Best Mentor Poems
Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone?
A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect worldwide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with Braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day!
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today,
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician-style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it were cocaine,
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you
Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one
By: ME
5-25-14
(The Merry Adventures of Robin Good)
Sherwood's Forest legendary, leading man
up, down, tricking eggs between branches
slender, slander, his voice is growing thinner
twisting, turning heads 50 shades of green
Master of disguise reaching for the top archers spot,
A bard, with uncanny precision, ROBIN nonstop
Splitting his opponent LIKE A BOSS!
Aiming arrows, where broken women sit
Creating fantasies, for his band of hypocrites
A serenade, of jealousy and mayhem
A poetic outlaw, generously taking what others earn
Wearing black tights, the hottest profile, sipping wine
A lust beyond Dorthy's Rainbow, a venomous poem
Somewhere, covered in leprechaun's gold
His chest is cold
- Yet warm from all the hands caressing this bard,
He is the best, gravity has no weight on his pen,
A soundless soldier having his way with his sword,
Executing those who challenge him,
Breathing life into many empty accounts
Giving voices and self-encouragement
With no time to drop down this bard from cloud nine
A dissipation of air fresheners and hello's
Painting pain just to pretend it hurts the person
A fragile voice whispering in the shadows
Slithering Secrets;
From this hooded bard who carries no face,
A mask of lies, taking what belongs to others.
Robin of honor, graveled by his peasants
MISUNDERSTOOD in every fashion, yet he preys
Pipping dreams away, down an infested rat's path
Shoving Little Johns hopes down the list
Robin is no common criminal, just a bard
Wearing a dark cloak, when in disguise
taking from the greedy --- giving to the needy
Thank you for enjoying my story
Robin Good and his network of Merry Men
2-3-16
The best advice came from my hero
since our very first days on the Soup,
he said to me ....be true to yourself
don't try to blend into the group.
When no one wants to write in rhyme
you told me ....write it anyway,
when no one wants to read rhyme,
you said to me ...write it anyway.
If this is your passion, why let it go
all opinions will be hit and miss,
poetry is not what others want you to do
only Heart and Soul make up the artist.
Did Poe try to follow the rest ...oh no
being unique makes any artist great,
perfection is what it is .....to you
only we can control the hand of fate.
So what if we are being a little archaic
by respecting those who came before,
the elders are remembered for a reason
they opened up the modern poet's door.
Thank you for teaching me to believe
because back then I just didn't see,
the talent, the potential, the poet
... that you somehow saw in me.
I have many Poetry Soup heroes....
but this poem is for Chan Hurst, "Just That Archaic Poet" ....RIP
Written on November 10th, 2015
The Poet
Tribute to
Tim Smith @ Poetrysoup.com
Seeking inspiration
in the darkness of the night.
He listens to the shadows
to give him words to write.
A longing somewhere in the wind
a broken heart cries out.
It's captured his attention,
now's not the time to doubt.
He listens to a love gone wrong
he hears the teardrops fall.
Still he cannot turn away
until he's heard it all.
It speaks to him of anguish
and of a broken will.
He feels a soul begin to bleed
but he listens still.
When silence again finds him
in the shadows of the night.
He speaks for the voiceless
within the words he'll write.
Sending hope and faith and love
on wings of butterflies.
He reaches out to broken souls
then he helps them rise.
For deep inside he holds a key
though many may not know it.
The way to mend a broken heart
is the heart inside the poet.
Edwin C Hofert
I didn’t ask for help.
Yet someone heard
my inward crying voice
without a word.
“When the student is ready
a teacher will appear”
somehow it seems these teachers
pop up everywhere.
Their words were subtle
pointed darts
that caused me endless
fits, and starts.
There was no Hallelujah Chorus
no heraldry of trumpets din
just a presence in my life
every now and then.
I never asked for help
yet somehow they saw my need
and placed within my heart
an ever growing seed.
They cut the bindings loose
freed me from my tethers
drifted slowly through my life
without ruffling my feathers.
©8/10/2018
for New Rhyming Poems On Angels Poetry Contest
"THE ONE WHO REMAINS SILENT"
visions of happy encouragement and
loving growth I had been seeking-
I'll never know his name,
but it's just the same
he was the first who welcomed me...
for he was writing...and- I was writing…
and we were both writing for the exact same purpose,
intentions to enhance our passion for writing;
he has inspired that purpose in me with
a gentle reminder-
“the One who
remains Silent speaks
volumes in his
words”
many thanks Sir...
