Writing Beautiful Poems

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Details | Free verse |
This world needs more hope
Mushrooms that fly 
And swings with no rope
Under bright stars and night sky

Mushrooms sprout in the black forest of lore
Under which live dancing elves 
Who give hope by the score
Magical is laughter that fills young hearts

Hope and mushrooms
Now that's what we need
Hope gives happiness
And mushrooms our dreams


Note:
Inspired by Seren Roberts and her tablet! :)

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018




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 |
A solitary piece the diamond
precious rare gem most treasured
by those lucky enough to hold
Once in possession it is rarely out of grasp
Like the gemstone the mother 
requires very specific conditions
in holding fast her (family/) childrens love
Treasured forever in her heart
she will go out of her way
to preen and protect them
holding them dear to her
deep within her maternal safe – the heart
closely guarded by the mind
Her infatuation of all treasures to her 
are totally understandable
especially when you think to the complexity
of structure and process taken in creation
Just as from the ‘unbreakable’ in ancient greek
this allotrope of carbon
with strength of bonding between atoms
is representative of that strong love
between mum and child
The maternal being could be compared
to the superlative physical qualities of the stone
Even the characteristic luster
of this gem so prevalent from its ability
to disperse light and colour
compared to the many strengths 
roles and qualities of the mother
seen by the many she deals with daily
A most high pressured job 
versus the high pressured temperature
within the Earths mantle
that forms the delightful rock it gives birth to
Infants delight and ignite the forbearer
just as the jewel would dazzle the room
a mother’s love encaptures the magical luster
of those she’s birthed and nothing
stands inbetween this richest of cargo’s

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013




Details | Rhyme |
Ana
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.

If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.

She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.

She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.

Everyone thought she was happy, 
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?

She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.

Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.

They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.

They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.

Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.

She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred. 

She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.

She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.

Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
Killed herself,
everyone had forgotten she needed help.

Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Epic |
REMNANT
The Book of Prophecy was open to a silent page. Tis she thought of the biblical generation in forty stages. Her heart she hears. In this life that Ora lives, she has fought for wisdom to ensure longevity. Salient she sits looking out in the sunflower fields. The vented darkness encapsulated. Her mind ponders on the spiritual world. She was, she felt, as lost as Poe. Her favorite Poet of long ago spoke through his writings to only Ora. In the fields, stands the raven. A bird of blackness and such beauty but yet a threat to her, she felt she was attached to a nonphysical existence. Transcendental was the raven's head, as she perched on the mantle. She takes her breath every time because this woman fears what this symbolizes. Surcease, this woman would shout aloud. No respect for me do you have at my house. Such demeanor is not to be tolerated. This woman strikes out at the raven. The raven flipped her wings beguilingly with decorum of her wickedness. The forty years has transgressed with the omen sent. This woman was struck by the raven’s beak. Mournful she lays with her memory defeated. Tis morn came and she lays awaken. Ora’s visitors found her in a pitiful state. They prepared her chambers for her to rest. Will she live to see the next forty years? Of youthful existence, she was. Of her age, she was not. The raven figurative existence defined her knowledge. Portent and foretoken, a scoff of hope is the raven augury. She is epoch to her well-being. May this story end? Nevermore
_______________________________|
PENNED ON SEPTEMBER 21, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

Details | ABC |
Alphabet Constructs 3 2 1

Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees

Bulimec Barbies browse media monkey banalaties

Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios

Dopamine dreams dilenate check cash desires

Echo endorfins eulogize bullet brain excrement

Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivoloties

Gonadial grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities

Helical hemorriods hinder senior stricken hemocraps

Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate post partem iconoclasts

Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers

Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs

Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies

Malovent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules

Nevertheless nightengales nourich ruby rich noonbeams

Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages

Pensive picses picnics lovelorny passions 

Queer quiet quintensials release rancid quotients

Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble reprocussions

Silky seafoam silohouttes fornicate frothy sandlets

Tepid torch trilogies belie beligerent tourniquets

Useless utterences utilize organize orgasmic utopias

Venimous vixens violate cruel.com visions

White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds

XY XX xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms

Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yeilds

Zen zealous zions mirror maginfy Zoneotones 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Hounds from Hell take their toll on your soul
as you walk the mainstreet of mainstream
and watch Saturn and Neptune dance to a simple tone
of silence in the outer space.
As you sit in the middle of the world
alone;
free yourself from the sense of hopelessness,
only see yourself in the mirror of deception
as your reflection laughs at you and looks right through you,
and doesn't have remorse for what it says or does to you.

