Writing History Poems

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Details | Free verse |
Silent Lies and Deception


In the silence of murky waters
There slithers oily snakes of the night
Wearing masks of deception
Beware of fools singing with Stalin’s tongue

The KGB shall set you free
Drowning you in the river Volga
The cold water keeping your lips tight
Whilst the silent ones spread their deceits

Lies, lies their dirty little lies
I wonder how their tongues wag and loudly sprout
So righteous, like imams with out a doubt
I call for radio silence

When comes the clique of hate
They say they have none, and
Maybe this is true
They run out at times, spreading it to you

Those who truly have good will and peace
Growing like flowers in a botanical heaven
Never spew the bloody insecticides here on earth
That alters the genes of peace in me and you

Beware of white sheep
That howls like the wolf at the full moon
A wise man knows the meaning of silence
Silent ones simply slither sneaky prose in the night

The Caspian Sea
Holds many ghosts who if not for death
Could tell you many silent tales
Of those with a million smiles and twisted masks

Seekers of the Silent Lies and Deception

	Dead Sea and salty tombs

		Silent in womb


Notes: The last poems Angel and Devil, about mans ability for both good and evil, I continued the theme here, by describing two repressive regimes, Russian under the likes of Stalin and Putin and the Palestinian one under Arafat. The poem is either incomplete or to be continued in a second poem, as in the end I inferred the Silent one Amina, a story about the repression and hardships of women in India. An excellent book by a great author Fiza Pathan.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016




Details | Sonnet |
Bitter Harvest Of Thy Wickedness

Thou hast slain thousands for that golden throne
Sleep in peace upon a silk laden bed.
Why now in old age, do thy dare to moan
In deep fear of ghosts of those murdered dead?

Are not thy treasure vaults filled to the brim
With stolen wealth from lambs of this dark world?
Yet thy black heart, feels the murder of him
And that Heaven bolt that may soon be hurled!

Triumph in destruction tis' bitter fruit
And thy wicked soul now sees the true light
Yet thou sprang from dark tree's most evil root
To try to bring forth never ending night!

Thou hast slain thousands for that golden throne.
Why now in old age, do thou dare to moan?

R. J. Lindley,
Jan. 11th, 1980

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Couplet |
Hark! The mighty sage’s quill,
Leaves remnants of genius, still.
Reminding me of richer days,
Where wines could really come to age;
And gods among the people dwelled,
In works of master poet’s felled.
Where aerie tales and thoughts of fancy,
Awaken something everlasting.
The faded thoughts of vestments tore,
Through mournful tales of days of yore.
I bore inquisitive insight,
To mouth a masterpiece delight;
Reciting thoughts from Edgar Poe,
In poetry and foul-like prose.
And as I muttered, “Nevermore”,
I pondered on his lost Lenore;
A femme who captivated thought,
His inspiration to the plot.
And in his wording wizardry,
So haunted by his imagery,
Moves me to expound wanton lyrics
To every soul who dares to hear it.
And with immense humility --
No pen shall cite as good as he.



Copyright © Tammy Armstrong | 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 | Limerick |
Young Shakespeare didst say to his tutor,
"Methinks I wouldst be much astuter,
And per chance, I wouldst say,
Mightest write a screen play,
If some fool wouldst invent the computer."

Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2005

Details | Shape |
                       The narrow path
                           to treason
                            is only
                            a word
                             away.
                           To falter 
                            in your 
                            reason
                          or explore
                        unauthorized
                           dissent.
                        To question
                      fearless leaders
                        or a decision
                      from the bench.
                      The narrow path
                          to failure,
                           oppose
                       the status quo
                          and down
                             you 
                              go.

