Writing Water Poems

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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 | Iambic Pentameter |
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.

I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.

Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.

Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.

Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?

I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.

It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.

But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.

Copyright © Michael Perriatt | Year Posted 2010

Details | Couplet |
Against the sea or ocean tide,
with poetry and pen allied,
I found the water muse inspires
every word the hand requires.

How winsome is her rustic art
that from recesses of the heart,
bring well-established syllables
and the flow of countless ripples?

By gaping river's open mouth,
she'll end the wordlessness of drought
and as the poets' voice is heard,
she'll sail on his dramatic word

then drift into those wordless streams
on metered verse and rhyming schemes
until each one who ever wrote
has cast their work of art afloat!

Copyright © Celeste Butler-Mendez | Year Posted 2009




Details | Acrostic |
I am me,
In dark and light.
I am me,
When I need to fight.
And when the thunder lightning strikes,
I am me in no disguise.
 
I am me,
In joy and sorrow.
I am me,
Today and tomorrow.
And when I suffer from turmoil,
Like a seed I will sprout out above the soil.

I am me,
In new and old.
I am me,
Waiting to unfold..
And if time turned against me,
I am me to behold.

Copyright © Vaidehi Chaudhari | Year Posted 2017

Details | Quatrain |
A test of the water,
A dip of my toe.
Undeniably chilly,
But bearably so.

Before I can swim,
I must get undressed.
I’ll start with my shirt,
And then all the rest.

I’ll glance about shyly,
Then just take the dive.
Returning for air,
Now I’m feeling alive.

This is how poetry
Ever will be.
A definite risk,
But a way to be free.

I show to the world,
What others won’t bare.
My vulnerable soul,
Under scrupulous glare.

Just as the clear water,
A feeble veil makes.
So scarcely can prose
Conceal life’s mistakes.

So under some metaphor
Or in simile
If you are looking,
You’ll find naked me.

Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment 
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.

One after another they arrive
Single file,
Steeping my eyes in the world 
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering 
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.

My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?

Jacob Reinhardt
10/3/2013

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Enclosed Rhyme |

         Gifted with 3 things  on a deserted Island what do I bring .
           Having clothes on,   a smart phone wet not smart at all
              For you have hope in store when you can not make a call ..

         ~ A sharpest of knives that starts fire 
               Ugg boots Australian built resilient  
                  A pot to boil water pure from the salt  ~
   
         This being a hard choice for it's these I desire  ~
        
           Belgium chocolate,  coffee with evaporated milk
               Tea  & sugar to last a decade , paper , pen 
                  A goose down blanket under stars ,warming like silk

           my favorite books , The four agreements 
                A working I pod, guitar, for music is my muse ..

          A Bible to read so I can keep my faith higher ~
      
          After becoming one with all nature I call this my own
             Now bring me a prozac and a cell phone 
            "   A special forces man ...oh no , temptation,  I may not come home ! "
          
           Yet being true to self , and my soul unfolds..
      ~ For I love and miss my children , what is life without them to hold ~
       
          
      "written for Shadows contest on 10-8-13"

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

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 am Africa, I am man
Hear my drums, know my heart beat
My sorrow is not metered in iambic lines
Life does not speak that way
So artificial this enumeration of joy
So false this constant rise and fall of tone
I fish the tides
Sometimes the water rises above the rock
And stay a long, long time
Like a dream that won't give up
Sometimes the water recedes far out
Lingering at the bar
Waiting for the moon to show her breast
Watching silently like a star
For one ear Nana Oba to divorce me
From this culture that is my hell.
I am Africa, I am man
My fingers running fast on antelope skin
Cross the bata light and sweet like a caress
Like rainfall on the Serengeti
Like bird call for Nana Oshun's memory

So when I put my hands around your waist
Sliding my finger over the contours of our embrace
Searching for lake Nakuru under your dress
Down from the Kilmanjaro of your breast
And whisper my feelings in your ears
In cross-rhythms, kora and mbira playing
Hot like khamsin, passionate like the yamo
Sucking on your tongue for life
Seeking the umbilical water for my pain
What care for anapestic sentiments
Trochaic promises, dactylic stories
I need you in all the wonder of your loveliness
In all the moods that living tell
In our orbiting exodus of earth and hell
No time now for phony precisions
I speak as I am, as I feel emotions
Dancing on my finger tips 
Dancing on the velvet smooth of drums
Ladling at your Nakura, lapping at your lips
All tribal, my body hums
For the stolen glory of my history
For the cinder of theories
That make me victim twice in my misery
I am Africa, I am man
Hear my prophecy, I will succeed!