Hounds from Hell take your soul,
chock you, cut of your air,
the smog and fog blind you in the city of ash.
Hear the hounds from hell howl for your soul,
go now, barracade your soul behind sins and temptation,
Alone, listening to your soul die away,
watch love go away from you, with suitcase in hand,
picture frames broken and collect dust through the sands of time.
Till the cleaning lady comes on Monday, to clean the mess
that you left behind.
You are gone, without a trace of ever returning.
Looks of the Hounds of Hell came for you and stole you from
comfort and warmth,
till the sorrowed heart cracks and pain spills out
and you look at it all spill out over the floor.
The Hounds from Hell have paid a consumable harmage to you,
and your rich soul of sorrowness burns away... slowly.

Fear darkens souls,
innocent souls burn with a new day,
a slumber that has no end
with nightmares haunting every light of hope
there is left in this desolate Wasteland.
Fear and darkness tears a hole in the darkened universe
and we all go to hell to see the Hounds,
who come for us all.
The graveyards fill,
and death guards the tombstones of the dead,
and the flowers burn away on the feet of the dead.

-10/14/2013-

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
~My Triolet~
(A Double Triolet)


Triolets come in many forms for fun
To try sometimes with them right here my hand
Ten or eight syllables can choose to count
Triolets come in many forms for fun
Ten lines here to write which I just begun
Till one by one in the right place they land
Triolets come in many forms for fun
That goes so well with all I just did plan

Line by line I just follow all the rules
Syllable count is all my own affair
A dare that is all up to me truly
Line by line I just follow all the rules
Then write a triolet that is so cool
Make it dance and make it sing a prayer
Line by line I just follow all the rules
Syllable count is all my own affair.


Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2004



January.01.2017

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2017

Details | Romanticism |
I am the Blue Poet.
The uneasy man.
Who longs to be loved,
or just to have a friend.

My heart whisphers a low melody
on a faint, cool evening
thinking of her.
Once in my arms,
laying on my bed of roses.
Now she is gone.
I cannot think anymore!
It is hard, to love again,
When all your love has been taken away.
... I am the Blue Poet.

I am the Blue Poet,
That walks the bluish, dawn and dew covered streets
in the the October evenings and nights.
But I tell you, I wasn't always so blue.
No! I was once alive... happy... romantic,
... till Love went away!

Now I sit in the wayward poetry clubs,
drinking club soda and snapping my fingures
to a finished performance on a poem about love.
Written by a soft, spoken seventeen year old girl.

Soon, it is my turn to give my poem a read.
I stand on a lone stage, with a spotlight drownding me in blindness.
I face the faces, who look at me and smile.
A clap, and a cough, bring my head up.
I look out upon the sitting crowd.
To see that one face
that speaks to me,
without the movement of the mouth.
The face never showed though, and my head fell back down.

I start to read.
A vase of emotions kill me and swallow me up.
I try to hold back tears, but no more could I halter.
I finished, with a salty tear, rolling down my rough and oiled cheek.
I leave the crowd at ovation
and leave the women, all with tears in their eyes.

I come down from the stage, leaving the bright spotlight.
I shake hands, give hugs,
and collect my pay, and have another round of club soda.
Then, I go down the midnight alleyways of sprinkled city streets
finding myself a cozy room.

I think of her for a moment,
then off to sleep.
I dream of one time laughs, and hugs and kisses.
I cry in my sleep,
...For I am the Blue Poet.

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Acrostic |
Gods Of Man's Vanity Demanding Intolerance


False realities fed to the masses
Another ghost ships sails the seas
Knowing not, yet their lie passes
Escaping truth's majestic pleas
God of vanity demands intolerance
Only its hate is to be displayed
Damn morals, into deeper ignorance
Silent servitude must then be paid
Love, always a great promised reward
Yet black evil roots firmly laid
In black garden in a devil's yard
Nobody sees the beast they ride
God of darkness their faith hides

R.J. Lindley
July 12th, 1978
( Fake Gods Lying)
( Rhyming acrostic)

Note: The one true God never lies, never
steals and never abandons his only Son.


New Note- Old poem edited to shorten.-removed 
verses of 
T
O
R
U
L
E

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
~ A   Kyrielle~
( Kyrielle)


It is composed in quatrains line
That's not hard at all when done fine
This French style you can do right
Kyrielle is easy to write

Eight syllables per line in all
In each one you observe this call
There's rhyming all through to delight
Kyrielle is easy to write

Repeat the B in last line verse
You'll make a nice piece to diverse
And style to enjoy day or nite
Kyrielle is easy to write.


Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2011



January.02.2017


~ Author's  Notes:

The  "Kyrielle"  is   a poetry  form  or  style.

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2017

Details | Couplet |
As I read the words my heart started to sing
For you had gave emotion to a non living thing

I can't ever remember feeling quite that way
I could hear the music that she used to play

I could feel her heart through the tears I cried
As I read the part where her Maestro had died

I imagined her there in her Rosewood Bed
Reading the most beautiful poem I’ve read

Velvet to her back with her bow at her side
Remembering the joy before Maestro died

She loved how his bow manipulated her strings
Together they were the most beautiful of things

What’s the only poem to ever hang in my den?
Elaine’s beautiful masterpiece titled, "Violin"



Inspired by Tracy's wonderful idea for
a contest and Elaine's beautiful Poem.

Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |
The inspiration becomes a song 
depending on an oceans verse 
a seagull's cry calls upon the ancient mariner 

Enchanting riches turns to dust moulded
 
Singing sunrise over horizon's mist 
on the dark side of a moonbeam lost
Howling into an empty void 
blood drips upon material planted 
rays of light paints with hope dwells peace

From it's seed grows the apple bitten 
once sewn deeply shades the blossoms pink 
flowing rivers turning tides over 

The seas part with death tolling time's reflection 
watered by dewdrops sparkling green pastures growing 
stronger for living pierced within daggers hurled by hate

Salted the remains of injured spiced injustices bring 
perfumed inside regrets a living truth expelled nightmares
we all become haunted by ghosts of a past life 
hunted by the wolves whom pack abuse unrelenting

We become the sheep 
through eyes of forgiveness 
held forever fragile within cotton wool 
dancing away with the clouds 
makes way for the sky to open your eyes 
to colour through our optic nerves 
one vision in words to complete

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
How many have ever heard the song "Somewhere in Time?"
       It's a song with only music and with no words or rhyme.
 "Fantasie Impromtu" is another one written by Chopin?  
       Also a song of rare beauty without words thrown in.
These two songs along with "Moonlight Sonata" were played by my son.
       He's an acomplished pianist who can play most any run.
He played these songs at my funeral last week.
       Don't be shocked all you people keep on sitting in your seat.
You Poetry Soup poets who are sitting there reading this write.
       Yes you!  Don't turn around and look behind you or look to the right!
Do you feel that erie feeling in your tummy right now?
       Well! It's because of me! I'm hovering over you somehow!
No don't look!  You won't see me. 
       My spirit is floating above your right shoulder freely.
I'm watching you read your poems.  Did you get some good comments today?
       Yes I saw where you wrote that beautiful verse, and that nice display!
You deserve that nice comment.  How about your soupmail?  Are there very many?
       Did someone tell you a secret?  Remember!  I won't tell and I know a plenty!
I've been watching you on Poetry Soup for hours writing your poems that rhyme.
       You're writing about love and mysteries, about cat tails, building spaceships and rhyme 
        time!
You're writing of happy new year, time warps, romantic longings and betrayals and how do 
        you do it,
       One of you says your poems are like children to you, one writes of beautiful women 
        with wit
And one of you even wrote of hanging berries!  And all of these wonderful poems I've read.
        I have hovered over many of you and you never even knew I was dead,  
Such wonderful talented writers we have on Poetry Soup. 
       Everyone writes his own style that belongs to this group.
So take heed when you sit down to write a new rhyme.
       And know that someone's watching you write all this time.
And when you feel that erie feeling in your tummy right now.
       Well!  It's because of me!  I'm hovering over you somehow!

Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2010

Details | Verse |
              It snowed and snowed on the day I was born,
     and for that reason I love  f a l l i n g  snow;
                   in dreams I walk the frozen woods till morn,
            and from my pen the words just drip and flow.

                From a child-  I was quite  q u i e t  and odd,
     choosing to read books and write my words;
                   I would wander in nature and be just awed,
            loving the songs and beauty of sweet birds.

                 A bird of  g r e e n  is singing to me a song,
      and on my hand she comes to look at me;
                    I hold my breath and she becomes a friend,
             of this gothic girl so deeply sad and forlorn.

                 Was born to weep- to write my verse in blood,
     a cold wind reminds me that I must wake;
                     and snow is falling  s o f t l y  in my dream,
             it snowed and snowed on the day I was born. 

______________________
Re-write from May 11, 2016,
(I Write My Poems In Blood)

Submitted to the contest, 100 In A Row Contest 17
sponsor, PD

Fifth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016

Details | Verse |
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Thatcher’s dead.

Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Thatcher’s dead.

Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Thatcher’s dead.

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
Thatcher’s dead.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |
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 
and temptations

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

Details | Free verse |
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass. 
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are. 

Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment. 
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
Just be.
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers, 
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.

Jacob Reinhardt
10/07/13

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
By my side:
The tallest mountain,
The calmest pond,
The purest stream;
My hope and strength,
Faith and love;
The Lord,
Our God,
Always by our side

Copyright © Kevin C. Martin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
Always running late;
Just taking time to enjoy it.
Life is a car speeding fast,
But it's better to be stuck in traffic.

Copyright © Kevin C. Martin | Year Posted 2013

Details | ABC |
You send bolts through my skin 
something I was never to 
accomplish with you, when I 
saw you it's like my heart sank 
to my stomach and I was in 
shock my body still my body 
heavy felt like when I moved I 
was about to fall to my knees 
you make me want to get 
inside my brain pick you up and 
take you out pick you one by 
one like a flower because I do 
love you and love you not.

Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
She has so much pain inside of her,
she doesn't know how to address it.
So she turns the pain into anger,
after she explodes, she becomes quiet.

She goes up to her room, upset.
Why does the world hate her so?
She thinks to herself, “That’s it!”
But in reality, it isn't though.

She lies on her bed,
Pulls out her book and reads.
As she turns the pages, she loses her head,
In her mind, she thinks “This is what I need.”

A place to escape the world,
Somewhere she can run.
For it seems everyone hates this girl,
And nothing she does is fun.

She plays her cello 
And loses herself in the music
She does this when she feels low
Then she plays the song of her pick

She listens to the beat she makes,
Trying to make it sound perfect,
But oh, she keeps making mistakes,
She thinks that she will never get it.

She leaves the cello alone
And watches her shows
She then grabs her phone
And tells her best friend the show as it goes.

She leaves the TV on, 
Then she enters her laptop.
She stays on till dawn,
She just can’t seem to stop.

She loves the idea of leaving the real world
And entering an imaginary one.
That’s the story of the girl,
Who is never done.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Villanelle |
~In The Light~ (Villanelle ) There was something not right this dark night It came creeping slowly by Passing through before it was light It filled the forest with a glow bright She grew so frightened she did cry There was something not right this dark night And as she ran all the while in fright She quickly gazed at the dark sky high Passing through before it was light In the dark she closed her eyes tight Praying in her mind to God she didn't die There was something not right this dark night Of sudden she stopped as she saw an sprite Star like did gleam in those very tiny eyes Passing swiftly before it was light Now she had something about she could write As more sprites fairies flew 'round oh my! There was something not right this dark night Passing through before it was light. Dorian Petersen Potter aka ladydp2000 copyright@2012 January.26.2015

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Rain Water Trees Leaves Felled trees Paper Pen Poetry About Nature and trees Circles
Notes: When a builder/capitalist fells a tree to build a house, hes bad, When a poet fells a tree to write about a capitalist, he is an environmentalist!

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
I wrapped all my tears, to see you smile.
you are the best, always by my side.
I tell you my feelings will get you crying,
you must think I’m out of my mind.

You don’t know, what I know,
all the angels let me go.

We were born to teethe and die,
you will grow to be so fine.
Fall in love, feel your softer side,
Remember me when life is kind.

When you go, let me know,
don’t walk away like the world and go.

Life is rough and the world unkind,
fight them down and you will be fine.
The truth of live is a brutal sight,
make no mistakes, you can learn from mine.

You have a strong heart, you are unique
I treasure times when you smile at me.

Live the life, I could not find,
be there for me, when I say goodbye.