Copyright © Dean Walker | Year Posted 2005

Details | Free verse |
Self-reflection is an art
A two edged sword that no one teaches
No religion philosophized
my own personal goal 
to better myself 
and understand everything 
by seeing one another 
through the slide of me 
through another’s eyes 
and that person 
through yet another’s eyes

Four good qualities you truly possess is where I start
The good things about me
Actually that’s a lie
That’s what I recommend
I usually get a little bit sad sit here and realize 
That I think I’m deep and no one understands

I know through self-reflection of understanding history
and putting myself in other peoples shoes
Like a mental actor of how I would feel emotionally and mentally
and then writing it down
is like self reflection but not quite
close but no cigar I have learned we are truly all actors and life is indeed a stage
And when we learn how to manipulate the greatest acts of man for the history 
books
The next generations will be taught in school how to prevent wars and live in 
piece by us selling one perfect life or lie
And I wonder if I’m a 27-year-old psychological lie of a ghetto wizard
I’ve described

Through self reflection I know they're are things I need to change
Some things I never will
Some things I am a part of
And at least the parts and pieces of my life I live like poetry that if they were 
captured like dreams in a butterfly net
They would teach something to the future like Jesus or anybody would if they 
understood
Just how to self reflect emotionally mentally put yourself in another’s shoes and 
learn the lesson through writing a poem
or thinking it out

If each generation and the history books were all acts of men
and my generation has to top the last lie with a wisdom of the perfect metaphor 
to unlock the following generations thinking process
Is that the game of the planet?
Are those the reasons to the wars we fight today?
to teach tomorrow
When they write their essays that will become tomorrow’s politicians 
An insane asylum can teach politics and all we really want is to pay them to be 
rich and make global friends so we can have utopia
But in the history book of the essays they no longer write where life lessons were 
learned and taught through misfortune of man
there are gems to be uncovered of how to stop wars how to peace keep
How to mediate
How to live
How to heal
and every generation we discover it on our own as the teachers subtly shape our 
minds



Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
    You see my face and you see my expression but you don't know the real me that i'm 
protecting.
 
     You don't know that behind these eyes that a little girl cries every night, you 
don't know the half so why are you desperately trying to label me with some brand that I 
would never wear.

    If you'd look a little deeper into these pearly browns you know that I am not just a 
cover you have to take time to read the book to really know me. 

     You can't just skim the back or listen to what other people say because yeah I might 
be talked about but unless you dip into the pudding you will never truly know why.

    Maybe if you looked a little deeper you'd see someone trying to keep up in a endless 
race. 

   I keep on moving but it's never any good I guess I underestimate myself or maybe I 
just need someone to give me courage.

     I see the surprised look on your face and all I can do is laugh, I bet you didn't 
think that I had so much depth, I better you never realized. 

      So even if it's not me your interested in, please let me teach you one lesson. You 
can see some much more behind the eyes of a girl than the cloud of makeup hiding her 
face. 

In a girls eyes you can see her insides, her deepest fears, her insecurities. 

Behind these eyes is the magical side, and if you can look into them first then I know 
that your confident and well worth the struggle.

Copyright © Shahana Jackson | Year Posted 2005

Details | Sonnet |
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 | Prose Poetry |
Welcome, Ms. Valmer!!  Glad you are aboard- now you can comment on any 
poem, right after reading it....and try your hand at your own, should you choose.
Lotsa great people here.  PS- could not open greeting sent- comp. needs 
something installed - some file, I'll have to find out how to do it.  So glad you 
joined! Luv, tom

Copyright © johnathon bart | Year Posted 2008

Details | Quatrain |
He was the bard from Stratford, and as a teenager
he helped his father in his trade; he married and had children
and became the most popular and admired play writer
in all England...acting was also his other pleasurable passion.    


Curious Queen Elisabeth was one of the thousand spectators,
who came to see him in the Globe theater...she shed tears, 
and was stunned by the performance of his timeless plays,
and yet, some of his fellow-poets criticized him for his writings!


I wish I had lived in that Victorian era so intellectual and refined,
and had met him in person and had showed him my ample admiration;
I would have asked him the secret, which made him so legendary and loved...
and he would have whispered it to me, to make me revel in that revelation!     


I have read his inspiring works, and tragedies rampantly occur
from " Romeo and Juliet"...the Verona's immortal lovers, through" Hamlet "
whose insanity was undoubtedly caused by the specter of his father; 
and why didn't Shakespeare choose less dramatic plays not ending in death?


