard,
Which ones must we live with - which ones can we discard?
Changes come throughout our life no matter where we go,
A few come fast and furious, yet others subtle and slow.
When changes come upon us decisions we must make,
All the while juggling priorities - them not to forsake.
The best that we can do while traveling down life's road,
Is to help our friends and family carry their precarious load.
Copyright © Tamara M. Kohlstaedt | Year Posted 2006
I do not know?
Sing a song of sadness
Pocket full of frowns
Brings us all down.
Rain in drips of sorrow
In colors dark in hue
No better day tomorrow
Only clouds haunting you.
Bear the blame of guilt
And wear it on your shoulder
Tear down all you've built
Soon you feel much older.
Rhyme in lines of regret
For all you've said and done
But as people always forget
Then you'll have none.
Copyright © Senait Mohammed | Year Posted 2005
I do not know?
The writer I am in my dreams
is more sophisticated than I am
and sees the world as an untold story
I mainly see the footsteps behind me
Where I stepped softly so as not to call attention to myself
this writer conjures volumes about the man on the bus
who has a scar on his face five inches long
she elaborates on his life with gifted prose
he is a pilot shot down in Vietnam
guerillas gave him a scar and set him free
he used to be a lion tamer
that one is self-explanatory
I simply cannot stop staring at his scar and wonder
does it bother him to have such a mark?
The writer I am in my dreams
has perfect time management
goes to work, attends class
has a beau
moves from day to day
finds time for friends and play
hobbies and exercise
dance class and likewise
the writer I am in my dreams
her words are clear and precise
they don't feel like empty thoughts on a page
they don't sound immature
her words and statements work
they don't get in her way and make her mind spin
and conjure up thoughts of self-worth
they whirl around the room and
whisper about the unimagined
they dialogue with rhyme and wit
and they always converse graciously
the writer I am in my dreams
I wake up and pray to be
and sometimes my prayers are answered
Copyright © Elizabeth Udeschini | Year Posted 2009
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013
What will I write for my first Nonet?
It’s something I have not tried yet.
To some they seem very hard
Later will I be scarred?
Pain will not last long
Try writing song.
Then you’ll find
Written By John Posey
Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2012
I remember the first time
I called myself a poet
When someone asked what I do
With all the time in my day
Not really sure how to answer
That one very easy question
It somehow slipped from my mouth
At that time this way
I'm A Poet?...
Still unsure if I was worthy to call myself that
Though as the saying goes
"I had just now made my bed"
And sleep in it I will
For poetry to me is a thrill
With it being the only way
To remove the thoughts from my head
But Dare I Say I'm A Poet?...
But that's what poets do!
They write words that flow through
In hopes of sparking a thought or feeling
In another persons mind
So as I live out each day
I let the words fall where they may
With a thought that someone will be delighted
When reading the poems they may find
So I Guess I Could Call Myself A Poet?...
Now on a mental crusade you might say
On a journey through the thoughts
And different memories of my life
Writing down everything
That decides to develop in my mind
After life and dreams...
Some petty little things...
To be ever written...
This Is Me "The Poet!"... :o)
PD's Contest: The Poet
Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2013
in time I will heal
from life’s bitter sweet moments
if I take the chance
to remember all
can sometimes be rewarding
if I pay the price
forgetting the past
makes more room for the future
if I can forgive
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Third Place Winner ~ "Give Me Your Best Shot” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Freeman
Nov. 13, 2011
Copyright © Caryl Muzzey | Year Posted 2011
I ponder the same thoughts as he.
But my words are rocks.
Illusive, words go beyond feeling them,
Deep into native instincts
Forgotten in generations of rebirth.
His stones are
Time before; time hereafter;
A time capsule within;
A mystery without.
Mine are rocks.
Inspired by the poem "Stone," by Charles Simic, current Poet Laureate
Copyright © Judith Angell Meyer | Year Posted 2008
The wall clock is rushing me once again,
I hear its incessant quick-talk-quick-talk,
How cold the face while its hands constrain,
Hands that first rebuff then tightly interlock.
Love I’ve not given, not nearly enough,
Morning kept her schedule, rigid and right,
Harried by long lists, poor afternoon chuffed,
Spent evening skipped then tripped over night.
Now I count stars and think on tomorrow,
There bids a much better use of my time,
Peace splints worn bones, enters raw marrow,
Tenders me verse in restorative rhyme.
Words slow hours for poetry welcomes
mere seconds that bring a trace of wisdom
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2012
It need not rhyme, it need not flow
It need no essence of truth
Just proliferate, exaggerate
And be sure to convolute
With flexous and circuitous jargon, fruiton soon to find
Scholars will praise your erudition,and vilipend the simple of mind
It need not passion, it need not soul
It need not emotion convey
For imperious wordsmiths write verse to cajole
With nothing of substance to say
Just aberrate,divigate, affirm you wish not to profess
Just cloak, conceal, as you disseminate your page's emptiness
It need not sorrow, it need not elation
It not your mind reveal
Words are just wasted with no explanations
Nihility holds no appeal
Exacerbate, exasperate, as fading tales of yore
Leave you unremembered for your words are too obscure
Copyright © Joe Inca | Year Posted 2005