Best Laureate Poems
(On the state of American Poetry- A Non-Poem Poem )
I'm Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
They voted. I won.
' came down to me and the kid whose dog craps on everyone's lawns.
His poem was about a missing red crayon; mine: the stop-sign someone stole from the corner of Elm and Main (I think I know who did it too).
Is it coincident both poems are about loss?
Probably not. Poetry is at it's best when expressing loss.
He'll probably win the position back next year with a weepy poem about not having been chosen Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
That's fine with me, as long as he keeps that damn dog in his own yard.
It's true that I was in town
When the trumpet sound
And soldiers came down
Spilling like ants on the ground:
Heralding the royal feast!
The Gods have had their seats
To celebrate the poet from the east
Whose lyrical prowess beats
The best they've ever heard.
It is heavenly inspired:
The lines of this bard,
His hands neither slack nor feel tired.
Here, the bard comes
Clothed in divine grace!
Let the trumpet sound; beat the drums
Let the world seek his face
For he has the power to heal.
His lines drew angels down
And make kings to kneel.
Let him have his prized crown.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that everyone would die
Someday, that is why
If ever the poet should die;
Let his pen ascend to the sky,
Let heaven and earth mourn,
Let their tears turn to blood;
Let the graceful muses mourn,
Let their tears cause a flood
For the loss is without measure.
But there's end to every beginning
That's why the poet we should treasure
So that if he dies, he dies smiling.
Let the fire from his pen burn
First, in the heart of men
Then to the streets let its face turn,
Let it scorch the land till when
It has reached the palace and its tower
There too let it burn and smoke;
Let it bring every knee under its power,
Let it bring every neck under its yoke.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that poets can be made
As much as they can be born,
There are those who trade in charade;
Who cannot our admiration won.
Behold the ancient bard!
Behold, in the morning he rises
With his book and ink in hand;
As sparkles flash from his eyes.
When in early morning birds are yet mute,
His countenance is always plain
He does not argue nor refute
But undisturbed he always remain!
In the abode of the poet
There is grandeur and majesty
Befitting a grand laureate poet
And a monument of modesty;
He is the poet at heaven's gate
Who have ran a fine race
He will never be late
He holds the ace.
From Africa to America spanning the world, quite possibly
My DNA struggled to survive to make me,
My existence is a testament to survival fitness,
My life is to nurture the future and bear witness, the past,
My name is the name to property they gave,
My heritage my lineage is that of a slave,
Yes, slave, property, harsh words to hear,
Great Granddad was born enslaved, three generations too near,
Granddad laid bricks, played music and sang,
Hope from Grandma’s illiterate lips, I sprang,
A lineage broken in Georgia or Carolina south,
passed on and on by word of mouth,
The legacy must pass through me to give my children power,
For their momma’s line stepped off the Mayflower,
In both I must help them see honor,
For the strength and the pride that made me must endure,
Listening, and teaching, and learning I press on without blame,
Learning from the past about my past I move on without shame,
Each new day, new creation, I write the story,
One of survival, renewal, reflection, doggedly pushing toward glory,
I am black yesterday, I am black now, I am black history.
HERE'S WISHING YOU A BUCKET OF THE BEST,
FOR HAVING REACHED THAT GOLDEN CREST,
I MYSELF CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER THAT FAR BACK,
TO THE TIME WHEN I BROKE YOUTH'S BACK...
BUT WISHING YOU THE BEST FOR THE NEXT MANY YEARS,
YOU'LL ONLY GET UGLIER AND WISER SO BELAY YOUR FEARS.
MAY YOUR HEART BE FILLED WITH JOYFUL TEARS,
MEANWHILE, KICK BACK WITH A COUPLE A BEERS.
An apple bitten,
Exiled from the garden of love,
Innocently wise.
Through doors and windows,
Further and further inward,
Pushing limits until inward becomes outward,
And miracles unfold into reality.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, world to world,
Bouncing from dimension to dimension,
Stranded in the space that is nowhere,
Unsure if this is wake or sleep,
Unsure which option is reality,
Rapid fire stillness,
The love child of sanity and insanity.
