Best Stroke Of A Pen Poems
The Last Unicorn
I was with the last Unicorn
As she drew her last breath
Her horn expelled magic
As she succumbed to her death
The fairies and Gnomes
Each shed a crystal tear
At the thought of a planet
With no unicorns here
Dragons from Lost kingdoms
Came to show their remorse
The moon became unbalanced
In grief shifted off course
A Phoenix from the east
Flying on wings of fire
Tried to revive her
With flames of desire
The oceans all rose
As a show of respect
They waved to her goodbye
A loss difficult to accept
Without the unicorn
Magic shifted to men
It can only now exist
With the stroke of a pen
So poets be the keepers
Of stories new and old
We must not give up on magic
Or this world will grow cold.
Listening heartbeat,
Hearing with the soul-ears,
Living to change another day.
Pen challenged by season quick of emotions.
Than,
Muse enters the heartbeat,
Friends,
Family,
Love ones weave basket within freeze-frame moments,
Always sharing within life in one.
Than the will to carry on to paper love.
Touching the hearts of many,
Even those not knowing.
Yet,
Blessing in every traveling hour.
Soul free bound to express to share.
Helping hands where the physical cannot reach,
Inner person free to wonder journey through the impossible,
Making a difference-
Never know who life maybe saved by the stroke of a pen charity.
In the question,
Did the day changed,
Or only obeyed,
Passed the everyday season bringing.
Carry on Tamiviolet Machas,
Heaven knows you can do this act of love,
Poetry lettering-
The mark of a triumphal concert printed
On a glossy long-playing record sleeve.
The concertmaster's smiling face hinted
The acclaim she was entitled to receive.
She liked her drawing with her lock of hair
Falling on the strings of her violin
Like the violinist of the disk where
She held her instrument under her chin.
As always, her last stroke of a pen fell
With the last crackling of the old vinyl.
One day, she would be applauded as well
Louder than the winners of a final.
Her hope endured until the dazzling daydreams
Shattered into pallid scars of moonbeams.
Immigrants –Oh no!
Nor Native Americans;
We came as cargo.
The ban; be aware:
They are back. Look out!
They still do not care.
You may sigh and pause;
But remember their slicked ploy:
The Grandfather Clause!
You have a passport;
But with the stroke of a pen,
That can be revoked.
This could be the end,
Or could be the beginning;
Depends on you kin.
Notice the ban list.
No European countries;
Africa not missed.
I just could be wrong,
But remember history.
It’s best to be strong.
The Writer
Inspired by darkness he writes only at night;
Studying stanzas—seducing spellchecks
With the stroke of a pen he is anyone or anything
His great works are subjected to sabotage—prone to plagiarism
His ideas far exceed his lifespan
He will take them with him so that they remain unforgotten
There are times when he is repulsed by his own thoughts
Ashamed that his open-mindedness is so brave— so brazen
He must be careful with his words
Disguising them to avoid unwanted attention
He masters this skill by the memorizing
His important blueprints: a dictionary and thesaurus
The only two books worthy to his cause
He is a word hunter; silently stalking his prey
Snatching them from songs
Taking them from television
Scavenging from scripts
He fishes them out in an ocean of conversations—inspecting his catch cautiously
Releasing the insignificant
Filleting the essential
He doesn’t waste words by packing them into passages
He displays them attractively on a canvas of possibilities
He raises them from lonely letters to surprising syllables
He rescues them from reckless writers—saving them from abuse
His message is vivid and clear, he refuses to practice the art of confusion
Without writing he is nothing; another drone in a misguided world
With it, he is unstoppable
Creating creative carnage
Amongst freethinkers and immortalizing injustices…in print
He sees he world in rich detail; analyzing the outline of all creation
Nothing is missed— from the tiniest atom to the utmost wonder
His memory is impeccable—photographic and precise
Every element, since childhood, is engraved in his mind
He has a fetish for fountain pens—collecting them like trophies
Never using them, only worshiping their power, it is mightier than any sword
Writing is his purpose
Even though he will never be satisfied
Every draft s a rough one— susceptible to alterations
It is his weakness
He is forever troubled by the idea of revision
George Washington chopped down a tree as a lad
Then told his dad that he'd been bad
With the stroke of a pen, Thomas Jefferson kick-started a nation
Touting revolution every so often with his Declaration
Andrew Jackson had a penchant for whiskey
Native Americans found him way too frisky
Abraham Lincoln was thin but brave
Reunited the nation and freed the slaves
As a child Teddy Roosevelt was always ill
But as President he led the charge up San Juan Hill
His cousin Franklin took over in the Great Depression
And then three times won reelection.
JFK and Jackie ushered in 'Camelot'
'Til in a Dallas motorcade he was shot
Ronald Reagan demanded the Soviets end their stall,
"Mr. Gorbachev, please, tear down that wall!"
Bill Clinton said, "It's the economy, Stupid!"
Before he was cut down by Monica and Cupid
And now Mr. Trump draw lines in the sand
Saying, "Let's make America great again!"
And did you know that Yankee Doodle preferred apple strudel
To a leftover dish of cold, wet noodles?
Hope you've enjoyed this reprise of Presidential history
Which to the majority of Americans is an absolute mystery
P.S. Rumors have it that Yankee Doodle is considering a
comeback run for POTUS in the 2020 election.
