Best Skilful Poems
Oh Muse Wilt Thou Be Replaced
Oh sweet Muse your unrivalled reign
flowed rich with a poet’s theme.
Now in digital glow subpoenaing your dream
Alas cold circuits assert their own gleam,
Oh Digital Medusa, circuit’s fine as hair
How did you lure the Muse into your skilful snare?
In your silent hum through dexterous scripts?
In the crystalline charm of your silicone chips?
What sway does your simulation wear?
Singing soullessly yet beyond compare?
Torn between the eons of yesteryear and hi-tech might
Should we dreamily embrace what sets senses alight?
Disregard the great Bards as they stir in their graves?
Throw to the flame both fiction and fame?
Discount Elliot’s eyes from the heavenly skies?
While Keats curses what gave rise to flight
That burns brightly by day `
Burns brighter by night
Oh Medusa, circuit’s fine as hair,
Your prisoner release from your silent snare.
She who has sipped from Tennyson’s cup
Through Poe’s eerie abyss — where nightmares sup.
Bathed in Shakespeare’s tragic tears of stain.
Lamented with The Nightingale in Keats’s refrain.
She who has soared on Shelly’s genius blaze
And emanated Plath’s curse of fame.
Medusa you might mock the reign you so blatantly steal
Yet the Poets aches reveal in raw vulnerability appeal
Alive in ink no circuitry codes could feel
For art is more than just pain in a poet’s scream
It’s a Hallowed Hook at The Heavenly Seam
Maria Williams©
Victor Hugo once said, “No force on earth can stop an idea whose time has come.” And indeed, the rise of AI is one of those unstoppable forces. Yet, while it may assist, mimic, and even inspire, there are realms it cannot truly enter—like the raw vulnerability of poetry, the soul of a song, or the emotion that bleeds through a painter’s brush.
These arts are born from lived experience, from aching hearts and dreaming minds. Still, there’s joy to be found in what AI can offer—a spark, a tool, a playful collaborator. The key is to use it without losing ourselves in it. To remember that the soul of true art still resides in human hands—and always will.
Point to Ponder– it is Human Intelligence that built it , a result of the best Human minds – so tongue in cheek – should it then be called Artificial Intelligence?
SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
Life is a restless ocean
I am a vessel adrift,
Life is a searing furnace
I am a broken twig.
Life is a searching stormwind
I am a tail-less kite,
Life is the night approaching
I am a bird in flight.
Life is a skilful hunter
I am a creature, wild,
Life is a patient teacher
I am an ignorant child.
Marj Bless
The pen
The pen that hoards ten thousand words,
seeks only guiding hand
To spill it’s blood on virgin page,
like entrails in the sand
For thus the toil, at authors whim,
drives quill to strive for gain
That readers eye, or listening heart,
might understand the pain
The arteries of heartsblood,
splashed upon those whitened fields
Bear wounds and scars of battles fought,
where wiser heart would yield
No truce sought, nor quarter begged,
the pen unlocks the word
That Wielded in the skilful hand,
cuts cleaner than the sword
For wiser heads and stronger minds,
have yielded to the might
That bursts in fountains from the heart,
and bleeds with words of light.
The Potter’s House
“1The word which came to Jeremiah from the LORD saying, 2"Arise and go down to the potter's house, and there I will announce My words to you." 3Then I went down to the potter's house, and there he was, making something on the wheel. 4But the vessel that he was making of clay was spoiled in the hand of the potter; so he remade it into another vessel, as it pleased the potter to make.” Jer 18:1-4 NASB
I refuse to allow my circumstances
To ever get me down.
My hope is in the Lord—
In the Potter’s House and his renown.
I put my hope in his word—
None of his promises will fail.
All His promises are mine—
Each one in all its detail.
I persevere in eager expectation—
For what I cannot see;
Believing God will deliver—
What is His will for me.
God is my Potter and my Creator—
His molding is sometimes difficult to take,
But I trust in His skilful hands—
A vessel of beauty to create.
Because I’m in the Potter’s House,
I should never be discouraged.
Even when the clay’s distorted—
I must heed his words that encourage.
He is the mighty Potter,
And He’s molding me each day;
Making a beautiful vessel—
From what was spoiled clay.
In eager expectation—
I look to the finished vessel;
God’s redeeming presence,
And the paint dried on his easel.
I submit to his daily molding—
Am prepared to cooperate.
His plans are so superior—
This perfect vessel to create.
Prayer: Father, I surrender my life to you. Show me your plans and purposes. Make me and mold me into the person you want me to be. I trust in You. In Jesus’ name. Amen
Copyright © 2009-2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
Not till the loom was silent
And the shuttle ceased to fly
When history unrolled the scroll
And reveals the reason why.
The darkest thread as needful
In the weavers skilful hand
As the cloth of gold and silver
Of an industrious ruin greed had planned.
No amount of corporate education
Could quell our simple brain
No grammar association
Yet unravelled the master’s pain.
They took away our ambition
Off shore was their devious plan
Tried so hard to pick our pockets
Yet our skill could clothe a man.
His call was for cheap labour
Some call it slavery
Now we buy at a thousand per cent
The product of knavery!
First eight lines adapted from anon poem, The Weaver, speculation wrote, by a weaver in/from Colne, Lancs England last Century, wrote originally for/in a religious format,
My version, here. Political.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
Daily toil is yours
Bricks all laid in perfect form
Art from skilful hands
For my talented husband
have read a few great senryu today and thought I'd try one.
