Best Drafting Poems
Pelicans fly side by side
royal in their stately glide
waxing eloquent at sea
drafting skies and feeling free.
Side of heaven here on earth
glide in glorious rebirth
sea of summertime, so fair
free from worry, without care.
Written on 3/15/2019
True arrogant bait
Someone I'd never date
He lured me to his game
My sanity…his claim
Passion hijacking my thoughts
Drafting erratic plots
No one I could tell
A selfish little spell
Risks so uncalculated
Common sense castrated
He plead for it not to end
I could no longer pretend
Cashing in lust for security
Stacking chips of maturity
Then I heard the news
True darkness he did choose
Cruel relief it did provide
For my secret also died
*For Lewis' "It's a beautiful affair" contest
July 1, 2016
Be ware
Putting you words
And poetry out for the public could
be Perilous due to the great numbers that march
against free think ing today. On your artis tic journey
beware of Grammar Nazis. marching day
and night. you are wrong they are
right.write you poems out of si-
ght.seeing every issue in black
and white. They
see art, but not
quite. Drafting more for
their fight.dese ntion is their
greatest gift from the dead
they paste and lift tongues are sharp,
their attacks are swift.. Confrontational
critiques meant to do harm. Twisted
Philosophies do alarm. Gram mar Nazis
March tonight
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
A foundling's spurn, like fate's adjourn
that fills its being, with return
of life - thy will, be Godly yearn,
nor destitute, like drafting, stern.
To understand more, than to learn
some righteous band, but then not turn
to righteousness, in loving's earn,
compassion's carry over, serve.
I loved you, to embrace some nerve
that carried your fond need, your verve,
as helping, left some filled reserve
toward aptitude, thy time conserve.
Within you, but as faith, your own
as when a prayer but asks condone
and greets its answer, then alone,
I asked to love you, but unknown.
The bast that prologues at my name
to gather momentary strove,
would surely hold not fair acclaim,
and surely bear not, at my love!
yearning
of ritual
lethargic
in thunderstorm
through
huge chasm
of window&
watching
sky
darkened &
drizzle
dropping &
gust
howling
non-stop
yet stipulating
coldness
within
intimacy&
a glimpse
charming
longing
for flowers
blooming
rooting in
womb
relishing
drafting
sun and moon
elysian fields
of yesteryear
& blue oceans
crave
scooting
&
alleging
obsession
musings
notification
compelling
1St place contest winner
Written: August 1st, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
With awkward reach
the strike of the pen has tipped the ink well
splattering onto white paper,
vanquishing the lyrics from the poet’s pen,
scribbling vignettes of joy or strife,
little stories-a slice of life.
His pen shall not find its perfect labor
scribed upon this miscued, defaced paper
to define his words of fire or ice
Though in this blot of ink a portrait seen
a mirror of the artist's gaze
where the vision writes the stories
of imaginary words unseen.
The poet’s eye beholds as his heart summons
from the library of memories that phrase
drafting a vignette of this wraith’s meaning
Now the poet speaks while his mind is dreaming:
‘Tis raven’s wings spread to fly on a mystical flight
drawn into a universe of beaming light
‘Tis free falling souls swimming unfurled
in brimming tears drowning in a homeless world
Or, could it be the sweat of a laboring farmer’s pain
falling on the dry, unforgiving soil as he waits for rain
Maybe the blood of perished soldiers who have gone before
fallen in the wastes of war
It could simply be the scribbling of butterflies delight
imprinting beauty on their tenured flight
Or, the glorious colliding of glistening shards that careen
from exploding castaway stars on a palette of gleam
And through his persuasion of free falling thought,
he is challenged by the aspect of black to white-
its perception is what its opposite has wrought
When the light is turned off
When the sun has disappeared
The night weaves our intricacy
The magic of contrast is what we see
Black in its extinction takes its space
in a void of emptiness to embrace
the borderless place that absorbs us
Defining our imperceptible selves
With only the light of understanding that will tell
the glow of purpose inside all of us
The verse is scribed……..
The meaning defined……
The contrast is sublime
April 30, 2022
Although yours truly modest,
the only personal issue
I will lightly boast about
constitutes lingering
self worthlessness bred
if not prior to first grade,
than most definitely incipient,
academic deadlines
loomed large with dread
and exacerbated by procrastination
quickly adopted as linchpin
damned obsessive compulsive
currents (i.e. thoughts) fed
modus operandi, which intricate
schema writ over lifetime invisible
within this talking head
who ironically enough
never uttered a beep
engendered from lack
of confidence, esteem,
somehow worthlessness,
insignificance,
emasculation, et cetera
took root, and didst leap
(axon to neuron)
and said mindset did seep
percolating into every nook,
and cranny comprising
aging shades, transformed
gray matter, sans this
beatle browed bummer, a deep
purple, though easily mistaken
for minuscule Uriah Heap,
or perhaps, ewe might notice,
(albeit while in a sheep
push disposition) similarities
between mine fist
sized thinker, and another creep
pee totally tubular Charles Dickens
character, or maybe
even a commercial
for nano bot sized jeep
grand Cherokee keep
up a moderate clip despite,
and/or because I
oft times feel a light
buzz sensation within me quite
average gummed up noggin
jammed numb skull,
(essentially barren aged
teenage wasteland recently
undergoing gentrification),
(yeah how really) excite
ting, a no brainer fright
fully glommed with peevish
gobbledygook plus worthless,
obsolete, and crammed academic right
hand busily twiddling, scribbling,
and sloppily drafting
error riddled assignments
deliberately failing heavily
marked with bright
colors adding oomph
to mental blight
punctuated by
attaining puny height
(...oh, about seventy inches),
nonetheless, my slight
physique and mute quiet
as a mouse, I might
as well hove been a stand in
for Charlie Brown right
down to the tree eating kite
good grief - never an ending fight
with Lucy, hence now this knight
in rusty armor forever
disparaged his might
and attests to
20/20 hind sight!
