Best Penning Poems
Metaphors and similes exude when scripting poetic verse.
Across pale parchment, the poet's pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses like life blood, rushing through his eddied veins
as he ignores cramped fingers while writing echoing refrains.
Each stanza arranged by sequence in the creation of a story.
Sometimes his mysterious muse dances wildly with allegory.
He reins her in when he is focused but totally oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, he sits penning in consummate rhyme.
Thoughts drift like flurries of snowflakes; his passion ignites
as each completed verse lifts his wizardry to greater heights.
In epic form he wanders within a level of verbose amplitude,
composing lyrical sonnets when creating a romantic interlude.
He indites with skill and talent of an accomplished musician,
striving to compose a magnum opus, a worthy composition.
If by chance his poetry is interpreted with eyes of admiration
he'll credit his gypsy muse for offering amorous inspiration.
You always tell me how much you love my poetry
but is that the only reason you feel drawn to me?
I write Sonnets filled with love and romance for you,
adoring stanzas meant to caress your heart and soul,
but is it my rhyming words, or me that you cherish?
If I no longer wrote about the silvered moon in eclipse,
would your soft parted lips still want to cling to mine?
I could gladly write all day and night to please you,
but if I did not clasp a feathered quill in my hand,
I wonder... would you still hold me dear in your life?
I sit and write only for you lately. Am I fooling myself
to think it's just for the words I scribble on parchment
that you've become enthralled with the flair of my pen.
What then, my love? If no longer I could compose
expressions of devoutness meant for your eyes only.
With reverence, I beseech you to love me for who I am.
Would you leave me in painful throes of heartache,
forsaking my heart when my muse no longer expresses
the passionate verses you seek me to scribe for you?
Would you love me if I wasn't a poet, darling, scrawling
arduous words to describe the beauty of your face,
or the changing shades of grey in your wintery eyes?
No, dear one. Do not answer the questions I ask of you
for to hear your voice deny me of your love, I'd become
incapable of ever authoring another affectionate line.
I would tear my pages of poetry in half and burn them.
Grief-stricken; my tears blurring the ink to ever write again.
Despoiled of the will to create even one more quixotic verse.
Truths slant with his sharp angles.
Skies cloud over as lies untangle.
Spinning time, she spills gray thought,
kneads her words like clay till wrought.
Weary days, she works her pen,
beautifying dreams again.
When spirits lift, she will escape
his rough hand from throat to nape.
Even now, her frail heart crumbles.
Beaten down, her hours tumble.
Words confuse from mottled page,
flailing on a blackened stage.
On a dirt road made of grit,
she strengthens wings struggling to flit
between his grip of thumb and fingers,
an innocent soul always lingers.
Freedom found and compass tossed,
from highest peaks climbed up, she's lost.
Light streams down from one bright star.
Her skies open from dreams afar.
His rage tries to steal her soul.
She fights to take back her control
from past tumbling, her tale is told.
Her shrouded words will now unfold.
Written 3/23/17
A futile, or is it? scream at time to slow down.
A hello to other runners in this human race
A timid whisper through shrouds yet unworn
Some more words of comfort to following friends
Or just an ego seeking solace in achievement.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love penned for me:
Twelve odes quatrain-ing
Eleven haiku chain-ing
Ten lines dizain-ing
Nine rhymes a'riddling
Eight tongues a’twisting
Seven tyburns burning
Six trifalls falling
Five etherees
Four appalling puns
Three French songs
Two terza rima
And a pantoum
as a parody.
I write, change and scrub
clear the slate again, and then~
a poppy has bloomed
Written: February 27, 2023
Strand Premier No 1192 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
if Guernica were a poem ~ if I could write it
short and sweet, upbeat
relating nature’s wonder ~
freeing beautiful
As often as I pen my thoughts
from head to hand
to what is wrought
and arrive surprised
at words once sought, fortuitously
stained glass ideas appear
like falling manna,
between these ears,
doing whatever it is
thoughts do best…
letter by letter,
each welcomed guest.
And often as I pen to please
ideas that stir like winter leaves,
urging, surging like the sea
in hidden forces like gravity
and starry peaks I crawl to climb,
towards moving targets in my mind,
like eagle wings that lift and soar…
penning down thoughts
is a mind bending,
never ending,
beauty lending,
walk along the shore.
