Writing Art Poems

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Details | Rhyme |
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




Details | Rhyme |
A Slow Hand, Deep Thoughts And True Pen

Each time I write of my crashed hopes and dreams
mind falls into black-depths, sends cold shivers.
Tempted to falsely praise my misdeeds and schemes
I return to my vow, embracing realm of true givers.

Such leaning towards positive and the good
once was abhorrent, not in my prideful style.
When lightning bolts struck me as they should
I found my life was a massive rubbish pile.

With pen and paper I then sought truth to tell
of life, love, loss and darkness once embraced.
O' yes, I did not hide my parades in hell
nor innocent young life I once so disgraced.

Years flew by and age gave its usual aches
far too oft, I swore to give my poetry up.
Darkness whispered, take well deserved breaks
porch lounge sit, empty thy hot coffee cup.

Ah, but my muse, she heard and was not amused
up she bolted, screaming like a raving banshee.
Reminded me of my past, my life I had so abused
what a coward I would be if I now sought to flee.

Pen in hand and regretful of my wasted past
I write to send some light and truth boldly tell.
Praying some good comes, a few words may last
redeem myself from youthful days dancing in hell.


 8-21-2017
( Seek to do good and watch as darkness flees )

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Verse |

You know me as a poet, and writer of poems rhythmic,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language to share,
     my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.

     Few beyond this safe harbour have read my poems,
     I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
     my poems are my treasures that I keep hidden,
                              fathomless is the pain.

        My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
          my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
 I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.

And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on,
     I am fascinated in the architecture in my city.

     Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
     admiring gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
     and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
                              with my cats.

        I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
          a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers;
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewellery and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
     
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me-  I am quite happy, although quite internal,
                                 and I do love and need my silence.

_________________________________
July 30, 2015

Verse

Submitted to Contest 260, Brian Strand, Fifth Place

Submitted to contest, 100 In A Row #1, PD, Fifth Place

Submitted to contests, All That I Am, C. Puddifoot, Seventh Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015




Details | I do not know? |
Raindrops
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

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
illumination. glistening
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
whatever
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
my spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
home

For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine

Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Quatrain |
A torch carried on forever, indeed,
for the aggressive rhymer in me,
is alive again, unshackled and freed,
rising to challenge another day, I see.

As I found myself lost deep in Tolkien,
with epic Star Wars, never ending,
surrounded in a geek paradise, serene,
optical illusions before me, suspending.

Life's songs on guitar strings strummed,
an epiphany unlike they've ever heard,
euphoric dreams in my visions hummed,
as I pen archaic word after archaic word.

Artistry is born only to be my brother,
encircled this star, a pentagram made,
my day is done, I have conquered another,
as the sun slowly brings down the shade.






A Word Collage For Chan Hurst



(Cyndi MacMillan's contest)

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

Details | Concrete |
Atop The Table 'an empty verse' and empty hands ~understand~ The glass in hand can drown out ten- thousand and ten; Hearts, ~emptiness~ ' ' looking for ? a f l o w e r '' '' ' ' ' " " , ', ', (Oh, Holy Nights) on bend-ed knee enlightened to see, Ten Drops from the Glass < << < << < << < I ponder great love and then I let it go (Boomerang) Hands, (the) Masters Hand * * * * * * * * * A parade o'er Parodies' "'atop'" "The Table" Inspired by a reply to comment: 3/6/2012 ~ "Slowly Ascending The Steps Unto Once Upon A Times Familar Front Door~ Seems As Though But Yesterday When It's Newness Held Such Vibrancy, Colours & Laughter~ Love Filled The Hallways Leading Into Many Different Rooms; Some Were Hidden~ A Vacancy Sign Now Posted Upon The Curtainless Window; Inside My Heart~ Spring Melting These The Last Winters Remnants Of Snow Left Amid The Blizzard~ Winds Whispering Through The Trees; Flowers Bending In This Their Wake~ With A Single Rose Sitting Atop An Empty Table Past The Glass, Aside A Note~ Time, Beckoning From The Street; Leaving A Bottle Of Champagne At The Threshold~ Wrapped With A Red Bow And Turning To Make My Way; Beyound The Rainbows." Love John!:)
Love you, Merry Christmas! :) Lucinda

Copyright © Cindy Cayton | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |
Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.

But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.

And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.

So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words. 

