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The Best Literature Poems
Achilles, The Journey To Troy,
(Part Two) of (Part One-titled, Achilles, His Heart and Soul Were Mortal)
Woe! wretched horrors Olympic gods sent that day
mighty king suffered, his treasure stolen away,
power of Troy against strongest of Grecian might
testing magnificent force of great Spartan fight!
Saving proud Greek honor was the summoning call
an arrogant king demanded Troy's suffering fall,
swift as Hermes, to warriors, messengers sent
his request answered, they came in flooding torrents.
As Grecian phalanx were boarding its warring ships
strong was the question upon the warriors lips,
Achilles! Achilles! Will our fight he now join
for he answers not to king's selfish whims or coins.
Roaring loud happy cheers as his ship sails were seen
warriors, certain victories plunders they'd glean,
his godlike bearing seen at, warships splashing prow
for not even Troy's massive walls, could stop them now!
Soon Troy's riches they would gather with bloody hands
slaughter its haughty citizens, burn its rich lands,
steal its power and gold, take its women as slaves
for its sins, cast its rabble into early graves!
With sacrifices made to Ares they could not fail
their gods had sent favoring winds to fill their sails,
Poseidon. rewarded faithful kings, gave their dues
they sailed on with pride of warriors and ships crews.
Eager to land and fight battles for glory's sake
to Olympic gods they prayed, their lives not to take,
gift them courage and hone well their slashing sharp blades
allow the joys of victor's homecoming parades.
Dawn's rays saw Achille's ship surging far ahead
he had his prowess and dark blood-lust to be fed,
in his heart he knew, this battle would be his last
glory and fame taken, would set the world aghast!
As night fell, they knew new day's light, would blood-lust sate
they each sought to placate dark master of their Fate,
with prayers and incense to burn throughout dark of night
each prepared for this, the greatest of all their fights!
Robert J. Lindley, 8-12-2018
(Part Two) - The Journey To Troy
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2018
At awe by my mothers beautiful mind,
when it came to writing I always felt so blind.
Literature class advised us to write,
for the first time I did not feel bright.
Sneak a poem of my mothers i did,
boy did I feel like a little kid.
Praise my teacher gave me for such a lovely write,
my mind here and there like a kite.
Lucky me open house was here,
the poem posted on the class wall had me at fear.
Suggesting my parents to skip that class,
trying to avoid the coming sass.
She read it and thought to herself that it was idolized,
her eyes got big as she realized.
Quiet she kept as she knew how embarrassed I was,
of course it gave her a buzz.
It was cause of that day we look back,
and my mom gave me some slack.
She later taught me it's as simple as rhyming,
and with the emotions I have priming.
Copyright © Royal Ninja | Year Posted 2013
I feel a sense of déjà vu as I listen
to the cacophony of voices:
dilettantes discussing poetry
under baroque chandeliers. Masquerading
as avant-garde writers or bona fide critics
(black turtlenecks; color is an anomaly and suspicious),
they claim carte blanche to spew
pronounce entire oeuvres as lacking elan
while all they create is endless ennui.
For contest: Contest: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
Sponsor: Silent One
Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2018
Salutations to all the poets
That waters my ink,
Those whose words never
Make my heart shrink,
Of you always i ever will think,
Standing alone, i could sink
So i grasped on your knowledge
That is without stink.
Phyllis Babcock is a raining day,
In her Motherhood, no
Hot sun to hinder my play.
Carolyn Devonshire is a rose flower,
Tender Mother and even from afar, her
Lightening Ink draws me closer.
Linda Marie, the Sweet heart of P S,
Is the essence of love letters
Her poems are like the good weathers,
Constance La France is indeed a rambling poet,
No wonder,her lines drives me to the point,
Doris Culverhouse won my heart,
She trades literature,
The poet Destroyer kills me
With Ink, a poet by nature.
Dr. Ram Mahta is a poetic chef,
He stirs the soup with delicious thoughts.
Heart dedication to all my poetic friends...
For your presence is like fragrance to my breath.
Gari La Buda, an inspiration, Richard Carrie, a melodious pen, Carol Brown, a steady one,
All of you are Lightening Inks.....
Copyright © Charles Melody Lightning Ink | Year Posted 2010
though heart had been riven
she loved him: a given
she said, "it's Ok...
that's how the boys play.
Don't worry, I'll stay
but not again, hear? No way!"
