Best Jotting Poems
Partial Paper - A Poet Heart-
When ink carries its final tune
Moonshine-like liquid sweeps the mind
Bottles of ink will fill the pen
Composing a symphony on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails
This part of you
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The toughest skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger shattered walls "GIVE ME MORE!"
inclined with a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet: "Ink Never Lies."
Pretty pink acrostic ink when nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Odes of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
Only this, and nothing more
Writing is like giving birth to the moon
Once driving home, I did defy
A deluge from the darkened sky.
The bluster lent a tinge of fright.
But God is good, and all is right.
When soon my house came into view,
Southward was cerulean blue.
And to the west an orb shone bright.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
Voluminous the sun did rest
Upon a mountain gleaming lest
I look away; miss more delight!
But God is good, and all is right.
For where the azure sky met gray,
A rainbow over my house lay.
With peaks to east it did unite.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
This finite sight I need to store
Inside my mind; when troubles pour,
I'll think on it. And so I write
My God is good, and all is right
For Giorgio Veneto's Beloved Poem Contest
By Andrea Dietrich in Rhyme form. I suppose
you could say Couplets but they are couplets
inside quatrain type stanzas, so I am just calling
it rhyme.
*This is a beloved poem of mine for the simple reason that it
was one of those rare poems truly inspired by reality. A lot
of my poems are based on pictures or challenges or things
I see in movies or simply from my playing with words. This actually
happened to me. I had just begun writing poetry in my life, and these
words were going through my head as I beheld the beautiful
rainbow that signaled the end of the frightening storm! When
I reached my home, I immediately began jotting down the words!
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.
Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.
Dr. Ram Mehta
==============================================
Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet
I really must confess
I do not know her very well
But judging by her poetry
There's much that I can tell
True, I had to read
Through everything she wrote
Sifting through her comments
And jotting down some notes
Then donned my strongest spectacles
So as, to read between the lines
And felt I came to know her
Between the verses and the rhymes
I met her in a conflict
As we strolled through truth and lies
She's a pupa busting outward
To become, a butterfly
They claim that she's bi-polar
I say there's no such thing
She's a flower, that needs water
And the warmth that comes with spring
She thinks that She is worthless
But many here sure know it
As she struggles through the tears
She's one of our best poets
At times I've filled in a 200 page pad in a day
Yet I still had more to say
I've always liked rhyming I just find it fun
My mind is always thinking so there isn't a time when my rhymes are done
Even when I'm writing simple rhymes
You'd lose your mind by some of the things my pencil finds
I like being lyrical so sometimes I'm Bending words
I won't always rhyme with the ending word
You couldn't keep count of the pieces of paper that my pen gets through
I make a beautiful story out of the ugliness that men step through
Sometimes I like to switch it up and use rhymes that are multi syllable
I've still not yet gone fully lyrical
I grew up listening to the thoughts of Nas and the rhymes of Rakim
So you can't compete with the lines I'm jotting
Blasting Wu Tang and Big Pun to sound out the screams and sadness
Constantly trying to come up with new ideas, rhyme schemes and patterns
Loving Hip-Hop got me to start writing double rhymes
I picked up a pen and rhyming saved my troubled mind
I've always liked rhyming I just find it fun
Time to start my next poem so my rhymes aren't done
I'm not sure you can see this
But my life is an experiment
Where I try new things out every day
I wake up in the mornings
Most times without warning
Put my feet on the floor, then on my way
I talk with people I pass
Monitoring if they talk back
If I feel lead I'll even shake hands
With this I check my heart rate
Making sure to keep up the pace
Like a lab rat at sciences demand
I'll visit Delicatessens
Jotting down lessons
Of what I do and do not like
I do this for science
Where future generations might find it
Interesting that I always order pie
I've even fallen in love
Believe me science doesn't know enough
And I'm not sure they'll ever find that out with time
But I'll keep on experimenting
My life project I hope soon won't be ending
For the sake of science and all of mankind
What is poetry, I must ask? Writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write, Hmmm, for my delight, or do I write from insight? Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can"t bring myself to hate it because I"m also captivated. You see, poetry is something very new, something I thought I would never do, yes I thought nothing of the kind, poetry never even crossed my mind. Until Rehad. I was jotting down stuff that was really drab, while in my mind I was repeating a phraise while giving The Lord praise. Then a voice I heard, "you can do much more with those words" I didn't have a clue of what I could do.
