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My Poems Are Children To Me

My poems are conceived, not within the womb, which long time now has been devoid of seed. My poems are born from a need to be heard: my thoughts, passions, sentiments and beliefs. They start as fragments, flecks of ash from my mind's abyss, a restless volcano that never long sleeps. The particles of ash collect and form together. Feverishly I rush to absorb them all as captured words on scribbled scraps of papers, employing metaphor, play on word, or sounds deliberately paced, and grace of rhythm. I mold my poems meticulously to my image, and then they emerge, fatherless but freed. Each, my voice, shares her sisters' ways, but unique, is cradled in the pages of my book, where, satisfied with my labor, I can turn to them and often look as a mother does on her infant babe. Unlike, however, mortal children can do, when I am through with them, they do not change, and fully formed, they rarely disappoint. As some have loved the fruit of my own flesh, I hope they'll love my poem children too. For the Any Poem Meaningful To You Poetry Contest of Broken Wings


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010


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POETRY FOR POETS: i own this- edition

Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...

POETRY FOR POETS 
(I own this- edition)

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the shit of life
manure

Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.

Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet

			though occasionally
		poems require		to be forged
	beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
	accurately placed
		ensuring they		will be nailed
			to their purpose

Pruned
dead words and metaphors 
selectively snipped away
stunning display

There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love


Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015


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LIBERTY OF EXPRESSION is HERE

Why I am here in Poetrysoup?

I like a seed carelessly thrown 
upon dirty solid black, brown rocks,
I strive, thrived to grow 
despite big rough blocks..

words... phrases... sentences...
They are screaming to be released
or climbing to burst in climax seize
or if not drifting upon crinkled seas

but how can I? 
When will I?
If within
minute by minute
salty prints roll down my cheeks
caused by bitter-lava  of emotions.

Heart is in state of stroke:
my mouth now mute
my lips lethargic to speak
yet my fingers found the head of a captain:

  wandering, wandering
  'til a shoreline glistens
  in the name of hope

Pressed. Pushed, 
I puddle anew the currents,
nothing but my desire to share;
to live, to be happy, to be healed,
to pour safely  fears, frustrations;
trials, dreams that I always pray.

Stabbed from behind,
bang and troubled by shark sharp words,
the powerhouse I built 
slowly, slowly fell to short.

Curiosity ignited my interest,
I attempt to pass a five stanza rhyme verse
eyes shut, ears closed to comments.
Not long, 
sleeping poems from my head popped,
they escaped

  teasing and tickling,
  unafraid, I bite every challenge
  swimming, soaking, diving deep.

Seven months until I taste glory
excitement crawl and peak
nervous yet I...

   I clamor to learn,
   I clamor to move on,
   I clamor to sing,
   I clamor to run,
   I clamor to fly,
   I clamor to soar

from the bluest ocean to darkest clouds,
from lair of lilacs to fruitless air,
from reality to ecstatic speech of fantasy
with pinching memories of past rejections, lost love 

   I hide behind the mask of metaphors
   I tease torrid with personification, 
   I sassy seduce using alliteration
   I heighten arousal with my pose, my muse
   I recite in my own right the rhymes of my soul

Ring! Ring! Ring
allow my poetry  be the bells
clanging blues echoing hues containing feelings.
Permit the tinkles permeate, 
impregnate your thoughts.
Freedom of expression, 
this you and I yearn.

Here in Poetrysoup liberty, I did earn!

Supporters, friends, challengers, lover I gained
yet these I never ask. I never expect.
They landed softly to my open palms,
I accepted. I treasure them.

Finally, my congested suffering heart 
today, beats systematically:

   gratitude, I can only inhale
   smile, I can only show
   prayers, I can only blow...

I know, 
respect, peace and order we all want.
Your verses and so is mine will be of powder rust, dust
but am humbled to be connected.
Pages I will leave here are my immortalized sentiments,
I do believe not all may agree because...
   
   Each one is unique
   Each one has a style
________________________________________________________
8:21 pm, December 26, 2015





Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2015


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We Push The Pen

We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.

We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.

We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.

We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.