But that broken trust
shattered by his lust
turned contentment to dust!
Forgive him, she must!
she kept it inside
could not bruise her pride
to the gossips, she lied,
but something had died
she smiled and she gave
her children to save
Acted steely and brave
must take secret to grave
But what of her dreams?
in the silence, she screams
her tears flow in streams
Can life be the same?
his infidelity has a name
there's no shame in her game
she's wild and not tame
So in shroud of the night
with no sound, and no light
With no one in sight
she slits wrists, oh so right!
the next day...what a fright!
Blood stained words that he read:
"'I forgive you', I had said
but when I'd lie in our bed
all I could see in my head
was you with her instead...
Dear...I'm better off dead!
Footnote: I am NOT suggesting that someone who has been betrayed take this path. I am narrating a story of a single case. I'm sure there have been poems, songs, stories in literature of the kind. I mean no offense.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2017
When cover of a book teases us to pry
Courted we're by sound of their voices:
Writers, creators, poets, and scholars--
Inviting us to virtues of wisdom inside.
If we can hear the sound of galleries
And the renaissance of cultural history
Wowed by music, sculptures, and paintings
We are attuned to the voices of artists.
When strings strum atop a music box
Cadence that moves us is voice of guitar,
Singer then bends the voice of lyrics
As we respond to the rhythm of music.
Emotions rile in disharmonious voices
Uttered by traffic, streets, and buildings
Contrasting soft tunes of rustling leaves
And whispered voices of whistling winds.
Voices are poems, feelings, and smiles
Tears and fears or trumpets of joy;
Sopranos singing of victories and defeats,
Agents of goodwill or messengers of cries.
December 3, 2018
Placed first in Voices poetry contest by Silent One
Copyright © Vijay Pandit | Year Posted 2018
O Teacher! My Teacher!
I would dare to channel a master just for you.
I know not if I am up to this lofty task,
but it is to your expectation that I try to rise.
You never asked for anymore than my best
and I love you for never demanding any less.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
If you had not opened a locked door,
the engulfing rays of enlightenment
may never have caressed my yearning face,
or held me tightly in her awakening embrace
releasing the song desperately trapped in my soul.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
You always said I had a great gift.
If that is true, I heap all praise on you.
You have the most wonderful offering of all
for within you rested the ability to recognize
the potential now flowing freely under my pen.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
I will forever hold you in the highest esteem.
I am not certain if mere words could ever express
the appreciation I have long held for your guiding hand.
Undaunted by the impossible task now in front of me,
this student will once again try to impress his teacher.
This piece was inspired and written for Professor Judy Davis who taught at the College of Central Florida until she retired. She was my English Literature and Composition teacher the first time I went to college. Many go into teaching, but the special few, like Judy, are called to the profession. She is now enjoying her retirement, but her old student here still communicates with her occasionally.
Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013
It has been the slow and steady race of life
To emulate the tortoise and not the hare
Using failures as stepping stones to success
Not success but happiness key to success.
That happiest day was 5th of August, 2005
Not begging but earning the award of Litt.D.
From the World Congress of poets (Unesco).
First time enjoyed the world casinos of Lass Vegas
Met a love not with lust but of the platonic kind.
Glimpses of the Hollywood’s glimmer and glitter
Of love, life, literature, a brief lust of the loveliness.
Sheer joy of controlled passions with peers and poets
Conceived of 70 years delivered in a single day.
September 18, 2014
Form : Free Verse
Fifth Place win
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014
What a slap in the face!
It’s an international disgrace!
and (subversion in action)
It’s now commonly used in parlance by judiciary
while in literature this prevalent (lie) I see.
With a bland, enough face?
or is there the hint of a trace?
Could there be in its origin, a.. motive? or motion
created to infiltrate a nations notion?
A.. (sort of sufferance)
involved with its utterance!
So (abused & misused) is the category
I must zero in all my batteries,
Now I am clearing my decks,
here I go, what the heck!
For I have admiration for a Francophile
would converse with a Russophile
I so enjoy your work Faberge
and appreciate the charm of the Gallic sway
But for me there is no third way!
(now) without any doubt I am coming about
And stoking all my fires
for full ahead’s my desire.
On the literary beach
I see a very (rotten peach)!
And it was ‘hidden’ in full view
Hmm.. let’s see what some firepower can do
For the doting parents who pray
keep our kids safe today.