Copyright © Karan Patade | Year Posted 2013

Details | Dramatic monologue |
A Dark Fairytale

As I was chained, I breathe in.
As I was burned, I breathe out.
As I was cut, I looked down.
As I was broken, I looked up.
As I was destroyed, I closed away.
I had killed myself damaging beyond any repair.
To keep myself closed I chain, cut, burned, and destroyed what was within me, isolation my fear around me. But suddenly as I had nearly been kindled to a shivering light, something braver and stronger then I appeared and took me and held me and once again I was fixed and this is what happened; 
Suddenly I breathed in as I was unchained.
Suddenly I breathed out as my burns disappeared.
Suddenly I looked up as my broken body mended.
Suddenly I looked down as my cuts faded.
Suddenly I was opened up and my destruction was nothing more then a dream
As my knight, you entered that shadow and held me now I grow with a unprofaned radiance.
I was held once more, and my soul emerged.
I was spoken to once more, and my mind went blank.
I was kissed and my body reacted without a second hesitation.
And before I could run away once more, I was trapped.
Unlike my prison I lived in a fairytale, in were I don’t want to live this place anytime soon. What happened then and what happening now are so fair apart it hilarious.
 I’ve forgiven the past, not forgotten it. Prove never to make the same mistakes or else be locked back inside that tower I call my mind. 
Let me in brave knight, into your mysterious ways.
Let me in brave knight let me have secret passages into that world of yours. 
Let me in brave knight so I can truly capture you. 
I was as cold as ice even more then winters hail, but you with a ridged past that icier then I could have imagined is as warm as the summer sun and sweet like spring air.
For saving me, for taking my heart, for releasing me, I’ll become everything you want and then more, I’ll stand by your side and hold you like you held me and I shall be everything you need.
My sweet Knight.






Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Romanticism |
A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.

Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.

Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.

Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.

What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.

My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.

Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
Long walks,
cosy talks,
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.

-10/6/2013-

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
~Writing Poetry~
(Alliance Acrostic)


W-hen I write just let my imagination soar n' sometimes to places unknown this way I go
R-emembering that the sky is the limit and that writing is wonderful
I-ndeed, I just love it when I get inspired
T-ensions and problems seem just disappear when I am writing all my poetry
I-t gives me joy to write in many styles
N-aturally for me writing is fun, keeps me alive
G-od is great! Gave it to me.

P-oetry is like a song, enlivens and unburdens my soul
O-ver anything I can write. Poetry is a wonderful gift
E-njoy poetry
T-ry to write in different styles and forms.You'll see how much fun you can have too
R-ead poetry and as many books you can and just write a lot everyday too
Y-ou can have lots of fun n' be happy you can write better,the more that you practice it everyday.



Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2010


January.20.2017


The  "Alliance Acrostic" is  a poetry form or style, that was created by Patricia Ann Farnsworth -  Simpson,  on 20.7.2010.


“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.” 
- Mark Twain 


Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2017

Details | Romanticism |
Feel me standing there
on the draw bridge
that stands stubburn and erect
over the rushing waters blown by the wind
back and forth.
I listened to the crows
posted on gargoils designed
of eightenth century Gothic architecture
singing their death songs,
when the sun is setting in the far.

The voices of women passing
startle me with a feeling of sorrow
I can't breathe, I am dying.
Feel me, can you feel me rot away?
Slowly but surely rot away
as time passes with ease,
and taxi cabs take smiling, intoxicated faces
to wayward cafes, oh how they screech to a halting stop
and wave to me to get in.

"No thank you, I'd rather walk." I say to the smiling faces
highly intoxicated with the thought of the birds and the bees
rattling around in their empty minds.
Then they drive off, into the city lights and turn a darkened corner.
I look at the rushing water
and feel myself rot away
slowly but surely rot away.

Can you feel me?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Feel my heart thump with slow paces
that manage to keep up with fast melodies.
Of songs that play in your mind
only the ones that make you sigh
and think those one days in Spring time
as you walked over the draw bridge
and paid no mind to the water underneth.
I hear no more talk of you and me, I hear no more talk
of the good old times we all shared.
Time has passed, as I take my last breathe
and hold my chest and shead a tear.
Feel me, can you?
If you can, put your hand to my weak heart 
and feel it thump away with every second wasted
on useless items.
Now, see me a man of one time greatness
reflect his life with a reflection in the water below.
How I sigh and cry and breath heavely,
as I feel myself rot away.

The voices of woman pass me by.
Tomorrow is a new day,
for the smiling faces in taxi cabs will go home
and soak their raging hangovers with cool, wet rags.
As I still stand on the draw bridge singing with the crows,
feeling myself rot away.

Can you feel me without you, rotting away?
I surely can feel myself rot.
Such a heavy word, "rot"
So vulgare, yet a great description of me,
without you.

I pull out a shawl you once wore and I kiss it.
As the wind gusts and the sun rises and my shadow
comes to meet me, the wind shall take my last memory
of you away.
And I shall weep no more.
Then what will I do? Shall I walk the streets
and think of you.
Yes you, still rambling all throughout my head
like a lose screw.
Can you feel me? Feel me rot away
feel me think about you, and all your works.
Can you feel me?

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide

I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight

My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign  
I twirl my hair and make it bend 
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends

As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin

The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions

I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane

Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed

The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair 
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose

I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key

It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore



Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013