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008

Details | Blank verse |
All I see is beauty in the burning of her words,
The flickering of flames,
Constructs of fires licking at the night
From snow white sheets of dreaming.

The senses of her bleeding, ink and roses,
Sensual vibrancy,
Gliding rails streaming to the stars,
The links between the earth and heaven’s tide.

All I see is beauty in the visions of her art,
The tenderness of angels,
Architects of chapels wrought of lace,
An arbitrary grace of love.

The impressions of her breathing, saffron breath,
Exhaling of her soul,
Bestow of sleeping kisses to the lips,
Priestess of the mind and loin.

Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006

Details | Rhyme |
Poetry Thoughts

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to my vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Words given by ancient gnarly trees
echoes embraced from tumbling seas
Sounds of silence in forested glen
far away from greed and wiles of men

Cry from distant stars or cold stone
shadows dancing by moonlight shown
Fleeting grabs at moments of serenity
promising future gift of infinity

I am giant tree reaching to the sky
spreading my limbs out and so high
Mirror of Life's fantastic desires
a creature cast from heavenly fires

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to a vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Imagination brings sweet words to ink
volleys from ship impossible to sink
Heart beaten into indestructible bell
Sounding red rose, eating its smell

I am a river, flooding poetic page
servant of Nature, slave to my sage
Erupting volcano spewing heated ash
darkness that dares to live to smash

The great joy of seeing a newborn son
elation of finishing a marathon run
Memories of dancing in pouring rain
blessing of finding lost love again

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost, listening to my vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

__________________________
April 30, 2016

Rhyme

For the contest, Poetry _________ Fill in the Blank
sponsor, PD

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
Like water that flows in a river
Time will not stop and wait
It comes and then it goes
And now will soon be late
The sun will not rise
And forget to set
Today will not stay here forever

Time was born and passed away
While I was chasing dreams
I never dreamt of
Dreaming of things that were 
Not for me to dream about

I didn’t know at first 
That in my inside
There is a seed germinating
Deep in the roots of my heart 
Where veins and arteries
Carry blood in and out

The eyes of my eyes
Could not see
The ears of my ears
Could not hear
The tongue of my tongue
Could not taste
The nose of my nose 
Could not smell
The mind of my mind 
Was uncounscious
As this seed
Was patiently growing

It was watered by tears
That couldn’t fall off my eyes
When I cried
It was fertilized by my deep thoughts
That denied me time to rest
The pain I felt within
Was manure to it

And now it has grown
It has grown into a tree
it has grown into a green looking tree
A tree that sprouts colorful flowers
And I am hopeful
Hopeful to reap tasty fruits
Of this seed of poetry
Sown in me by God

Copyright © Bojosi Ditshwele | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sonnet |
Keeps Me Young And On My Toes

Some may ask why I have not bit the dust
or found that cave to hide my sad sorrows.
I'm old but my mind has not turned to rust
nor do I fail to wish more tomorrows.
When in darkest night's long crawling shadow
my fighting spirit cries live on or bust.
You are no soft flower in a meadow
do as you may, dare to do what you must.
That moment, I see truth, joy and white light
a clarion call to hold the last fort.
Sun filled summer days and beams of moonlight
calm blue seas and old ships safely at port.

Some may ask, why do you write such deep woes.
I answer, keeps me young and on my toes!

Robert J. Lindley, 11-15-2016


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: 123

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I do not flatter egos
With glitz and glamor of words while the obscene
Condition of people's lives tell
In front of our eyes there is an invisible hell
I want this poem to be a soldier then
Searching and killing in human hearts
The terrorist poverty that cankers men
I want this poem to be a social worker
Bringing the homeless into the shelter
Of the love of men, I want this poem
To be like Jesus doling bread famished mouths
I want this poem to be a healer mending
The broken health of citizens
Forgotten by a narrow minded wealth
Of technology in earth's richest country
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean

My language is not a party
For intellectuals looking for new leaves
Meaning, this is not a ball
Of words for socialites and celebrities
And I do not want to read again
Poets lost in private pain
Unless their pain connect as a metaphors
For the suffering of the world
If poems do not have compassion
They should cause compassion
And then as one army 
Let us march to right history
And voice the cause of the downtrodden
The oppressed, depress
The wretched of the earth, distress
The lonely, broken, forgotten
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I am poet of the people, the people's poet
A poet's words are bombs, missiles, bayonets
Do not read these poem
Holding my words too close to your eyes 


Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
And the little men they breed
Would counsel silence.

