Best Authoring Poems
You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.
Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance
If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink
There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret
But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks
Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters
You always tell me how much you love my poetry
but is that the only reason you feel drawn to me?
I write Sonnets filled with love and romance for you,
adoring stanzas meant to caress your heart and soul,
but is it my rhyming words, or me that you cherish?
If I no longer wrote about the silvered moon in eclipse,
would your soft parted lips still want to cling to mine?
I could gladly write all day and night to please you,
but if I did not clasp a feathered quill in my hand,
I wonder... would you still hold me dear in your life?
I sit and write only for you lately. Am I fooling myself
to think it's just for the words I scribble on parchment
that you've become enthralled with the flair of my pen.
What then, my love? If no longer I could compose
expressions of devoutness meant for your eyes only.
With reverence, I beseech you to love me for who I am.
Would you leave me in painful throes of heartache,
forsaking my heart when my muse no longer expresses
the passionate verses you seek me to scribe for you?
Would you love me if I wasn't a poet, darling, scrawling
arduous words to describe the beauty of your face,
or the changing shades of grey in your wintery eyes?
No, dear one. Do not answer the questions I ask of you
for to hear your voice deny me of your love, I'd become
incapable of ever authoring another affectionate line.
I would tear my pages of poetry in half and burn them.
Grief-stricken; my tears blurring the ink to ever write again.
Despoiled of the will to create even one more quixotic verse.
The raw delight and
wonder of an eager
child-poet lay scattered
across the floor.
A baby's coo squeals from
the aging pages babbling
forth childish nonsense while
tired cliches wind lazily through
trite rhymes lacking lyrical luster.
Still, each precious verse endears
me to the memory of a precocious
youth when poetry was simple
and an unspoiled world
lay bare age old secrets
calling out to be discovered.
Author's commentary:
I don't remember what inspired me to write my first poems, but there was always something about
language. Something profound, something powerful, something pure.
I had no natural talent, and thankfully I didn't know it for I might have given up.
But eventually, and by sheer accident, I pieced together something that worked proving
poetry is not reserved solely for those with the predisposition but is also born of
passion, study, and discipline.
It was 15 years of frustration and tears as poem after bad poem was ripped to shreds by
seasoned writers with invaluable, albeit sometimes harsh, advice before I created anything
worthy of being read. But I am in love with poetic art so have persevered with humility
and gratitude in the face of rejection until finding a rhythm of my own. And though a bit
of time may sometimes pass before I am moved to write again, the words eventually spill
forth, and with a bit of luck and ingenuity, I will write a profound piece of insightful
prose stirring pride in the hearts of my mentors whose opinions I hold so dear.
For me, it has never come easy but with a deep-rooted love for the art and an obsession
for one day authoring a single, perfect verse, I hope to be unified in spirit with the
ghosts of poets past inspiring and encouraging others to keep the craft alive.
Spookily Bookily
Dramatic apogee
Edgar A. Poe's verses
Death from curses
Quite artistically
characteristically
His poems were renowned
to be profound
Gloomily Doomily
So methodically
he wrote of never more
and sweet Lenore
Poe was positively
Imaginatively
authoring horrid themes
to dire extremes
Foolishly Ghoulishly
Did Poe write lucidly
Now dearly departed
Tell Tale Hearted
Poems were tactical
Anticlimactical
He wrote of misery
and mystery
January 9th, 2021
Double Dactyl Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Each morning my pen of imagination keeps me lambasting ideas far right corner of my ink stained that denied me the opportunity to obtain intricate in my heart.
The color does change that represents the rapture of situation to the suitability of humanity to humanism hunting fractured morning
The shape of the egg does alter the truth to prevails the kilometers of shining star like art confound to contemporary world where help glorify the glowing candle
The face of misery mesmerize me with the meter of mixed ideas that never compact with the writer wants
It worthwhile to drink poetry in each morning despite the amount of income earn earnestly pay no bills to bull sound rather pride of authoring lines of my own.
Awakening’s Discovery
by Odin Roark
Once you discover
Who you are
Where you’ve been
Why the paths chosen
Something happens
Urging ever forward
Blank white flutterings
Pages unwritten
So many chapters now past
Unlike authoring a book
Ones words
Action and resolve
Remain fixed
Yet
Up ahead
Waits the anxious
Seconds
Minutes
Hours
Making up the days
Where as before
We can still design
The continuing story
Defining future chapters
Acknowledging the drifting sands
Of one’s hourglass
Perpetual
After all
Like all of existence
Energy never stops
Save any directional change
That limbo stage
So brief
So meaningful
Promising anew
Tomorrow’s discovery
We only need awaken
Low Self-Esteem states of affairs differing impressions
religiously surround us/me? Uncovered at an inopportune time
range of possible options channeled to social pressures, sensing
to belong are we clones? Do you sense being on the same wavelengths?
swayed to authoring and bad decisions? Low Self-Esteem borrowed
from childhood tribulations and bad habits and decisions, t. Lorust
issues? job and health uneasiness, unhappy childhood, physical and
emotional issues compelled to Low Self-Esteem of the self void of self
expressiveness growth of self-abilities, and confidences of Low Self-Esteem.