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010

Details | Diamante |
I drank my words from the cup of evil lately not holy water
Like many I sit in my dungeon of doom on earth trying not to my addictions faultier
I'm sitting knee deep in the shitted down reservation sewer street water 
Im looking for wisdom daily with sinners with calls that I shouldn't be trying to call her
I know I be looking for a life filled with silver and gold when I know Im living in copper
I know I got a crazy  coming my way so I best get on trying to stop her
I remember the first time I was in love with lust when I first saw her
I know without the water in my life I would scream silent as I would quietly holler 
I know I been like a bunny moving around in life that sometimes people call me a hopper
I know I been kicking it in the field so much that people tell me I should start playing soccer
I should be more of an actor of actions and less more of a talkitive talker
I know I got what I got so I will be a poet that will never ever faulteir

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill | Year Posted 2013

Details | Limerick |
She’s out there chasing a cricket

Through bush, through shrub & through thicket

Together they hop

Fugitive, cop

But when she gets it, she just wants to lick it!
 

A cat whose vet took his eye

Just cannot quite understand why

His eye’s been enucleated,

3-D vision reduciated,

So now, he keeps an eye out for an eye

 
Ya gotta keep limericks loose

Think green eggs, or perhaps Dr. Seuss

They’re structured, it’s true,

But they’re also a zoo

Whose tenants are all on the loose!


I frolic in fountains of words

Overflowing with serious absurds

Each poem I write

Wakes up and takes flight

Joining angels and faeries and birds

 
You ask that we write a good limerick

How to do so, I haven’t a glimmerick

So I struggle and frown

Teaching  poems to clown

So a smile on your lips will be shimmerick

 
A cat with a mouth full of mouse

Brought her feast right into my house

She played with her food

Who was not in the mood

To be a banquet of mouse in the house

 
The nightmares that shadow my sleep

Stampede the proverbial sheep

Right out of my mind

When I try to unwind

I find my appointment with sleep hard to keep

 
In her search for original truth

She met people unsavory and couth

She knitted and purled

But only unfurled

Yarns told by new age and old youth

 
Cat, suddenly pink,

Drinks her water from out of the sink

She looks so absurd

Since she’s been de-furred

I really don’t know what to think!

 
If one and one is two and two is four,

And there’s only two ways to go through  a door,

Then, is earth up or down?

And, where is down town?

These are questions we need to explore!

 
A was that is an is

Tried to mind my biz

But I sent it packing,

Its presence was lacking

And I don’t have time for such shiz!


A couple who lived in Los Lunas

Loved the wide desert sky’s crystal blueness

They’d stare at the air,

Over here, over there

And rejoice at the feeling of newness

 
A cat with a very fat gut

Found it easier to walk on his butt

He’d drag it around

Across carpet and ground

And use it to slam the doors shut

 
Said the Missus to her dear Mr. Otter,

“There’s something I think that you oughta

Do before we get old

To protect us from cold –

You oughta make the hot water hotter!”

 
The ghosts who live up in my attic

Make noises that sound much like static

I’ve tried to send them away,

But they’re here to stay,

Those staticky ghosts in my attic

Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson | Year Posted 2007

Details | I do not know? |




My Wishes are Simple


My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.



My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.



My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.




Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Personification |
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

Details | Lyric |
Bait ready, line in the water,
it is in the waiting that taught her...
its all in the way you put out the tease,
chumming the water for fishing the seas...

as the schools begin to near
easy meals entice the absense of fear...
slowly and smoothly reel in the line,
you have their attention, they're ready to dine...

May I catch a moment of your time?
Having it makes me feel real and sublime...
give me your interests, and I'll give you a piece,
in this little game of catch and release....

the pain of hunger is taking its tole,
instinct draws you in close as I pull at the pole
you nibble the bait approaching the hook
but here little bites bring on a second look

Ah, the pole bounces and the fisherman smiles,
it all goes to show and its been a while...
then the pole bends and now its time to pull in
the awaited moment thats about to begin...

May I catch a moment of your time?
Having it makes me feel real and sublime...
give me your interests, and I'll give you a piece,
in this little game of catch and release....



Since you were lured
I pull you a board
and measure you....
measure your growth,
but just rest assured,
you are adored...

I kiss you on the lip
as you flounder and flip
in my grip...