Write Must I Penning the Praises of My Lord Accolades ---
~~Accolades to Robert Lindley~~
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Like the cool breeze blowing the leaves,
of a tree God gives me
I sing the words God gave me
Placed encased in angelic harmonies
I breathe the air oxygen God gives me
A living spirit moving
I say the words to the readers and listeners
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
A beauty from the soul
More than mere words
Accolade this wordsmith
Gallant passionate craft
I award you in eternal brotherhood
Continue to write those words write on
Hold the quill ever so still
Write until forever book is filled
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Penance unveil new brotherhood new friend
Even tho, we have never met your word forever in my heart
Write, Pen please don't never ever lay it down
Write the verses sonnet, sand poems
Continue my brother your not alone
Tis an honor to call you brother
Honor to read your verses, your words
That ribbed from your soul
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Your honor is an merit of acknowledged merit
Praising God the words you share it
Soldier knighted in words of enlightenment
Privileged honor writer delighted my poetic friend writes lovely
Dedicated to Brother Robert Lindley
1/5/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019 ©
a Dedication to Brother Robert Lindley
À propos preponderent passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand nineteen,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring scrivener
only now I became keen,
which theoretical, rhetorical,
philosophical... predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming - I narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figurative alluded
to mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between pop eye
at lightspeed as if
greased with olive oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
À propos preponderant passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,
theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language
I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
Poets try to create words
That nobody has ever heard
It comes from deep inside our soul
And with each poem our talent grows
We always have a pen and paper
To write down thoughts we'll use for later
Sometimes there is writers block
Then something suddenly unlocks
The door holding our thoughts away
And we begin to write all day
The words now flow with great precision
It's time to make a tough decision
If we want to change any words
Before our poem is finally heard
Sticking to the words we wrote
We just make a mental note
That this poem is what was needed
To touch the hearts of those who read it
Commotion in and out of seasons
Opening of ancient doors, both with
Nuances and ignorance that birthed
Guilt and sorrow, both in latter and former days
Reverence to self-adjustments in doing what is within reach,
Ambient in thumbing up and drumming
Terrestrial support, self-budding to nail adequate audience
So promising, yet disappointing outcome from presumptive
Hue of energy embolden, desperately reaching for
Ethereal space only habitable by the gods who
Menacingly stare at me, abutting my way to perfection,
Advocating against my weak defenseless case against
Naked and plain uninformed jury
Pope up questions and cross-examinations,
Efflux of what just isn’t justice ringing in my ear to have
Never tasted luck, created luck, nor served luckily
Naivety chewing me into tiny bites, laying bare
Information I could die for, mounting
Gravid last testament to my repute protect
Acrimoniously sewing lie for lie, a truth here and there
So that the parchment birthed trust in my credit
Perennial loser I vowed never to be
Opting in and out of knee to neck trouble
Paying homage to known destinations of losers
Excellently niffed and their pathetic sojourn cut short
Been a journey, the famous thousand miles and counting,
Excruciating, sometimes darting in shadows, gasping for breathe
Never saw victory coming, even for a short while
Endangered and engulfed with predators of hope
Desperately dodging their arrows and darts from their
Inbuilt quiver of burning anguish and sadist vile
Congruent to the prey’s plan of aversion, if only
Time could fly and carry me to my destination of rest
Anna found herself writing this to Marcus for a reply.
Dearest Marcus Sire
I find myself penning this letter to you.
I know why.
From ever since I can remember looking back,
it wasn’t a happy childhood,
Verbal, physical and mental abuse.
It wasn’t a one off it was consistent.
It wasn’t just one person was it; it was the whole family.
I don’t know how I survived that abuse.
Yet I will never forgive them.
They used me as a servant.
Closing all doors for me.
I’ll bide my time I used to think.
No one would believe the damage they did to me.
Now that I left them, they still try to follow me and I ignore them.
I pretend that I care.
Them with your problems of the world doing it to them.
They thought no one will spread the word of what they were.
Mum and dad and family.
Now I spend my time laughing at you.
Wouldn’t help you if you were in deepest hell.
Today I Find joy in the smallest things.
There’s hope, yes there is.
Waiting for your reply.