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: December 18, 2015
The rising sun has set.
Night has fallen.
The plow rests,
tillage and toil finished.
The corn ear withers,
but seeds are saved.
The scrolls are opened
event recorded;
the news spread:
"The sun has set,
the old Owl has flown
into the Heavens."
Yet, the sun will rise
and peek over the horizon,
the tractor will roar,
a new crop will sprout,
Green hands will turn brown
the flag will wave,
financial accounts recorded,
hospitality offered,
and the light of brotherhood shared.
Your torch has lit fires
that flicker and flame;
The fledgling will grow
and, hopefully, become wise;
New eras and life-chapters
will begin,
continuing the credo
as a Legacy to you:
"Learning to Do,
Doing to Learn,
Earning to Live,
Living to Serve."*
*National FFA Organization Motto
thank you thank you to my mentor
she seen in me in me no one could see
write your poetry but use virgule
and diligent I write tons of nonsense
with no virgules as I am a bad student
but you forever in my heart never to be forgotten my mentor.
When you said to me,
"Climb up here, It's pollution free."
Sacred. Safe.
Your rarefied air.
Calculating, you seemed so free.
Safeguard. Sage.
I said I could breathe...
Underrated your density.
Saintly. Sane.
High-minded insight.
When anticipated terror
denuded me,
cool rarefied air
regulated insanity,
far gone fear.
I will breathe
in your rarefied air.
Let it burn brisk
in brittle, brave lungs.
Gasp and grasp
life's flame, full flare.
Lunge for high notions,
those far-flung schemes.
I will breathe in
High mind's smoke,
hung in air-
that ghostly stroke of genius,
rare token in disguise
Well spoken word flurries
whipping away thin guise.
Floating crown
adrift on high.
I will breathe in
Your rarefied air,
because I listened to you.
"Clamber up, high!
Unfazed view will circle you,
miles on end surround you.
No going around the bend.
Nowhere else to go.
No zig zag escape.
No spike in pressure.
No deep depression.
No bad atmosphere.
No stabbing shove.
No push or pull on edge.
Just your pledge to breathe.
To move in one direction.
Forever. Mentally "together."
Stay in good shape."
I will breathe out.
Your rarefied thoughts
congeal life's force,
slows down blood flow.
Till body gloved heart
faintly, faintly glows...
Concealed fire's torch,
caved embers die down.
Stripped artfully apart,
Your rarefied airs
blanket my mind in snow.
13/10/2018. Purely fiction. On the pros and cons of mentorship. "Higher" education is not necessarily a good thing. Learning lessons are.
On this day I complete on the earth
*Seventy five years, one regret
My children and grand children
Surrounding me with love
Reminds me go back
My childhood
Days I missed
With my
Dad.
Dad
Caring
My mentor
Sacrificing
Everything for me
Worked in rustic village
Living alone, cooking bread
On rustic stove, living sage life
Putting me in high-school in a town.
He didn’t live to see what I have scored
Himself primary school teacher
No chance, surrounding him ever.
Me lust busy upstairs
Dad dying downstairs
In the morning
Lay in bed
uncared
Dead.
===================================================== DR.Ram Mehta
Sixth place win of Linda Marie
Me....,
a shy ..,
and
bashful guy
always kept me.,
confined to last bench..
down my head,
huddled heart ,
blenched my breathes and
arms always clenched..
Staring with a thief eye
to each one
around me
but confrontation
was not my forte .,
this fragility always
kept me away
from my very interest
and invariably
was a thwart ..
New day in the class,
New teachers and
Classmates too.,
but for me
each day was new
and each one., who?
Newly painted class
curtained each side .,
The Teacher announces
our new class guide...
In actual fact
I wasn't a beauty gaper .,
but this time
she forced me too sharper...
hardly I lavished my time
in any admiration..,
but this would give,
drive to my contemplation..,
breaking the ice to her
difficult and caffeine beauty
eyes were clear and watered ,
lips were glossy and frooty..
Tallest and
her collar in the same way.,
I stared alot but
kept her eye away..
walk like breeze
silent and cool
smile like blooming lily.,
none of her company
can stand by her
she was the perfect dilly..
Crowd would stop
while she starts
mostly buring in vex.,
she wants pin drop silence
in the class .,otherwise,
bitter pills to suspects..
The same rain
I got whole year .,
Whole year
I got ,
teacher will start ,
we all will set ,
and I will get lost .,
The last day of
this beautiful phase
I was loosing carelessly.,
No courage,
No rescue ,
The day cutting readily ..
