Writing Imagination Poems

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Details | Epigram |

Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions

Burning fire you are 
Consuming my whole 
My heart
My mind 
My soul
My spirit,  
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated 
To be understood
To be expressed!

A Herculean task it is,
I swear, 
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained 
And mold you into:
And still retain 
Your explosive 
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple 
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!

Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the 
Cosmos speaks,
The universe alone
The language of 
That we humans 
Even then 
To describe you

©Demetrios Trifiatis
   28 January 2013


Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine. 
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.

My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.

Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.

Once, later on in my own life, 
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in  my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . . 
and found that even those less valuable could shine!

A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted 
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade, 
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen! 

The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

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 | Haiku |
Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....

Copyright © EMMANUEL SAMSON | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
There's a river that twists in the mind
that I plunder and ravish with sieves,
on crusades to the summit of rhyme
where my Phoenix of tropes and schemes live.

In a war to free diction's fair Queen
where the Soldiers of Babel bemuse
and the modern day graceless regimes
are in battles to stifle my muse!

In my quest for her verse of prestige
I have traveled a nexus of words
with this Lexis of language on siege;
where the dissonant hum drum is heard!

Oh, the poise of my bayonet firm
as I pin down my thoughts in a rush!
Oh, the will of the language it squirms
as her essence of glory I brush!

She's the Queen Muse that whispers within
as she watches me battle with style,
she supplies me the yarn that I spin
as she lends me her rhythm awhile.

It's the moment her Highness is freed
that the Armies of Dissonance fall
and the sound of Perfection can bleed
in those lyrical sounds that enthrall!

Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2006

Details | I do not know? |
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
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

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

Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | I do not know? |

                Your written  words roll off my tongue, and I savor the taste
                   Captivating my desires, with your nostalgic embrace 

                              Your verses I desire, your poesies I crave
                              Your sensual phrases place me in a daze

                              Rhythmically in sync, steadying the pace 
                               Melodies in motion, no need for  haste

                          Intoxicated by the scent of your lyrical fragrance
                        My imagination climaxes from your melodic persuasion

                         Your hypnotic undertones send chills down my spine
                     It’s like poetic seduction when I read between your lines

Chiquita Chiamaka Baity



Copyright © ChiquitaChiamaka Baity | Year Posted 2011

Details | Dramatic Verse |

The pen picked a fight with the paper
The four walls looked on in disdain
The pen broke its nib in the caper
But inflicted a horrible stain

The pen lay there battered and broken
The paper had two big black eyes
No words were written or spoken
Which surely should be no surprise

The writer looked downcast and grim
Frustration now welling within
His chair creaked slightly beneath him
His head was beginning to spin

The fly on the wall remained silent
It offered no friendly advice
The scene on the desk had been violent
And the poet was paying the price

Copyright © Robert Haigh | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.

The Desk, once alive,
The Words,
No longer,

Love, abandon,
But wanting not,
The Freedom,
It has.

A Wooden Chair, dusty,
Reclines not,
For the Comfort,
Once given.

Time, a mystery gone,
With passing,
Never to be recovered,

Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
The Heart,
Once brightened.

Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Of Laughter,
Wisdom, once known.

Copyright © Kenneth Fordham | Year Posted 2008

Details | Free verse |
Some people are voices
On the edge of rocks
With steep slopes and cliffs.
Some people are echoes
At the bottom of walls
Carved by rushing waters.

Copyright © Leon Stacey | Year Posted 2007

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”.


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,
my sum with rusty protractor.

This Zero, into a fraction...

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sonnet |
Betrayed Expectations 

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 | Free verse |
It was “Death” you drew.
You rolled that slip of paper
between your fingers 
thin as onionskin, 
and dropped it in your pocket.
Pastel lady, 

did you wish to spare 
us? You fluttered fingers 
over the basket, and drew out 
“Patio Party,” 
a subject we must address 
before we meet again.

How many great poems 
have been penned on Death? 
How many on a
Patio Party?

Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2005

Details | Canzone |

I am the invisible girl behind the words,
Known in every land for my bleeding ink;
Behind self-imposed walls I find a place to think,
Each sad brick is sorrow and betrayal.
Within my strong walls my poems are free birds,
Invisible- I surround myself with beauty;
Music playing in the background, oh so moody,
My writing desk ever loyal,
Lovely, although invisible my portrayal.
I dine with a view of flowers swaying,
On a shady porch my cats are sleeping;
Books on many shelves are my friends truly.
And art on walls are my dearest companions,
I am invisible- this is not delusions.

So invisible-
Afraid to leave my haven.
I am a red rose hidden,
You must be willing,
To peel back each soft petal,
To reveal this girl of words.

