Best Amateurish Poems
for your love i would do any thing
for anything you ask is possible
anything you want, it is my desire
that you have it
even the stars are not asking too much
because i can whisper words to make you
know there already yours
the sun on a cloudy day is what you'd feel
from the warmth of my arms around you
the full moon on a dark night is what you'd
see when you think of where my love is;
always over you
the ocean with waves that say: more love,
more love, more love, more love with infinite power
that covers the shore ever more, ever more
the mountains that reach the sky
and valleys that make the floor
the trees that give us air
and flowers that we love
i would do anything for you love
any thing you ask is possible
for you to have everything you want is my desire
any thing you want (is possible)
some what amateurish but a good start in the early 90's
Categories:
amateurish, lovelove,
Form:
Free verse
For every step my father took,
my short legs took three.
“Daddy, please,” I called to him,
“you walk too fast for me.”
My sister took a husband;
my brother went to sea.
Our father sighed, “Our family time
has been too brief for me.”
As my teen years ended
and college lay before me,
Dad shook his head in sadness,
“It’s all too fast for me.”
When Mama died, we reminisced
their forty-seven years.
The passing time, the life they shared
were captured in our tears.
And as computers came of age,
Dad watched me surf the net.
“I’d like to learn,” he said to me,
“But I’m not ready yet.”
Then as Dad lay dying, carrying years
that numbered ninety-three,
I could not help but say aloud,
“They went too fast for me.”
* I wrote this poem on the way to my father’s funeral. I wanted to read it aloud as a tribute, but my sister said the rhyme made it sound too amateurish. She has her PhD in Literature, so I didn’t argue. I should have.
Categories:
amateurish, father, , literature,
Form:
Rhyme
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
___________________________________
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
Categories:
amateurish, art,
Form:
Free verse
When Dad died, I wrote a poem to read,
a tribute to the love he bestowed.
Tears fell as, at jet speed,
I scribed emotions that overflowed.
Before the funeral I showed it to you,
hoping you would allow me to share.
“Amateurish,” you said and I didn’t pursue.
For rhyme and meter, you didn’t care.
Just three months later I’d compiled a book;
a publisher said she was impressed.
How I loved that expression, that look
you gave me when with it was published.
*For Michael’s “I’m More Than What You Thought” contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
Categories:
amateurish, father, sister, me,
Form:
Rhyme
When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth
My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping
A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust
The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan
Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by –
Insofar as the choice is moderacy
Over me they seek to keep
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep
A quest to solve the world
Challenged to fix my head
Get me defined – no word
Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck
Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry
He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song
The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate
Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . . ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions
Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!
Categories:
amateurish, introspection, philosophy, me, me,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Amidst the fine feetle of veggies in the garden of truth
Stands a monstrous scarecrow.
Of a fungoid parched face and a half baked gaze.
Of shrunken smoked sockets and drunken knocked eyeballs.
Bulged cheekbones force the halloween smile
While the amateurish wrought neck holds the somewhat ogrish skull.
A thin narrowing stream of a sparrow's yellowing cream
Tinges it's elvan nose to the apex.
Pepper red vitriol burns in the dunes of the coarse skin
And four daggerlike claws clinch at the gliding inches of the sisal woven arms.
Crickets and roaches cohabit in the meshes of the morbid hobbit charvet shirt.
The eroded black ribbons travelling along the sleets of the pirate jacket
Compliment the dotted woolen twines of hair flowing down the bald scalp
Then...
Beyond the spread of the evenly scaped acres of the khaki greens
Lives a dearth among apes
That's strips down their velvet raiment of fur
And pulls to skin their horrid skeleton.
Dry bones litter the vale and life faces the wink of hell.
Yet the flora of truth remains unturned, untouched, unchanged
A death from a dearth seems painless
Than the drilling wreath of the scarecrow's claws to the turbine of breath
Sandwiched in the succulent greens of the garden of truth
Stands a scarecrow ladened with less ruth, wrath full
A fabricated beast called STEREOTYPE
Categories:
amateurish, introspection, life, perspective, prejudice,
Form:
Free verse
On a sage green wall that once wore a blank look,
it dangles helplessly, without a complaint.
