Best Poetess Poems
Some of us are secretive at first. We hide our poetry’s soul self,
gently letting her peep out; sometimes regretting it immediately.
Fearful of critiques from people who do not understand that poetry
is something we are compelled and born to do with our feelings.
Your diary entries may form themselves into goodness or badness
before you realize your calling as a poet.
Truths shockingly ooze out, surprising you.
Feelings creep out onto a page, in loud angry letters,
or romantic feelings daintily brush onto a crisp lined page
in the form of sweetness and light.
You are a word player, because you cannot
stop this obsession, but it does not define you.
This poetry gig is but a glimmer of a glimpse of yourself.
You might be a caregiver, or a wonderful friend.
People who count on your smile every day may not realize
you have a love affair with words, and an obsession to write them.
We are each a unique jewel, mined from God’s mind.
Poetry may initiate a whisper of a tiny facet of ourselves,
but our secrets are safe. We not merely poets. We are lovers
of life, and words. Most importantly, we remain gloriously hidden
and unknown to most.
Written 12-20-18 Contest: You Are Not Defined by Poetry
Sponsor: John Hamilton
(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
~*~
Like delicate white swans were they,
the white swans of a grand ballet -
ballerinas waiting in a row
underneath the candlelight’s soft glow.
But what are ballerinas with no parts
to make them dance? The poet gives them hearts!
Inking pirouettes and sautés onto white,
she gave them words to spin them into night.
Arabesques that her pen on each one pressed
made a woeful tale beautifully expressed.
The dance was finishing by early dawn
with one last white swan to be written on.
The poetess, now drained, could do no more.
Her eyelids closed; the swans fell to the floor.
Fluttering, they fell, all in disarray.
Pure white no more, ink-stained they would stay.
Tears the poet cried are now living in each swan.
Might they be displayed even when she passes on?
The poetess who let her feelings spill
created swans now black, yet lovely still.
Written May 25, 2017 for a Contest inspired by Dear Heart
She feels the wind of summer’s soft caress
and listens to the magic in its sound.
How perceptive is the poetess
who senses nature’s beauty all around.
She finds a place to write in tranquil hours.
Then from her thoughts bloom words like pretty flowers.
Written June 18, 2018
Submitted June 17, 2022
for Line Gauthier's Bite Size Poem No.47 Poetry Contest
She walks in silence, like a lapping wave
drowned in chastity and flooded with rave
holding dear and tight her very beauties
denying all her gems and rubies.
Her powers disabled under the spell
the flame in wouldn’t break out of its shell.
Tempted to trace a humming call of fate
allured but reluctant to take the bait.
The strings of her heart lost their pitch and tone
the clutches of mind hurting to the bone.
Untraceable are the paths to no end
unable to soul unself and ascend.
She walks in silence, like a gliding breeze
fervent rising prayers brought her to her knees
seeking the blessings of grace, peace and love
if only her pain she could rise above.
Nameless beauty would dissolve in her womb
Her wounds.. sins she would carry to her tomb.
Inspired by “She Walks In Beauty” Lord Byron (George Gordon)
A lovely rose grew to the garden's delight,
a poem of sunrise surrounded by night.
One day her friend Ivy asked "Why do you mourn?"
Rose answered, "I've lost my beloved dear thorn.
"We've been closer than close since I was a young bud,
now I fear he has fallen down into the mud.
He protected this vine, but I trust our Creator
we shall meet again, be it sooner or later."
Another thorn fell then, and nearly another.
Poor Rose mourned and prayed as would any sad mother.
"I must carry on", she said, "find ways to cope,
composing new poems to give others hope".
With courage and kindness she faced each new day,
always loving and knowing the right words to say.
She lost a few petals when summer storms blew,
but her friends in the garden all felt she pulled through.
One day Ivy looked and with sadness profound
saw the flowerless vine and her friend on the ground.
But the vine's saddest loss was the soil's richest gain,
for Rose and her thorns were united again.