He wanted to teach us indelible lessons to show us how the human spirit
can be passionate, adamant, loveless, envious, cruel, unfair and treacherous...
to outline all kinds of guilt: from murder to envy so well-expressed with eloquence;
it's no mystery to anyone how he conjured up such plots with grief, madness and wit!    


Shakespeare was no ordinary kid, and he played with his siblings on Henley Street,
neighbors saw him trot to his grammar school, later he would make everyone weep; 
early in adolescence, did his prodigious mind envision one from a vague thought?
It's no wonder that he is widely read even today...hear his speak, he'll impart worth!  


Entered in Amy Green's contest, " Wow Me With Inspiration "

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Details | Ode |
He's packin' magic Viagra
Muse infused grooves set the mood
grab ya' and stab ya' 
we're opposites 
still we speak the same language 
teach and preach truth
every time I stop to see what he's droppin' 
my dang pen commits sin, flips a lid  
ink pours, runs down the paper like Jill Abramson did the NY TIMES
just in time verse transfers kinetic energy 
activating a semantic force field
formulating symbiosis through synergy   
swimming in puddles of puns
changing sans rays into rays of sun 
you can hear bums humming metonym hymns from the Twin Cities to Tuscan
igniting a revolution of prostitutes and hooligans on hallucinogens to scoot  
loose from futons 
learn to earn and swim with loose Louis Vuitton boots on 
whacked out kids from Pakistan with crack in hand hear his pen 
and pack into Shaggin' Wagon vans to kick up sand and
do their dance and just hold hands 

the whole globe huggin' like cousins 
uncovering hovering heteronomy mysteries evading lexicographers throughout 
centuries of history
he's teaching wide eyed chicks to utilize polysemy by demonstrating thermal 
viscosity rates of his balls and prick
my mental lexicon is spinning 
so I'm sinnin' then  I'm grinnin' and grabbing inflatable girlfriends over for 
dinner then dessert to be followed immediately by frenzied poetic circle jerks

I must admit the fabric of his hyperbole allegoristic-ally makes me 
wanna  on·o·mat·o·poe·ia in my pants and break into a hyper pole dance!
he's coordinating conjunctions
box munching at the junction
whole heartedly gets retarded with descriptive hard-ons 
vast array of play-on words for you ladies to chew on
verse for verse
inch for inch
tit for tat 
this and that 
hot and heavy with romance 
enough to make a man wear a hard hat 
there inside the high rise 
under construction in the pants
damn Mister (CENSORED), atta-boy!
and though I'mma boy with no vagina, boy 
(you don't mind if I call you mister by design there boy?)

Man, the images your tongue twisters send 
I must commend and admit 
if you had a different rear end...
then WO'-man
I might have to apprehend your ass with my ten inch night stick, oh hell, it's 
just past a hard seven, but who's countin' man? 

As you see poetry is a curse conjuring harmful words of demonic proportions 
reading your scriptures' depictions interrogatively tells me these inscriptions 
are precisely the prescription I need to erect the sword which could ultimately 
lead to seismic abortions...dang...
Did I just type that? 

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Time line

all mine

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009

Details | Haiku |
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing
True poets had it best
For there is a rhythm in the soul, 
Which they all just had to express

Some could not control
This powerful thing 
 Was so often put to the test

It began to dawn coming on strong
Within the birth of a thing 
Called the Harlem Renaissance 

That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth 
Possessing syncopated rhythms 
And chronic expression of surreal tunes 

That perfected blend of jazz-poetry 
Developed into what it is today. 
Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes 

That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz
Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace
Transcended cultural barriers 
Readily accepted in the 1950’s by the humane race 

Therefore, the mantra had begun to be 
So freely expressed within poetic lyrics 
To syncopated beats moving on through the 60’s and 70’s
By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka

Returning strong throughout the 70’s and 80’s 
Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron
Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers 
Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters 

Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats 
On stage or in the streets
Yes, you’ve guessed it, most def its rap
 
Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing 
In which made many a heart sing 
As these icons did their thing

Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry…
Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong


Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse
tribute to some of the greatest modern day
founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.