April 24, 2016

Canzone (Rhyme scheme ABBCAEECCFFEGG)
and Choka (5/7/7/5/7/7)

Inspiration - Image #1

Entered in the contest, Being Invisible
sponsor, Skat

Fourth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016

Details | Limerick |
While doing my daily internet loop
I read some poems at Poetry Soup
Some souls were bared
Emotions shared
By a wonderfully talented group

So many unknowns are gathered together
Brandishing their talents without a tether
Notable skills
From gifted quills
Flocking together like birds of a feather

Whether mundane or totally bizarre
Through words they express just who they are
Some young, some old
Some shy, some bold
Each as marvelous as a shooting star

To the nameless owners of this great site
Thank you for giving our poetry flight
No longer adrift
Because of your gift
You are the beacon that brings us to light

Copyright © Dawn Drickman | Year Posted 2006

Details | I do not know? |
As I place the pen
on paper
my soul beings
to bleed
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla 
fog around me, allowing
my mind
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
I write
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
and fears
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner 
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams 
of being a published poet
clearly float
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
onto pages
into an early sun

Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
           I bent over to touch my toes
               and the ground tore open like a backbone.

I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe 
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars, 
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.

Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees, 
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]

The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.  
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.

   I dared to taste oblivion,
       and the sky swallowed me. 

My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming, 
but inside out.

            I bent over to touch my toes,
              and my spine tore open;
            the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
          like the tines of forks.
            I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
              but I only found where I end.

Copyright © Elizabeth Nathaniel | Year Posted 2012

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

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

they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
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.


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 | Prose |
My soul rides the pen. Flowing through the nib, my thoughts are revealed; flowing onto the page in dark, liquid waves. As a vessel, I pour; all within me, spews forth. Naked rivers of ink Reveal muse’s secrets. Muse wields her sword, sliced opinions, fall away upon journal pages. Pen-to-paper, scratching letters and words that betray us both. She talks too much and insists that, there are others who dream and believe, as we do. Why do I feel like I must keep silent and Let her do all of the talking? With Pen, she speaks; with sword, she conquers. I am her vessel and I must let her pour.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015

Details | Couplet |
Writing words across a clear blank page…
Sharing thoughts let out of a cage…

Toss it up into the sky…
Watch it scream as it flies...

Over bent back treetops that hide rainbows…
Grabbing colors like a picture show…

From my fingers to your eyes…
The words read clear in soulful cries…

Toss it back up with your smile…
And blow a kiss that covers miles…

To my hand it returns with peace…
As poetry glides with tender ease…

Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2013

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 | Verse |
Extraordinary, I am 
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding  the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
My passion
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When  my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart

Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    

Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...

After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "

Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  

My theme is: Happiness In Childhood

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Rhyme |
Magniloquent words of an empurpled writer. Where lofty, yet showily expressed words make details brighter. Concise, rhetorically composed words made solely for an effect. Causing pithy comments to draw a picture, for readers to connect. The complexion and pigment of colorful words then meld into a spectral light. Blended with the authors passion for the topic, causing both to ignite. .... Smooth white sands blow across the dune Distant notes from a banjo floats into a tune. Ancient ironweed graces the desert with vibrant color As sunset beckons for twilight to be evenings romantic caller. Beach peas and daisies grow between cliffs of living stone Stand embellished fig trees on seeded winds were flown. ..... Written with a shimmer of color floating on an iridescent feather. Titillates the plateau of ones senses on aromatic breezes of white heather. first three have definitions to words in each stanza center three stanza's and last are examples of expression relative to the first three. Carole Cookie Arnold 2009

Copyright © Carole Cookie Arnold | Year Posted 2010

Details | Alliteration |
I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel
into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal
from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within
the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins.

I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word
or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard
to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined
unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine.

I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony
between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me
I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while
to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile.

I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all
with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls
pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion
washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion.

I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse
expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use
composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy,
I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
In the rain I see clear...
Through the clouds I can hear...

Behind a wall I can write...
Scribing words in the night...

Moonlight shines on every line...
Sunrise brings the final rhyme...

See the world in my view...
From dreams to words it all grew...

Copyright © Michael J. Falotico | Year Posted 2012

Details | Haiku |
quarter moon in sight,
partially hidden by clouds.
just like my verses.

Copyright © dennis lee | Year Posted 2006

Details | Rhyme |
Now here's a contest that seems pointless
But, up to a point, I guess it will do.
The points in my life have sometimes been fruitless,
I just thought I would point that out to you.

Oh, the point of this rhyme
May be pointed one way,
But it is at this point in time
To score points by what I say.

The point that I am making,
Is that there is always some point
That life points in a way forsaking,
Giving your point a grave disjoint.

I have pointed out many times
that points are good and bad.
But the good points I remember better
Rather than the bad points I have had.

You can sometimes see how pointless it is
To try to point these things out.
As for the point I am making,
You get the point...no doubt!

Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2011