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Sonnet Journey Poems | Sonnet Poems About Journey

These Sonnet Journey poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Journey. These are the best examples of Sonnet Journey poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sonnet |



As darkness falls above the eastern skies,
with dawning shadows ending heartache’s woes.
Along the path wherein my future lies
behind the setting sun a light yet glows.
The barren earth divides a vast expanse
as shadows cast by dawn are left behind.
The glow of light in contrast to enhance
the darkness of my perished love unkind.
The sun sets over deserts reddish hues,
beyond the treeless plain, in hope I prance
with new direction my belief renews.
To west I head without a backward glance.

What lies ahead beyond the Nullarbor,
a dream of good to feel alive once more.

23rd August, 2016
T.J Gren

Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Hold Those Tears Falling From Sullen Skies

Hold Those Tears Falling From Sullen Skies

Hold those tears falling from sullen skies
floods below, drown the sorrows of lost men.
Enough that mother earth hears thy sad cries
angelic sorrow, weep thou not in sin.

Remain thee stalwart, life may reverse tides
heaping on thee, joy in sweet future times.
Sun again shines, ending dark, stormy rides
thee shall picnic far off in fairer climes.

When mortal spirits race on foolish paths
happiness flows away as morning dew.
Embrace thee not, misdeeds bring evil wraths
walk faithful course, one that is truly new.

Live life, Fate has no power in Hope's lands. 
For even Fate yields to angelic hands.

Robert J. Lindley, 10-28-2016


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |



Near somber guards, units of children heap 
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.

Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, 
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.

Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.

You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
 I see heroes and their lines of fire.

*For Craig


Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.  
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali

at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller 

on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.

Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.

*For Chan, fully alive in Heaven.


Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma 
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing

boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh.  Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.

But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you

for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.

*For Andrea


There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses 
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed

end over end. Then, across the glen, highland                      
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins

in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. 
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull

heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom. 

* For Francine


Rustling maples break vows of silence,
naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth  
worship breezes with such soft reverence
that we give pause in this living labyrinth. 

Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb
good news and cicadas buzz testimonials.
Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word
while squirrels glorify their bounty. All

is abuzz with joy, save for the shade
under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness
resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades
the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests.

My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing 
on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing. 

*For Brian


Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls, art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled

at these dear blends, how culture can transcend 
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends 
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch. 

Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air. 
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory

but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.  

*For my cuz, Scribe


A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River

is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside 
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.

Though cozy the spot,  the world's at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. 

They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.

*For Carrie


Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers,
chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.

*For David

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Bucket List

To see earth's face through angels’ eyes
Afloat upon cotton clouds 'neath the skies
And hear noth but the whistling of soft winds
Which encircle me like feathered wings

Too long these feet of lead have held to ground
On stone where porous clay abound
While my spirit yearns to ascend the heights
My bucket list consists of one sky jump

To soar blue skies o’er land and sea
Fly solo as a bird, keen and care free
Where noise and din then become dearth
My eyes will feast on the radiance of earth

And as fields of golden wheat sway to and fro
To softly land in mounds of hay below

Annalise Brigham

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2013

Details | Limerick |

Jan's Sonnet Sedan - Tribute Limerick

When an Ode Operator named Jan
hits the road in her Sonnet sedan,
she keeps Lines in their lanes
riding Rhyme's rough terrains
and drives home every Poe'm that she can

This limerick was written 
for my Soup buddy Jan Allison. 
Thank you for your playful 
input and positive support - 
you are appreciated! xoxo

Copyright © Lycia Harding | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

Et Portae Inferi Non Valebit, Gates of Hell shall not Prevail

Et Portæ Inferi Non Valebit
(And the gates of hell will not prevail)

Gates of Hell shall never ever prevail
promulgation of Truth forever stands.
Soul and Spirit each rings a sounding bell
Fate's ruthless results judges all the lands.

Vanities of all men foolishly praised
Spirit's dark desires bearing bitter fruit.
Rejection of He that was truly raised
lies and corruption are the stolen loot.

Righteous hearts look to Heavenly skies
sincere prayers, deliver such bless reward.
Mankind races onward using blinded eyes
to an ending very bitter and hard.

In the dark shadow of this evil world.
Our Creator's redemption has been hurled!