So I started to think, I started to strain but the more I strained the further away they became. I was completely baffled, it had stopped me cold, so I stopped trying and behold poem's started to unfold. Now the tide has turned, no more free ride it's time to learn, so some candles I must burn, like everything else poetry too, you must earn. Instead I duck, I dodge, I hide, thinking of anything to put them aside. With all the great poets how can I compete, I feel as though I'm already beat. So I get afraid and into the back ground I fade, trying my best to evade. But that's not the case for every morning I awake they are right back in my face. I'm thinking, this is not the norm, should I grab the bull by the horns. My head started to spin, thinking how do I begin.
And from out of my heart, following the other poets is a great place to start, in order to proceed you must not only write, you must also read and reading is showing me it takes special people to write poetry. Which also keeps me in check and for all you poets I have the utmost respect. So whether good or bad, I will nether smudge nor carry a grudge for I am not here to judge. I just want to be a part of these wonderful works of art. But Poetry, I wonder, what will I aquire and what will transpire? I guess I must travel the unknown but it's good to know, I don't walk alone. So I say again my friend. What Is Poetry, I Must Ask, Writing Poetry Can Be Quite A Task?
Blood red sun peeks through silhouetted pines
Lavender frosts the eastern sky
Crepe Myrtle blossoms line the drive
Time in the hour glass marches by
The summer sun has changed to orange
As it rises higher still
The gray wolf's eye sky looks innocent
As it coats each and every hill
The roosters' voices fall flat in the hollow
The air hangs heavy today
Song birds add their dimension
As tunes begin to play
Bright yellow-orange sun is higher
It shines over the tops of trees
What will this day offer
Will its plot be sure to please
Illustrious? Too sophisticated.
Advanced? Sounds too modern.
Awkward? Not in the mood yet.
Animalistic? A nice ring, bereft of a special ring.
Will consider it for later though. Jotting it down now.
I could cut up some onions. I got up early to cook a roast right?
I get up from the chair, and my muse bops me on the head,
A light smack. I know, I tell her. I will be back in two.
It is actually ten minutes later. I had to cut up the onions and the roast.
Antiquated? Too prissy.
Profound? Dharm it! You already use profound in every other poem.
Pollutive? Is that even a WORD?
I will set the crockpot on high.
Trixie gets out her machete and leers at me, really mad now.
If you use that, I will not help you at all, I warn her,
So she files it back in her knapsack, and starts stomping up and down the paper.
She is storming angry when I return, I know because the paper is torn into
Teeny, tiny bits, I pull it back together, trying to read it again, as I recopy it.
Plain? Too plain.
Demonstrative? Circle that one. I like that one.
Delectable, delightful, deliriously diabolically, do-able.
The D words are here, and they are dancing and prancing.
Discerning. Where did that come from? Trixie helps me scratch it out.
Hey! Were you going to put the meat into the crockpot?
INSTANT brain stop.
We come to a screeching halt.
Dhramn!
I take Trixie to the kitchen where she hammers on Joe’s head with her axe.
Unfortunately, he does not feel it.
No one else here can put roast into a crockpot?
My sis Chris has a mole upon her back
Theyv called her to the hospital
Coz its a little bit black
Im waiting on her now
Shes having it removed
I really hope she is ok
I bet she will b bruised ??
I sat staring at the people
And wondering what to do
So i started jotting down this ditty
I thought Id write to you
I got on second verse
I looked up in the air
Then i thought I saw a nurse
But twas my sister standing there??