Copyright © Adell Foster | Year Posted 2008

Details | Pantoum |

We remember her in blue skies.
She searched her young heart for answers.
She focused on beauty and hope,
with wisdom for all the world.
She searched her young heart for answers.
Her courage shone through her words
with wisdom for all the world,
and a spirit beyond her age.
Her courage shone through her words.
She focused on beauty and hope,
and a spirit beyond her age.
We remember her in blue skies.

Suzanne Delaney

A Pantoum

My first Pantoum.  I was so surprised.  It practically wrote itself.

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013

Details | Lyric |
Listen, Listen, Listen -
Open up your eyes and ears
See the starlight, watch it, feel it as it
Glistens, Glistens, Glistens -
Reflecting coldly off the teeth between the gears.

Run, Run, Run -
Come and see what's going down
Watch the people, hear 'em, fear 'em with their
Guns, Guns, Guns -
No time left for us to fool around.

     These things we're doing can't be right
     These deeds done in the dark of night
     We'd better stop and answer the calls
      From the Other Side, stop writing on their walls.

Look, Look, Look -
Read the things we're posting up there
Know the meanings, seek 'em, find 'em in those
Books, Books, Books -
That is, if you really do care.

Getting, Getting, Getting
Ask yourself what you really want
Taste the bitter, weigh it, say it while you're
Fretting, Fretting, Fretting
Over all the things of which you're not so sure.

     These things we're doing can't be right
     These deeds committed in the dark of night
     We'd better stop and answer the calls
     From the Other Side, stop writing on their walls.

     These things we're saying can't be true
     These things we're writing can't be what we want to do
     We'd better stop and listen to the calls
     From the people on the Other Side, and read the writing on the walls.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2012

Details | Idyll (Idyl) |
Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011

Details | Ballad |
Forgotten somewhere in the midst of steel and concrete. 
Bound by shackles and chains even in our sleep. 
Living like wolves preying amongst lost sheep. 
Concrete tears and pains so mindfully deep. 

Forgotten by those on the outside. 
We cant even run no where, we cant even hide. 
No choice left but to sit and fight. 
In here only the strong minded survive. 
Truth be told in here what is wrong is right. 

All most os us got is wasted M&^*&F*^&&ng time. 
We sit back and work out and write heartfelt rhymes. 
Not to be a victim of prey we all trying. 
Many stories are told, songs are written of truth over lying. 

We are gone for the moment but not truly forgotten so the hurt we must not show it.
 We are to old while we young to be crying in front of full grown men for this is a time we must out grow it.
 There aint no way out this hell hole and we all know it. 
Feelings of hopelessness surrounds te heart to the point where we can no longer control it.
 
In here there is only time no fun. 
Darkness fills night no light shone in here from the sun. 
Only by our own selves we may be out done. 
BECAUSE IN HERE IT FEELS LIKE WE ARE TRULY THE FORGOTTEN ONES....

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Dramatic monologue |
I look pretty much like every girl in 
the hood right/ And back in your 
mind you tryna construct ways to fall 
asleep in my heart right/ Your 
friends have never met me but 
endlessly Question due dates of my 
visiting times right/ Only because you 
told them short stories that had 
twisted endings/ The truth is you 
really don't know the being I am. 
You don't know my petrol drive/ The 
vein that runs blood straight to my 
heart shaped in a half apple shape/ 
You don't know what my heart 
chooses to echo/ A wise man ones 
said life is an adventure and we are 
all in a journey to finding the other 
half that fits our Godly given half 
apple shaped fruits/ Now some 
people find their missing part of their 
hearts in money and the rest/ What 
they don't know is that what your 
heart feels is shaped in one image/ 
That means not everything will fill 
the hole in your heart/ A half of an 
image is 50 percent full while you 
hold the other half/ I think, and I 
mean I think when the verses in the 
chapters and scriptures  say don't 
love money too much, they simply 
saying don't fall into the trap and 
focus on your Quest/ The rest is just 
there to destruct us I think/ So since 
I have brains I shoot back pains/ I 
am not tryna be rude but I hate your 
approach/ Clearly your heart shape 
is smaller, racist and fictional/ Oh my 
name is Africa/I’m an African/ 
Welcome to my ground/ Your visit 
has miscarried so many kinds/ Our 
ancestors wear miniskirts/ Traditional 
healers in war with pharmacist/ 
Misleading them to this scientific 
reality/i happen to tell the truth\