For Connie Marcum-Wong. We miss you dear rose, but
rejoice that you are finally reunited with your loved ones.
If I don't write, I'm doomed to die
and lie beneath a wordless sky
A silent corpse, unseen, unheard
alive yet dead- is that absurd?
If rhymes don't paint a rainbow hue
and lines don't tempt with taste of dew
If words can't clothe just what I feel
this thing called life must not be real
Without a dose of poetry
what will become of you and me?
Just members of the walking dead,
we march each one with empty head
A lifeless, joyless, hopeless mass
who try to make the hours pass
Without the ecstasy of rhyme
to be alive is just a crime
For life without the words I write
is dull and drear, like starless night
Like endless, tortured misery
is life without my poetry
Eileen Manassian
An empty look of sadness
That never bears a smile,
A malnourished mind
Aching to utter its voice,
A baby’s cry missing
The sweet tune of lullaby.
A dark moonless night
Reminiscing of shining stars,
A pensive gloomy dawn
Rising on sunless sky
Yearning lift of marigold arc
Sprinkled in magenta.
A spring lacking flowers,
Autumn bereft of fall colors,
A winter wishing for snow,
A river that does not flow;
A barren desert longing for
Glimpse of a cactus flower.
A concert deprived of music,
Dissonance of broken guitar strings,
Ballet dance lacking pizzazz,
A song of disheartened lyrics.
A world without poetry--
A curtain closed on art,
Vacant, parched existence
Staring blank pages,
Thirsty for life’s meaning.
January 22, 2020
Placed 1st: If there was no poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 1st: Strand choice 7 contest by Brian Strand
Placed 2nd: Your Best Poem 2020 Contest by John Hamilton
How Poetry Began, such plots you tell!
A Tale Of Fire And Ice you wrote so well
Poor Peter Pumpkin bid a sad adieu
Pink Cherry Blossoms was your first haiku
You Echo, Silent Still - love's dream come true.
Bright Eyes plays violin with sweet refrain
It Matters Not, a lovely swap quatrain
Rock Turtles - monoku criteria
The Wintered Soul Among Wisteria
Hidden Beauty - bittersweet rondeau
Dear Juliet waits for her Romeo
And Then Are Times in 'Six Days of Sistine'
Yesterday's Joys, a quatern most pristine.
At Winter's End, a triolet of spring
Night, A Pantoum Lullaby to sing
Destiny, so dark; more painfully:
Reflecting on Police Brutality
Each Little Drop of Rain I See goes 'plink'
An Empty Tissue Box in tear-stained ink.
Dogs and Cats, of these you often write
In Strangler's Wood, those shadows quake at night
Eternal Breath, for one who died too soon
This Night you're floating under stars and moon
Revelation In the Rain, poor her!
I'm Huck - that's right, the novel character
Cinder Girl, burned badly by a boy
Happy birthday, Andrea - enjoy!
September 5th:
Happy birthday to a Soup superstar, prolific poetess, constant commenter, splendid sonneteer, marvelous mentor, word warrior, supportive sponsor, and fabulous friend!
Note: Capitalized words at the beginning of each line are titles of some of Andrea Dietrich's more popular poems from her nearly 11 years at Poetry Soup.
written 4 Sep 2020
There lives a grand lady near the sea
In Ormand where she delights to be.
She is a Poetess, words she shares
In lovely poems, her heart she bares.
With humble poem good wishes I send.
I feel honored to call her my friend.
A kindred spirit shined from the start.
Carolyn gives with an open heart.
All her friendships she holds very dear
She's always there to spread her good cheer.
A more loyal friend you will not find
Her soul is so pure, loving and kind.
Her beauty glows within and without
She is a blessing without a doubt.
In colors of love, I see her shine,
I celebrate this sweet friend of mine!