     She bursts instead Athenalike
     From out the wearied brain
     Or grows painfully from every vein
     Like ivy's tiny tendrils
     Pulling monuments to ground
     Inch by inch
     To let in the light and rain
     From which newer monuments may grow.

She cares not at all 
For their inconvenience.

     She shows herself so many ways:
     
     As the boldly topless Priestess,
     Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms

     As the nun in golden sunlight
     Falling through cathedral stone

 This lady is a child
 All innocence of face
 And Ageless eyes
 She knows all that remains of purity,
 And every excess she also calls her own.

She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering her sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work

     Creation     Destruction     Change

Upon her restless,
                                   Gifted
                                               Tongue.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
Sometimes my muse does holiday
far, far away from me
where it goes I do not know
it just chooses to go away...

I thought we were friends; maybe more 
She could quell a blaze or make the flames roar 
Through each trial I watched her strength grow 
Always at my side through every downpour

But then they came so fast; storms so severe 
One after another until there were no more tears 
No sorrow no hate no love; only echos
I stood alone. Her voice I could no longer hear

I searched inward and saw every bruise
With each break and tear I stood accused
So much blood, too much damage to truly know
Which was the cause; which gave the deathblow

It was then that I saw; a fate she did not choose
She wasn't on holiday ...I had killed my muse



1/25/2018
Note: in an effort to get my mind moving 
dear Edward McCall sent me a verse and
said get to it. He was a great help.
Thank you Sir Edward  :)

Copyright © Shadow of the Past | Year Posted 2018

Details | Verse |
Hip hop is more than your understanding of culture
Its not your educated last in the middle of all crowded thighs
Hip hop starts in the heart of love to find its way to the centre of your ears 
Fears mix wordy tears in group hugging moments 
Refining spears

It’s a movement with no legs moving emotional heads
Walking dreams recurring all faulty streams 
Browsing voices not chances 
It’s a movement with no legs moving dreams 

This motionless movement move souls from distant opinions 
Rated the most hated social responsive act
Hip hop pops the middle of an issue with no tissue 
Its not a battle but it battles to make sence of its battles
Raising fists on air waves paving wordy roads 
Written in future tense 

It does what it must with no musters degree
The heat of rhythms to all predicted stormy seasons 
Unbelievable but few truly view why hip hop pops issues with no tissue 
Very few flew 
Over the clouds of good hip hop music deep kissing issues 


Hip hop is more than your understanding of culture
Its not your educated last in the middle of all crowded thighs
Unbelievable but few truly view why hip hop pops issues with no tissue
But that’s my understanding from crocodiles that had standing ovations 
Attacked by microphone visits

Microphone visits
Microphone visits
Microphone visits


(c) Raymond Ngomane

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.

Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.

Enticing my stature
to belong
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”.

Yes!

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
nor negative
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,
deduce,
my sum with rusty protractor.

This Zero, into a fraction...

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls

He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips

Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage

The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps

They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon 
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs

Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing 
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle 

I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind

© Raymond Ngomane 

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |
Betrayed Expectations 
    (Sonnet) 

I flew to Olympus, to find its heart	
armor intact against Hades' dark wrath.
At birth the power of light made its start 
as Homer's ghost sent me upon my path.  

Yet there I found only an empty throne	
where once Zeus in glory firmly reigned.	
So sad! For no lighted wisdom was shown.	
Such that grievous and blue, my heart was pained.
 
Thunder and lightning I didn’t yearn to find  
Nor divine favors for eternal youth. 
I wanted reassurance, peace of mind, 
justice for all and no distorted truth.	

At the foot of Olympus I sought love	 
but no compassion came down from above.

--------------------------------------------------
Robert Lindley & Paul Callus ~ 29TH November 2015

Note: It was a true pleasure collaborating with my friend
Paul Callus on this poem. His poetic advice and addition
both were top notch. And appreciated greatly was the 
opportunity to learn from him.
You have my sincere thanks, my very talented poetic friend.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
Dear Alliteration, 
First friend, foremost;
Forgetting not,
Shy Allegory, 
Dressed in Allusion; 
Sweet Anaphora, 
How I need thee! 
How I need thee!
 
And Assonance; 
Never deep asleep, 
Nor rest Refrained, 
By Caesura; 
Clever Chiasmus; 
Who has pause to write, 
And write to pause; 
Cheeky Consonance, 
Agreeing;
Time needs its tick-tock, 
Rocked at chimes; 
How Didactic, 
An Ictus, 
Ellipsis, 
Is that?
 
