Best On Writing And Wordswords Poems
Why do we do what we do?
Writing words day after day
Unsure if anyone will read them
If they will get the message we tried to say
A million words with many meanings
Thrown together in our language
How will we know the right ones?
They ones which say what we want to say
Just one word, one syllable, one letter
Out of the place where it should be
The meaning could be lost
We struggle through endless hours
Wondering and writing
Cutting and pasting words and lines
Then in a miraculous moment
It happens
The words are right
The syllables are right
Each and every letter is right
After all the pain and stress
Our child is born
We post in on-line
Publish it in a book
We send our child out into the world
And no one reads it
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I do not flatter egos
With glitz and glamor of words while the obscene
Condition of people's lives tell
In front of our eyes there is an invisible hell
I want this poem to be a soldier then
Searching and killing in human hearts
The terrorist poverty that cankers men
I want this poem to be a social worker
Bringing the homeless into the shelter
Of the love of men, I want this poem
To be like Jesus doling bread famished mouths
I want this poem to be a healer mending
The broken health of citizens
Forgotten by a narrow minded wealth
Of technology in earth's richest country
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
My language is not a party
For intellectuals looking for new leaves
Meaning, this is not a ball
Of words for socialites and celebrities
And I do not want to read again
Poets lost in private pain
Unless their pain connect as a metaphors
For the suffering of the world
If poems do not have compassion
They should cause compassion
And then as one army
Let us march to right history
And voice the cause of the downtrodden
The oppressed, depress
The wretched of the earth, distress
The lonely, broken, forgotten
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I am poet of the people, the people's poet
A poet's words are bombs, missiles, bayonets
Do not read these poem
Holding my words too close to your eyes
A poem is just a teardrop
A form of liquid pain
Released to pen and paper
Our words become a stain
The hurt that's bottled up inside
Can come out through our eyes
Promises made, but never kept
Are nothing but liquid lies
As the teardrop hits the paper
The words begin to form
Releasing all the pain inside
To calm the coming storm
Heartache is just another word
That's written by our tears
The pain becomes the writer's quill
'Til a little relief appears
A poem is just a teardrop
That's worded carefully
Liquid pain becomes a stain
And sets the poet free
When people cry they feel relief
Their pain is washed away
Tears can comfort the sting of grief
Or a feeling of dismay
A poet's tears are different indeed
For they form into a word
An ever growing poetic seed
A feeling that can't be heard
The paper becomes the poet's sleeve
As they wipe their tears away
Their words will form an intricate weave
Deciding what they'll say
Each teardrop has a life of its own
As it trickles down their cheek
It stains the paper, their seeds are sown
Their tears begin to speak
So listen close when poets cry
Though it barely makes a sound
You'll hear a soft and tender sigh
When all their words are found
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!
Magniloquent words of
an empurpled writer.
Where lofty, yet showily expressed
words make details brighter.
Concise, rhetorically composed
words made solely for an effect.
Causing pithy comments to draw
a picture, for readers to connect.
The complexion and pigment of colorful
words then meld into a spectral light.
Blended with the authors passion
for the topic, causing both to ignite.
....
Smooth white sands
blow across the dune
Distant notes from a
banjo floats into a tune.
Ancient ironweed graces
the desert with vibrant color
As sunset beckons for twilight
to be evenings romantic caller.
Beach peas and daisies grow
between cliffs of living stone
Stand embellished fig trees
on seeded winds were flown.
.....
Written with a shimmer of color
floating on an iridescent feather.
Titillates the plateau of ones senses
on aromatic breezes of white heather.
first three have definitions to words in each stanza
center three stanza's and last are examples of
expression relative to the first three.
Carole Cookie Arnold
2009
Once upon a time, R.E.D walked down a road of rhymes,
Then took a turn towards the "POET," who was well within his prime.
This POET had been blessed with a natural ability.
His verse had been dispersed with speed and agility.
But, down this road, R.E.D still decided to run,
In a big hurry to find something new under the sun.
His mother should have told him to never cross that street,
Because the end of this road would lead to his defeat.
Suddenly, he saw a great flash of RED light, that forced him to stop,
And recognize the fact that he could never be on top.
This flash of light came like a flame, with the great voice of reason,
Saying DOC would be the champ of this game, each and ev'ry season.
Through his eyes, into his soul, this flash of light did glisten,
As he received a NEW TESTAMENT, that made him want to listen.
R.E.D saw that, for him, the grim future of this battle looked rather bleak,
So, instantly converted, he did not seek another peek.
At that moment, R.E.D had an immediate change of heart,
So, he abandoned his campaign, and sought a brand new start.
His fundamental outlook on battles had just been changed.
He started working "for" DOC, and then he improved his range.
After DOC had blessed his tongue, and then sent him off to preach,
He only battled poets that were clearly within his reach.
About the greatest poet alive, he would often boast,
As R.E.D began to spread DOC's word from "post" to "post."
And he took DOC' directions with no need for debate,
Proceeding to play his part in waking up "THE 'great'."
DOC knew that "THE 'great'" would no longer be "THE VOYER,"
After R.E.D used his words to destroy the "DESTROYER."