9-22-19
~Second Place~
~Poem of the Week 9/29-10/5/19~
Pick a Friend on Soup Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Bobby May
i am here to let your words make love to me
i am here to bury my face deep in your poetry
to let your haiku
molest my naked body
shake me like a tree
can you read the want in my hips
for your metaphors and similes?
like an African lion in heat i long your letters
how they hug tightly only to entice my desire.
the child in me wants to explore, journey tender the skin
you wear. so don't leave me to play alone in the sandbox.
let me run the body of your work free.
ingest your verse and also grow wings.
you and i flying as one in a mad fancy.
then maybe send in my bed sheets - both single
with your personifications they'll jump rope
and after exercising go for a cup of hope
at the outdoor cafe where poets mingle
i am only here because your couplets are wooing me.
i want to glide - baby oil - body on body - chummy.
not compete but instead
massage your triolets,
fraternize with your sonnets.
your tanka rocks me
mountains baby smooth to climb
it's quite the challenge
one i'm willing to take on
you're the baby smooth i want
i'll ride your majestic rhymes
dream they'll settle for,
this my smiling core,
stay with me at bedtimes.
you - the poetess that defines my nights
i want you to know i climb every evening
towards the peak where your words spike.
i'll never be the poet you are, but
i have my hands and other parts
that could drive you to ecstasy.
.........you'll see it's my specialty.
01~01~2015
Armand
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: First poem of 2015
Words flowing like magic, explode off my page
Taking me on journeys, I didn't seek
My mind is just floating, feelings do race
Her spirit is leading, to heaven I think
Reading but living, each chosen word
Caught up in beauty, emotions I trace
My heart is a flutter, tears sometimes fall
In awe of her verses, as much as her grace
Passion and love, I can feel her heartbeat
Sorrow and pain, mistakes made again
Dancing with nature, you take me by hand
Simply you're beautiful, I'm in love with your pen
Spilling of emotions, out onto the page
Poems come alive, for sure they are real
Confide in me please, all that's concealed
My dearest poetess, you make me feel
A very wise woman once said I must write just for me.
Let there be no other reason for e x p r e s s i n g my soul-
For I have l o n g e d for this passion to continue for eternity,
and at my worst is when my journal seems to be full.
LET my pen proclaim my adoration for only my heart-
Let my verses s c r e a m my insight for only my eyes to see.
If there are souls who would like to t e a r my words apart,
then I shall sit back and let it go calm and quietly.
No other can determine MY worth as a poetess,
I am who I am and happen to appreciate my benediction.
Tonight I will s o f t l y lay in bed and sincerely digress
on the meaning of what my QUILL bestows without restriction.
I may not be famous or hold a popular moment in the light,
I may not be the best at every l i t t l e thing that I do-
I can sure be stubborn and I’ll admit, not always right,
but s e r v i n g my internal purpose I shall ALWAYS continue.
My pen loves to rhyme and my parchment loves my pen.
I have become a woman with whom has great worth.
Then please tell me why I seem to get so upset when
I am condemned for what I WRITE when feeling mirth?
I am a child of God who pours sunshine upon every word I write,
though there may be others who don’t see the value in every word-
I will no longer be losing any more p e a c e f u l sleep at night,
and I will continue to write just for me, EVEN IF UNHEARD.
*Dedicated to a beautiful and wise poetess who taught me to write for myself. Thank you sweet lady...*
Original contest: Poem of the Day
Date Judged: April 25, 2019
Date written: September 19, 2016
For the contest, Writing Challenge 4, May 2019, No Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
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 **
The difference between good poetry
and great poetry – not a concentration
of words and phrases, nor meter
and rhyme...but the source, that gives
longevity its immortal time –
It is where we begin, how we learn,
and, therefore see: it is the difference
between, those who came before,
and those who are truly Free. One
does not go out and observe, hoping
to be inspired – it is the outing, and
then the poetry that is fired, burns
to the surface, dissolving all bone
and flesh in its way...one does not
think to write a poem – one lives,
and then perishes in the expressive
process: That is poetry!