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013

Details | Alexandrine |
The goal of a poem: its intrinsic I.D.
is grab folk: to show them; to imbue imagery –
to say something profound and to then sculpt the words
 into a form that’s sound and is pleasantly heard.

Note that augmentation, achieved by devices
Like alliteration should not pose a crisis
But should more go with flow: more embrace than a grope;
Less stagnation than growth … to surprise Alex Pope.

So “caesura”, don’t cease: use sensuous metre.
With reined rhythmic release; caress – don’t just beat her.
Steal past each armoured guard: have Words blithe crash each scene; 
refute yon jaded bard who ‘dissed’ Alexandrine.

Copyright © Perry McDaid | Year Posted 2015

Details | Senryu |
Born of depth and soul  
A peaceful man rests weary 
Detained with his mind 

Copyright © Laura Mckenzie | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Literature was pursued
by the greatest individuals who ever lived,
and they left us works of unsurpassable wisdom;
human emotions have always been the same, 
and this can't attest to the fact that they will not change anytime soon,
but the freer we are, the further we go up in our balloon.


The richest heritage of Humankind
is found in the written word, which is heard often and not really understood;
where would we be today without the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare that were quite sad,  
or Dante's famous canto, not excluding superb works by modern writers?...
During the dark ages, monks translated books from Greek and Latin into common languages;
as the barbarians destroyed everything found in their path, civilization did not end.


Tragedies of famous people attracted the lucrative minds of poets who had heard of them,
thus embellishing them with their vivid imagination and present actual facts...I follow in
their poetic footsteps, writing down stories that have recently happened, or occurred
before I was born; and with ideas as interesting as theirs, I continue in that tradition
without envying their unaging expressions and distinguished style, but by aggrandizing them.


Literature has finally found its merited place in History, unlikely a hundred years ago,
more people are voraciously reading, and keeping the writers busy by admiring
their sensational works, making comments of encouragement to boost up their optimism;
and to theaters they go and spent an entire night to listen to drama and satire...to scoff,
laugh, or cry when emotions intensify by the sconces of the electric lights; and cheering,
they applaud the richest heritage of Humankind on stage, and are captivated by its scenario.



Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Dramatic monologue |
Leashed Down


Bound by my hands
Bound by my legs
Bound by my waist 
Bound by my neck
I can't  hear
I can't  smell
I can't taste
I can't see
I put everything away and only thought of
What brought me joy.Nor do I want to
Cry leaving my captures to smile about
To gloat,to have that unknown brutal power
Over me which is held in one tear.
My  body numb,my heart is stopped,my mind is blank
Is this dying? Why am I paralyzed? Could it be falling a sleep?
These chains are cold but everything is hot.What feeling beside
Pity would become of me?..Be it not grief not sadness not even remorse.
But as I stand up from this seat,I am nothing more then a well mannered
Pup on a tight leash.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012

Details | Iambic Pentameter |
Ride, ride, ride thou figure from the East
In thy curse hath many a mother wept
On thy brow the furrows of distant steppes
Yield unto a steely mask of doom
Destruction follows in thy path and yet
Methinks I spy a flicker of regret
Extinguish it lest humanity engulf it betimes
As distant lands fall under your encompassing sway.

A fire burns, a coward trembles in his tent
What's won is rent from hands too numb to feel
The surging, coursing power of thy grip
Let slip thine enemies, let thy repute 
Incite counsel of war then savor the fruit
Of a thousand-footed gathering of days
The purpled way, the jewel-encrusted chalice
Of wine claret. Drink to your heart's content.

