Best Poet Poems
I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
With clear access to writing that was mature and bold.
I thought I could go roaming beside the foaming sea
And watch the seagulls gliding to give a show for free.
I thought I was a poet who walked along the beach
In awe I stood and wondered, my hand stretched out to reach
The silver thread dividing the water from the sky
And traced Selena’s features as slowly she went by.
I thought I was a poet who knew what joy could be
On hearing water roaring cascading down with glee.
I looked for inspiration, experienced utmost thrill
When climbing down the valley or up the verdant hill.
I thought I was a poet in charge of heat and cold
But lost my true emotions when I was duped and told
I had to reach perfection to please my heart and mind
By means of imitation. My soul I left behind.
I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
But now all of a sudden I’m weary, frail and old.
I thought I was a poet. My pen is of no use.
With teary eyes I whisper to my dejected muse.
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Contest: First Place Only
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placed 1st ~ 18th June 2016
Contest: Any Poem #36
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st ~ 13th March 2016
Contest: Million Dollar Poem
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st ~ 13th June 2015
Chosen Poem of the day ~ 8th May 2015
I relinquish my pen before the storm
of her tears falling upon my bare arm
her gentle whispering breathed in my ear
Muse of mine, adieu to your wit and charm
With piqued reasons I have come to deduce
It's time to say fond farewell to my muse
She should seek a new poet and lay claim
for my words have grown utterly abstruse
Spare me sullen eyes, from cries in refrain
I shall not weep in sadness nor disdain
Bitterness does not become a recluse
My poet's heart weakens, I dare not feign
Time's drawn the shades in darkness of night
No candle flame shall glimmer enough light
in which I may be tempted before morn
to doubt seclusion and attempt to write
Cloistered without pen, I shall ever be
From thinking in rhyme I shall be set free
Poems half written on bits of scrap paper
I shall lock away and then toss the key
My hand has retired, this last poem now penned
No more idyll thoughts of mind will transcend
Bereft of rhymes and abandoned of verse
This poet knows her time has reached an end
Ink no longer flows through my tunneled veins
Expressed emotions in poetry wanes
And when interred, on my stone I shall read,
"Reclusive poet" over my remains
(The Fallen Poet)
Shadows, fall from the east
Winter show, white meadows,
Compelling words lost, in a silent world
Beautiful, Bloomingdale is how it goes
Apocalypto-- my very own limbo
Alone in a field of corpses-
A field of men, women and broken pens,
Images of angels fallen to their knees
A piece of space, of solitude
The sun a wasted disease
The more I prayed the worse I felt,
Lord, I came before - broken and alone
Heaven sees the secret inside
Lost I may be, yet you see
Offended me, I no longer sing
I wait till all is asleep
My ink is dry, a broken poet, with nowhere to go
Lost in the shadows of snow, frozen like ice
A sheet of paper, with no meaning, no words
My friends, my comrades, how easily one forgets
Like a game of chess, I panicked
Made all the right and wrong moves
I lost my way, staggered across
Love comes and love goes
My heart weaker than, weak
I don't know how I survived before,
After turning the other cheek
I was no longer whole, forsaken myself endlessly
I was lost, could not even count on myself
Guidance, I ignored no one believed what's become of me
Alone, I stood in old footsteps after falling down
At times end, I found nothing could put me back where I belong
It's time to get back on offense,
Walk through the new, refreshing old footprints
~*~
*The Dead Poet*
Many blocks along the road,
Kicking down walls of heavy stones,
Yet no one could draw through the walls of her lonely bones.
A poet who could not write what's inside.
Her pen had gone ink dry.
Her beady eyes lost the feel of an angelic realm.
She tried!
She tried until she could no longer cry!
A poet who stuttered with the mind and out came no words.
This poet hangs on a mound with a picture that tells a sad tale.
A poem that broke verses in a Carpe diem dream.
She ruffled her arms once more as if she could fly.
Still nothing,
Everything felt dead inside.
Trap in a mental state that clots the willing vein.
Isolating her form in a room with no door.
She stays this away from the feel of the marvel pen.
To never go back, and feel again.