How was it Chris I asked
She was red upon the cheek
“Well iv had it taken off
They may phone me in a week”
“The nurses was so nice”
She says
“I really cant complain
So I wont be dreading it
If I have to go again”
Ah well I said, thats fine i said
Dont worry pet, Im here
We’ll get the train, youre not alone
You need not ever fear ??
She used her phone to ring her man
To give him all her news
& at the end it made her cry
Coz he finished with “love yous”***
She looked at me & gave a sigh
I hugged her close to me
I saw her tears, they touched my heart, i joined her with cry
Come on lets walk & cross this road, we rid our tears with winks
We hurried on, she found two chairs
I went & ordered drinks
Not alcohol, Oh heavens
No
Not for our Chris & me
Theres nothing better, nothing nicer than a cup of tea??
So rest we did & after that
We went to Fenwicks shop
The clothes were candy to our eyes
Our Chris she bought a top??
Well we spent abit of time & then we caught our train
We got to Berwick,
Said our goodbyes
& both drove home again??
Moral of this ditty
Is very plain to see
In every situation
We stay together
Our Chris & Me??????
I watch the curling smoke
rising from my cigarette
my mind’s flat broke
my creative spirit begins to fret
sipping my hot coffee
listening to the cold rain
wishing something would inspire me
and end this poet’s strain
I start jotting down words
and random gibberish phrases
most no one’s ever heard
extracted from my mind’s hazes
but I really need to write
something that’s worth reading
locked in a brutal fight
come on, pen start bleeding!
mellow just chilling
sitting back
listening to
coffeehouse tunes
sipping a tall americano
at a table for one
set by the window
in the far corner
winding down
doodling pen in hand
jotting rough lines
of a poem on a napkin
pulling it together
precious me time
hiding out where
i can lose myself
and not be found
Published in my photo/poetry book ~TABLE FOR ONE~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on September 18, 2019
Pick me, pick me
Said the little poem from the back
It has been in the line so long
Longing to be read
It knows that it is special
You can see it in its rhyme
It just needs someone to read it
Spare a few minutes of their time
It tries its best not to sound desperate
As no one likes a whiny poem
Also knows some poems are more meaningful
And just wants to feel like it belongs
It wasn't written by a famous poet
Like Dickinson or Walcott
But does it matter whose hand the pen is in
When you're jotting down your thoughts
As it now stands it'll stay in back
Waiting for the opportunity
To attract someone to take a chance
And give this little poem its read
We are dishwashers and bill payers, we have day jobs and night jobs.
Some of us are retired, I am not, because I know too many
who died after they did that.
They lost their purpose, and before they could find another one,
they gave up, and left their earth life.
We do not have any more time than the rest of you,
but we grab it up and use it in full force.
We have chosen a life few choose. We are word players -
writing on napkins and paper plates.
Grabbing whatever is near at the time, jotting down phrases,
rhyming words, and lyrics.
We knew that we could and we can, and we do because our souls
will not let us not do.
We are the dreamers, the schemers, the world lovers,
the imagination people.
We are the ones who invent the new things, and
tear up old ideas to make room for new ones.
There is a driving force that tells us we must.
I call mine Trixie. She is an inner voice that yells at me.
She has crazy ideas. She cajoles me and coaxes me.
She holds me down until I yell “Aunt!” so I follow her lead.
We are the poets.
We have a mouse in the house.
Not an average mouse
But rather a mouse with some nous
That trips traps as it goes traipsing through the house.
A mouse whose downfall I am planning
Even while I am jotting.
A foolproof trap I will find,
Before I go out of my mind.
It will be one of a kind,
That will attest to my state of mind.
And show beyond doubt that I have more nous
Than a mouse.
It will send a message to all mouse kind
That it is time to leave this city behind
In case I lose my nous
And sacrifice the house to get rid of a mouse.