Clink — tinkle; 
Cubes in a glass; 
Bourbon mist; 
Hello; 
Onomatopoeia is back, 
From visiting, 
Palindrome, 
At Lake Oxoboxo, 
Madam Eve, 
Our favorite, 
Paradox, 
Not pair a ducks, 
Nor Parataxis, 
She quacked not; 
She waddled not; 
She flew not; 
End stopped; 
Did not, 
Run into Enjambment, 
Iambic, 
Pentameter, 
On foot nearby; 
Rhyme Royal chanting;
Prose babbling, 
Out of line, 
Screaming;
Vers libre!
Vers libre!

Pathos, 
Pity me; 
Scan not,
My prosody;
Bravo!
The coins are tossed;
O my dear friends, 
In poetry, 
Therein lay, 
Our Eulogy, 
Paradise Lost.

Copyright © Claire de la Grange | Year Posted 2006

Details | Concrete |
 
                                                           
                                                            Though 
                                                          My 
                                                       Nose,
                                                    Small
                                                And
                                              Not
                                          Well 
                                        Formed,
                                     Still
                                  I like it
                               For I 
                           Can
                        Smell
                     You,
                  Very 
               Lovely
            Scent-
            Your
             Poetry, 
                 Perfume
                      For my soul!

Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2006

Details | Rhyme |
LIFE'S UNDISCOVERED PASSION 

I reached up far to touch a star.
It only took a second.
I thought I heard a salient call 
alas it did not beckon.

While looking for an artful craft
and finding none; the time blew past
I looked toward the heaven's stars
for talents that could break these bars 

Like thickened paint on canvass fashion
Mixed with rich excitant passion 
From Starry Night to sheer delight
but never wrong and never right.

Should I envy those with deep affection
with skills that move in-synced direction
for passions born into their soul
to define their purpose-- take control.

Athletic prowess, artistic flavor, 
a builders trade, a science major,
musicians joy and mountaineer
for all of those we stop and cheer
and think if we could only be
but they are they and we are we.

Somewhere, somewhere deep inside
are struggles there we cannot hide
doubts and fears that suck the joy
from life's sweet gifts; a noxious ploy
of destiny failing in an attempt
to re-discover a lost lament.

CAK  12-2-2012

SYNOPSIS
Sometimes, I find myself lamenting
that I do not possess an 
exceptional skill or talent. It seems
many people find great joy from theirs.
It seems to gnaw at my being and
I grow sorrowful that somehow
I am missing something.

Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013

Details | Fibonacci |
His
Words
Flow with
Elegance
To create paintings
On a canvas filled with white light,
Bursting with everlasting imagery of nature



Copyright © 2009   Lena “Lolita” Townsend

*inspired by Raul’s wonderful Haiku “Sunset” 
*for Brian’s Contest

Copyright © Lena Townsend | Year Posted 2009

Details | Dramatic Verse |
---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********


now and again
a word 
sneakily obscure
approaches the fog in me
screams its name 
suddenly 
apropos adverbs appear
clearly 
startling 
perplexing 
precarious adjectives
slick little nouns
caught hiding 
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
defiling crooks
"pro"fessional nouns
jailed
beneath eight parts of speech
preposition'ed 
pre'fixed subjects
elusive predicates
slithering suffix'ation
turn-ing key
delicately 
through holes
freeing vocabulary
trapped 
within prison walls
synonyms 
pen bars 
filled in the past 
participles
plagued 
like Job's tedious job 
of siphoning
deciphering 
homographs from heteronyms 

words never mind...
 
they wind the mind
gliding 
in the wind...




Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sonnet |
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way

   For Kim Patrice Nunez*, with hope

Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
Let your wheels skid by letting loose grip on wheel
Free verse range’s for marksmen trained on rondolet*
Dipodic foot pantun villanelle dactyl

Cut their teeth on the slippery run-on-line
Roll their anaepest tongue round limerick rhyme
Do not a ballad begin with aubade fine
Nor drive straight past end-stopped line’s feminine rhyme

Such as painters’ coprophilia canvasses
Hide chance ironic hidden ghostly faces
Cubist abstract surrealist morasses
Whose apprenticeships lead to trumping aces

Far too many poets love the sound of words
Yet shirk bardic tasks speeding on twisted roads


     * Nunez: Sorry, no tilde over the “n” on my Mac. 	
•	rondolet: French pronunciation rhymes with “way”.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
We seine them up
like dust
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
determining worth,
profundity. 

