Best On Writing And Wordspoetry Poems
My Poetry Book contains poems about love, family, pets, faith, humor, children, grandsons,
and analogy..My favorite poem in my Poetry Book is in Senryu Form and reads as follows:
.
My love for mankind
Is burning fire when alone
Then I leave my home
rhythm,melody and sound
in perfect poetry is found;
if such verse is read aloud,
then ,will poetry attract the crowd
You can learn anything and everything about yours truly
simply by giving my poetry a read,
so don't ask me stupid questions you would otherwise know
if only you gave my poetry a go.
I write all this crap to get it all out of my head my friend.
The last thing I need to do is to repeat it all again,
because then I'm simply putting it all back in
and I'd rather not carry that burden again.
I have been gone for a while
needed time to regroup
this delectable mixture
this poetry soup
When I am not here
I wonder with query
uplifting comments of Karen Leary
Kristin Reynolds my friend
this is not a wrap
as she weaves you into her poetry trap
Sharon Weimer my sweet
just how are you
she molds you into her poetry stew
Patricia Adams, Heidi Buys and Chitra Lakhera
I hold none closer or who are dearer
Janice Herzog, Carrie Richards, and Christy Hardy
pour in the ingredients of this tasty party
Rhoda Galgani, Elaine George, and Laura Mckenzie
who stir up the words and stir something in me
Sara Lokken, Farah Chamma, Fathima Dawood
so inspiring the ingredients so delicious, so good
Teresita Cailo, Adell Foster and Constance Lafrance
this smorgasbord, so hearty it makes one dance
flavors and seasonings that makes up this group
all the ingredients enhanced by diverse poetry soup
TO THE ONES THAT I MISSED
NOT AN INTENTIONAL SLIGHT
SO MANY TO ADD IN NOT AN
OVERSIGHT IT JUST GOES TO SHOW OF
THE DIVERSITY WITHIN
BECAUSE WRITING UNITES AND ALL
COLORS BLEND
BECAUSE POETRY IS COLOR BLIND
AND WE SHOULD BE AS WELL
MAY WE ALL HAVE A BETTER YEAR
AND LIVE TO TELL THE TALE
My Poetry Line
Jumbled and sloppy
broken tattered and choppy
Yet, you are mine
Random revels revealed
disfigured
characters
concealed
Still, you are mine
Scattered moments
thoughts of the day
things remembered
and things to pray
reflective art penned
Blue
Black
or Grey
memories forever on display
Yes, you are mine
Your canvas has many forms
computer, napkin
blank, lined, or torn
Your beauty shines
Though... you make no sense sometimes
Still, you are mine
My poetry line
Lay
For years I have wasted,
Precious time spent with you,
And it is time I faced it,
You are mean-hearted and cruel,
You ravage the inspired souls,
Who fall for your covert snares,
And while the many pay their tolls,
You parade your chosen’s fares,
You teach that poetry inspires,
And yes you’ve proven it true,
For you are all hideous liars,
Your judgments so very cruel,
Winners of your tainted contests,
Are always the same chosen few,
While other poets are held in jest,
And told they must pay their dues,
I mean have you actually read,
Some of the fodder you hold high,
Rambling words spewed noxious and dead,
Which waste the eager reader’s time.
Most have no rhyme or reason,
And lack of any story to tell,
For they fester like a lesion,
And erupt with a worthless spell,
And upon the oh so rare occasion,
A true poet shows you gifted grace,
Your editors mock without cessation,
That in poetry they have the final say.
So go about your selfish greedy missions,
Where you only admit those with your views,
To accomplish their life-long ambitions,
And be recognized for their great works too.
Yes this world is full of those full of themselves,
And you do nothing to help those who turn to you,
For the self righteous is reserved a special circle of hell,
One of hollow accolades from a mirror only of you,
You could change and empower those moved to poetry,
Those who have been hurt or dream of something better,
These poor spirits where their hopeful poetry can seed,
A life sewn with hope by simply connecting letters.
The Bard questioned whether to be or not,
and Keats gave us all that we need to know,
but do you think either would be called hot
were they to read at a poetry show?
What would Wordsworth ‘s words be worth,
performed at poetry slams, would he find
at any popular event on Earth
the external world fitted to his mind?
