Best Biographies Poems
In the attic of my childhood home was a nook,
And there was a lovely window where sun poured in;
I just loved to hideout there all the afternoon,
There was a sweet thrill for the story to begin.
I started off reading books like Cinderella,
And I loved the story of Beauty and the Beast;
Treasure Island, Robinson Caruso, Robin Hood,
Lost in the story- but never a page I creased.
My mother and grandma knew where to find me,
Sometimes fast asleep in my nook holding a story;
Soon I was reading, Of Mice and Men, The Hobbit,
Gone With the Wind, now that was like purgatory.
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a dam!" my gosh,
I adored Rett Butler, oh he made me dreamy;
Romance was now my thing, I could not wait for the nook,
I got books second hand and some were steamy.
Then I changed, I wanted to read about real things,
I read Biographies of people in my sunny nook;
Nature and poetry books to me were so fascinating,
But I threw in a mystery or horror book.
Well that nook is gone, in fact even the house,
But in my nest, I have a special place to read and be;
Beside a sunny window cozy with many pillows,
I love when I can be alone there with just me.
_____________________________________
April 17, 2016
Poetry/Quatrain/A Book, A Storybook
Copyright Protected, ID 16-778-875-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, What I Wouldn't Give For A Nook and a Storybook,
sponsor, Eve Roper
Second Place
Lone Li Ness is my name
No one calls it; I have no friends.
I had one once in second grade
But she moved
Shyness kept me from having other ones
Some loud kids lied about me being a bully
In fourth grade, and it stuck
In 7th grade I was “odd” and “weird”
I began to read romance novels that year
And science fiction, biographies, and mysteries.
The librarian tried to befriend me but she was old
I do not like old people
I figured when I went to college I would be a new you
I would be outgoing and fun, and people would like me
About half my graduating class went to the same college
My roommate hated me before she met me.
She moved out before the end of the first week
Without speaking to me. A couple of nods and a grunt.
I have forgotten how to be a friend now. It has been a long time.
My cat and I pretend to be content reading our books.
She lies between the I-pad and me,
so I have to use two pillows to prop.
My parents still live in my hometown.
They are always begging me to come back.
For a summer vacation, for a visit.
To see my “old friends”.
This makes me laugh.
How did they never see their odd, weird, lonely girl like I do?
I read in solitude, I found peace.
I read with love, I felt exulted.
I read when I was lonely, I got a companion.
I read when I felt sick at heart, I embraced ecstasy.
I read histories and spoke to the people of the past.
I read biographies and met my mentors.
I read fantasies and widened my jaws at the magic lamps.
I read poetry to master vocabulary.
I read war tales and realised the value of peace
I visualised orphan kids and felt the pain behind hunger pangs
I read love stories and learnt the best life lessons.
I skimmed through adventures and learnt embracing fears.
While I read,
I became a sailor and traversed on salt waters greeting the storms,
I turned into a detective and loosened the knots of unsolved mysteries
I sang with the cuckoos, danced with the dragons and merried with the magic mats
I felt pain, I felt love, I endured every emotion of my unknown friend.
Read to explore,
Read to exercise your brain,
Read to travel,
Read to know another world,
Read to socialize,
Read to boost your morale.
Read children read, for it makes you what you thought you could never be.
Artists are not so different,
at times glossing over truth,
hiding beneath a sheen --
some extra linseed goes
a long way...
What is this cry for realism?!
Picasso sought deeper meaning
via grotesque breasts~ elongated
elephant snout limbs -- perhaps believing that
the human tale needed elevation, himself
turned off by surface vistas; his squares and
points dulled by well turned chips, projected
missile-scraps flying from Leonardo's festive lathe of
tantalizing symmetries --
We marvel equally at
Dali's vaulted extremes, teetering balance --
a bleeding martyr of old Faith; despite all his
fiend distortions, imagined glorification~
dear, yet mere echoes, stills from the sable of
an unrequited Christian brush --
So...is the poet so different?
The Metaphysical digs, tunnels,
(anthropomorphic God)
chambers and catacombs to romp
about -- secretly displacing what
would otherwise be a straightforward
pleasant lyrical walk -- We
confound paint and words
presenting two types of portrait
of the same elusive image
the greater decipher, if there is
one to be had, will never be the
product of personal tribulation,
but the spirit behind, within, carefully
feathering, dotting and dashing
each of man's extended biographies --
a dance of human veils....
