Best Alphabetic Poems
"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit,
I told him to take my poetic pen.
He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate."
In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry,
surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind,
I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew.
Insecure with egotistical lame labels,
tormented by attention seeking tags,
irritated from imitative compliments.
Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from
reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon.
On the edge of personification,
symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize.
Sometimes there can be too many words,
sometimes not enough,
yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts.
I guess there is an art to pretending,
yet I watch my artistry fade.
We weave webs turning the internal into external,
but I question whether I was ever a poet.
Pondering if my poems served a purpose.
I have lost patience for personal prose,
rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting,
the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets.
as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy.
I hear alphabetic patrol sirens,
their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual.
An assassination of alliterations,
is causing a massacre of my muse.
There is a void in my verses,
which prevents me from roaming free.
My soul feels like a starless supernova,
a moonless sky drifting into a black hole,
as fatigued fingers become a mistress
to simple scribbles.
I yearn to be forever silent,
with no motive to write for a legacy,
so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum.
I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill,
so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden.
I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas.
Silent One
15 February 2022
Oh my beloved
unlock yourself from my mind
and appear before my eyes
whenever I think about you
so that I can see you
when I long to be near you
When my mind's stream of yearnings
starts pouring out like a waterfall
and flows as a river of romantic verses
that I write only for you
oh! how much I wish
that those words of love
that my muse sprinkles in a blank paper
gather themselves on their own
to sketch an alphabetic portrait of you
so that I could keep gazing
at your charming face
When fate, like a monster, separates us
All I wish is...
To just be the last word
of your most inspiring verse
that you already have in your mind
and yet to write in pen and paper
To just be an unstressed syllable
of your name
whenever and wherever
your name is called out loud
to honour you
To just be the faint flickering light
at the end of the dark tunnel
of your dull dreary days
Date: 01/30/2023
Writing Challenge - B Word Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Inexorable Want
How do I find
These sentences
Written as they are
In ephemeral ink
Indelible lines
Inscribed in my being
Spectral yearnings
It crashes me
To rocks
In unanswerable waves
Swimming tidal
To the inexorable
Yet
The implacable distance
Confounds me
Longing vent me no more
In twists and turns
And unmade beds
Where crumpled kisses
Dream on hot soaked cushions
Leave me not
To the ever restless
Fumblings
Quiet unheard of whisperings
Of her name
How do I find
The collective alphabetic
Of love unknown
Yet
Divulged by these
The screeching banshees
Of petal falling
Corpuscle red
They flow through my blood
Unbidden
Unwarranted
Unwanted
And so desperate
How do they find me
On such a precarious brink
With the voltage
And permission of electricity
Rapine in all my singularity
Hurricane she batters at me
For all my will to resist
I am
Weak
I cannot
Help me please
Lest I drown dark
Brooding in forever’s need
She is my quiet
And ever sun set calmed
Sea
And I
I am a tempest
Left to bellow and blow
Inside an hour glass
In the confines of my soul
Help me please
Save me from this void ripping
As she shreds every day
Every hour
With my unrequited returning
To her arms
Save me
For I have found
My life
My soul companion
So far from me
On some so strange a horizon
That the distance
Between us
Could prove to be
My
Undoing
Acrostic Memory
Acrostics introduced in fifth grade on a rainy winter afternoon
Careful crafted choice of words written in lyric cadence hues
Rhythmic flow like music class - songs of skaters waltzes spin
Out of tumbling imagination’s chaos form corrals intention’s whims
Shaping thoughts that rumble ramble like errant spitball pests
Teacher’s encouragement gentle walks through rows of wooden desks
Imaginations set on fire with a powerful surge
Crafts of poems like spelling bees in alphabetic order emerge
My favorite teacher – Miss Daly - guided my awakening muse
Emerging in wide young eyes - life’s enigma puzzles to deduce -
Many her gifts wrapped in surprises of creative lines, the prize
Often I remember her stern but loving eyes
Reminders to remember her guiding hand for wordsmith potential
Yet I always wonder of her life’s acrostic in questions reverential
12-8-20
Contest: Nostalgia
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
A,B,C alphabetic
1,2,3, arithmetic
Two eyes of academic
Alphabetic and arithmetic
What logic in alphabetic?
What Ethic in arithmetic?
No letter comes prosperous
No figure goes dangerous
No letter brings luckiness
No figure brings luckiness
God given the time
Don't blame,it's crime
No letter writes divine
No figure counts not divine
At seven counts of teen
Gate way is thirteen
A,B,C alphabetic
1,2,3 arithmetic
Two eyes of the academic
Arithmetic and alphabetic
Love's Fashion Model
Darling, May i dress you
In alphabetic Bytes that Mold
and caress your Manly form?
May i drape you in a Fantasy
made of Words and Nature's imagery?
We would wander thru a quiet cove
where turtle doves could make a melody
and i would find a sandy bank
and weave myrtle leaves and flowers
around your neck, into your hair.
Around your waist I'll thread some tender vines
strewn with apple blossoms sweet;
and with subtle sage plucked from the water's edge
I'll dress your thighs and slender legs.
Across your chest a sash of fiddle ferns
will make your grab complete.
And then I'll lie beside you in the quiet
afternoon; the breeze will bless the stirring
of our passion and the sun will keep us warm.
There the birds will be our serenade, the bubbling
creek their instrument. And with myself...I'll cover
you...where' ere the flowers have not done.