God miracle or
some boon ,
when she came ,
in her black shoon..,
shrinking and shy
asked me a favour.,
Reaching to the seventh heaven
I started quiver..
Yea....Yea ....
I did it
and then asked my will...
Very courageous.,
honestly it was
to utter such word.,
but......,I knew
It was the
last chance
and never again for
me.....,
such a coward..
So....I did
did it fast.
listening it....,
she got locked.
'No Words'
she said
but I .....,
I did it.
did it.
Yea...,
I do.
by-Shagun
A guardian poet you have been to me
Much like an angel, there protecting me
When I was silent, lost in dark of night
You read my words and brought me back to light
You told me that my words were ever true
That in my writes were thoughts profound and new
You would not let me simply drift away
A word of hope you’d send to greet each day
Your name is there below each thing I write
To tear dimmed eyes you brought a vision bright
“The Queen of Passion,” how I love the name
You gave to me and life is not the same
To you, my Guardian Poet, thanks I bring
You fool me not; I see your angel wing
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Richard Lamoureux and I joined Poetry Soup at about the same time a year and eight months ago. Richard has been like a mentor to me. I’ve recently been very unwell emotionally and unable to write. I have appreciated the fact that he did not give up on me and kept daily visiting my previous writes and leaving words of encouragement. My words are my soul, so, in a way, he was affirming my worth as a person, which is what I was in need of. Richard has written a poem for me entitled, "Queen of the Romantic Pen."
Richard, your friendship is precious and dear. You are a man of faith and integrity. May God bless your home, your loved ones, and your heart with all that brings you joy. Thank you for standing by me through my dark times.
Old men in blue jeans
Dungarees – that’s what they were called,
heavy, blue denim, metal button fly -
form that followed function. The “cuffs” were
rolled up because inseam sizing and “pre-worn”
softened and frayed only occurred if you got
them from an older sibling.
Time has a way of softening things, Dungarees
included. They shaped themselves to your needs,
became one with your movements, stayed with you
through the tough times, went to town with you,
wore the scars and tears of youth moving forward,
taught the lessons of toughness and tenderness,
of reliable, responsible, dependability.
The clothes did not make the man, the man gave
meaning to the clothes, imbued them with his ethic,
his love, his success and failures, stood with him
in welcome rains and barren fields. The jeans,
flannel shirts, boots, weathered face - caught
between an ever present grin and grimace -
awaited each sunrise with a purpose.
The blue jeans are now faded by age,
highlighted by wear and tear, creased
in the rutted way of old roads – necessary
but untended. They offer the comfort of memory’s
warm embrace, the unspoken bond of a friendship
shaped by the demands of life.
They still walk together, these old men and their
blue jeans, more slowly but no less proudly,
for they have grown old together and know
that “the clothes did not make them men”.
John G. Lawless
1/1/2015
He walked into my office, business in hand,
In denim baggy overalls, a plaid shirt, white painters cap,
and grandpa's old white leather orthopedic shoes.
If I ever get to the ripe old age of 88,
I want to be this lone wolf silhouette of a man.
A slow gait with frailty of movement.
Each step carefully orchestrated and contemplated.
Making one worry the next may become a fall.
But he moves on without even a stumble.
Steadfast stature and posture braced on any lowly perch.
Outer coat showing gaps of missing muscle and mass.
Paws and face forlornly exposed with past battles scorned.
All affairs in perfect order, the next move oft anticipated.
Irises glossy white shadowed with blue wisdom and mystery.
Draped with curtains and folds boldly saying "I am."
Negotiations begin with silence in wait of movement.
Tail wagging intently, teeth exposed only when he smiles.
No bite to his bark, he needn't growl nor gnarl.
Few words, saying only what needs to be heard.
Walking away after a handshake, flash of teeth, and a wink.
09/12/17
In a summer of lastingness, long ago,
what you had in store for me my love,
I could've never known.
Through the depth and channels
of the heart, you have shown me
life begins, where the loving starts.
Like an unfolded rose growing in the
morning's misty dew, you feed me
and then sheltered me as I grew.
If I stood before you today my love
you would see a full rose in bloom,
not at all hindered by gloom.
A strong stem, no regrets, no sorrow.
Only togetherness with you, full of
brighter tomorrows.
Thank you for all you planted in the
garden of my hardened soil.
A summer of lastingness has forever
brought tenderness instead of toil.