Miss Poetry
E. P. J.
E. P. J. – a cousin – forth removed, of mine,
who lived in long-ago days – a different time –
who created a world for herself, beginning with rhyme
that took her from the obscure and into places sublime.
E. P. J., was a woman – before her time – with many a hue.
E. P. J., was once, a woman many, many thousands knew.
E. P. J., today, is known by very, very few.
E. P. Js., spirit – in March of 1913 – took wing and flew
to a world / plane beyond the lonely hours, the excruciating pain.
To a world beyond – to the Happy Hunting Ground – to gain
greater insight and freedom from a life filled with the strain
of adventures lost, enlightenment for many, a heart filled with rain
as she cries – within – for all the losses, only memories remain
to tell us of a woman who was far ahead of her time.
Now told to us in prose, in biographies, in rhyme.
B. J. “A ” 2
February 13th 2006
babies
b o l s t e r
biographies
7-13-2021
In Just A Few Words 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
The Brevette, created by Emily Romano consists of a subject (noun), verb, and object (noun), in this exact order. The verb should show an ongoing action. This is done by spacing out the letters in the verb. There are only three words in the poem.
For this contest all 3 words must start with the same letter.
. 3 words only
~Authors And Writers~
(American Diamante)
Writers
Work hard
They write well
Excel in all that
They do and
Love writing
It
Authors
Love sharing
A great story
An excellent novel, poets
Enjoy writing poetry
For us
all
Poets
Write with
Heart mind soul
Put lots of feelings
Love visions in
Poetry they
Pen
Authors
Publish beautiful
Romantic love novels
Inspirational biographies history thrillers
Poetry books that
We all
Enjoy
Today
Take time
To read something
New, learn something nice
Books can teach
Everything to
Anyone.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
February.12.2016
~Authors Notes:
"The American Diamante" is a style written not in syllables, but word counting.
The red brick stands, beckoning, where
I'm met with cool library air
A rush of hushed murmers provide
Relief from the hot, noisy outside
The graceful rounded stairway looks
On treasures in the form of books
The romance where pages begin
I know like I know my own skin
When I need heroes to believe
They call me from biographies
When I'm craving ghostly shivers
Stephen King always delivers
When perplexing murder's on the loose
Holmes and Poirot decode the clues
When my remedy's a love story
Nicholas Sparks is the man for me
When I'm seeking poetic wit
Dorothy Parker's my ticket
This, my quiet joy, is all I need
A comfy chair and something to read
7/30/22
Edmund Clerihew-Bently,
In science class, listened intently,
Wrote biographies in four short lines,
Invented his own poetic designs.
Oh, King David I think your groovy.
If You were here.
Unlike Your peers.
In spite the Years.
You would not go goofy.
May I meet You at the movies?
"Indeed." King David spoke,
Without malice.
"You have brought your crystal Ball."
Inside my Palace.
Wait a decade.
When everyone memorizes The Bible.
To counter-act The Liable.
And the clergy eclipses theatrics.
We also have concessions.
But the peanut gallery, boogieing to biographies?
On your way outside,
Hang the, " do not disturb."
Feed my ravens, popcorn along the curb."
"Well," I guess someone should get mad"
I replied.
" Well certainly, can't be us.
In our virtual realm of,"No Conscience."
Can we still be friends?
I know your not mean."
King David spoke " Most assuredly.
Take my bow and sling.
You will need them.
The New Millennium,
New authors, writing New psalms.
New craftsmen, learning to muffle.
Blessed excuses for the super bowl shuffle.
When it all comes together.
Truth will be stranger than fiction. Verily,
Verily I say to you.
Everything will seem fake.
You will turn away to the dictionary.
You'll need to understand, Why.
The capitol S' in "Satan."
Has been erased."
Oh, King David I think your groovy.
Sacrificed biographies, unwillingly wilted on the roads
Batched and bundled in flourished rows
Sorrow is freed
Comfort is farmed
No king reigns on the quality land
Leaders have protected territory
Warriors, soldiers, your pride reigns liberty
Victorious flags wiggle in the heart of the wind
Prayers light the mourning and burn traitors skin
No religion should peel our flesh to bone
No God prophets a sole to be cold
I enter, the smell hits me,
Old oak floors and shelves,
Walking into a labyrinth
Into which I can delve.
I can lose myself for hours,
In each work of art.
From cover sleeve to pages,
They really cheer my heart.
Travel books can take me
To lands across the sea,
Awakening my senses,
Really inspiring me.