I only mean to help, I only mean to give,
return you to water so that you may live....

See, I got to hold you and you got to eat,
I played you and we got to meet....

Copyright © Richard Bates | Year Posted 2011

Details | Lyric |
He is an architect of soundscapes.  
Senseless with passion he stands 
before a pending deluge.  
Rapt is he to the resounding
din within the halls of his skull.  At night,
the architect will dream of faces
they smile and laugh—they cry and sigh, 
and he must reconcile with the knowledge
that he is responsible for their being, 
as incomplete as they may be.  They chant
his name at the brimming of the storm—he
hears their voices as whispers.  There is a 
grind which pulses perpetually through
as he hears the endless ringing, through rime
and reason.  As chaos descends upon
him, he peels back his flesh to better feel
the salt from the ocean.  Waves engulf him.
Although he is afraid, he submits to the
tempest.  Underneath the water’s surface
are endless observations for his eye.
Swirling shades of chaos glimmer above
as he shouts profound profanities to 
heaven.  As the storm recedes, the water
will dismiss the architect from suffering.
He then must dredge the bodies—blue-faced and
bloated—to the dry banks of his stream of
consciousness—where autopsies may yield some 
connotation, but never certainty.  

Copyright © Samuel Lee | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
11/11/16
"Water"


On land and in the water

Ores such as copper


The M.V. P. of the entire roster

Back in the day they use to call me Harry Potter

Show me a lady that can cook like Betty Crocker

I'll appreciate every meal especially the peach Cobbler

Showing her respect and honor

And treating her proper


My mind continuing to wander

What opportunity lies over yonder?

Something I could find out or just continue to ponder



No it's not ever cool to be a bank robber

Or suicide bomber


Of every rhyme I post, I am the author

In school was only a mediocre scholar

Objects assembled with screws and washers


Certains days shorter or longer 

Depending on the season the weather getting colder or hotter

Nearby in these waters exists otters

Where people fish in fresh and saltwater

For many things, like trout, crab ,salmon and lobster

Trees grown from seeds, with much more than hard work and a water dropper



No good in remaining to be somber

Got to prosper

By showing and proving what I got to offer


I love playing sports, even soccer

I'm a fan of any well made lager

And I've always had an interest in owning a dog that is a boxer

Fascinations in all species not just nightcrawlers


Never was the biggest talker


Just trying to become wiser and stronger


One day I just may own a chair that is a rocker

By: Dalton Ogletree

Copyright © Dalton Ogletree | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
DefinitiveSound
Kerplunk sound of stone dropping down into water Kersplash is man falling overboard a 
boat. Whoosh is the wind or someone moving or something moving fast leaving wind behind. 
Plop is messy. POP may be too many noises to describe them all. Bang a pistol shot. Boom 
thunder or explosives. Crack the lightening bolts or wood breaking SNAP the fingers snap 
the buttons closed snap them suspenders once SLAP is too composed. Creak the door open 
slowly it comes then stops Creak the door shut on my nerves oh the thrill and excitement in 
the Creak that comes. Whap is seldom penned they use wham or whack instead of whap the 
hapless foe whap him with the silly stick then let my people go fish; there is a blurble gurgle 
noise for fish out of water dry fish seldom heard or used the need not there in movies seen. 
Calls whistles barks too many on the listing port to add them whistles hear them barks just 
way too many calls from port of call to answer all the calls. Crunch is seldom heard but 
candy bars or fresh apples turned on the stem to view. Whale thar she blows kind of splishy 
constant throes just like running water hot or cold in a falls away zone the waterfalls away. 
Definitive sound.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Lyric |
Bath water …
Warm 
Maybe too hot to feel
I'm feeling alone and cold inside.   Little time to relax to reflect on some thoughts and several things in my life. My eyes rolled to the back of my head like…, I just can’t believe this.
Several attempts to cry but....
Pain tolerance…
High.
Never mind
It's not pride.  I've tried not to hide but found that I can survive time. I'm too wet to write.  Not fighting the flow 
The need for expressing my feelings are needed I’ve pleaded with myself looking into a mirror Reciting lines after lines looking and listening to what could be my own poetic Passion.
My voice, my thoughts raw; Cuts deep for the personal gain for something I’m in search for.
Stitches soak in wet as my hand drips excess water and blood, like my mind with words I’m thinking the pain can’t get any worst. 
Crossing out thoughts like the tattoo on my arm baring witness to my personal pain. Forever tattooed cross for my personal reminder like my stitches will be the reminder of another time. The past can’t last forever. Timeless thoughts. I’m Scared.
The pain, mine I'm the blame.  
I'm not ashamed.
It's the man I have to tame inside
Several mistakes cover my body, leaving scars for stories to be told or for the unknown record of my life.  Like testifying to living proof.  My mistakes I can’t tell.
I'm still learning.
Feelings desire’s that I won't let control or bury me in misery.
No mercy
I refuse to look away
Or walk away from my pain because each stitch tells 13 stories like the souls of men and women they are different and defines their personal pain.
My scares are my personal and emotional team working together influencing a chemical balance or at times unbalance thoughts dancing to a hardcore jazz sound.  A mixture, variety of thoughts.
Bath water cold 
My thoughts are now different, time taught me this lesson it can't stopped or locked away like the dreams of my mind. 
No stop watch or maybe I’m just lost in time.