In the most ominous way,
She lets out a cry,
A cry, never heard before.
Running from this evil, that stain her world.
Words buried deep and behind a new exterior box,
Her insides grasp all the air of air once alive.
A talon drop into the next,
This troublesome poet gave up on everything.
Had nothing left, but the empty space within.
Next!
She curls herself into a fetal world.
At last, she closes her eyes, to feel no more.
A poet who died the day, joy wiped the glee from her face.
by;PD
Whisper's of October
Whispers in this soup bowl
20 minutes after its muse explodes,
Daylight remains nothing more than a dream
Warding off the howling sound in mid-September's stream
Casting a line about a ginger light,
found in the depths of everything
Engaging from the sitting twilight, numb, tranquilized
Exposing and expressing the emotions found within
An attic lost in the Ancient sky ---awaits
A poetic hand is formed ---reaching out
A hissing whisper out of the darkness,
Listen-in, the echoes of October are calling
A halo, that reconciles a mysterious monarch moon
A mono grip in which summons a mysterious voice
of sweet serenity
Poets posting poems along the midnight page
Each poet can compose a poem and mimic free fallen verses,
One might call it a creative craving curse,
Webmaster's whose words speak for themselves
Voiceless-
They feel, and spills the will of idolized ink,
Blind-handed, splitting day from night
Warm whispers, needing no food to consume
Migraines of ink, feeding the soul
Burning Pages, overused pens
They've forgotten the pretty flowers
Living like lions, who never comes out of their dens
Murmuring and devouring, the enigmas of the unknown
Eyes behind a sieve, close tighter than before,
They hide nothing-
A world created from every sky-scrape the wall
Wanting to belong, a trick -or- treat*er in disguise
No friends, everything is pretend
These poets can’t be described, can't be believed
They are the best in what they do
For all you know this poet might be me,
This poet might be you
9/3/14
A diamond in the Frost ... I am Emily, gazing through the years,
Like Poe from rancid taste and dark smoke shadows
Florescent waste escaping a decrepit yet dulcet wilderness
Backward capabilities frontal verse, I am her the almighty universe
Ascending from yesterday's fall, literally and visibly
Swore to be everything you loathe most - a felicity of illusions
You will dream of me, a parasite you can't get rid of
Ripped open by paper and pen, rising to a new destination
A Destroyer begging to be free in search of a tender rhapsody
Blind by mediocre poets who tend a false nebulous star
No longer, will I impart into defeat - give in to trophy trust
The time of age, my allies whom I call my friends
You are more than words on any God-Given-Day
To those unworthy of me, can march away from my parade
Crying wolves, backstabbing clones, long gone stones
Each file is forgiven & forgotten, however, still trespassing
Under a microscope, some remain to be a decade of lost words
Grazing a forest-grown for old news dripping water on my belly
No matter, after starvation, I found my way back to the same horizon
Finding time and space among a new docile nation
A buried treasure finding face among a fresh myriad generation
With anchors up, I'm headed full force, against every secret endorsed
I am the one you should not fear, I relish this wonderful community
I am she mounted above all years worn rising like a newborn sword
Forged by the earth summon by the pirate's moon political creed
Ascending to a sweet ascension with the best kind of immunity
With paper and pen, I sit to please and prosper my poetry need
To you I leave --- Echoes of snow, numbing you with a poetic soul
Love The Poet Destroyer
I remember the day I became a poet.
In the magnificence of the submerging sun,
I glanced upon her admiring its majesty.
Amidst hues of clementine and lilac,
her image cast a shadow so serene.
My heart began to flutter like a butterfly,
floating towards her -
finally free from the chambers of my cocoon.
Like a silk scarf, scarlet petals wove a path,
aromatising footsteps that led to her.
Who could this mysterious lady be,
that had humbled such a hardened heart?
Although strangers, it felt as our souls
had known each other for eternity.
In twinkling twilight, I could see
pieces of the moon illuminating through her eyes.
How could I forget how the reflection of her smile
invited me to wander willingly into her heart.
Like nocturnal nightingales adrift in the night,
we sang sensual melodies not heard before.