If Emily overcame her stage-fright,
her passions might give her audience pause,
but isn’t it just as likely she might
bomb in silence as be drowned in applause?
Sometimes it seems the old saying’s absurd
that poetry’s always meant to be heard.
P erhaps you need to visit sometime
O ver the internet for a rhyme
E ven if you stay for just awhile
T ry writing verse to beguile
R ather than to sit and twiddle thumbs
Y earning for stardom, that someday comes
S ubmit words with meaning that sings
O pen your troubled heart and fly with wings
U nfold your wisdom you possess
P ost your work online, seek success
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fifth Place Winner ~ "Poetic Picture of Poetry Soup” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Adeleke Adeite
Nov. 10, 2010
A poem's a painting of a verse
whose artist never once rehearsed
the hues that he himself conceived
for print.
For poetry cannot be taught,
nor can the perfect poem be sought--
a poet's words are not produced,
but sent.
A poem's a planted evergreen,
the likes of which no one has seen,
whose leaves are luscious and exempt
from wane.
For poetry cannot be stopped,
nor can existing trunks be chopped--
the trees of ancient planters still
remain.
A poem's a lie sincerely sold
or truth that is corruptly told,
completely clear or indistinct
when read.
For poetry cannot be wrong,
nor can it ever not belong
to life-- the two forever will
be wed.
A poet is a medium,
and through his art the world becomes
available to be perceived
as such.
A poem can never be or say
too much.
His poetry moves me.
It stirs my soul.
Brings out emotions
I try too often to suppress.
Like a fine wine
It needs to be savored,
Appreciated for it's worth.
His poetry moves me.
It stirs my soul.
It's a sudden rush for me, the ultimate high.
That my poetry is metaphorically like a Samurai.
The punctuations are deadly as my steel blades.
Death and poetry become a medley, so be afraid!
Like an acrobat, my sentences dance across the page.
My couplet's trained for combat, and my words are filled with rage.
I slice and dice spinning my blazing Katana!
It's not nice when winning can bite like a piranha.
I'm addicted to the push of my writing pen;
And I've been convicted of every past and present sin!
As I purge myself of every sin through my poetry;
I can't guarantee it won't happen again so accept an early apology!
So as the last couplet comes to a close, feel my energy.
I leave bodies to discompose, and their burial is my poetry!
The printed word, to me, is art.
As beautiful as any painting.
Poetry, prose or a well written book,
Is an art form, I'm maintaining.
When I create a tactile piece
With wood or wool or clay,
I'm fiercely proud of what I've made.
About poetry, I feel the same way.
I have a creative personality.
It appears in forms, varied.
Writing is just one of my tools.
My thoughts to paper, carried.
So an artist I consider myself
Though I don't paint landscapes bright,
But in other ways, an artist I am,
With my crafts and the poetry I write.
for Linda Marie's Poetry Panorama contest
Our poetry is a window into our souls..
We all get to see insights that are not usually told..
A poets eyes can see more then what's on paper..
Our pages have sides and angles that are deeper..
A cube with words scribed that translates far..
Each tale is another way to raise the creative bar..
inspired by Linda the Sweetheart of Poetry Soup..
There is one funny man I'd especially like to greet
Over morning coffee I hope that we might meet
He has a sense of humor that resounds with me
Larry can make me laugh out loud with glee
But he has more serious and lovely things to say
I'd like to ask him how his poetry found its way
His poetry is some of the best I've seen
The way his mind works seems so very keen
In our coffee plan there just is one little flaw
I think he wants to bring his mother-in-law.....
For Michael's contest...
All
Poets
Who believed
That they belonged
To a group of supportive free thinkers
And who believed that poetry was "FREE"
Just discovered
Their belief
Was a
Lie
What
Is all
Of the fuss
Really about
Or are you capable of honesty
Or is this about being upset
Because you are
No longer
At the
Top
Words
Belong
To any
Creative mind
Who can find something good to do with them
Who have a right to control their own words
And use those words
To connect
With their
Fans
Names
Are used
To describe
Poetry forms
That would exist without the labels
Because poetry does not need labels
To justify
If it is
Really
Real