Robert J. Lindley, 10-11-2014

Syllables Per Line:  10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10  
Total # Syllables:  140  
Total # Lines:  17  (Including empty lines)  
Total # Words:  93

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

O' The Deep Wisdom That Man Fails To Seek

O' The Deep Wisdom That Man Fails To Seek

Dark world's scar, sad clown in dancing despair,
Lively in sewers of forbidden thought,
Gambling in darkness for a wasted share,
Content with errors so easily bought.

What of the world's sweeter admirations?
Or family's great clear and glowing praise?
Shall one thus live for selfish sensations,
With no need for truth that spirit will raise?

Yet life may still gift other shining gold,
As one walks its great mysterious paths.
In adventure one must be bravely bold,
without fear of Fate's many fickle wraths!

O' the deep wisdom that man fails to seek.
Such loves and treasures, he gets not a peek.

Robert J. Lindley, 3-20-2016

Syllables Per Line:	
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables:	140
Total # Lines:	17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:	
Total # Words:	102

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Hobo Walking Past Our House

Hobo Walking Past Our House

He looked like man walking with rocks in his shoes,
a bit edgy, with shadows flitting about.
Dark clouds about him, sending the lonesome blues,
smiling alligator with a toothless snout.

Stopping to look back, time waving its hello's,
angry at not having what he left behind;
an old man, one of those queer little fellows
with nothing about him speaking as refined.

A frown formed upon his dark, withering face,
as his ragged, torn hat hung on him quite low.
Started again, he walked at a limp pace,
leaving questions, answers nobody can know.

Disappearing from our sight, one of his goals.
Like an ancient furnace, with no burning coals.

R.J. Lindley
SEPT.22ND 1976

Note: Edited recently to meet the eleven syllable verse uniformly.

Syllables Per Line:	
11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11
Total # Syllables:	154
Total # Lines:	17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:	
Total # Words:	111

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Whispers From The Past


     To walk the cliffs of ancient trails
     that speak of winds and loss laid bare
     midst sounds to tell of all the tales
     of lore and truths they beg to share

     Taxila, Sanchi and Petra call
     with voices rasping in their dust
     tongues only whisper since their fall
     of Gods who but betrayed their trust

     More than hidden treasure left
     is wisdom time holds in their stones
     a quest to seek their dreams bereft
     that repose within their poets bones

     Trails that lead to gilded wings
     oft will find more precious things

     Where I Want To Go Contest
     Sponsored by Nicola Byrne

     First Place Contest Winner

Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

Some Of Them Even Came With Wicked Scars

Some Of Them Even Came With Wicked Scars

As I count my blessings among bright stars
hope and love echo to me like loud blasts.
Gave up wild life, living in the bars,
were nothing that's good or bad ever lasts!

Sad morns waking, a stranger in my bed
nights enjoyed, now shallow memories gone.
Could I have walked better path instead,
been enticed to have walked all alone?

My mind wanders back to wild days of youth,
days and nights of sweet pleasure then unbound.
Can we ever know if lost time is truth
or mystery sent to our lives confound?

As I count my blessings among bright stars
Some of them even came from wicked scars!

R.J. Lindley
May 9th, 1991

Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 110

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

In Each Dark Battle Are Gems Still Hiding

In Each Dark Battle Are Gems Still Hiding

I linger far too long in past glances
repairing my heart from such ancient pains.
I that carelessly took too many chances
now look back at far, far too many stains.

No shadows that follow bear good tidings
where tired spirit seeks safe shade and deep rests.
In each dark battle are gems still hiding
in green forests upon snow covered crests.

Long has been the widening path taken
where night-moon and bright sun upon man shine.
All seems so lost but hope is not forsaken
death is dark-food upon which Fate does dine.

Tarry not, road slows, end-game is in sight.
There sleep, basking in its eternal light.

R.J. Lindley

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

The Lumberjack's Hard Days Of Toil

The Lumberjack's Hard Days Of Toil

Salty sweat, from deep axe strokes to lean hands
heavy cotton shirt soaked, mark of the man.
Lumberjack, strong, cut of a different breed
hard at toil, to fulfill his family's need.

With each hard day's task, his heart grew stronger
morn to night, his time away seemed longer.
Wife and children, rarely got to see dear dad
yet all knew his sweet love and were truly glad.

As his axe bit into hardest of trees
mother sat at home shelling garden peas.
Each one doing family duties and chores
living sweet melodies of musical scores.

Work done, rushed he, to family to rejoice
duty performed with honor and by free choice.