He even used the words of DOC to conjure up a fear,
And convinced a little wizard to magically appear.
Therefore, R.E.D had finally passed the ultimate test,
By humbling himself, and submitting to the best.
The Golden Inkwell
I place a pulse inside my words
Stepping stones to the heartbeat of life
Like a canvas swiveling with colors
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
Sugarcane sweetens your tongue
Scented jasmine engulfs your space
Creations of imagery alive with light
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
As he reads with a total openness
Absorbing words that we have penned
Walking together across the page, we blend
Dr Rams words are better than gold
Accepting a writer experiencing the moment
He truthfully reveals the quality of their work
He encourages everyone to dig deeper
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
Carole Cookie Arnold
Oh I would give Christopher Higgins a peck..
as I read the words penned by John Heck..
and there just would not be such a spark without
the writes of Michael Degenhardt...
just like it would be a sin, not to feel the words
of Mohammad Yamin...
John Loving, Sean Kelly and Des Juan
the writes of these makes a duckling feel like a swan...
now it seems as if this one is too important
to pass up the likes of Michael Jordan..
and always one to write with good sense
I can't forget my man whose name is Vince...
now it would seem such a shame, to forget
my friend John Rhinem's whole name...
also it just makes no sense to forget the
writes of Joseph Spence..
and how could you not understand
that Brian Strand is the man...
let's not play games not one to poke
don't forget the talents of Mr. James Foulk...
and for that matter how could I forget
my friend Daver..
oh and yes let's close the curtain
but let's not forget the writes of Derrick burton...
these men can truly make the words cry
if you think I'm lying be my abili..
with this list I can always continue
so much great talent on this soup's menu..
if I've left anyone out, I apologize
it's not a smite, and not a guise..
these are a very talented group
that represent on poetry soup.
P.S. THIS IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE MEN
OF POETRY SOUP
This communication marvel
Of modern times
At our finger tips
Crude or refined
Attachments plenty
In various forms
Some polite
Other's, against the norm
What takes people to write
In mean spirited ways
When kind words can be said
And happiness stays
Is it jealousy or hate
For these words to be written
If we ever get any
Not saintly, but sinning
But it's the sender of the email
And their literal say
What made them write
On that given day
So think before
You send that mail
And common sense
Will prevail
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life.php
The poet tells his story
As he writes it with his heart
His feelings, his inspiration
Is where his poem starts
He tries to help us understand
His suffering and his pain
His pen and paper, his only voice
As he tries his best to explain
He labors for what seems like hours
For the words to pierce our souls
He's ever watching his meter
And the rhythm that it flows
The perfection he seeks is elusive
For it's all a matter of taste
But knowing that the words he used
Could never go to waste
For now, his soul is emptied
And his pain, somewhat diminished
He knows his relief is fleeting
And his poem remains unfinished
You see, the poet is a prisoner
To the words that fill his heart
From where his first poem ends
Is where his next poem starts
As I read your works and comment too,
Believe me that my words are true.
I tell the new lambs in the fold,
Dr. Ram's words are better than gold.
He is the first to read your poem,
He does not steer you far from home.
So far I haven't seen him scold.
Dr. Ram's words are better than gold.
A highly educated man,
Adopt his wisdom if you can.
He uses lovely words and bold.
Dr. Ram's words are better than gold.
(For Joe's contest)
The night is dark, and stars are peeking
I wish for wings that I could fly
And take a magic carpet ride
To places deep where phrases hide
So rich with wisdom, and insights known
Above the moon, where stars are keeping
The secret words to write a poem
Instead, my muse is here at home
No need for magic, no need to roam
If closing eyes and knowing this
The wonder of poetic bliss
Are beneath my feet, beneath my stare
A poem resides most anywhere
The voice inside my head must share
My life, my friends, my family
Within my reach, are memories
Where lies a wealth, a poem or verse
To touch a few with heartfelt words
My poem unfolds like a tiny rose
It starts new life, so tightly closed
But given life, it opens wide
And takes me on a carpet ride
Where magic words no longer hide
Above the moon, beyond the stars
I pray my poem will warm a heart....
Throw yourself out there and yes, just write,
whatever it is your thoughts could be.
From heart to pen, let your words take flight
so that others your true thoughts will see.
The world is your invitation,
it has been and will yet always be.
To write in this, your life’s duration;
those words inside just long to come free.
It matters not, wherever you are
and you find that you reach for your pen,
for the more that you give in to this,
it will happen again and again.
Many will want to read what you write,
you do well to remember that fact.
It’s fulfilling to see your words take flight
as on the spur of the moment you act.
Is a poet still a poet
if his work should go unread?
Or is he just a dreamer
with words inside his head?
Does a poet keep on writing
though no one knows his name?
Or spill his soul 'til his fingers bleed,
searching for his fame?
Does he dream of Poe as he writes his verse
in poetic harmony?
Or Count the Ways like Browning did
in sonnet forty-three?
Does he Take the Road Not Taken
like the late great Robert Frost?
Or take the road the others take
to find out that he's lost?
A poet is a poet
if his work should go unread
His words will stand the test of time,
in something that he said