May I drape you with a fantasy
Made of words and nature's imagery.....
Darling....may I ...un-dress you....
One day I'll write some thing
That will make this planet sing
It may not be perfect
For anybody, even me
We'll have to wait and see...
If the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You'll know I wrote something
That made this planet sing!
One day I'll be King
And someone else will sing
Songs I weave from words
Like an alphabetic artist
Who lights up the darkest.
When the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You'll know I wrote something
That made this planet sing!
One day wearing nothing
I'll wander down in spring
Dance the night sky nearer
Guile her with guitars
Then sprinkle her with stars.
Now the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You know I wrote something
That gave the darkness bling!
Muted words linger in limbo
imprisoned between many leaves
bound together in the darkness
of a poet’s tried thesaurus.
Their alphabetic existence
is but an endless servitude
whose individual meanings
chosen and together sequenced
for the glory of the poet.
The many verses read aloud
gives each utile word a voice
and continues till completion.
Then darkness returns once again
as the reference book is closed.
Alphabet soup served piping hot
In your bowl ladle up the lot
A Poet Destroyer stirs up the soup
While A Nathan joins in the diverse group with his works
Michael Ainsley joins the conglomerate
with his poetic alphabetic tricks
Who in the bowl floats up next
Daver Austin a music whiz laying out stanzas quite appetizing
Which letter would I like to see now
Maybe some who have come and gone quite recently
Therese Bacha who pours out her soul
Poems written with passion and emotion into the bowl
James Fraser whose romantic and passionate lines
Filled the bowl with affairs of the heart
Now they've gone missing from the soup pot
Sponsor: Yasmin Khan
Contest: Meeting The Soupers
Written on October 31, 2013
Poet: Sara Kendrick
Who what when where, which what kind how many whose, is am are was were be being
been, have has had do does did, shall will should would, may might must can could,
7th grade English, Ms Auman where do u get off postering yr silly salient syallable sanctions on
promising pious poets lurking longingly to properly pronounce your prodigious pounces
rather than straight line serious shooting sonerous sequential sentients telling it like
it really is from ther gutheart grunt grant gifting rather than a premeasured premise
to soothe satisfy your fragile forlorn poetic pompous estorgen ego eccentric. Really?
Relenteless? Ridiculous reality revealing a riotious retention of re rememberance of
rat rightous ridicule. A poem is comprised full alphabetic freedom from
conscious convention conviction
crossed dispelled dimensions of saturnine rejections real and supposed. Take it for what it is and post ponder the real unreal ramifications of thought
prepostpotential patterns. Sit back and enjoy the creative
capacity of people speaking in
an opened consciousness psyche unintruded soul unsacrificed
personna personnified and above all, a humanes helplessly
hovering hoping to hang tightly revealingly a titntilating tomboy
tantrum of blessed bromines brimising blatant blanks of
alphapoeticmirrordramatic ddemeanors destined to outendure
conspicous crappy crude criminal conventions that
serve to stupifystiffle the regal real relentless requirements
of just say it like it is baby, skip the sentient beligerent bulls--t ahole aplenty.
My, my, my meteor
Rocks me to my core
She stains the sky
With shooting star fire
Beside the Milky Way
Only far, far brighter.
She rides rainbows
Seesaws on sky scales
Sits and smells grass grow
Sees the songs of whales.
My meteor’s a metaphor
Soon you’ll see what for
My metaphoric meteor
Rocks me to my core.
An alphabetic artist
She weaves song after song
With word worms wriggling
From her all day long.
I’ve seen her climb clouds
Both hands behind her back
Then move moonbeams
To lay down a light track.
My meteor’s a metaphor
Don’t you know what for?
My metaphoric meteor
Rocks me to my core.
She splits the silence
With her spaced out symphony
They spin sound sparks
Into streams of money.
My metaphoric meteor
Shook me off the floor
At all the gigs I rocked to
On her global tour.
My meteor’s a real rock star
She lights up the night
Then she crashes down, down, down
To be my meteorite!
My, my, my meteorite,
You are still my rock star light.
23rd April, 2016
ACROSTIC (acrostic)
A crostic poems are fun to do
C reating lines that are right on que,
R endering verse when a line’s first letter
O ffers meaning yet doesn’t fetter
S pelling out of a sonorous title
T hat describes your heartfelt recital.
I n a craft of alphabetic form
C ontrol is crucial to inspire and inform.
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!
Dusty lonely antique chair
lost your lustre modern fare
whittled wooden hardback saddle
broken wheeled tipping mantle
Covering floor with aged graces
missing party interfaces
one time sat a master...mistress,
now forgotten sitting listless
What accounts you must bestow
stories written young and old
ledgers full of erudition,
...alphabetic composition
Once a time of well oiled use
forgotten,time has made recluse....
This notice to public,
For a vacancy,diplomatic,
To serve people civic,
Here come symbolic-
Not much on academic,
May not know Alphabetic,
No need Arithmetic,
Ignore all Ethic,
Nothing about Logic,
Not much on technic,
Married to calls,telephonic,
Depending on statistic,
Working not systematic,
Not much on geographic,
Always on picnic,
Places of historic,
Busy like Olympic,
Not much on economic,
Talk all comic,
For every thing critic,
Not much on genetic,
Enough,no lunatic,
Prove via clinic,
Belly up to Arctic,
Back down Antarctic,
Not much on tactic,
Actions all Astatic,
Vanishing like magic,
Possess all said symbolic,
Apply,the job politic!