It is slightly askew, with a tilt to the left,
giving the viewer a crick of the neck
Hanging precariously, for an eager assessment
without much annoyance, or an "either" or an "or"
Just a "take me or leave me"
with a bolder assumption
that someone will like it, no fear of rejection.
No hesitation came from the hands
that restlessly hung it, with eagerly haste.
He hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and ardently placed it for eyes to embrace
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped garden
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
Now it is old.........dust to dust......ash to ash
he takes with him the pride he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
____________________________________________________
Categories:
amateurish, art, beautiful, pride,
Form:
Free verse
Magnificently speechless,
Your hand held tenderly within my own.
We steal with clumsy adoration,
Through an amateurish unknown.
Graceful eyes that flicker shut,
Into a sleep that tugs you from shore.
And in my arms, we’re carried away,
By feelings too fierce to ignore.
My dearest friend, divine and unparalleled,
One day you won’t wake up alone.
When facades slough off like heavy garments,
When at last we’ll be at home.
Darling, if ever I were in love,
If ever, than certainly it is with you.
For you are my greatest miracle,
And far too good to be true.
Categories:
amateurish, love,
Form:
Quatrain
In the pocket of an old coat
about to be donated,
I stumble upon words scribbled on a pad
as I watched my husband die.
“Your love is the most precious thing in my life.
Do you know I see you as a shining star --
my mentor, my lover, my best friend”
Preparing to move,
I find a letter.
a note from the first boy I ever loved.
“I want to date other girls;
but I want to stay friends.”
Why had I saved this?
To renew the pain again in days to come?
We never did stay friends.
In my desk I discover
a verse I wrote while flying to Dad’s funeral.
I’d wanted to read it at the service;
my sister said it was too amateurish.
“For every step my father took,
My child’s legs took three,
‘Daddy, please,’ I called to him,
‘You walk too fast for me.’
“As Dad lay dying carrying years
That numbered ninety-three,
I could not help but say aloud,
‘They went too fast for me.’”
And now as days are numbered,
my muse stepped out the door,
leaving me in God’s hands.
Don’t know if I’ll be writing anymore.
*Entry for Carol’s contest “Pieces of Paper...a Poet’s Heart”
By Carolyn Devonshire
Categories:
amateurish, depression, on writing and
Form:
Verse
That was a nice move you just made
to get yourself crowned prom king
Checkerhead
But now you’ve graduated to playing chess,
and you can’t just jump the queen
You can’t jump her Amazon bones to win,
like you did silly Susan back in grade ten
Checkerhead
Those clumsy, bozo moves
ain’t gon make no self-respecting woman buckle
Your amateurish pick-up lines
will only make the opposite sex wanna chuckle
Checkerhead
Always trying to woo some stranger
into your bedroom
Never getting close enough to her heart,
to make her wanna jump the broom
Checkerhead
You’re just a natural born loser,
in case you didn’t hear what she just said
Her and her friends
are gon sweep you off the board,
and under the rug
Then squash your fragile ego like a little bedbug
I see the bulge in your fleshy pipe of lead just went dead,
did it now ...
Checkerhead
Categories:
amateurish, gender, humorous, image, parody,
Form:
Light Verse
would that I could
pick up reception
of celestial transmissions
with a couple'a old soup can phones
and country miles of string
(would they have harp string ring tones?)
and ask the old man
about days long ago
interrupting his labors
tilling god's fecund green fields
(most likely the back forty)
a bit east of old eden, I'm sure
to hear that tinny voice growling
while smelling good earth
and honest sweat far, so far, distant
he'd first grumble and low mumble
about nonsensical questions
but always comically failing
to hide the smile in his voice
and flattered affection
"...of beatniks, of Elvis
of old rumbleseats
yeah, I remember those days
strange fellows, those beats"
"It's hard to rekalect,
(being a swab in the Navy)
all those strange doings onshore
it seemed authority was tested
conformity seen as a chore"
"so I guess that's your answer,
son, I didn't truck with them much
those bohemian fellows
seemed to me a bit touched"
it was good to hear it
his old usual ways
a bit bluff, more bluster
signing off from our strange freq
(with as much love as he could muster)
I smiled after he faded
and wished quietly in my room
he could read just a few
of my thin veiled kharmic sad curses
about loving a father
(gone, yet still set in his ways)
in my amateurish attempts
at fantasy poetic verses...