R.J. Lindley
Sept. 16th , 1996

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 11 11 0 10 10 11 11 0 10 10 11 11 0 11 11
Total # Syllables: 148
Total # Words: 112

Note: My father started out as a lumberjack, back in the day when so much was done by strong hands and not ease of machines! To be a lumberjack back then meant that you were a strong man and willing to work hard.
Both are strong and positive attributes. 
My Dad,  later after several years decided to use his brains more and his arms less.. I remember he saying often, "Son use whichever you think best, strength or brains but regardless the free choice made -do so honestly, fairly and with honor!
This poem, is dedicated to that man, the guy that saw honor in hard labor and 
in using intelligence to garner a brighter and better future.
I have cut trees, carried and sawed logs, and split wood as a boy on the farm. 
TRUST ME, IT IS HARD BACK BREAKING WORK.. but it also yields positive dividends and builds good character in a man.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

This journey so short:

Thy nights are full of longing and despair, And my days are filled in much the same way, I long to live without a single care, It is possible, for this I do pray. Most tell you that this cannot be achieved, But I believe that miracles come true, For far too long now I have sat and grieved, Over misspent time and indulgence too. So try I shall to live a life worthwhile, One with substance and meaning to its end, Have walked this road for many a mile, Into every valley, mountain and bend. At times I'll still feel left out in the cold, This journey so short, and mine is untold. /|\
(Ten syllables per line)

Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

after you

After you, I shall venture where hearts fill,
beyond concrete confinement’s crowded malls,
careen 'top cliffs where waves crash, in thrills,
dillydally drifting, as sea birds call.

Echoes of you, will travel alongside,
following fond trails free from frowning days. 
Gay laughter to rise again with the tide,
hoary despair washing away in salt spray.

Illusory you, remains the glad one,
jocular always, with warmest of smiles.
Kicking dust on paths trodden under sun,
lifting like gold glitter on garnered miles.

My mad mind will trek paths of solitude,
nursed anew within nature’s plentitude.  

(3/2/17: Sonnet in half abecedarian; ’82 Mainship 40; Stockton, DMS - 2/9/17)

Copyright © taai tekai | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

Fear not this journey

It is not for one to question the ways How things have evolved in their shapes and forms While many keep searching for stolen days Only to find they are creating storms Don't bother to seek, you've already found Waiting for gold at the end of the bow Finding it hidden you react astound Learning in life it is best not to know And tempting your fate to grasp and to reach The heights of others that appear so near Settle in waters where ripples will teach Thy endless journey we must never fear Stay true to your heart and all shall align And stay on your path don't follow on mine

Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |


Preferred by those that know of nothing fair.
Destroyed by sand that blows through consciousness.
Existing in a vacuum of despair.
I left that world behind I must confess.

The wheels of hope extinguished memories.
With every mile clouds would drift away.
Until the devil's valley and disease.
Were lost in natures brilliant grand foyer.

Rejoice, the mountains, rivers of my home.
Forsaken once so young and long ago.
The years have swallowed up the urge to roam.
And age has brought the need to take it slow.
     Thoughts now have left me of that evil land.
     Here God and nature hold me in their hand.

Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Into The Blue

Into the blue, another new dimension;
into the blue...our destiny is Mars.
A strong reality, long-term ascension
into the blue among the planets, stars.

Those former sci-fi program memories
will soon become a realistic fact;
our NASA teams now speak of guarantees
that man of Earth on Mars is not abstract.

Into the blue they'll go; six months asleep,
suspended animation all the way,
in modules filled with six and wired to keep
all fed and breathing on their space beltway.

Migration is the plan to meet their goals;
a new frontier for earthly-martian souls.

Sandra M. Haight

~4th Place~ 
Premiere Contest: Life On Mars 
Sponsor: Brian Davey 
Judged: 05/12/2016 

Reference: https://ca.news.yahoo.com/blogs/geekquinox/nasa-eyes-sleeper-ships-to-send-humans-into-deep-space-190801204.html

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

A Wonderful Day Afishin'

A Wonderful Day Afishin'

 A wonderful day fishing, frying fish in the pan
 logs sweetly burning, smokey smells of delight
 Lake nearly perfect , a pond in God's opened hand
 feast soon to start a beautiful camping night!

 That monster fish that easily broke your rod tip
 set a memory to be recalled decades from now
 As recollections in old age our minds eagerly dip
 mental pictures the where , when , why and how!

 This night shall hold us in a very deep embrace
 join me in a toast to a future so fine and sweet
 Singing of happiness , joy and your smiling face
 memories, good times, wine and fish to eat!