Sensations felt from her soft satin skin
remain a euphoric timeless memory.
Seduced within the substance of soulful desires,
her enchanted essence became my first poem -
the purity of her existence my eternal poetry.
Silent One
19 March 2018
i believe we all
have a poem in our hearts
some need no metaphors
for a poet is a bridge
between words and emotions
connecting hearts and souls
through all four seasons
my heart is not a guesthouse
it's an asylum for the broken
a treasure of memories
of those forgotten
so all the names
written within it
i place into a box
to shelter from storms
as long as there is oxygen
i'll keep them warm
but sometimes I am thunder
because they are like lightening
sometimes it's really frightening
so i curse my heart
for feeling too much
sometimes it curses me
for not forgiving enough
maybe that's why
when they move forward,
i take a step backwards
losing the gravity of my voice
because sometimes i feel frozen
isolated on an unknown island
profoundly pondering
about the equity of love
it's not always fair - if ever
all i ask from these strangers
is to leave their ego at the door
for dishonesty and hypocrisy
disturbs one's tranquillity
from silence of the womb
to darkness of the tomb
some pens remain dormant
some suffer from insomnia
life is not butterflies and lullabies
so i keep writing in the hope
one day someone will understand
continuing to release emotive ink
with a message in each poem
hidden behind metaphors
I got to wonderin' the other day
who was the greatest poet ever?
Was it a guy named Willie Shakespeare
or someone much more clever?
I thought it over for quite a while
just who this guy might be.
Then suddenly a light went on!
By God, it could be me!
So I'm gonna write a Masterpiece.
Just you wait and see.
It'll be the best poem ever wrote
and the author will be me!
Everyone from near and far
will know my famous name.
The poem I write will be so great
it will bring me worldwide fame!
I'll be chauffeured 'round in limousines
and flown in private jets.
Everyone will call me "sir"
and I'll have no regrets.
I'll be treated just like Royalty,
No matter where I go.
I'll be waited on hand and foot,
just to let you know.
So when you're in my presence
don't you forget to bow,
cause I'll be the greatest poet ever,
I'm tellin' you right now!
That's it - My mind's made up
and since I'm gonna be so great,
I decided I won't write it now,
you're just gonna have to wait!
Ralph Taylor
11/8/15
If you fall in love with a poet,
he will love you with all his soul.
His ink will be his sword of affection,
his pen your shield of admiration,
your life his poems of devotion -
as your heart dances to his musings.
His words will illustrate the essence of true yearning,
a bond serenading the secret songs in your heart.
Upon the awakening of the mighty golden orb,
like merging colorful horizon hues - without touch,
his tender words will soften your throbbing skin.
He'll make your eyes glow like a million fireflies,
bringing out that secret smile you always hide.
When he holds your hand, you'll not want to let go.
In the realms of pleasure and romance,
where enigmatic enchantment reigns supreme,
you will forget yourself, losing the value of time.
Within the aroma of his unique fragrance,
you'll crave to kiss his every radiating word.
His lyrics will take your darkness,
illuminating life with bright lights.
Upon the sight of twilight,
as you lay gazing at the sky.
You will never see the moon in the same way,
as how it's reflected through his eyes -
there will be no secret to the reality of stars.
A union,
creating legendary scriptures,
surviving beyond the hands of time.
Simple Musing
Silent One
28 October 2020
The poem was inspired by the quote.
Love's tend'rest touch, your gentle words reveal
Caress my soul. sweet poet, with your verse
Write dulcet lullabies which make me feel
Secure, like infants held at breast to nurse
Turn tears of sadness into peaceful streams
Make whispered breezes whisk my strife away
Put passion in my fantasized daydreams
Paint troubles in to flowery bouquets
And even though I know they're not for me
I steal your soothing love just like a thief
This load I carry lightens suddenly
Because my broken heart has found relief
Your words are like a song, please sing to me
Sweet poet, how I love your poetry
an original poem by Daniel Turner
FOREVER ADELINE
Acknowledgement:
A big thank you Sam Scott from our Poetry Soup Community,
for your splendid narrative contribution.
Synopsis:
A story of unrequited love that began in childhood.