We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.

We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.





Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015


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Dear Quintain

Dear Quintain, how beautiful you are, allowing us to paint the spacious sea or sky, landscapes, or nights’ celestial bodies beckoning from afar. Even when my quill is running dry, with you along, my thoughts are sure to fly! For all I need to do is let you slip inside, then nestle in my brain. The pattern of rhyme required by you is not too difficult; here I will remain content to write with you, dear Quintain. Your English form, so lovely, does not ask that we adhere to meter even though I want to dance your lines as I bask in your sweet simple charms, and lo! My quill has filled; my lines now start to flow! I’ll keep on going for two stanzas more because I wish to sing your praises! My mind is like a shore upon which you are tumbling, glistening! A sea of inspiration you bring. Continue on - through poets - bringing words that paint our world, entreating all to see God’s gifts or to enjoy the singing birds, taste clear mountain springs, and smell the salty sea. Continue, dear Quintain, enrapturing me. Written 8/17/2015 , this is English Quintain, which has rhyme scheme of ababb and the lines do not have to be consistent in syllable count


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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On Poetry Soup

A first day on Soup is filled with much awe The wonderful poems will make you smile Easy is it to fall for all Some enabled my mind, lingering a while Just the few Soupers I mention here Will blow you away with works of this year! Janet Cervenka almost made us lust When she penned a piece on Heavenly's bust Marvelous is the diversity of Jan Allison Such a dressed gem, and she's only blooming Nandita then tells us that she's no Jan Indeed her craft is paralleled by none Man! the lyrics never cease to flow for Dave So highly endowed with a skill many crave You see, my first day on Soup I was greeted by SKAT Who so humbly laid down the welcome mat And if there exist a bond no man can put asunder I have to say it's between SKAT and Linda O! How can I forget 'Half of A Heart' A Sara Kendrick special, such design and art! Who better to mend our Broken Wings Than the namesake with a quill in full swing Yes Soupers always brighten my days Place me in velds full of beautiful haze And there I spot a Mystic Rose Defined so uniquely like a Kim Nunez prose From a consummation a lover was denied To the hautiness of a lonely man's pride Whatever we plan to glimpse or scoop We tend to leave with more from Soup


Copyright © Wilfred Aniagyei | Year Posted 2015


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Jesus was Turkish

A strange claim
Of a man of passion
Of kindness
He said
Let the children come to me
For what man would refuse the smile
The innocence of a child
He parted his kindness
His wisdom
His love of all tribes
Animal and man, felt the kindness of his eyes

His tears grew this world
His voice made all of us listen
He made fisherman, philosophers
He made masons run free
He sang to ladies of the night
With the wine from wells of passion
Caliphs and Abu Nuwas soon followed

Love belongs to no one tribe
No sect or religion
It’s the flower that seed's travels the globe
Like feathers floating in the wind

When you see a child with no food
A woman with no smile
A man with no home

You make a balloon or funny face
You grow a rose
You build a hut

Trust in the kindness underneath
It will kiss you on your death bed
You shall rise to the heavens
Knowing

You loved the universe




Notes: This is one poem that for sure can be peeled like an onion. First of all, I am working on a poem based on historical fact, and documents from the Vatican, that will serve no other purpose than to tell an age old story. Yes part of it takes place in current day Turkey.

Second, I have a friend who resides in Turkey, and we met over the internet, and over the years, have become friends. I know him to be kind, to all people and animals. We are simply friends that have shared stories, laughter, and hardships at times. Whether someone  lives next door or half way around the world, true friendship and honor is hard to find. You can not give it or receive it. You can only both earn it over time.

No man is perfect, we are what we are, but when you see a world in turmoil, as we do these days, maybe this small event or moment carries weight. I myself am not so nice. So then I must say this, My friend Volkan is, not to me, but to countless people. A smile and kindness costs nothing, and the world needs more of this richness. 

Everyone these days talks of how technology is ripping apart society and this may well be true, but this is a choice we all make, technology is merely a tool. One can also use it to build bridges and friendships. 

Normally I would be shy to give such praise, however events have taught me that, its better to speak good words than be silent.

