Best Pluck Poems
To sing an anthem for doomed youth.
Why did I believe the clergy's untruth
and the politicians who I voted for in a polling booth.
and know i will pay the price in karma's toll booth.
Governments don't worry with arms and the boy.
or the death of a man who just years before was a school boy.
Oh the futility of war its the real Mccoy.
the lords and lady's watch on high as we die, just the hoi polloi.
Lets say no to the next war lets live in peace for ever more.
the only army I am joining is the peace corps.
I'm finished, I am not going to be the politicians war whore.
The last laugh will be mine as I refuse to fight your wars .
comp entry 11/02
poet Wilfred Owen His family once lived in Nantwich ie 5 miles away and it was
his poems that 1st got me interested in poetry.
Shall I Twice Pluck Thy Soft, Sweet Fruit
Should I court thee as moth to flame
sky to its wondrous blue?
Some say, love is but a fool's game
Aye, we both know untrue.
Shall I twice pluck thy soft, sweet fruit
be it with soft touch?
In such, will our love take firm root
or presume I too much?
In thy heart's beating my heart trails
begging once more thy hand.
We seek love and all it entails
life's dance, its greatest band.
Shall we find vermilion sunsets?
Hold Love's all and all it begets?
Robert J. Lindley,
Nov. 17th, 2002
Sonnet (86) (100)
Words (88)
Syllables Per Line: 8 6 8 6 0 8 6 8 6 0 8 6 8 6 0 8 8
Total # Syllables: 100
Total # Words: 88
a oxeye daisy
you don't love me - you love me
oh, I Love U 2
27.02.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Haiku, I Love U 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
1st place in the contest
HARMONIES OF NIGHT
Weary wand'rer, stop and listen,
Give heed to this soothing song,
The voice of the night wind carries
Words of peace and rest, be strong;
Strike the harp of Zion, let's sing
Mamma's lullaby tonight,
It's melody reminds of how
Bells at evening bring delight;
Hold thou my hand in the silence,
We will sway to the rhythm light,
There's music in the air, tune in,
Before you bid me good night.
02/09/17
Eleven titles plucked from the exquisite poetry of Christina Rossetti
For my sweet child, petite Maude Clare,
Before The Paling of The Stars, I grieve
for my infant with head of flaxen curls.
I pray, Lord, save this tiny Daughter of Eve.
Tears fill my red and swollen eyes when
her Daddy, asks, "Is It Well With The Child?"
God, protect one of Your Holy Innocents.
As her fever climbs, my racing heart runs wild.
From Sunset To Star Rise, I hold her near.
Her hand clasps one of my trembling fingers
while she clings to The Thread of Life.
Sleeping At Last, but the fever lingers.
She fitfully stirs in the crook of my arm.
My voice in lullaby, tearfully sings.
I press a kiss to her warm pink cheek,
her eyelids quiver, like little Fluttered Wings.
By morning, In The Willow Shade, we rest.
Fever broken and Maude is in Dream Land.
At my breast, she sleeps and all is well.
Thank You, dear God, for holding out Your hand.
February 10, 2017
The Poets Pluck
contest of Mystic Rose
I survived scarred but
unscathed growing up Irish
catholic.
Mind numbing Masses sung in
Latin
Ostentatious Corpus Christy
processions through local
streets
Ornately dressed priests
Eyes to the skies, garbage
underfoot
Fair game for taunting
classmates armed with cutting
quips
abstinence during Lent
weekly confession that
required creative thinking to
minimize mortal sins
further ingenuity required to
pass off venial sins
to fill the quota on weeks when
you were good,
But it was the redemption
through suffering
or straight to hell in a hand
basket that crippled.
The collateral damage of
inherited weaknesses?
An act of contrition, three Hail
Mary's and an Our Father
To survive
"I have had to deny knowledge
in order to leave room for
faith."
Fascinating for it's simplicity
and heavy dose of reality.
It helped with my struggle to
understand
what others appear to see so
clearly.
And yet despite this cross
connection the majority of my
actions
are calibrated against my
religious upbringing.
A voice, my own, my mother's,
echoes from statues, holy wells
and saints
that continue to haunt my past
and dissect my actions
I am a reluctant Catholic.
It is part of my DNA.
Early on I found out how hard
it was not to conform
when I began to swim against
the tide.
Lifelines were few
while responses took the form
of it is just a phase,
Have him have a chat with the
priest.
The alienation was akin to Irish
tee totalers
welcome, yet removed from
the nexus of Irish society, the
pub
Faithfully, THE TIDE RISES THE TIDE FALLS
Water sustains life; pulsing evermore.
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE forever enthralls.
Golden lights brighten beyond the shore.
A PSALM OF LIFE repeats its vibrant calls.
Come; follow me along love’s corridor.
THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD upon dreams befalls.
Hope dances upon the darkening shore.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS leave prints all can see.
Young lovers sing songs that ring in the heart.
FLOWERS watch love’s reflections in the sea.
So it is now, like Adam and Eve’s start.
AUTUMN; then CHRISTMAS BELLS zing Cupid’s spell.
Love ignites her passions throughout the night.