Categories:
amateurish, father, love,
Form:
Free verse
In the concrete walls of the shantytowns,
A young rose cracked through the cordons.
The rose encountered a thorn,
That perforated through its petals,
To deflower and plant a seed,
Of lust, love and tear buds.
A thorn and a rose,
Became inseparable.
As the rose wandered for its own light,
The thorn felt deserted;
For in the wild of tamed passions,
That rose was all it ever knew.
Eventually change won,
As it is wont to.
So I was abandoned,
At the clemency of taciturn night falls.
No more melody,
But hanged-up phone calls,
Un-replied text messages,
And chilly nights,
At the veranda.
As Maersk shipping drivers,
Stopped by to cuddle prostitutes,
I smoked cigarettes with them,
And listened to the crickets.
I couldn’t sleep in that bed,
Where you-
My rose-
Used to lay,
And intoxicate me,
With wet tongue tips,
Throbbing my ears;
With wet whispers.
Sometimes we went out into the night naked,
To cool our bodies in the night breeze.
I would then light a cigarette,
And blow ashes to the crickets,
As your cold hard nipples,
Pricked my back.
Years later,
I quit smoking,
And walking at night,
For both cigarettes and crickets,
Remind me,
Of your fire,
And nights we made love,
Until my thorn,
And your rose,
Grew bristles.
I still have that blemish,
On my *****,
Where you bit me,
As you tried to give me,
An amateurish ********.
©Wudz, '14
Categories:
amateurish, lost love
Form:
ABC
Even though she never went to college, she watches Jeopardy each night and gets all the
answers right.
Even though she never had the need for a passport, she can talk about foreign cities as if
she grew up there as a young girl.
Even though she bore seven children into this world, she never lost her form and figure.
Even though she reads practically every book on the New York Times Best Sellers List, she
still finds time to read my amateurish drivel and brags about how much she likes them.
Even though she was raised in a strict Catholic environment, she easily and lovingly
accepted my brother’s announcement, and somehow convinced my ex-Marine father to do
the same, when he came out of the closet.
Even though she knew nothing about what was happening on the mat, she attended all my
high school wrestling matches and hers was the only voice I could hear, much to my coach’s
chagrin, amongst all the shouting and cheers.
Even though she had never worked a day in her life, she got a job as an accountant at fifty
years of age when my father was laid up for a while. The owners of the company loved her
so much they did not want her to go once my father was back on his feet again.
Even though she says her mother never made her do a domestic chore when she was
growing up, she maintains an impeccably clean home and is the most wondrous of cooks.
Even though she took care of seven kids all week while my father worked all day, she
always let him play golf on Saturdays or lounge around on the couch should the weather not
cooperate.
Even though she now has twelve grandchildren, she treats each one as being special and
displays a knowledgeable interest in the unique skills each one possesses.
Even though she turns eighty in one month, she has not heard this son tell her he loves her
enough…
Mom, I love you very much. Thank you for being you.
Entry in the Mother contest.
Categories:
amateurish, motherfather, father, mother, i
Form:
Free verse
Tiny little hole in the wall
Their real business putting on plays
But wee mini art exhibit
Open to the public
During the day
How I loved to slip away
At lunch time
Just a five-minute walk
Entering their park was so peaceful
For the workaholic in me
A most self-pampering outing
A rare delectable treat
A church-like silence greeted me
Quiet yet ever so intense
And there they were
Art pieces clamoring for attention
Craving for any bit of admiration
Sometimes the works were amateurish and disappointing
But for the few times they were awe inspiring
It was magnificently grand
Either way always worth the outing
submitted on May 17, 2020 for contest STRAND NO.760 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND
originally posted on May 16, 2018
Categories:
amateurish, art, day, inspirational, joy,
Form:
Free verse
Any railroad man will tell you truly,
If you ballast the ties with river stone,
Your rolling stock is most sure to de-rail.
All your back-breaking labor laying track
Will have earned you no further capital gain.
I don’t even want to hear you complain.
You can’t make the base for the needed grade
By taking cheap and amateurish shortcuts.
You’ll find such lazy effort only leads
Your precious locomotive off the line,
And so, to see the sad end of a train.
Just like chalk art in a hard driven rain.
An engineer can keep his smokebox clean,
But ballast drift will ruin his machine.
Categories:
amateurish, allegory, life,
Form:
Sonnet