Thank you, for helping building a better world!



Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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I Write A Poem

I write a poem that will entertain the world.
A poem that will fade someone's fear.
The one that will inspire you to smile.
Something that can make you out of mind.

I write a poem for lovers and friends,
To describe the feelings, how is love moves the earth.
A poem that encourages deads to live.
To keep the sun shines over the fields.

I write a poem that makes the whole world read.
A sentimental of a heart from lover who left.
The adventure of a man who travelled the lands and seas.
The agony of a woman who lost her baby.

I write a poem....
Until my ink gets dried.
Until the sun meets the horizon.
'til there's no tears fall in my eyes.

I write a poem...
To fall in love once more.
To hold the hand of a new lover,
To see the stars, the moon in full bloom.

I write a poem....
Until the last leaf falls in tree.
Then my life fades in the shadow of eve.
And every memories be left in dreams.

I write a poem....
Please care to comment and sealed with  a kiss.
Choose one or two to be your favourites.
And dont forget, fave the author of masterpiece. =D



** 2nd Place Winner in Poet Destroyer aka Linda's Contest: Any Poem #28 **



Copyright © Aiyah Torres | Year Posted 2014


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''silence sweet solitude''

 
the solitude the silence silence of a bee in the forest silence of the leaves leaves on majestic trees leaves my soul quivering quivering treasures quivering happiness and joy joy of freedom and journeying on joy in my soul beyond time time entangled in vines time to pause in the emerald emerald windswept meadows trembling emerald velvet foliage creeping creeping and creeping the embroidery of green creeping sunlight fills the shadows shadows are where the violets sleep shadows hide a hundred chirping wings wings of the poets dreamy muse wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay decay in the tangled branches decay beautiful and divine divine tufts of yellow divine bliss in silence silence in the garlands of green silence in hushed echoes echoes of unseen songsters echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing flowing pen flowing words and verses verse amongst the scattered dandelions verses in the whispering calm calm the clusters of vines twining calm the bliss bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants bliss under an azure above above the cowslip and foxglove above blue birds fly fly downy wings fly with the sweet wind wind that whispers in my ears wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers flowers wilted and dying flowers with petals forlorn forlorn my poetic words forlorn and weeping weeping on tattered paper in solitude weeping poems and rhymes and verses created in the silence solitude . . . _______________________ May 23, 2015 Blitz Submitted to the contest, shhhhh , sponsor, Silent One 8th Place


Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015


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Tell Me A Tale

Tell me a tale of humanity Paint me the love of your life Show me a path to humility How a man should honour his wife. Help children believe in magicness Describe the warmth of a smile Feelings invoked by happiness A tree that’s been watching a while. Explain the pain of solitude Gift me the smell of a flower Tease me with dreams of magnitude Sights that are seen from a tower. Convey the sound that a river makes Define your fear of the dark Textures and tastes of a freshly cut steak A walk with your child in the park. Interpret the touch that a lover leaves Recount the flaws of your youth Depict a man with his heart on his sleeve Confront and search out the truth. Weave me a yarn with your poetry Spin me with poetic release Take me away with ingenuity Fill my mind and my soul with your peace.


Copyright © Mark Woods | Year Posted 2015


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Dear Men

Dear men,
Explain to me why I stand alone. 
Women are quick to uplift their father, sons, and brothers
Quick to maintain the home,
But when she needs support,
A woman stands alone
Explain to me why a woman has to stay in her “place”
Is there no room for a woman who is more than a pretty face?
Is there no room for a woman who can stimulate you intellectually
Or is it a woman’s only duty to please you sexually?
Explain to me why beating a woman gives you power
It gives you strength
Is masculinity so fragile
That you can’t maintain?
Without getting pleasure from pain
Explain to me why your brother goes scott free
When he takes advantage of a woman
While she is left to be ridiculed, blamed
As society throws dirt on her name
And she falls victim to her own demise.
I despise
The men who are so oblivious to their own privilege
That they think patriarchy is normal
Excuse my language 
As I speak a bit informal 
For you to understand
That you cannot catcall me as I walk down the street
It’s disgusting and demeaning
No I am not obligated to give you my number
Just because you ask and think you are getting a pass at me
No I don’t need you to hold the door open or carry my groceries
I am a strong, independent woman and your belief that I am weak
Is insulting
No I do not have to give you my body just because you bought me a drink
My body belongs to me
No matter what you tell yourself or think
Dear men,
You can no longer say that you are ignorant to my issues or my demands
Because I have clearly listed it for you to see.
Now only a real man
Will know, that women deserve equity












