Best Metered Poems
I long to write a poem just right
Between the somber and the light
To tease the edges of a heart
To hook the reader from the start
Seduce them with a metered plea
A nuanced message: “follow me”
For I invite you to ascend
The peaks we’ll reach before the end.
To wander lost across the page
To tap the knowledge of the sage
To walk away wondering why
The answer is the endless sigh
Why poetry will never die
For words are fashioned without guilt
In whispering poetic lilt
That holds a hand, that tugs a heart
Bids you adieu as you depart
Rejoices in that gentle touch
That poems long for oh so much.
©5/24/2022
When we search for answers from egotistic minds,
life is full of meaningless questions that lead us nowhere.
You sabotaged the sandman who brought me my dreams,
corrupting and confusing the clarity of my conscience.
In a world of betrayal, I thought you were my
saviour,
but your promises were sworn from a throne of lies -
where you perch as the king of false pretences.
Tired from being a victim of your insecurities,
I am not your mistake nor your abandoned
trauma.
Fate led my empathic sanity into your labyrinth of splintered hollowness,
confining me within a soulless sphere of unfair
madness,
yet, I still remember how you pledged to show me the moon -
falsehoods which led to an eternal eclipse for my eyes.
You stole the silver sewn with perfectly metered syllables,
calming the storm I carry in cacophonous silence,
but now, all I see is a megalomaniac monster, draped in rose tones of synthetic rhodolite, pretending to be an ivory dove in a horizon of vicious vultures,
hiding behind a decaying province of black petunias.
Your synthetic smile veils your cruel character, afraid that the vermilion you paint across your
sunsets,
will reveal the poison you fed my paralyzed soul.
My ink will always portray your true parasite persona,
about your attempts to assassinate my authentic aroma,
as now i blossom in meadows without your
toxic touch.
"Here is my secret. It is very simple: one sees clearly only with the heart.
Anything essential is invisible to the eyes."
"Le Petite Prince"
Antoine De St. Exupery
touch me and
i'll touch you
we don't do this on a whim
measure twice cut once
but always from the heart
some use words rarely used in conversation
let these wonderful poets tickle that market's fancy
there are those
knit you a scarf from yarns of clouds
warm your day with a smile reflects
the clean heat of a nineteen nineteen sun
others who write you a poem you can share with a child
visions painted in words
cups of hot chocolate with those teeny weeny marshmallows
children's grandiose proclamations of love with every sip
for them the ambrosia of Gods confirmed by their laughter of joy
you see hopscotch squares loosely drawn in chalk
you see your daughter hear an echo for the first time
some poetry does that conjures a thousand pictures of pure innocence
also poetry that sings
with rhymes that are natural,
neatly placed in the story being told
or
sometimes the kind
occasionally trips on the page
love doesn't demand conditions
sonnets neatly metered
roll off the tongue
or
even if it twists a bit leaves you with a knot
stick it out and laugh it straight easy as that
we're here for each other
people before words
let's love each other just because we can
touch me and
i'll touch you
we don't do this on a whim
measure twice cut once
but always from the heart
Jan 14 2016
armand
when air-brushed stars croon..
my soul sways, tied to the moon
lost in twinkling tune
seeking for rose light
from plum reveries tonight~
questioning twilight..
am I not fine art
metered refrain to restart
music of your heart..
but will rivers heed
thoughts that stream in neon fields~
of teal auroras ..
swirling and twirling…
vinyl rhythms of warm astral~
spirits cloaked in sage…
in silence, I dream
in a bed of lilac clouds~
of you, me, and love..
Come write for me, and let your words be known
Don't keep them locked inside, undressed by voice
For long your thoughts to dungeon you have thrown
Oh, set them free, and let my heart rejoice
Don't hoard your bounty of the purest gold
which holds your thoughts, your dreams, your treasure trove
I beg of you to let your heart be bold
and lead me to that peaceful inner cove
I long to rest awhile and hear the sea
the gentle lapping of your metered rhyme
I need to dip my soul in poetry
and feel the rush of waves unbound by time
Come write for me, and let my mind explore
The beauty of those words I so adore
Eileen
If sky is a sea of
fallen flowers
and dusty diamonds
glazed in red,
I’ll unfurl the
saffron sun within,
stretching sandalwood
arms of serenity,
upon gardens of
glistening grief,
with healing herbs
and soothing spices,
from greener grass
of life amidst sorrow.