And like those before,
we toss them absently
into wind—
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
change destinies.

Now, 
they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
pestering
opal moons,
infestations of night
thickly settling
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.


Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006

Details | Free verse |

In the dusty cobwebs of my inspirational mind,
I’ve written volumes of scripted details, pondered
Epic thoughts, and let mine imagination roam the
Fields of complete abandonment.
A wild child of freedom’s reckless spirit, I’m dived
Head first into the untamed wilderness of the human
Stratosphere, seeking beyond the unknown country
Of the mental unconscious mind, then free fallen into
The waves of insecurity, rescued by mine own self
Sustaining life preserver, called survival.
Line by line I’ve written into my life journal, leaving a
Legacy behind me worth preservation’s finest gilding,
Bound are these pages of mine existence with love,
Tenderness, and freshly cut rose petals, of remembrance.
Reflected in the cover of my life book, are the joyous
Faces of those whom loved me beyond words of
Expressions comprehension, without emotions tears
For they celebrate my life, not with sorrows regrets
But with prides respect and honor.
Through hell’s fire I’ve rambled and traveled, being
Tested by friend and foe alike, but I’ve lifted myself
Beyond the flames of reality, bathing within the warmth
Of a divine faith of loves power everlasting.
I’ve been given the spark of the eternal, it breathes
Within me, it drives my spiritual being, to over come
Ignorance, intolerance and ambience sloth of spirit.
At times I’ve been tempted to dance, against the flame
That flickers in the night, teasing me, taunting me,
To choose wrong or right, but mine feet stood stead
Fast, yielding only in my secret world of dreams escape.
Yes I’ve mused amongst the fantasy realm,
Flying, soaring into the abyss of illusions mirrors,
Clashing as a bird smacking at the glass of reality,
But I’ve awakened wiser, a soldier better prepared
For the battle known as life.
In this journal I bequeath all that is the best of myself,
To those for whom I’ve touched, and in memories moments
Of stilled realization that I’ve gone, dare let no tears blind
Thine vision let no words of sorrow spill from your trembling
Lips just do me the one last favor for which I ask of thee,
Simply look upwards, and smile.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
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

Details | Cinquain |
In touch
with nature,
artistic libido
releases chimera,onto 
the wing

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009

Details | Rhyme |
Rare Cooking This Fine Morn

To have deep-thoughts, dreams a poet slowly eats
Or spiced casseroles of ink-piggy feats?
Meals written on yellow paper to enjoy.
Chinese fried rice with steamed adjective soy!

Experience new dishes, of rare flavor
Spread like butterfly wings upon glazed ham.
Pour tasty hot liquid words to thus savor
Bluebird wings sprinkled in blackberry jam!

What ? No essays,  delightful adverb desserts?
No pans of Poe-like raven-baked pies
Yes! And add in boiled rhymes and magpie tales
Booming baked echoes of Mobydick whales!

What next? Fiction, tasty mysterious spurts?
With deep fried fish and red-button from shirts.
What taste? Tonight toasted Spanish serenade
With sweetest Sangria spice red Kool-Aid!

To have deep-thoughts, dreams a poet slowly eats
Or spiced casserole of ink-piggy feats?
Meals written on yellow paper to enjoy.
Chinese fried rice with steamed adjective soy!

Robert J. Lindley

Rhyme, Lin 10/11 

Syllable count
11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 0 11 10 11 10 
Total # Syllables: 223
Total # Words: 146

Note, a Lindley family tradition, I cook the last day of the old year..
I've already completed breakfast and got the idea to cook up something on paper..
Lunch is running a bit late...
I cook but no hurry,  is my motto.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
Every poem
An invention
Some would say:
When a romantic
Creates a breathing rose
In the mind
For the heart of another
A far superior find
Than all
Man’s Relativities—

So—
Let Einstein rest
Of his atoms
Undressed;
And Galileo
Further divest
In some far
Distant sky,
Too far off
Even
For modern
Glass-eye
Perhaps now,
As I,
Would also decry:
That the artist, alone,
Sees and lives,
A true icon,
Beyond the grave—
A slave not to science,
But to love and beauty;
With far more inquisitive duty,
That of revealing
The Universe
The soul of it
Divine—

Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016