Hardworking moms & dads who care,
find time that is to spare
From extra help with early reading
to painting nursery room ceilings
Some working 14-hour days
it makes me angry I say.
Aunts & uncles, grandparent, teachers
of calm nature and reason
With motives pure and in step
with life’s seasons
And the name of the paedophile should by rights be theirs,
its been hijacked, does anyone care?
It’s too good a description, just not the depiction
to be bandied about, LISTEN
AS I SHOUT WITH TRUE INDIGNATION
CHANGE THIS DECEPTION OF NATIONS
© Joe Maverick 25-04-2011
Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2011
Recipe-How to make a human from scratch
Start with a large amount of dirt.
Add sufficient water to moisten.
Mix together until becomes clay like.
Shape and mold according to your will.
Add generous amounts of
3. Spiritual need.
4. Creative ability
5 Desirable qualities like:
Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy
Mix in the ability to reproduce according
to it's kind.
Lastly, breathe into it the breath of life
Wait until breathing on it's own.
Supply enough nutrient filled air and
food to sustain it forever.
That's it! Now you have a human!
The proof that this recipe works:
Scientists admit our bodies are
made up of elements from the ground
in fact we need to supplement our bodies
with minerals from the ground
to replenish what is lost.
The greatest ingredient in the human body
by volume is water which we also
need to replenish daily.
Scientists also recognize that all humans have
intelligence to a greater or lesser degree.
Also, unless there is a defect
we all have a conscience.
Something that separates us from the animals
is our innate need to worship,
to understand where we come from
and ponder the meaning of life.
Artistic and creative ability also
is something that appears to be innate
in all humans to a greater or lesser degree.
Qualities of Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy
are essential to continued happiness,
happiness also is a condition
that is not necessary for life
but adds to it.
Reproductive powers are
obviously needed to continue the species.
The force of life,
the spark to initiate life,
breathing and eating are
necessary to sustain life.
All of this was done already
so we don't have to worry.
Something to think about...
if this recipe was originally
a product of blind chance,
random selection, and then
natural selection and survival of the fittest
try taking the ingredients to your
favourite recipe and randomly
select and mix and cook
according to blind chance...
how would it turn out?
And if natural selection
and survival of the fittest
produced a stronger species,
what purpose does
creativity in arts and literature
have to do with survival?
Does not all of this
lead one to believe
that humans are a product
from an intelligent designer
with a purpose?
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
For every step my father took,
my short legs took three.
“Daddy, please,” I called to him,
“you walk too fast for me.”
My sister took a husband;
my brother went to sea.
Our father sighed, “Our family time
has been too brief for me.”
As my teen years ended
and college lay before me,
Dad shook his head in sadness,
“It’s all too fast for me.”
When Mama died, we reminisced
their forty-seven years.
The passing time, the life they shared
were captured in our tears.
And as computers came of age,
Dad watched me surf the net.
“I’d like to learn,” he said to me,
“But I’m not ready yet.”
Then as Dad lay dying, carrying years
that numbered ninety-three,
I could not help but say aloud,
“They went too fast for me.”
* I wrote this poem on the way to my father’s funeral. I wanted to read it aloud as a tribute, but my sister said the rhyme made it sound too amateurish. She has her PhD in Literature, so I didn’t argue. I should have.
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014
among you and I and among us all
remains a feeling of shallow intoxication
that seems to play on and on and on in our respective heads
as everyone important to us has gone on to some beautiful destiny
I sit here amongst the caucasion sleeves of paper on the floor of my chamber
the numbness of the so called "art" on the radio
mommy, I have done it
as the winter approaches, we batten down ourselves for the impending darkness
snow ensconces the dull tundra of all the acres
understandably blundered by the wings of burden and shame
I toil with the literature of my past and the science of my future
I thought I found you at least a dozen times, but you weren't you
daddy, throw another log on the fire
is there mercy in this chaos and this uncertainty?
will I ever retain escape velocity and leave this earth?
I must leave this place and find sanctity elsewhere
no doctor revive me, no professional conversationalists, please.
mommy, daddy, take me home.
the shoreline thunders, with the red clay -- imitating dover
I stare down at the mercurial wash of the crushing tides
special sequins rain down into the fundy sea below
I shall wake the wight inside of me
and destroy the pain inside of thee.
mommy, daddy -- rape the teeth from within my head
to paint a better picture of the son you thought you knew
brother, I miss you and your insolent charm.
but little monster, I think I will stay for you.