I browse the self help books,
The ones on life and healing,
How to get what you want,
Cope with how you're feeling.
Then the history books grab me,
The rustle of each page,
Words that speak to me
From another age.
Biographies and memoirs
Of famous people, celebrities
Tell me of their lives,
Arousing curiosity.
I move on to hobbies,
Cooking, crafts and sport,
Photography and gardening,
Expertise of every sort.
There's shelves full of Sci-fi
Business and economics,
Study guides to aid exams
And books for teaching phonics.
I love to peruse fiction,
Absorb all the blurb,
Tales of mystery and romance,
Fantasy in every word.
I'm excited by the poetry,
The lyrics poems and rhymes,
Some are very special,
I could read them a million times.
The children's sections glorious,
A real treasure chest,
Beautiful picture books
Are the ones that I love best.
You cannot beat the feeling
Of fingers around a book,
The tactility of each page
Just makes you want to look.
The Old Bookshop is my haven,
I love to be inside,
My one and only problem,
My purchase....I can't decide!
Went to my local independent book shop today....my idea of heaven!
Love is love’s own heart appeal,
all that bears knowing is its feel.
Biographies lack love’s economies,
for only love knows love’s qualities
that set love’s bond congealed, ideal.
Dark, tall, blond, small, go ahead – order it all,
but beware of a list induced downfall.
Only an open, receptive attitude
will deliver love soulmate glued.
Love requirements can be a miscall.
He is the one, though he is years younger,
who sates and awakes all my hunger.
He touches my soul, my heart and brain
with genuine, unchained love gain.
Perfect is his calm, ideal his thunder.
My happy would have slipped through
if his age had been my only view.
In a green skirt wave to tables, in a yellow skirt wave to chairs, but in a white shirt sit in bookshelves humming away and swinging legs and arms to the beat transcribed by tomes, biographies, encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses. A smartbook is not a smart book as it cant cook and therefore complaints should be made to the appropriate recipe page. A real page turner is not a yearner nor a learner for urns carried before steak in a fire is the epitome of a musket in a dazed glazed gin soup. So pass through the sheets, unravel the pjamas and stare out of the window. It is wise to count the clouds today. They are playing hide and seek with the rain, sleet, and snow. Always in a morning dew a frog can be seen dressed in fine attire sipping a curdled brandy from a seventeenth century cradle cup. And now it is time to go to cavern leap. It us amazing fun. In any clothes it can be done. Even in mis matching garments. Gaudy blessings hop hop hop. But no shop. For all is made from what is in front. Surprising how the inner formations of a house survive really. For missing a brick or two. Or a patch gouged out of a rug. That will surely be selling for lots of money at a craft fair if displayed as an item of esoteric mystery. Clap then. No no no not that loud. For you may disturb the sugar lumps sitting in the tree. They are the tree dwellers and deserve much peace and solitude too. A breeze bring a baton to the bayonet bank. And all is bought to bring bums and bombs. Shelter not a small shrinkable rat. And take no travelling topiary tree to a tropical themed disco. For discovery of emblems is often quite condensed in a triple harmony of a woodland dress. So go throw a spoon at a dart board then. Hahaha now whisk that chocolate pudding to a puffed out passing pastry. Hahaha now eat. Xxxxx carborundum Z. That was the latest from the p y q who was reporting from many tunnels. Z
Untitled
We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,
to the never ending beat of our universes heart.
Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull, grey,
aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality
that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose
releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly
down the sides of its imaginary nose.
Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.
B. J. “A” 2
April 18th 2003
Untitled
I stand on the edges of a desire,
a desire to be all that, – in this life –
I have never been, – in all likelihood –
could never be, for it is not in me.
Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,
autobiographies, ancient histories,
I see the dream – illusive as it seems.
Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,
fall before these old brown eyes.
Only, the telling comes in ripples
that dot the landscape of reflections
painted upon the cold black surface,
of a pavement that lays before me.
A sad portrait is painted every day,
it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.
Life has flown me through valleys richly
carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.
Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,
dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.
Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,
down raging rivers without a paddle.
Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,
upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.
Life has guided me into heavenly spaces
where one will find beautiful places.
Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses
of blackness where light of night stars hang
in the endless skies where one opens eyes
B. J. “A” 2
April 19th 2003
Untitled
Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden
as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden
with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.
The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.
And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.
And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.
And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.
And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.
With Easter at hand.
It seems the hand is the only one who cares.
Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 20th 2003