 A wonderful day fishing, so very hard to beat
 Nature's offering, magnificent trout to eat!

 June -09- 1978
 Robert J. Lindley

 I wrote this decades ago. My fishing partner was a fine
 lady that I almost married! Sadly she passed away back in 
 May of 2005... She had married and had a grown daughter 
 in college. I hadn't had contact with her in well over 
 22 years. Still it was a sad day for me upon 
 learning of her death...

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Who am I

Once again i'm alone
searching within to find my strength
my light of passage has not been shone
traveling congested roads at great length
my people's always seem to miss the boat
waiting for monatary arms to embrace forseen love
i'm left to the solitude of hands to keep me afloat
like the symbolic dove
i bring love, peace, and a message
difficult to decipher from a spilt tounge
this prescription requires wisdom to be taken in small dosage
I ask from what tree is the virtue of a woman hung?
as seen with my eyes and felt with my heart
i have crossed many black cats and still have not found my counterpart.

who am I?

written for the contest sponsored by SKAT A "Guess who? Who am I? What am I?"

Copyright © Mark Taylor | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

The Journey Begins

The journey begins, with hope and wonder,
And years seem endless from curious eyes.
Time moves slow before death plows us under,
To reveal its nature and sanctifies.
Days become minutes as we grow older.
Speed of the journey increases with time
The weight of the journey we must shoulder
Decisions and obstacles we shall climb.
We'll never return from where we started,
Or measure the depth of our first stride.
Memories tell of where we departed.
The journey leaves evidence we can't hide.

Life is a gravel road all must walk on,
As we count the nights and await the dawn.

contest The Journey Begins

Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |


I'll be what I must be, in spite of me
as life won't always give the things I choose
and so I have to make what has to be
into the things my life and I can use.

All roads don't lead to Rome, as it's been said,
but some to Paris, and a little fun,
so I will change the path where I would dread
to go to where I choose, when I am done.

I'll not be forced into a better scheme
if I can't see the end result my way
if it's not part of what my heart can dream
it never will come to the light of day.

   All things can change, if I have any voice
    in what they are, and I will make the choice.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Early Winter Farm Chores

Early Winter Farm Chores

Shall I muse at midnight on the morning sun
now hiding very far beyond the pale.
Dread farmyard chores needing to be done
as morn sun rises over hill and dale.

Warm in bed, staying would be a disgrace
when winter marches in far too soon.
Tarry late and hot glowing embers embrace
to rise late only in a lazy afternoon!

Or instead jump from this warm , soft bed
racing on out when red rooster crows.
Quickly getting pigs and chickens well fed
all long before the cold winter snows!

Up early before morning's sweet sunlight.
Another farming day, another long fight.

Robert J. Lindley, 10-01-2015

Note-- Edited an older poem from back in the 80's.
Shortened into a sonnet..

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

The Life for Me

For far shires beyond the western red sun
  I'm leaving the Land of the Long White Cloud,
to journey across the blue horizon 
  where cockatoos in bloodwoods sing so loud.
Trading in my black singlet and swanndri 
  for a swag and a croc tooth akubra, 
so hoo-roo Long Bay and gidday Bondi 
  where blokes drink Bundy rum...not Coruba!
Leaving a world where reality bites
  for the Dreamtime People's great southern land -
outback bushies and cork hat urbanites 
  in the convict Land of the Long White Sand.
Now the Sunshine Coast is the life for me
in palisades and canals by the sea.

                 July 1997

Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Farm Chores, They Sure Aren't A Glowing Parade

Farm Chores, They Sure Aren't A Glowing Parade

Brutal cold cuts into young tender skin,
winter arrives with its hard cold and more.
No time to complain- NOT IF we are men,
farm child, time to wake, do the daily chores!

Up before the sun makes it first day's peep
into savage cold, hard cold, to morn's work.
Cutting blasts, such bitter cold one could weep,
we had best get it done, no time to shirk.

Chills eat into hungry brain this day,
no breakfast, working until cold-sun fades.
Why gripe, matters not whatever I say,
farm chores, they sure aren't a glowing parade!

Brutal cold cuts young tender skin this morn.
Such pain, methinks better not to be born!