If I were thou and thou wert I my friend 
I should not pause to see the ground below
For lonely be the lofty heights, perpend:
Far art faren, far remains to go
Nor bride, nor bairn, nor comfort in repose
Hath sped thee on thy way from whence we ride 
The rudest nutriments, the barest clothes
Sans bed, sans friend, sans tout, bare ground thou lie'.

Now polished steel glistens, mirrors gray
The slanting dome of sky's inverted bowl 
Oiled leather on black courser's velvet skin
And restless hooves an inch in sodden loam
A leathern mask, five halberds thus skyward
Stand, barren hillock's strange reeds
Sprouting in the wind-swept smoke
Of morning's hasty decampment. Thus proceed
These men unto a destiny untold.

Of Indus, Asia, Europe, northern climes
Of snow, of sand and vine, the watery strand
I sing. Dismount and pluck the crocus sweet
But brief, then crush beneath thy heel. Spur on!
Ghengis Khan!
Of Afrique dark and thrice-looted Rome
Thy story-tellers may rhyme and make song.

Home, home rider from the East return
Scorch the earth and burn to cindered ash
Laugh with all the mirth thy new-found freedom
Might yield unto thy solitary path
Unlearn the lessons civil, richness hath
Bone and marrow, thew and sinew softened
Thy courser turn the sod, horizon calls
Spur on! Sing thy song, thy name live on 
Ghengis Khan




Copyright © Kyle Elsbernd | Year Posted 2016

Details | Haiku |
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust 
for things start to be.

Copyright © viviane leite | Year Posted 2011

Details | Dramatic Verse |
                    It was a moment in time 
                  a fate of inspiration gifted 
            I believe I was lifted a destiny in writing 
                I would vibrantly pursue .
             Renting a cottage once in Monterey Bay
           this cottage special in some way
          
            The very minute moving.. I felt a presence 
                      giving me no serenity , no rest 
                            feeling I were a quest ~

                 After desiring this home so                            
                      telling the Realtor ~ I made a mistake     
                     She told me be calm ~
                        many have said this before you 
                               ~ this haunt was not a new 

                  For once lived a Writer ~well respected Gent
               His cottage a distillery during the time of prohibition.

                  Many Gents and Ladies came to this cottage 
                      unlawfully gamble & drink through the night
                    Who would think , Doc Ricketts in Cane & Hat
                               it was a party by moon light  ~
                      
                              In the back a distillery hidden in a old shed
                                    many Alcoholics were fed ~
 
                         The ghost popular quite the Ladies man ~
                                I was honored while feeling displaced  

                                 For those who have not read my poems 
                                    ~   and this may be new. 
                                          This really happened ~
                      The ghost of John Steinbach rented me his home True
                                   
 

                  Yvette & The ghost of John Steinbach's  , Teamwork  9/14/2013 
    

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
Millions of lives and souls untold
And to account it all
Words, lines, films
Imagination trims
A sliver of soft, scarlet ribbon
Hollywood rounds
Quills deliver
Writers flare with passion so strong
Filling minds with fantasies, reveries, histories
Tragedies
We consume it all like freshly baked bread
We feed until we are engorged and fed
A viral, universal mess
Ideas and unmade memories
Nothing more or less

My eyes remain glued to the screen
Living it all out
Tears dare to flow—to doubt
I should have thought of that
Can I truly let myself believe,
Someone else lived that!
Pound away your directors, script-writers, fighters
For miles and miles of stories remain unread
While the unknown remain in the grounds of humble malnourishment
Dead
Careers for the mind with a twist of the fable
Left us savage for the meal and the crumbs under the table
I can never let the raw truth rest
Naked, bare and empty—soothed
Nothing more or less

