Best Poems Poems

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

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 - Fraser | Year Posted 2015

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

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 de Torres | Year Posted 2014

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

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

''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 

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

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

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

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

Poetry River run free

Quietness upon the face,
Silence and loneliness,
Land before time,
Before living things existed, 
Sadness as my waters ran through the earth,
Was my voice the only thing to be heard?
As I swelled and ebbed, 
Swished back and forth, 
Was I alone as I sadly moved?
Was my story over before it started?
I ran through the earth looking for life,
Through the mountains to the highest peaks,
Over the desolation through the land,
Congregated every teardrop into large seas
My tears filled every part of the earth
Sadness as my heart became an open ocean,
I realized that I had great power,
A gushing force as I quickly moved,
I was unstoppable and determined,
As my adventures of roaming became exciting,
The earth began to drink of my waters,
A great light shining down,
Began pulling me up towards the skies,
Something very dramatic happening,
Breathtaking!
As I hung around in great clusters of clouds,
Looking down upon the earth,
Beauty astounding and thrilling,
Until a great crash of thunder,
Crashed through splitting bursting into
Millions of tiny droplets, 
I fell to the earth,
With exhilarating freshness,
Hitting the ground at great speeds,
Continued flowing on my journey, 
Into the rivers then back home to my sea,
As I looked up to the sky
Great colors burst into a rainbow,
Life began creating,
Smaller than the eye could see,
As surely then up to the tallest trees,
Earth drank of my rivers
As the poetry in the river ran free.


01/05/2016

Copyright © Wendy Rycroft | Year Posted 2016

If I Never

If I never write another poem again
Will you remember me
All the parts of my heart I exposed
The morsels of my soul
The intricacies
The pain
My manufactured pieces of joy
Humor
Wisdom from a fools pen
Stains dripped from a troubled mind
I sit here with head in hand
Looking at a blank page
Fearing I have nothing left to say
Coaxing my brain to respond


Drip
Drip 
A word 
A corresponding heart beat
An image projected
Displayed
Choreographed 
Spinning 
Coming to life
I wish you to reach out
Take it in your hand
Feel touch
Smell 
live within the space
Allow the idea to expand
Grow beyond a page

Put leaves on my trees
Climb my branches
Drink from my streams
Add color to my rainbow
Breathe through my lungs
See through my looking glass
For if I never write another poem again
I can sigh and say
It has all been worthwhile
You heard my call
Responded 
Understood
Seen the previously unseen
Walked along my landscapes
Left a part of yourself
Drank from my cup
Sat at my table
You my honored guests
The one I will remember
For you are the reason
My pen drips and my heart smiles
You help me remember
To see
To believe
One word at a time


Entry for PD's Free Verse Contest

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013