On the point of mountain Kilimanjaro with my paints, pencils, rulers and brushes looking at the entire Africa. Many pictures of more than fifteen millions innocent christians Congolese killed in the wars
from 1996 to today
and the World is so silent.
On my first drafting big board, dead bodies of innocent children, men and women who were killed cruelty
in different massacres and genocides.
Painful to see how many girls were raped to death and students burnt in the class rooms in different rebellions
in the East of Drcongo
and the World is so silent.
On my second drawing big board, describing the second World war from 1940 to 1945 which killed less people
than those died in Drcongo.
How some world superpowers fight silently
in Drcongo because of minerals resources
and innocent Congolese continue to die daily
like innocent Ukrainians.
On my third drawing big board, ninety millions christians congolese screaming for peace daily.
some overseas masterminds who continue to finance rebellions through some neighbours
of Drcongo and ( traitors ) few Congolese rebel leaders.
Oh! This cruel world, where millions of innocent folks
killed because money and powers.
The drafting on of renaissance curtail
earmarks of goodly fortune, so avail
the breeding of contentment, this rest's hail
imbibes my soul's delivery with assail!
To caulk the artworks beauty, cover stale
in moment's grand assumption, empty, fail!
Consign my emptiness, this cross exhale
this masking of my enmity . . . not jail!
That looking up to fairness, merely wail
it is the struggles loss, I feel as ail,
that competitions toss, no matters nail
it were the season's gloss, not light to scale!
Life worth the moments leaving, not in braille
but focused earthly, counterpart eye's shale.
The washing of my eye, God split the rail,
and sanctify my enemies' worse trail!
THE DEATH PENALTY ~ Voted back in Nebraska. LB268 AGAINST passed last year, was repealed this November 8th, 2016! REWATCH "DEAD MAN WALKING" 1995, Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon! Sister Helen Prejean On forgiveness! "COMMENT: "WHY DO WE KILL PEOPLE, TO TEACH PEOPLE THAT KILLING PEOPLE IS WRONG!"
Broken shell
After a lengthy time of climbing
I sit on the hill peak of courage.
Drafting my testimony on an inkless page of my acquired voicelessness,
Looking down pieces of the shell broken scattered in the valley where
My identity had been locked with my background and sealed in that cocoon of countless soul-crippling fears,
With the key not placed anywhere near but thrown to drown in the pool of my pain and tears
It was dark in there.
There was no air, I
couldn't breathe there....
But now I am free here.
There, lack of freedom is defined as obedience and I
No longer could bear the confined shells in which my wings were squashed and couldn't spread......
I could no longer endure how
I had to scream with my voice so my heart could be heard
Because inked words weren't loud enough to shake the screens of crowds
There, humidity is enough to incinerate breads of dreams into crumbs that are bitter to taste even before nations can feast on them
But now, I sit on the hill drafting and looking at it broken.
Hearing echoes of those with whose ideas I had mine imprisoned
Their voices speak to me pleading
That I may have their stories too told in between angry lines of my drafted testimony and it hurts,
Hearing how the wind on this hill peak tells me stories of different occurrences that has transpired with me confined in a shell of formidable darkness.
Events of women from whose bruised lips had to come a song of courage every Sunday with a Hallelujah and A man who every weekday all day gives them punches as if they were gifts hanging from the ceiling like punching bags.....
I couldn't believe that such stories were thrown in the bookshelf of the untold when I was in the shell there yet
Now I sit on the hill peak and draft.......
The urge is too powerful,
The call is too loud,
As for the shell.....
Leave it broken and its pieces scattered far as the East and the West apart from each other so that I can breathe and the nations cry...through my voice
Broken Shell
Poetic Rea
Earth's golden orb rises o're the new eastern sky,
Where red sandhills and goslings blithely fly.
The secret mist of the morning bids its final adieu,
As a young day spontaneously, begins anew.
A spectacular derby in technicolor array,
Creation of marvels beyond all mortal purvey.
Strategies and concepts each totally unique,
Imaginative images, unusual techniques.
Like a Donatello or more modern Rodin,
Or a charming sunset, on the banks of the Thames.
Like waves sculpting sands to incredible shapes,
Masters of design, multi-faceted scapes.