I cringed for originality 
Observed the world through the unedited scripts
The very act, the poetry pact
The wild animal drooling in the back
I was slapped in the face by my boss who had cracked
As the reviews bloated less and less
They wanted something awful, something flaw-ful—something new
And this empty brain in agony—HISSED 
I have lived in no epic battle of account
Of the collateral sufferings of my brothers
The stories the red carpet smothers
And still I ache to create
Before the other ones discover
I returned with ‘‘oh me’s’ and ‘oh my’s’’
With a work of pure genius—a storybook of lies
Nothing more or less

Little have I lacked to dream
Of contortioned pulls and dramatic fire
Stories that rarely brittle or tire
I fiddled with precious glass on edge
Foully eager for self-damage
As if it would trigger some legitimate spark 
Searching for creatures and features in the dark
No one unlocked the passage that night
For the starving idea-parched malice of right
But all welcomed with open arms
A pale mannequin filled with jewels and charms
Consuming, fuming dooming
All ghosts hoping, screaming, looming
Hoping that one day they would find themselves on the big screen
Their legacy real as it can possibly get
Nothing more or less

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Past the valleys strewn with apple trees- 
And spirited places where he derived his passion
To the hardships and things forgotten-
He clutched his thoughts in the quiet of candlelight
Through the woven fabrics of his mind-
And the boundless journeys he strove
We gained his poetic wishes in perspective
Now I drain my thoughts in deliberate diligence       
Hoping to bring him approval 
Though I know he no longer resides- 
I feel him in the cracked filled walls of yesterday 
I am but a humbled poet -
Waning in the lost wishes of a master   
I will walk with Robert Frost deep in my soul- 
Breathing the pages of him and his earnest intellect 
Rehearsing the dreams and agony of an America’s past- 
Poetic paladin 


     
 Inspired by Amy Greens “Wow me with inspiration contest” ! 

Copyright © Laura Mckenzie | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
         The Cross-dressing of Joan d`Arc

Cross-dressing of Joan was perhaps heavily based,
On the bible’s principle in Deuteronomy 22:5 and viewed 
as a Rebellion against God. 
Tis not the putting on of a pair of pants or slacks today, 
But the attempt to deceive who one really was. 
Joan of Arc thus deceived the World in those times,
Prancing around the battlefield in man’s clothing
until the word got out that she was not!
 
Born a bonnie babe was born in 1412,  to peasant French 
parents Jacques d`Arc and Isabelle, in Domremy, 
One would think that the farm would be her heredity. 
No farm inheritance or work on this farm for God had other ‘work’ 
For Joan to do, no not that traditional kind.
What a time to be born, and during the 100 Years War the 
Lancastrian phase of the Anglo-French conflict.
This War began 1337, 925 prior to her birth when
King Charles VI brother and cousin, made Regent Dukes
as Charles lost soundness of mind. 
Their fight over the throne caused the economy to go down 
like a “slippery slope”.  

From a vision Joan foretold that France would lose a siege, 
before it even took place.
It was only then that High Officials took her seriously,
And listened to her ‘message’ from God.
In 1428,  Joan was “crossed-dressed as a male 
and taken to the battlefield. 
Wearing a man’s garb she galloped through fields,thickets,
and rough terrains, and leading France into victory.  
But her cross-dressing switched the conflict to a Religious War, 
For that was a Political and Religious sin! 

On May 23rd 1430 Joan was pulled off her horse 
while riding at the rear of the guard.
Her captors bargained for a huge sum of 10,000 livres lournois. 
While in captivity she wrote two letters alluding she may never come home. 
Two dreams came through for her: 
Victory for France and the Coronation of Charles VII.
 
An inquisition was held for poor Joan of Arc in English
territory where she was Interrogated.
There Joan was accused of things such as these:
Cross-dressing, bewitching, hearing from God.
At age 19, her trial over, in 1431 she was found guilty
Of all charges and burnt at the stake for heresy!
A sacrifice for cross-dressing for her King.

God won’t let her case “rest” and twenty five years later,
An English Bishop ordered that Joan’s case be exhumed.
Examining the case found her “not guilty”, and all charges 
against her were debunked making her a Martyr.
For the role she played and the services that she rendered.

 Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Copyright © Rainbow Promise | Year Posted 2015