1 fine day an erstwhile aspiring
dotting poet laureate
Overcome by inner torment and
habitual thought
This ditty came to wrote
When 1 finds the sun behind
sadly no longer way out in front
Ever so steadily warming one's back
and dirty neck
And so too the torrent of regret
that makes 1 fret the splinter creaking
wooden board's under foot
Beware and very mindful to watch
out for the gap's as you step
Because it's easy to fall through
the crack's
And it's a long old way back up as
there are as many stairs to climb
To find yourself right back where
you began
Realizing you have reached your
ceiling and have finally attained
your level
And the only thing awaiting
after that
Is an untimely death
Hopefully then followed by an
everlasting eternal peace at last
Later A Poet Laureate
One to me you were so sincere
Then one day when you did disappear
My heart was broken and I became sad
And now I knew I just had been had.
Over and over my mind was tormented
After I discovered it was demented
To God started praying while I kneeled
He said it was always best to play the field.
I really appreciated such a suggestion
After my sins were caught in a confession
And slowly together the puzzle was pieced
When I started listening to the Priest.
One thing at a time should attempt and take
And never again will my heart ever break;
From God to me another message was sent
Have you thought running for President.
Should I protest when I heard God's plea?
What in the world has come over me?
By everyone I would receive all the blame;
Bowed out and later Poet Laureate became.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
In the music of life there will be sound and rest,
In every day there will be work and rest,
The contrast is important,
Finding the balance is the test.
Being pre-menopausal
last night
when I woke up
at three-twenty-four
and picked his book
off the floor
moaned and groaned
and gnashed my teeth
and bit my lip
and said, good grief
are we suppose
to read this junk
Have you ever
heard the word
brief or fun
or light or airy
And laid the book
back on the floor
and shut the light
and said, no more
I'd rather be asleep
Form:
Newest thoughts brew in mind
Awesome write-ups to unwind
Novelist on the journey winsome
Dashing writing just wowsome
Highest rank of Poet Laureate
Ingenious bent in toto great
Nano skills and macro talent
Inspiring poetics with couplet
Magnificently carving a niche great
Ardent follower of rules straight
Gracious with the tone amazing
Enormous charm creates the writing
Superb in the glot of Queen’s English
Her Highness even enjoys with relish
A novel poetess without crown
Hailing from Hosur, the town
What a creative flow of literature..!
Such is the evolution as litterateur
A supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
All the imaginations being precious
A current of ocean flows in the mind
Torrents of information for us to grind
On par with the creative bent
Lord Goddess of talent innate
Coupled with Tamil culture and
Kannad heritage highly grand
The content has space so special
Specifying the space being spatial
Space seems to be the limit clearly
Auspacious and auspicious dearly
Seems to have a way with space
The way it indicates the pace
Space fiction in a way authentic
Flourishes with the pen prolific
Such a potential inspiring awe
Makes me open my mouth in wow!
Profoundly performing all genres
Poised for pure fictional areas
I guess the future is bright extreme
As the flair for writing is supreme
The phase being extremely golden
And rejoicingly delightingly Goshen
Are the articles and poetry
Compelling seems to be the story
Beyond the expected limit of word
The highest title soon to be conferred
The voyage seems to be perpetual
In the space-ploration eternal
May the apt publishing house
Reach this poetess of promise
So that the revolution in fiction
Is bound to happen in succession
May the poet’s all work get
The due credit and fame great
May the royalty reach the bard
As I pray to the Space Lord..!!
I loved you the best I could,
Your scars were so deep and so old,
I could not see them and you could remember,
I love you,
This time love was not enough.
If words are thoughts made manifest, humanity then a poem long ago written
only the poet knowing the design
Tragic or joyous, all things rest in his hands
for once the word is constructed creation is realized ending fulfilled
I remember sitting among the poets in this place of arts
Where curved brushes painted blushes of artists open hearts
Our art could be confined to paper, but really it was meant to fly
Like a caged bird beats its wings, these words seek the sky
Only on the lips of faith, they leaped from the pages
And danced around the room, turning citizens into sages
Awakening something so deep, I forgot it was there
A hunger to create, and the pride to share
The words returned to the pages, content with its journey as proof
A smile touched her lips, after delivering such a truth
She quietly closed her book, as we laid there raw
For as much as we thought we knew, we were still left in awe
Of The Laureate