R.J. Lindley
December 12th, 1965

Syllables Per Line:	
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables:	140
Total # Lines:	17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:	
Total # Words:	112

Note: From my private journals.
My oldest surviving poem (a sonnet), written at age eleven.
And based upon my life on the farm and the very trying 
hard times we lived and survived.
Edited slightly before posting to meet the uniformed 
ten syllable count.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

In the Clouds

Tainui - that great waka in the sky -
  the flight of the Koru carrying me 
into the far orbits seven miles high 
  at altitude above the Tasman Sea.
And on its metallic longrider wing
  I gazed the moon and stars, the setting sun...
no man has seen a more glorious thing
  nor behoved a greater journey begun!
For I was lost to a crisis of worth,
  to my fits of rage and ravage of woe,
to God in heaven and demons on Earth 
  till the last flight from desolation row.
Thus here I am a longrider who flew
on the wings of Tainui back to you.

                    For Les

                  July 1997

Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

A Penny For Your Thoughts

 Contest entry: 
 Forms: Sonnet (a,b,a,b) (c,d,c,d) (e,f,e,f) (g,g) 
 Three stanzas and a couplet(a summary) ..
 Ten syllables per line

 You may search and find a saying to inspire you please 
 include the quote on your work..
 Please use_ A Penny For Your Thoughts as your title..

A Penny For Your Thoughts

 Father said, son listen to that church bell
 Life just may beat you into submission
 Or drag you deep into a living hell
 To avoid that seek truth as your mission

 Sound of truth rings so very loud and clear
 Let goodness be your greatest living guide
 On that path the Light casts away all fear
 Your love and deeds you will not have to hide

 Son asks, dad how can I always be sure
 Will there not be days of terrible doubt
 My son, live your life seeking to be pure
 Then his love you will never be without

 Tis' the courage to continue that counts
 In this race , best we use our finest mounts

 Robert J. Lindley, 03-14-2015
 Poem contest entry...
 Results shown:

 Poem Syllable Counter Results 
 Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 
 Total # Syllables: 140 Total 
 # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines) 
 Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: 
 N/A Total # Words: 115

 Nationality: English
 Type: Statesman
 Born: November 30, 1874 
 Died: January 24, 1965 

 "Success is not final, failure is 
 not fatal: it is the courage to 
 continue that counts."

 Winston Churchill

 My quote chosen comes from the famous and brilliant
 quote from the epically great Sir Winston Churchill.
 I had to slightly rephrase the quote to meet the ten syllable 
 requirement of the sonnet form used.
Strikes me that the deepest thought we can ever have is this....
Where do we go after this life ends and how do we find that path?
My poem gives the answer that so many reject...

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

The Journey

THE Journey

It’s not about the
It’s about the journey

It’s about who we become
Through the

It’s about who we are
After the 

The path is too long
The road too narrow

Why me, why my life and loves
Why my marriage, my family
I really don’t understand

It’s not about the 
It’s about the journey

Who we become through 
Life’s trials

While waiting for them
To pass
While waiting to be delivered
Who are we then?
It’s not about the 
It’s about the journey
It’s about us

Copyright © F. Darlene Mack | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

Still Standing

Where were you when my world fell apart?
The Sun darkened and the Moon just fled.
All had been done and all had been said.
And ripped to shreds was my beating heart.

Even the Seas began to part.
And the Mountain tops spread.
I lay there completely dead.
Even the Stars I could not chart.

If only you knew,
If only you were there,
If only you had a clue!
If only life had been fair!

I’d turn the clocks back,
Still standing dead in my track!

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |

More Than Just Words

                                        I'm tired of you becoming just words,
                                         On every page when I write at night.
                                           I saw you as a pretty face at first;
                                         I wouldn't mind if my ink pen dried.

                                       I say it because you're a human being;
                                           These situations are not my type.
                                       I want "I love you" to mean something,
                                             And you stay right by my side.

                                              Honestly, when I write poetry,
                              The feeling is unconfirmed, undecided, undefined.
                                               You are worth more to me
                                     Than words written down on every line.

                                          I'd prefer to have you in my arms;
                                        Paper and pen will not tear us apart.


                                                   ©2013 Honestly JT
                               For P.D.' s "Any Poem Goes #6" Poetry Contest

Copyright © Honestly J.T. | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |


      Doomsday Rock
In these, our final days before the end,
come in a moment, faster than the eye,
'tis easy to believe, and comprehend
what lies beyond the end, is not to die;

We'll go as one, together to the last,
a world snuffed out, by something closing in,
that's been ten billion years, and coming fast
but we won't see it coming until then;

the speed it flies is something out of dreams,
much faster than a thought, it will be there,
and what we see won't be just what it seems
until the last, we'll see it everywhere.

In this, the end, out of necessity
we'll all believe, then we'll be history.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014