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, as we know quite well,
Arrives months later, oh, beautiful sight.
RAIN IN SUMMER quenches the lust for life.
Man and beast seek cool satisfying streams.
THE POET’S CALENDAR waits for his wife.
The family grows as love births new dreams.
2/14/2017
Inspired by the Contest: The Poet’s Pluck
Dulce et decorum est,
or total hell on Earths past
oh world of many worlds,
how long will this one last,
Wild with all regrets,
though needs dictate
spells of incantations,
realisation of my fate,
The young soldier
with a date to respect
Six o'clock at princes street
his body ready to dissect,
I saw his round mouth's crimson
as I felt my last life's breath,
As your soul slipped
it joins mine at our death.
composed 12/02/2017.
What makes your smile cold?
On springtime colors bold?
Hummingbirds croon from afar
Wilder than tambourine,
Thrilling the night’s gauze sheen.
Come, pluck the tangy guitar
Dance a belly-go-round,
Before grey hairs abound---
Be the chant of life’s bright star!
© rights reserved
' ' ' ' '' '' '''' '' '
Show Me for Brian Strand's Contest
By: nette onclaud
The Poets Plucker….. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Here in my cold lonely bed I ponder my all
I have FEARS in SOLITUDE of being alone
DEJECTION of my love had pierced my heart…..yet
THE NIGHTINGALE sings lustily a cheerful tune
My consciousness behaves as EOLIAN HARP
as Coleridge poem suggests full of delusion
So through opaque glass my window I cannot see
FROST AT MIDNIGHT has now spoilt for me this vision
So with dejection, curl into a foetal ball
hiding In THIS LIME-TREE BOWER A PRISON MAKE
I await my fate, wondering will my heart heal
Will I from my ongoing pity…soon awake
penned 5 February 2017
The Poet’s Pluck – Christina Rossetti
In MY DREAM I see A PORTRAIT
And REMEMBER a girl I used to know,
SHE SAT AND SANG a loving song
Of a boy from Oh, so long ago.
In DREAM LAND she seems ALOOF
As if THE WORLD were far away,
But the song she sings I know so well,
It is the song we learned to play.
IN AN ARTISTS STUDIO I hear that song
That we sang for a year or so
And A PORTRAIT still lives in MY DREAM
Though we sang Oh, so long ago.
08/02/17
Death goes a-begging, once we pluck his sting!
(Christ did it first, but we must do’t again!)
In Imitation of Christ, laugh and sing!
Though Christ has shot the arrow through the ring,
Still we must live out parables, now and then,
Death goes a-begging, once we pluck his sting!
Though we fear passing, falcons on the wing…
We dive, and bring the rabbit to our den,
In Imitation of Christ, laugh and sing!
Without fear, Death becomes but sound sleeping!
Unfeared, Death holds in hand, no sword, nor pen,
Death goes a-begging, once we pluck his sting!
Bright day! We feel the bullet, our helmet, ping!
And know, the Moment was postponed, again,
In Imitation of Christ, laugh and sing!
Be gentle, Pilgrim! Unto each one bring…
At their last breath, the kind hand of a Friend,
Death goes a-begging, once we pluck his sting!
In Imitation of Christ, laugh and sing!
After Apple Picking one late fall day
as the gold sun hung low neath autumn's sky,
I took a turn, became ‘The Runaway’
onto The Road Not Taken, there nearby.
Lined thick with Birches planted on a knoll
along with Maples dressed in red-gold glows,
I now was drawn to take A Late Walk stroll-
bask in the luxury of nature’s shows.
Reminded to Choose Something Like a Star,
I made a wish as I went on my way.
As Venus blinked her answer from afar,
I turned to leave since Nothing Gold Can Stay.
February 4, 2017
~4th Place~
Premiere Contest: The Poet’s Pluck (poet of your choice)
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged: 02/22/2017
Rules: Choose five or more TITLES from a past historical
poet of your choice and use the TITLES to build your poem.
Show TITLEs in bold lettering.
Rules of a former contest:
Choose five or more TITLES from a past historical
poet of your choice and use the TITLES to build
your poem. Show TITLEs in bold lettering.
Poet Chosen: Robert Frost
NOT FROM THE STARS DO I MY JUDGMENT PLUCK
In fact those eyes has made standard of this crime
As the skin and clothes may be the label of its guise
WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME
WHAT'S IN THE BRAIN THAT INK MAY CHARACTER
Blending on the abstract frame I play in gray
The eyes might be shameless of its judgement
HOW CAREFUL WAS I WHEN I TOOK MY WAY
WHY IS MY VERSE...
Playing such a wise word, on this early age
Rattling discordant note, hide the true drama
The shadow acts AS AN UNPERFECT ACTOR ON THE STAGE
Mild the mist upon the hill
As this in dreams I see
What sadness this within me fills while
The night is darkening around me
My dreamscape changes to a meadow, but
I see around me tombstones grey
No butterflies will flutter by
Where once I used to play
Oh for the time when I shall sleep
Without the sadness my dreams now spawn
But now they keep me where tombstones rise
Far far away is mirth withdrawn
- -
The lines in bold are titles from Emily Bronte's poems.