Copyright © Noble Smalls | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
dreaming the poets dream of purity
dissolving civilized rituals of society
into the light of pure being
unifying all humanity in truth
which is a timeless retelling of ancient knowledge
only reflected separately as identity
viewing life through a peculiar lens
which honors the glorious balance
of undisturbed country
curiosity driving the poet 
to sing with the rarest bird
unseen in the wild night
and though he renders all in loving detail
he finds his world swiftly disappearing
and so driven he drives his pen
to catch a draught of time
offering to future generations
a sincere survey of their origins

Copyright © Ian Be | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
1/8/17


At speeds of several knots
Near and far from docks with yachts
Lots of water drops
Falling non-stop
All across
The rocks and moss
As well as atop of fields with crops
Causing some to rot
Or have spots that are soft
While there is an ongoing rise and fall with stocks

Due to floods and the frost
Areas being locked down and blocked

Opportunities knock
Around the clock

Get it while you can
Instead of having it slip through your hand
Faster than sand
Above and below the land

Don't try to throw your life away
Night and day
Any time and place
Close or beyond any pines and clay

By: Dalton Ogletree

Copyright © Dalton Ogletree | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Nothing beats the power of hope.
But false expectations help that hope stay afloat.
Disappointed.
Patience, help hold that sailed boat.

Copyright © Christina Rose | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
RASPBERRY RAIN OF A HURRICANE

Raspberry rain that is pouring down pain
that is making the world insane
of the true Hurricane
red eyes that cry upon the table
where nothing is stable
the longing for peace 
for the rise of the sun
where life can be fun
Dawn fiery arms carrie on
that only wish to embrace the sea
of the Hurricane of the rasberry rain
that is pouring out more pain
Bones are dry from the souls who died
where people tried to be set free
why do they cry or even try
when they didn't listen to heed 
body aches but holding faith 
for the hurricane to leave
it is getting hard to breath
the winds scratch beneath the sheets of steel
hollowing down the streets
Non visions at the hour to come
strange when it comes to dreams
neither awake nor sleep 
but I still hear the sounds of those who weeps
in cold darken room filed with the sea
of darken dreams that comes to me
conspiracy of the millions that can see
the escape from the raspberry rain of the hurricane
watery ears that can hear what is near
holding on to all that fear
beneath our feet are the angery teeth 
I don't suppose the raspberry raindrops 
will come to a stop
it sounds like small feet to angery sea
some throw their self in water traffic 
where life becomes more unpredictable
bleary eyed that cry on high
that is wrapped in pain of the Hurricane.

Poetic Judy Emery

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2017

Details | Pantoum |
Vivid imagination spins,
when one creates
a fine literary work...
life would never be happier.


When one creates,
ideas keep on flowing...
life would never be happier
with thoughts swifter than light.

Ideas keep on flowing
like water from a waterfall
with thoughts swifter than light
I am glad to reach my home.


Like water from a waterfall
that's pure and refreshing
I am glad to reach my home
without worry, sadness or doubt.


That's pure and refreshing 
as I drink it with great delight...
without worry, sadness or doubt,
to satisfy my unquenchable thirst.


I'm still writing my first Pantoum,
seeing shadows advancing...
without worry, sadness or doubt,
I pay more attention to form than rhyme.


Perched on the power line, owls stare at me
and wonder what I am doing at such hour
by this bright lamp...as
vivid imagination spins.



Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
BIOMYOPIC
Never am eye ever counting my self worth in the amounts and measures of this 
world the many blankets that eye have like an old Indian man this would lead me 
into madness and depression far too quickly then is my want the things afforded 
me is gold and silver lines my pockets but the stuffins that eye have and all the 
riches of this world yes even MONEY is not GOD and HE has Glory when eye 
gather and even when eye find eye just say thank you JESUS even in my mind 
The way is narrow the way is hard the way is easy the way is love.
The shoes upon my feet are not wearing out they keep there size and shape for 
many months now. NO one is perfect and things are not forever but the one who 
blesses us can make a shiny piece of leather
Last seemingly forever if it is on the sandel of his desert feet.
The Holy Son Of GOD the JESUS of the Nazarene landscaping the Jesus of the 
CROSS is HE who is my blessing. A good Christian man must examine himself 
to see if he is in the HUMAN race the thing to please remember is to have the 
attitude inside the forewithall to hide thyself from pride and foolish attitude of self 
decay and sometimes leaving water here and there is the hope of someone 
else’s day. A drink left out where poor one may soon find it may not seem like 
much in the Grand scheme of things but we must soon get started giving and the 
good deed comes in living and just having FAITH and leaving just a cup just ONE 
CUP of cold water in the place the poor man dwells eye can say with out reserve 
with out much thinking looking back eye have been that very thirsty eye have 
needed water finding none and eye was thirsty did ewe give me drink did ewe 
give me some. Eye left a cup of water for the poor man to drink and GOD has 
overflowed my wellness and eye am not now ever sick. This is my biomyopic.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
8/25/17


From here to over yonder
Come hell or high water

Before, during and after the dog days of summer
Standing out like no other
Showing my true colors

No one I need to convince
I drink like a fish
Not a myth
Eversince 
It's
Been hit
And miss
Holy s***

Good intent
Was always meant
So please excuse my french

Too many
Showing envy
Involved in a feeding frenzy

Going for broke
Won't 
Be looked at as a joke

With my own style
Going to go the extra mile
In order to make it more worthwhile

A lot of people high on the hog
It's rather odd
Just like the concept of god

Copyright © Dalton Ogletree | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |
Writing is a river,
The headwaters
Springing from the well,
Bubbling up and out
Free-flowing
Falling and frothing white in the flux of development.
 
Writing is a river, 
Tempered by the banks of time and distance, yet
Moving steadily, flowing in a forward restless direction
Bending and bowing
Coursing around or through obstacles
Detouring here,
Hovering briefly there,
Shifting,
Sliding,
Changing the landscape.
 
Writing is a river
Streaming into the flow
Of a wider, deeper channel
Sauntering and strolling,
Reposing in the estuary, pausing at the
Reflection pool before proceeding into the 
Bigger, broader body and the
Completion of its natural course.

Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
I have reached the peak, of Mountaintop Lake A mystical lake, where clear blue water awaits The bright colorful fish makes my soul wake The sounds of nature, beautifully resonates
A breath-taking sunset, leaves me lost in a gaze Mesmerized by, gifts of wonder from our maker The painted backdrop, I stand in amaze God our creator, such a peacemaker
Night falls, the fireflies begin to take flight The air thins, with a breeze so nice and cool Such a magical night, that's so full of delight The big bright moon, reflecting off the mirrored pool
With there treetop view, birds sing each other to sleep These memories, I've made will never fade Captured moments, forever mine to keep As my journey moves on, I head into the glade
5/9/2017

Copyright © Jeremy Smith | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
The stars have already begun to fade When the rooster awakes A new day has come As the sun shimmers across the great lake The geese prepare for the flight their about to take Going to the next destination before daybreak An array of images that has forever became a keepsake
3/30/2017

Copyright © Jeremy Smith | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
emotions sailing in choppy waters onward to isles of seclusion passion dinghies released seeking anchors of expression securely beached exploring wisdom shores

Copyright © Richard Martins | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
Mommy says I gotta sit in the bathtub
And wash my face with a lotta soap and water.
But the dirt don’t come off no matter how hard I rub.
So, I just make bubbles while I wait for my father.

He’ll know whadda do, ‘cause he’s a really smart guy.
When I grow up, I wanna be just like him.
But when he gets dirty like me, I wanna know why
After his bath, he looks the same as he did goin’ in.

I bet it’s ‘cause he don’t use enough soap and water.
That’s what happens when you’re always in a hurry.
Mommy should send Daddy to bed with no supper.
That’s what happens to me when I come downstairs dirty.

Copyright © Philip Scheidel | Year Posted 2017