For I can
move mountains
and secure trees,
to a therapeutic realm
where perfumed
petals never wilt.
While kindness I sow
shall sprout in hues
of warm honey and
raspberry dreams.
I am an
unshakable rose,
blooming from
roots of ruins,
facing fiery fangs of
the phasing tulip moon
above wildfires
of whirling woes.
This musky
spirit is timeless,
resembling the
flaming heart of
an untamable phoenix.
My silence soars
beyond mourning wolves;
ice blue eyes
of fleeting seasons.
And you, twin-star~
my sister I cannot
breathe without,
will forever be the reason,
I’ll wear this amethyst
sequined armor,
to sail through
ripples of rage,
like a floating candle
amidst eclipsed tides,
that shifts and sparkles,
while flickering eucalyptus elixir~
upon scentless tea lights.
So if tomorrow, clouds
above your
sleepless sanctuary
swing with poisoned rain,
to drizzle splinters upon
your bed of melancholy,
remember, I’ll find my way
to your unrhymed spheres,
steal perfectly metered
syllables of hope,
from the elysian above,
that sprinkles
champagne lunar-beams,
and I’ll weave
a curative poem
beneath the ink-less
canvas of acrylic dirt,
to calm your
midnight musings with
mellifluous metaphors.
I cannot say how poems come to be-
from just one thought to full reality.
I cannot say how I hunt down my words
to image themes like nature, flowers, birds.
Or then select a form to fit the theme;
be it free verse, haiku, or rhyming scheme.
Or count the syllables for metered flow;
select the feet of two or more to show
a rhythm, smooth or anapestic dance
to make the words behave or wildly prance.
Or think I'm done, but then see that I'm not;
to then rewrite and add what I forgot.
From just one thought to full reality-
I cannot say how poems come to be.
April 29, 2016
~1st Place~
Contest: Rhyming Couplets
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Judged: 05/25/2021
~9th Place~
Contest: Preterition
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Judged: 05/17/2016
Preterition is a poetic technique: drawing attention to
something by claiming to omit it, but then really defining it
by actually saying what you claim you cannot say.
Form: Couplet / Iambic Pentameter
Oh Aphrodite! Mother of my two pearls
Venus of my night sky
Commander of my world
I fell for you like a comet
I burnt for you like Mars
Abide in my trajectory
While guided by stars
Your sonnet dedication metered
All is written in quatrain
I'm completed in your presence
In your absence I abstain
Diurnally blinded by fire in the sky
Cupped my hand to shade my eyes
And thirstily complain, about the lack of rain
Elongated animals on savanas and plains
Nocturnally beleagered but eternally yours
Seeking answers in ash , while staring at coals
no one hears my guitar so voicelessly strummed
Flames my desire , so forsaken my soul
A hundred thousand embers
Sparked a thousand million stars
Explosions in the ether
Flashing diamonds that we know
Unprepared for this journey
Undeterred my savage heart
Skies are ripped and torn by thunder
Clouds adrift and left asunder
Lonely cloud goes East and cries
The other West, and melted... dies
Take a moment of your time
And listen to your heart’s insight
Think about what you should write
Will it be personal or fictional?
Should your poem begin with a rhyme
Or should free verse be your style?
I doubt you’ll discover the best the first time
But you can be sure you’ll see the light
Your poem might use whimsical words
Or it could be built on a feeling from your heart
It might begin with the middle at the first
Or the end could be where the beginning was
Take into consideration what words to use
Will they be dark and dreary or light and loving?
Should you answer the question the reader has
Or think of some revelation you can bestow?
Poetry is built on words galore, adjectives and adverbs
Nouns, pronouns and all the other possibilities
The words might be metered or rhymed or with rhythm
Or given to encouraging the reader to invent within
A poem like yours can be soft and imaginative
Or it could bring out the bandit or sensitivity
I understand that your words will be your own
And I can’t really tell you how to write what you should
If I were to encourage you to write your best piece
I’d have to say that you let your heart and soul lead you
Through fact or fiction, real or imagined, think of the poem
That you would like to read if you were the reader
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
Though wrinkled veins line years on drooping arms
I'll hold all springtime's traces of young vows,
To care for you through life’s devoted charms
And rouse our crowning milestones , joy endows
While tint of whitened hair enchants my heart--
That passing unto seasons now grows old,
Upon this dream's compass we have to part.