Copyright © Ingvar Thorisdottir | Year Posted 2014
In this old sensing bad world,
Old is good,
The old culture,
Listening to a song nature,
Music their literature,
A violin at every home,
Like one with Nero Rome,
Violin in feminine for the men then,
A fiddle in the middle of hands,
The four strings of violin like four nerves of women,
Carrying not blood but fear,incomprehension,shyness,
And loathing no men but own men,
The women were pure like music from violin,
The old not violent,
But a good violin,
Oh Girl! let the music play on from the old violin!
(Basing on the culture of our South Asian bounds)
Copyright © Muhammad Safa Thajudeen | Year Posted 2014
I didn't know the sunlight 'till she brought it to the house,
or how much better pancakes are when shaped like Mickey Mouse.
I've learned that giving horsey rides can carpet burn your knees;
that lunch is not complete without that gormet Mac and cheeze.
She'll climb in the recliner and hop up on my lap,
if I am quick to promise she's not there to take a nap,
and what an easy thing it is when it comes time to chose,
the two of us and Sponge Bob or just me and evening news.
We watch the Disney movies, every witch and cartoon dog,
Schrek and Harry Potter, every Princess, every frog.
The table in the dining room's a Kingdom end to end;
Cinderellea's plastic castle's there and every molded friend.
I've learned to loosen Play Dough up when it's sat out too long,
and when I'm singing Taylor swift, I get the lyrics wrong.
A crayon beats a marker for original design,
and it ain't real important that we stay inside the line.
She finds my taste in literature is just a bit obtuse,
'cause there aren't any Princesses in books by Doctor Suess.
Outside to build a snow man, her giggles keep me young;
love is watching Maisey catch the snowflakes on her tongue.
Copyright © Wayne Sapp | Year Posted 2010
She's only 12 1/2 years old as I recall
Adult minded who walks before the crawl
How did she join us and we not figure out
Her mind is not a kid but adult throughout
She calls herself "the Literature Lover"
Flowing through Soup we soon discover
Her name might well be misconstrued
She's smart, bright and cunningly shrewd
So BE AWARE all YOU poets so BOLD
The Kid's not a novice at 12 years old
Good Luck to all of us we're gonna need it!
Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2015
It is so difficult to measure,
any metaphysical treasure.
One can only glean,
Its riches in stream,
By absorbing it at one’s leisure.
I’m speaking of poetry that hovers,
Levitating between it’s covers,
just waiting to be read,
nothing left to be said,
Literature for life and lovers.
Tribute to Elizabeth Wesley’s
new book …
Author House publications.
It has been a long, long time since I have read anything that
has arrested my attention long enough for me to stop and smell
the roses as has this book "Polished Stones" by Elizabeth Wesley.
Thank you Elizabeth.
tribute written by
Robert A. Dufresne
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2012
What has happened to our kids?
Why did we become the type of parents we did?
Is there a name for us?
Slower, easier, then turned into a mess of fuss
Using our imaginations and reading the classics galore
So much lovely literature to explore
Had to look up facts in a Book
Critical thinking came without one second look
Now we have I.T. people at schools
Showing and telling us...
something I never really wanted to use
Gets me into trouble
What DO YOU mean I can't have that document on the double?
So, this generation I am in...the before and after
Are a special bunch of people going faster and faster
We are a special generation, you see
We grew up without the almighty god of technology
People try to put us down... cuz' we don't know the way around
Can ya dig what I'm tryin' to say? Computers will never fade away
I'm not tryin' to cause a big sensation...
Google is fine, but not the only means of education
Copyright © Jennifer Young | Year Posted 2014
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Poets with golden ink and pens
You make us move forward with your inspiration
With kind an honest, encouragement and compliments
Small act of caring all which has the potential to turn a life around
Kim Patrice Nunez
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Poet Destroyer A
Robert L. Hinshaw
Connie Marcum Wong
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Mary Oliver Rotman
And so many more!
Team Poetry Soup :)
Not For Contest
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015
I have gathered you here today
to mourn rhyming poetry’s death.
For modern poets think it's too blasé
regardless its rhythm or breath.
Lyrical literature’s cliché
although it's been regaled for years.
For now there’s a different way
of expressing your fears and tears.
Locked in the dusty pages of time
rhyme died because critics shunned it.
And its once clear distinctive chime
was stripped of its rapier wit.
Beloved and yet missed by few
it has slipped into history.