Before the world’s foundation, God kept me perfectly in His plan
To be born in His year into a loving family of Asian clan.
Nourishing me in His entrusted home to learn multi-tasked roles
The Lord nurtured my heart, midst frailties, toward great goals.
Authoring my faith, the Saviour offered to me secured relationship
He redeemed my soul, assured me blessed eternal blissful partnership.
Sealed with the Holy Spirit, I’m empowered to exalt His name
Building lives, glorifying the Almighty upon His truth’s flame.
Doing my best by His might as steward and soldier in His kingdom’s infantry.
I’m all set, ‘til death, to serve Christ* Who placed me in His ministry.
*Galatians 2:20 I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.
September 30, 2019
3rd place, "Story of My Life in Ten Lines"
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 10/4/2019.
An evangelist was Spiros Zodhiates
defining biblical koine with ease
Authoring the 'Hebrew-Greek' key-word
the Good News to be both spoken&heard
It is the cruelest of hate
Creeping like an imposturous reptile
In the morning light of Eve’s Garden
Fangs dripping with malice
Searching for tender flesh to taste
Cruel hate clandestinely charging
Uncharged minds
Innocent ones
Too young to leave
Too old to hold on
Hissing rancorous lyrics
Like a street pusher pandering opiates
To abject addicts
Hate creates images of a fresh world
Socially acceptable to his guiltless prey
It is the cruelest of hate
Proffering empty promises of transcendent fame
Lying in the wake of the fallen ones
Dead on square tiled floors
As muted school bells forget to ring
From sandy grounds to tangled woods
To weeping waterfalls on a westbound highway
Counting the dead
Nineteen names prancing across digital screens
Held in hands too small to tremble
Hate authoring hallucinations
To guard against truth
It is the cruelest of hate
Peering through the eye of a grooved cylinder
Pushing calloused flesh against curved steel
Lead projectiles penetrating
Again, and again
Unblemished innocence
Teddy bears held against beating hearts
And the let go dreams of
Our children
It is the cruelest of hate
It is never just words
Word after word
Side by side, lyrics are born
Authoring songs of lovers
And brokenhearted forever forlorn
Word after word
Life is inhaled into stories of faraway lands
With notorious kings and talking frogs
Beautiful maidens wandering the shadowlands
Word after word
With quill in hand
A weary poet struggles to find
The perfect word
An imperfect rhyme
Word after word
More powerful than sticks or stones
Breaking bones
Words traverse the soul
Fracturing the spirit with unending scars
Word
Just one word—
A solitary word will sharpen a mind
Seduce the dreamer
Encourage the friend
Or shame the same
One single word can draw a smile
Change a life…
Or end one too soon
It is never
Just words
We have a way of introducing
cold anti-matter against
the sunlight, can stop
naive hope sharp
in her tracks. As
now and then I
think of authoring
a children's book,
comes the death-
instinct word,
"why?"
Life lay ahead,
tenuous, blind yet unafraid
as if a stone's throw out of sight
form and substance laid
opened wide to the Creator's thought in flight;
here I am formed and made,
a blip, microcosm upon inception
conceptual origin of light
the figment of oeuvre
from the very hand of God;
flesh and bone
heart and soul
authoring commencement
achieved satisfaction from His very spirit
as each of us find our reality
as we be breathed into existence.
For the Unseeeking Seeker
contest As We Be Breathed
8/13/21
L-itterateur
H-appily
I-mplements
L-ines
I-n
A-uthoring
Z-estful
A-crostic
M-aking
O-verflowing
R-apture
A-s
N-ame
O-ffers
S-weetness
Topic: Birthday of Lhilia Zamoranos (December 13)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Sadly as I put the pen down
Trying to pour out all my emotions
My trauma and my life drama then I think…
Thinking that i was a writer for as long as i lived
Been playing with words my whole life
Book has been my friend and pen my best partner
I was an author that ive never been…
I grew up a reader in school
And turned a writer in tertiary level
But now i smell an author in my age
The author that ive never been…
With every ink i managed to link stories
with every paper i was a piper of all narrations
Somehow I knew i’m gifted
But my mind remained shifted
It Kept me blinded by the blurriness of unknown
And made me an author that i’ve never been…
Types of words which I gathered
And compilations of scripts ive written
All ive written and written yet took me nowhere…
Then i thought perhaps its beyond impossible
To get possible with the world of possible authors
That writing is in me but authoring is somewher e else
because i was just an author that ive never been
The one hidden in the closet
The one that kept wishing and wiling to write
Kept glued to screens upping scripts I never knew..
Never knew when and how will they turn me into n author
Deep down I knew there’s author in me
But never knew how to bring her to life
I remained a writer and kept writing
Hoping that one day I will become an author…
An author that ive jever been
I've always been a writer but…
But then why does it only feel right?
Feel right now for me to become an author
Right after my sons death?
Was it really waiting to come to life by losing his?
Is this the was for me to become an author?
If yes I guess a talent has its hilarious way of coming to life…