Despite the passage of time, his love remained hauntingly
painful even after she fell in love with another.
Aloft on wings of rhapsody, together spirits soar
Wild, untamed and sensuous, just like a lion's roar.
HOW LONG AGO IT SEEMS THE TWO OF YOU FIRST MET
AS TIME IS RENDERED MEANINGLESS
OR TIMELESS, BETTER YET
Though in that Timeless moment, along came winds of change
Love swiftly rearranged, but what it WAS, remained
Oh, Adeline, so fair and bright,
Eyes, like stars, shine with delight,
Oh fickle heart, now you await
your new love's sweet embrace
Blinded by the callous cad, you foolishly don't resist
In the quench of love's allure, Time does not exist
His loving lips will not reveal your new love's promiscuous charms
Intoxicated, unrepentantly, he sways to others' wanton arms.
Across the bronze Sienna shores and blissful sea breeze skies,
He ever trails your hungry heart through
his own saddened eyes.
Oh, Adeline in Twilight's Hush,
where shadows dance and play,
A tale of love and longing
When Night succumbs to Day
Oh, Adeline, will it be
mere friendship, he would fain?
To be just a deliverer of love notes,
a job he will disdain
Oh, Adeline ~ Sweet Adeline
At every glance - a secret shared,
his every word - love unsaid,
In every touch - a fire dared
HOW LONG AGO IT SEEMS ~ THE TWO OF YOU FIRST MET
AS TIME IS RENDERED MEANINGLESS
OR TIMELESS, BETTER YET
Chansons ne sont que chansons
Quand on écrit de l'amour
Comment d'écrire des chansons
De la femme qui est l'amour?
English translation from above:
Songs are just songs
When we write about love
How do you write songs
Of the woman who is Love?
OH, ADELINE ~ SWEET ADELINE
by Maria Williams ©
Background garden images taken on our recent visit to the amazing
Hunter Valley Gardens, Sydney, Australia
Musicians
Harp - Rolando Cristaldo
Violins: Fátima Benítez
Celeste Osorio
Those gold ornate gates opened wide,
and on wings she flew up above;
to join in heaven her true love.
And we who loved her on earth cried,
her name is Connie Marcum Wong;
I knew a lady kind and strong.
I still cannot believe she died,
she had a pure and gentle soul;
in my heart there is now a hole,
A sweet sublime poetic guide,
sending lovely poem comments;
always giving nice compliments.
As I write- I am bleary-eyed,
this her form created- Constanza;
where we pour words in each stanza.
To call you friend . . . I feel great pride,
I will not forget dear poet;
and hope this poem will show it.
Those gold ornate gates opened wide,
and we who loved her on earth cried,
I still cannot believe she died.
A sweet sublime poetic guide,
as I write- I am bleary-eyed,
to call you friend . . . I feel pride.
__________________________
September 14, 2022
Poetry/Constanza Rhyme/Farewell, Dear Poet
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1487-262-14
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
(Constanza Rhyme - created by Connie Marcum Wong)
Poem of the Day September 16, 2022
Written for the Premiere contest, Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 09/22/2022
I write so many poems that you don’t see
They end up in purple poem cemetery
Mangled in the **** of my maroon mind
Tangerine tangles of wasted time
Violet vines of not good enough
Tall teal trees of unreturned love
Winged words white like albino leaves
Falling to their death from teal tree
Falling for you’re deaf to my poet tree
Bass treble cleft left in green cerebral dream
Unsung songs unmade love
Sing a longs gone wrong
Made in maroon lust
But somehow I manage to hold on to it
Maybe it will be reborn as a chocolate kiss
of rainbow reflection of historical views
Of future endeavors red spice unused.
Me
Me
Me Me Me
Memememememe
Me
Me
Me
Me Me
Me and Me plus add Me
If not me, then I would chose Me
Me Me Me
sometimes my Cat
but nah, more Me, me and more of me
me me me me me
little ole me
the great poet of the Grande Ole Opry
The bard of self absorbed ego centrificicity
Yes a new word to go with the ever famous poetic form
"Infinite Dot Universe"
...............