So sing dear one, our floral notes behold
As I guard you through one last winter rain,
Until once more sweet memories grip us
To cuddle laughter's beat and tunes again;
When petals fly with traces of caress.
…Before leaves of demise call us to rest;
We’ll share night's end upon heaven’s bequest.
-------------------
RHYMED, METERED poem Contest
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy 5/6/2017
Checked www.howmanysyllables.com
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With my words I love to play
rhyming everything I say
inside my head words squawk and rage
'til they're released upon the page.
It fills my heart with pure delight
to watch them growing as I write.
Oh how I love to make words rhyme
arranging them in metered time
until I have a perfect line
it sends chills up and down my spine
and I am blessed with endless joy
to use this gift that I employ.
Some of the things I write about
I know must leave some minds in doubt.
"Not good enough" some must claim
but that's ok I feel no shame.
I'll still write the way I do
and to my heart I will be true.
My knowledge of great works is small
in fact I don't know much at all
and I would never dare profess
to be a gifted poetess
'cause when it comes to poetry
I write just what comes naturally.
Born to rhyme, that is my game
and that is all you'll hear me claim.
To me this game is so much fun
it is my picnic in the sun.
It may sound lame or even sappy
but that's all right it makes me happy!
A cousin named Chaos have I (he’s not actually my cousin. He’s like my aunt’s stepson, but I guess I can still call him a cousin, right?)
There’s nothing that he will not try (like the day he let all the chickens loose from the coop and they were running like chickens with their heads cut off. Isn’t that an expression or something? Chaos is crazy like those chickens were)
Since he follows no rule (He laughs at me because I try to write perfectly metered limericks and he thinks everyone should just write free and BE free in all they do.)
He got kicked out of school (it was so funny. He set off the fire alarm and all the kids were running every which way, much like those chickens he let loose in his barnyard. Now he is saying he wants to become an anarchist.)
So to anarchy school he’ll apply!
Gosh, he’s right. This limerick sucks. It’s much more fun having no restrictions, just letting my thoughts go anywhere I want them to take me, kind of like stream of consciousness writing or something. Too bad I can’t be all surreal-like, then I might make it into the newfangled modern poetry magazines. Most people don’t even consider limericks to be real poems. DANG it, I feel another one coming on.
Cousin Chaos, I now do hear tell
That you’ve found a new school, so learn well
Your anarchy ways.
In limerick phase
I’ll be stuck while you give people hell.
Crap. Even trying to write like Chaos, I just can’t do it. I just keep conforming to rules of poetry forms like limerick. I just know my cousin will be laughing his chicken head off when he reads this. Yeah, the old chicken motif again. Always relating things together. So much for Chaos! I’m outta here.
Written chaotically last week sometime for contest of same name
Through drowsy quivers of wired thoughts
I lose an hour in the morning
to parry every second of vengeance,
as if to hasten my night rituals
from the unrelenting pace of dawn-break…
and as tunnels honk, my eyes forget
to relish the yellow buds-in- waiting.
Again, Mr. Time… you steal my fresh hours
while my soul wanders far beyond
a metered compass for a rendezvous
with my day’s free- flowing motion.
Now, my hands crave to make love
with the softness of earth’s clay
or bathe in a camphor sun, lapping a wind.
Your meter is not mine to rent or borrow;
and by the glory of night and moon
the bards’ tale knows my songs...
allow me then to age here,
groping with the endless fingers
of sweet eternity.
Funny how time seems to fly contest
Sponsor:Brenda Chiri-Carroll repost 10/6/2016
All that I am I simply can’t impart
in just one poem; I’m simply too left-brained
and practical, so when I share my heart,
to rhyme and rhythm also I am chained.
I sat for half an hour while trying to
compose a free verse poem on how I feel
about that modern style some poets do
with such aplomb, but are their poems more real
than mine, in which I’m wont to make words rhyme?
It’s so much simpler using what for me
comes easily when metered (such a crime
to surrealistic poets writing free!)
I do not rant or write from a good cry,
but at my sonnet’s end, I heave a sigh.
Written July 31, 2015 for the Contest of Charlotte Jade Puddifoot