Copyright © Kapree Tripp | Year Posted 2017


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For My Children

You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.

Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance

If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink

There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret

But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks	
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks

Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters


Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018


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We are the Children

We are the Children

Bombs fall from the sky
The little children wonder why?
The night is mixed with blood and tears
Screams that deafen the little ones ears

In the name of what God or religion?
Is this killing seen to serve a mission?
In the name of what Tribe or Country?
We the children ask you humbly

We used to play and run all day
Now we hide fearing bombs come our way
The days we wander in search of foods
Hiding from soldiers intent on blood feuds

Bombs still falling from the sky
The pain and terror, when shall we die?
There is a gun on top a dead soldier there
I myself ended this pain that I could not bear

The bullet saved me from more despair   


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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Where Poetry Lives

 His  poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that 
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
hunting grounds
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
that inspire
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where  poetry lives


Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006


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Five Stars

*Dedicated to Andrea Dietrich, Caleb Smith, Isaiah Zerbst, Anne Currin, and Eileen Ghali

I'll start with illustrious Andrea,
our talented sonneteer.
She peppers our poems with kindness, 
with comments so bright and sincere.

Next, we have Mr. McCaleb,
our sweet gent from Arkansas
From KOs to boogers to nature,
he writes without limit or flaw.

Now, I must turn to Isaiah,
the master of meter and rhyme.
His poems are most reminiscent
of forgotten ages in time.

I cannot forget our Queen Anne,
who graces us all with her songs.
Her lyrics tug at our heartstrings, 
yet she's upbeat, lovely, and strong.

Last but not least is Eileen,
the most spirited poetess.
She translates feeling to verse
and writes with such skill and finesse.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013


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Wax and Ink

Staying near to light my way
     now that there is no more day
You're needed to so brightly burn
     before to black ashes you return
Flames dance high upon your wick
     and fall across the well-worn brick
Like those flames once in the hearth
     when you go out there is no rebirth
My mind alight with persistent thought
     beaming from an inspiration caught
In ink my quill takes another dip
     my eyes watch your melting wax drip
Furiously now my script does flow
     to finish the lines before out you go
I can do no more, there is no time
     my slowing pen can no longer rhyme
The ink still wet, not even dry
     as your glow continues to die
Words on the page begin to fade
     while creeping darkness starts to shade
Wax and ink overtaken by night
     and devours all your candle's light.





Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2016


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Man and Woman

                            She is                                          He's                             
                          a woman                                      a fine man
                       with a pretty                                  within his big
                        face and an                                 head, he has a
                         attitude of                                     simple plan. 
                            purity                                          To woo her
                             and                                                 and to
                            grace.                                               soothe
               She has strong shoulders,                         her as much as
            where you can rest your head                     he can.  He gives
           between two succulent boulders.               from his heart as he
          She has wit and charm. With such                has from the very
          grace       she is surely        armed.             start. It's all in his
          Your        heart she will         take.              nature to reach out 
            But     she'll be your best      mis-            his hand and take her.  
             take. Her hips sway as you feel                But somehow as you 
                  your heart carried away.                  have seen, there's much
                  In no time at all you will      standing in between. He knows
                   feel her heat from your      he must alter his approach, gets
                      head to your feet.                          her a golden broach. 
                      When you're amid                           His legs start to
                      fleshy        thighs,                            quiver as her
                       you'll          emit                                 thighs                        
                       sexy          sighs                                make him
                       but             you                                  shiver. 
                       will             see                                  Yes she
                       what           they                                 yearns
                       all do          see,                                  him so,
                       a girl           that                                  but he
                       is so            very                                  might
                      womanly.       A woman in                      never        
                       three letter     high stilletto.                   know.                   
                        t                   t                                 because
                        o                  o                          she has to go.
   abcdefghijklm e nopqrstuv   e wxyzabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzabcdefghijkl


Contest:  Something Concrete
Hosted by:  Maureen McGreavy
Written 12/21/17



Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017


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Little ol' me


I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe

Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow

Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear

Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare

Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath

Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path

Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim

And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him

Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view

Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new

So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be

But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow

Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey

Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith

Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San

And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write

If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.



Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016


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WORDS

Words can be as deadly as a knife
It can penetrate straight through your heart
Bleed all the spirit right out of your life
Twists your mind and tear you apart

Words can bring you pain and sorrow
Weaken the spirits of today and tomorrow
Breaks your heart and squeeze your head
Leave you living yet leave you dead

But words of love from the very start
Can instill much happiness to your heart
Eased your pain and comfort your mind
Have you seeing yet have you blind


Copyright © tu tran | Year Posted 2015


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Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Heart

Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Heart
    (Second of Three Poem Trilogy)

II

Winter blowing in fierce, bitter cold now lingers
soon the "old and useless" will meet their destined fate,
at Winter-child's hands, gun, itchy trigger fingers
and infantile minds that so dearly love to hate.
Ah, but the "old and useless" stood their sacred ground
with true honor, pride and its time tested displays,
where else can such gratuitous treasures be found
or joy and freedom be had in these weeping days?

The "old and useless", in rightly honored places
would journeying spirits find their defending grip,
souls weakened without dismay on their bright faces,
from whence came those packs of jackals to tear and rip?
Ah, but world's powers feed upon lust and deep greed
with fever pitch tries to kill foundations of trust
using false values think power is all they need,
vanquishing the "old and useless" becomes a must!

As new dawn emerges, up sprouts new and green shoots
with light absorbing leaves they sing loud as they glow
some are outraged, change to put on their stomping boots,
others joining that course, seeing how the winds blow.
Burnt midnight oil, ink splashes on receptive page
as poetic hearts and souls stand firm on solid ground,
furious, they write and tremble in aching rage
with shields held higher while knowing their cause is sound.

Winter blowing in fierce, bitter cold now lingers
soon the "old and useless" will meet their destined fate,
at Winter-child's hands, gun, itchy trigger fingers
and infantile minds that so dearly love to hate.
Ah, but the "old and useless" stood their sacred ground
with true honor, pride and its time tested displays,
where else can such gratuitous treasures be found
or joy and freedom be had in these weeping days? 

Robert J. Lindley, 3-25-2018
Rhyme

Note: 
Make of this what you will,
I give thus and surely shall send no bill
Yet in my poet's heart my soul oft grieves
for the Autumn colors not the decaying leaves
For the heart that yearns to write and truly give
and the mortal soul that writes to live
With inked symbols and a mind tired of toil
wading through worlds filled with pride and hidden turmoil
I write with purpose to give to others, not to take
tho' oft my poet's heart over burning coals some gladly rake.

Note- This poem is titled, Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Heart
and is the , Second of Three Poem Trilogy....


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2018


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I dreamed a dream of You

Yesterday I dreamed a dream,
that had no end.
You in your white gown, and long, black hair flowing.
You were calling my name.
I heard you, but I couldn't reach you!

And when I say your soul was tainted.
You went out in the night life.
You dressed in your black, evening ball gown.
You danced till the Red Sun came out, over the horizon.

You smiled at me.
A flame in my heart burned red hot!
My knees and hands shook with nerves;
Nerves of love and joy.
I blew you a kiss,
but you turned away!
Oh, please don't turn away from me,
for I would die, if it happened again!

Your beautiful and golden heart showed me the truth.
The truth that every gentleman wants to hear.
I've seen you walk the streets,
in the blue dawn of August.
As I followed you, you stopped and looked at me.
You smiled so beautifully, and my heart fluttered into oblivion!