Yet when I hear what rhyme can do
it’s death remains a mystery.
It's been laid to rest by free style
lift your pens and bid it adieu!
Yet visit it once in a while
and help keep its legacy true.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
A man lives without literature
And an another man wears no garments
Both are naked in the world.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2015
A tender discourse of artistic thoughts
Ambles my mind searching for prologue
Aiming to become a poetic dialogue,
Striving for words that elicit a response.
And you enter with an aiding portrayal
Letting my words live and breathe,
To evolve into lines of synchronic rhythm
And emanate sounds of lyrical music.
And you tell me words must be set free
To hear as I hear, and feel as I do:
Joy of romance or sorrow of heartbreak,
Elation of birth, or anguish of death.
Words set free weave a cohesive likeness
Choosing a dawn or night of darkness,
Painting a world full of cheer or fear
Upon shiny meadows or wispy pastures.
Shedding limitations of form and syllables,
Guided only by poetic aspirations
You awaken me with a wondrous theme,
You think so big, poem of my dream!
October 27, 2017
Placed first in standard contest #138 by Brian Strand
Copyright © Vijay Pandit | Year Posted 2017
It happened in a moment, during my 7th grade English class *
As we studied classic literature; “Evangeline”, the poem
A substitute teacher, wearing shoes of polished coal *
His soft style, hair neatly combed, engrossed in reading poetry…
Pubescence slumped around me, nodding off, slowly being lulled...
Young minds. filled with clutter, gathering dust, from ancient stories
With glittering eyes, he read each verse * *
The soft, eager voice, that stroked each word…
He would wait, on occasion, to look around the room *
With wistful hope, I would suppose, to reach one heart, one soul
At the start of the class, I had been watching the clock
But, as I sat more enraptured, time just seemed to stop…
I turned the pages, one by one …and slowly fell in love
The beauty of old words, drifted through the stuffy air
Like the gathering of dust motes, glittered, hanging in suspension
Filtered in the angled light, of the afternoon’s warm detention
Sun filtered through window glass,…while voice of bliss droned on….
My heartbeat sped, with growing passion
I restrained my hands from reaching,… grabbing *
To catch each word, and keep them captive…
Dust motes, and words, were spinning around *
I was head over heels…for my substitute teacher…
I was head over heels for an old man named Longfellow….
Thirteen years old, I loved two older men….
Fell in love with the classics,....on a mid-day afternoon
While gathering dust, and the magic of words
For the Contest: "Gathering Dust"
Sponsored by John Lawless
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
In a bubble
Of social interactions
Biden my time
Behind the gym
Until the trumpets pout and fluff
Punching I lay them all on the floor
Sadly life is down to the seconds
No time for self reflections
We jump on the slightest of offenses
holding our heads high on those pretenses
Our rights always trump our duties
Old hens chatter, yes a total disaster
A new world is born
Where insults are golden
And reality is scorned
Yet many prefer to promote interactions
Where seriously, is quite the foulest of transactions
Society now rewards those with the loudest actions
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018
The world is perfect –
That’s what everyone says.
The world has no faults –
That’s what everyone says.
Everyone fits in.
There will be no mismatched piece.”
That’s what everyone says, that’s what everyone believes.
Everyone except me.
I am not perfect;
I have an infinite number of faults.
I don’t belong;
I don’t fit in.
I am the mismatched piece.
Always on the fringe, never able to join in on the big picture;
Always on the outside looking in.
Still, “Everyone belongs;
Everyone fits in.
There will be no mismatched piece.” is what everyone continues to say,
And that’s what everyone believes.
Everyone except me.
No one notices, but I guess that’s because I’m always on the outside looking in.
Notes: This just came to me when I was thinking about the topic "propaganda" and I literally just penned this down in about 5-10 minutes. Sometimes I get on a high and this just happens. Same thing for my first submission, "Acceptance". I was so groggy at 6.50 in the morning but I had to write something out for some random Literature thingamajig and hence ensued the birth of "Acceptance". :)
Copyright © Euphonious Elysium | Year Posted 2015
Jazz and ballet
Moulin dances, stories so grim
Le Bois de Vincennes
Castles under clouds of sin
Cafes with causal chatter
When after all
What does life matter?
Drowning, the words filled with laughter
By the Seine
Walking amongst insane dreams
Singing of things never to be
In Paris a fiery inferno
up in smoke
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018