How beautiful the sounds, sights of nature
In the distance alarm call of a cuckoo,
beautiful sound of summer Tanager
Blackbirds hopping around getting in a stew,
Acrobatics of swallows, swifts, Martins,
Crows of the carrion, rooks, jackdaws, Raven
Cooing of turtle doves and wood pigeons,
Chittering robin, eyes closed what heaven,
Finches so sweet, green, bull, haw, gold and more
Speedy blue, great, coal, willow and marsh ****,
nature is such a pleasure never a chore ,
Seeing these wonderful birds thrills two bits
Serenity while watching our game bird
Pheasant, partridge, grouse, geese and mallard duck
Graceful swans glide, sights and sounds must be heard
Wading birds sifting for food through silt and muck,
birds of prey, kestrel, sparrow hawk, Peregrine
Eagles, buzzards, goshawk, ospreys skilful hunters
Larks hovering, lap wings, owls, magpies so pristine,
Sea birds, waders, hunters, lovely colours,
These moments of relaxation, undisturbed
listening, watching our beautiful wild birds.
Question persists in the back of my head,
What do I see when through windows I look?
I see the nature, its hilltops, a brook,
Glideth like snake to horizon ahead.
I see the people, old fisherman’s face,
Girl is so joyful to hop there and run,
Hair is of hers into ponytail done,
While she delights in her butterfly chase.
I see the weather that's whistling its way,
Rays are such artists, so skilful when paint,
Hills with the colours and shadows which faint,
Playing the flute to this vivid display.
I see the lines of a silhouette blear,
That over view and its wonderful theme,
Hover in front or perhaps in the rear,
In such a way that the girl, hills and stream,
Which are so joyful and so full of cheer,
Only as subtile reflection mine seem.
**In this short poem I pay my tribute to all those gallant surf riders out there on the sea !
THE SURF RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
With his wakeboard he rises to fall, -
to rise once more!
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore.
Like those surfs the rider continues his
undulating dance,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France !
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
He did take time to perfect his art,
Having loved the sea and the surf from the
start!
He lives in moments just like those waves,
Floating on their crests as the blood within
raves !
Those surf make music as they rise and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall!
Like a philharmonic conductor par excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Riding on Time’s moments is no mean art,
But like our surf rider one must make a
gallant start!
-Raj Nandy
New Delhi
Four long years have past, World Cup here at last
Thirty two teams full of hope, live their dreams
from all over our world, adorers massed
Within Russia's realms, friendship to extremes
Football fever, expectation from fans
Nil nil will not suffice on or off the pitch
technology enforces rules and commands
Our beautiful game for all, poor or rich
soccer is sport, brings most nations together
With one aim our team to win is our goal
play in sun or rain whatever the weather
skilful athletes, architects of ball control,
enjoy the comradely, pleasure and joy
cheer your home team when they score
let’s compete on the football pitch oh boy
it’s got to be better than on fields of war.
June 17 2018
2018 World Cup Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney.
Limestone is a funny rock
it’s hard, and rough, and green,
but years of pressure on this stone
make changes most supreme.
Marble appears, quite rough to touch,
but cut and polished bare,
it then becomes most beautiful
of all the rocks we share.
Engravers, then they set to work,
most skilful at their art
and make this stone a record
of the best we hold to heart.
On plaques and gravestones, memories kept,
for all who come to see,
this noble stone will carry forth
mankinds’ long family tree.
Ivor G Davies
Have I ever told you?
I was smitten with you then
when we first met.
A quiver ran down my body
by your single look.
Your fine archery
couldn't have missed the shot
as your crossbow-eyes
aimed at me
and your piercing sight
like an arrow wounded my heart
with venom of your lethal love.
I couldn't have survived
your fatal attack
if you didn't aid me
with your skilful nursing
infused with adoration.
You almost healed me
with your romantic treatment
and medicines made of love
but residue of that venom
still runs through my veins
in my blood and fills my heart
with unruly passion for you.
I was too ignorant
to know then but I know now
that I am captivated by you
and your tricks forever.
You know how to make me
suffer for your love.
You are the one to make me ill
and you are the one to cure me.
Darling, you are my malady
and you are my only remedy.
I am still smitten with you
and will be forever.
Date: 11/12/2017
Men dressed in top hats and tails
Ladies in designer dresses and fascinators,
Bookmakers standing by the rails
Taking bets singles or accumulators,
Epsom downs, Derby day classic
The best of three year old equines,
Tensions heightened becoming dramatic,
Punters drinking champagne and wines,
Beautiful majestic Arabian athletes
Parade in front of the stand, so elegant,
Coats shining, muscular, nothing competes
Showing their professional temperament,
Jockeys in pristine silks so colourful,
Trainers and owners in the paddock,
Stall handlers loading horses so skilful,
Under starters orders ready to gallop,
Stalls open, up goes a roar from the crowd
One and half mile to the finish and victory,
Last furlong favourite in the lead, cries so loud,
Another exquisite young Colt makes history.
On June 3rd 2017
As intuitive as my eyes are, it glows and brightens like a glittering star
The skilful tandem work of my rosy cheeks and pinkie lips stick out smiles eliminating sorrow.
My shape, from my skull to my phalanges, is just like that of a Coca-Cola bottle.
The bends, the curves, the ovals, silky, and smoothness
Am beautiful,
Wonderfully and fearfully made
Black, nurtured and groomed,
My hand scribbles as my mind of thinks creativity.
My brain is more than a database,
When I sit with the wise, they nod affirmatively
In the mist of intellectuals, I standout not standoffish
Am beautiful
The scriptures is my compass
I live in and by it
Very thrifty, responsible, affable, suitable, creative and wary
I juggle school, church, home and work without being weary
Am beautiful
Indeed I am!!!