You walked with your friends and I went my way.
I couldn't find a single trace of you that day.
I cried out "Why did I leave her like this?!"
I looked for you, all over the courtyards and town squares!
Yet no sight of your beauty.
... No sight of your golden heart, that I hold so dear to mine.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Why did I leave... that is the question!

I should have stayed by your side,
till the ends of time.

Yet I had left.
Why...?

One gloomy and parish midnight.
I came along a road,
and soon found myself in front of a wayward cafe.
Smiling faces all around me.
I spotted a beautiful face that outstood all the other faces around me.
It was yours.

Your face brought me to sanity and I went over too you!
You spotted me and tried to run!
I caught you in the dirty hallway and pulled you in.

Our eyes met and I fell in love once again.
Sanity re-entered my mind, body and soul.
I kissed you and you kissed back.
You held my hand, and we left the cafe and walked down the street.

The street was gloomy, yet we together brightened the dark street.
We went back to the lit up city streets, of the lands filled with smiling faces,
and we fell in love and slept together.

You lay there in my restless arms and I gave you a sweet kiss,
upon your sweet and soft head.
Your dark hair was sweet smelling and felt of silk.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep with you,
there in my arms and we dreamed together
till the morning came and woke me up,
and took you away from my weak and weary arms.

I dreamed a dream of you.


Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013


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Heinrich Heine Revisited

I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.

Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few. 
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!

Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set 
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.

It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!

It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by 
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books 
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!

And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014) 
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)

AUTHOR’S NOTES:
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.” 
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)

*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses: 
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)

*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous 
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they 
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other 
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and 
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover, 
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish 
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major 
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than 
reading them!  



Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014


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Poems for My Alien Abductors: a Ride into Space

I thought I could wow them with poems from earth
Poems of joy and humor, poems extolling it’s worth
So I laid out poems from Michael, Gail, and me
From Andrea, David, Gwen, and Ilene
From PD, Harry, Mandy, and Chris
From Jack, Craig, Cyndi, and Liz…
For I was sure once they read our beautiful works
They would embrace us and love our humanly quirks!
So last night I taped them all over my skin
Knowing they’d find them if they took me again…

When I woke up, they were gone and I had a reply:
“We enjoyed reading those poems last night, 
And thanks for the names of the earthlings too -
We have many more experiments to do!”


2/7/13
For Michael's boomerang...send your poem for a ride contest


Copyright © Black Eyed Susan | Year Posted 2013


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Lonely Bard

A lonely bard can paint and write more songs,
Which birds loftily warble all day long,
Every note taps the heart of each flower,
Sprinkles dew drops while silent wind meanders.

Her ballad - a gem of all creations,
A home, hollowed not with admiration,
Chasm within draws perfect harmony
For stars to play a perfect symphony.

With knowledge and love, ink surges so deep,
The feather outshines the wind on its tip,
Lifting up dry leaves lying underneath
Every tale is treasured by golden sheath.

Lonely bard pens the lyrics of our hearts,
Where weary souls can find their road to start.



Aug 9, 2013  11.50am
By: Leonora Galinta




“I am a lonely bard
I have no song to sing.
This empty ballad is my home.
A feather against the dying wind- 
-my only expression.”

 -by my dearest sis, Poet Destroyer from her poem, “Umbrella”




Note:

This poem is a loving dedication/ homage to my all time greatest & most favourite poet, my loving sis & friend of mine & my number 1 inspiration.


Fourth Place
Contest: Pick a line, any line from a poem of fav. poet
Judged: 9/11/2013
Sponsor: Richard Lamourex



Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2013


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Poetic Ambitions

Listen to poem:
To enchant the eye and tickle the tongue
with levels of nuance like well-aged wine,
to engage the ear and limber the lungs
as sea winds seasoned with fragrance of brine.

To hearten the soul or tear it apart,
to start with a sigh and end with a gasp,
to sharpen the mind and quicken the heart,
to aim one's reach to outdistance the grasp.

To roar like a lion and ever stand fast,
to bring out smiles and mitigate pain,
to tell the legends of histories past,
and teach their mistakes, not do them again.

© May 26, 2015


Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2015