Drafting to paper near perfect forms,
Like Katrina's eye, the heart of the storm.
Thoughts and drawings consigned to wood,
Gravity of assignments, way more than hath stood.
Each masterpiece weighted and given their due,
Fully loaded, then firmly sealed with sealant hot glue.
Scientifically apportioned, positioned in place,
Scaled aerodynamically, all else displaced.
Like the tide's surge that fills the narrowing fjord,
Each storm its waters, the work of our Lord.
Like the great Cumulus arching up to the sky,
Fiery chariots cinema-graphing, in our mind's eye.
Next to the last step they sand, then they buff;
Visages changing to finished from rough.
Transformed master sculptures, all parts in their place,
Ready at last, for the great derby race.
A final veneer, their colors of choice,
Sparkling, gleaming finishes for these magnificent toys.
Anticipation escalating fore' the event begins,
Rooting for our favorites, family or friends.
aabb May 2, 2015
The pavements stand empty the winds are still
Where are the people these chairs to fill.
Can hear shouts and cheering drafting in the air
Are these the people who will occupy each chair
They are at the Rugby an important game
So some with happy faces, some head hung in shame
Very soon waiters you'll need pads at the ready
Final whistle has blown keep your hands steady
For dozens of glasses of the best beer
Will be ordered shortly of that there’s no fear
Don’t look at those chairs wishing they were full
Instead enjoy the peace of this short lull
You will be run off your feet going this way and that
The one good thing is that the takings will look fat.
Such a busy few hours, no time to think
So, come let’s sit for awhile, relax and enjoy a stiff drink.
Penned by Seren Roberts on January 25th
Contest : Café Musings.
quaffing caustic acidic ale, a prankster did stage
analogous to raging figurative fire of rage
within my belly – riven asper spinal binding
ripped from every book marked page
caw zing quite an ache – fiercely teas sing
curative panaceas sans
almond sunset, chamomile, osage
tea, yukon try grabbing with all your might,
even enlisting Strain gauge
in tandem
with a bunch of bootlegged banshees
freed from their cage
as last resort drafting electric eels,
shocking quite astute
accompanied by
jack and the Giant beanstalk golems to boot
or tiger (perhaps named Tony,
mean to the bone, but...oh so cute
who dwells in a tony neighborhood),
swishing tail (Nike like),
and held up ala playing the flute
an unseen hellacious, ferocious, or egregious beast,
who expells offal asphyixiating
from a moon unit sized Glute
yea, I could also allude to some flying dragon,
who gives nada ha hoot,
somehow remotely controlling to ram into ewe,
these high speed U-Haul trucks
combine all the above scenario,
aye know really sucks
which gagging induces
the worst instance of reflux
the sum total would,
only feebly meet Karma credit rating as de luxe
approximate the onset
of red hot enflamed ducks
(my apologies to PETA, Paul, Luke...),
they madly flap wings, yawping beaks,
vis a vis on par withque clucks
clan – Whew...only then
(after paying yee a million bucks
please keep on the que tee i.e. hush)
regarding this soupy poetic fabrication
bravely bursting buttucks amucks.
YOU ARE THE PAPER AND I AM THE PEN
Hi Jenn, glad you are writing a poem today,
And ecstatic you are drafting it in a
Happy and mostly pink notebook,
Which of course is me,
What on earth was it that took
You so long, to do this sensible thing,
You have thrown hundreds of sheets away
Screwed them up, and thrown in your bin,
To never see another dawn, or beautiful day.
Lock down WOW, I’m thrilled we must stay at home,
Will the virus lessen, because all will less roam?
Well “Pinkie Book” I couldn’t resist you
You looked so cute and extremely cheeky,
Your pages trimmed with freaky,
Skulls and ghosts, I really wanted this book
And since we have established you talk
Maybe you can go back in time
And find the scribbles that were discarded
That had no meaning, disregarded.
We have unlocked a mystery so profound
From Centuries ago, we will see it through
When this dreadful, horrible virus.
Is no longer a crisis!
As each of the flowers painted on the four
Corners of the paper nod their heads demurely
Makes me feel guilty if my pen is full of fury!
Let’s make a poem together said the pretty note-book.
With pleasure I replied!
There once was some pink paper, and a pen
Who were both owned by a poet called Jenn
She discovered the pink paper could speak,
This for Jenn was such a surprising treat,
Jenn, muse, talking pink pad destined to craft a gem!
Our President Cyril Ramaphosa addressed the nation last night,
The nation goes into lockdown by midnight Thursday night
With the full strength of the law and its might
Allowed a grocery store or get medication
Be quick and back with extreme trepidation
Unabiding Citizens army and police involved in this plight
Thank you dear Pinkie book, you really are so clever,
Stay here as long as you like, you are now a family member!
Every year,
these small, gentle flowers
bring us evidence
of the drafting hand of God,
Who so thoughtfully took the trouble,
amongst all His mighty and endless obligations,
to draft anew
every single petal that has ever been
and is yet to be.
They are like the human faces
we are so lucky to see
every single day.