His slogan reportedly will be, "Make America
handy with Yankee Doodle Dandy."
The "Me-too" movement has already
dialed in death threats ...
I see the girl, walking a soaked street,
as fallen leaves pave a path
for her in a maroon skirt,
talking about the boy she never did love;
dreaming about the man she'll never get-
as she holds close,
her head starts to pop
when she's done; lost again, another one,
gone once more, believe me, again lost, I know.
A heartbeat stills, for a moment, a heartbeat loses sight
of true light, the stroke of a pen, gone-goodnight...
She, the girl in maroon, walks again,
stumbling and lost to her car,
light a cigarette and watch her get lost,
that girl in the maroon,
she jumps in, with a twist of hand and touch of a key
to the ignition,
she lights up and drives away...
lost, gone, forgotten, goodnight.
.6.1.2014.
Victims
I Pity you
For what you had to do
for what desperation, poverty and despair drove you to.
What lack of education, dangerous situations
and complex cross-cultural relations
awoke in you.
You, are the victims far more that we.
No matter what to us you do.
We, suspected all along it was you.
But you didn't think not to make it so obviously true?
Muddy footprints, dirty dishes in the sink as we had taught you to do,
you even swept up the glass and took things hidden in places that only you knew!
Calling cards left as clear as if with stroke of a pen, would have taken more effort
for us, to figure out who it had been..
And to think of this when,
we were all seated around this same table, with cabrito saying grace
back then was ludicrous.
That three later years you'd be kicking in the doors to steal from the house you were raised.
The notion still feels ridiculous.
Did you do it to set the record strait?
Exact revenge? Or, as I speculate
To build your resume to get in with the local gang.
Whatever your motives the cold hard truth I fear,
is that for you, there's no turning back from here.
From what you've now created for yourselves,
We are powerless to help.
There's only the road ahead, and the hands of it waiting to be dealt.
And the truth of it stings, as the letter that burnt William Sycamore's hand
saying that his sons were dead.
Our loss is the same.
Only not in the things from us you stole,
but to know that we've lost you
to the turbulence, and violence
of nuestra Mexico.
For three hundred thousand, of five billion years,
A fact never challenged by science or fears;
Upright Homo-Sapiens, embodied two genders,
Each body clearly favoring, the other body’s splendor.
But alas as we humans, have improved and evolved,
We decided old constructs, should now be dissolved;
By strong social order, and educated means,
Replaced by enlightenment, and the Science of Genes.
In a newfangled world where anything goes,
And dare not be challenged, questioned, opposed;
Men can be women, women now men,
A surgical metamorphosis, with the stroke of a pen.
As we blur the lines separating, factual truth,
Eliminating inequalities, deemed clearly uncouth;
Despite our clear difference, in gender and sex,
Fair treatment of genders, includes mutual respect!
We owe our world's progress, to mindsets deemed fair,
Of gender equality, that eliminates despair;
And instead of confusion, melding genders the same,
We should celebrate our differences, in far more than name.
I am a poet,
A poet in Love!
I see the whole of the universe
spun in a ball
and rolled through the mirror of deception.
The mirror cracks with violent shattering
pieces everywhere, but soon a calm silence, for a still second,
quites the room.
Oh the sweet and fair maidens,
who walk hand in hand
gossiping on their fellow Man.
I smile and I say to them,
"Oh you think so, well I am a poet."
They look at me, with confused smiles.
They look at me and say in confused tones,
and low voices, "You sir, are no poet..."
I gasp for air and hold my tongue,
as I repeat myself more clearly,
"Mabye you did not hear me, for I shall tell you once more. I am a poet in Love!"
I shout out in their sweet and ratched faces.
As they pull up senerios of me, as a crazy fool, playing in their minds.
I dance and sing and write them all love letters;
Using ryhmes, haikus, romantic phrases and settings,
I tell you though, not an easy tool, to dance and sing and to write poetry.
But it is possible, when you are a Poet in Love.
Now watch as the ladies walk to their men in jackets and fast, red cars.
I laugh and say, "Your loss"
Not too many women these days like poets.
I walk and walk and walk, on and on and on...
Over and over and over, I jump through hoops,
and juggle flaming torches,
to grab the sweet maidens' attention.
... But sadly, not one spares a passing glance.
I do not cry, I do not mope, for I pull myself together and I gloat!
I dance, and sing and shout from the rooftops, covering evening skies, like a madman,
"I am a Poet in Love!"
The old women, in wayward liqour shops, buying lotto tickets
turn to me and shout back, "You are a crazy bastard."
and I shout back with passion and alliteration, "Thank you!"
For nothing bothers me, not one insult, not one careless remark.
For I am a Poet in Love.
In love with what? You may ask me.
Well what is there not to love, when you are a poet.
I make people laugh, I make people cry,
with the stroke of a pen to a piece of paper,
I can even make people die.
For I am a Poet who loves his job,
For I am the one and only...
Poet in Love!
If clocks ran backwards and time did chime
The hours and the minutes of your life and mine
Would tomorrow be written by the poets and the bards
And the cruellest of sorrows in the deck of life's cards
When salvation is sought at the end of a bottle
Should we drive there directly, open road and full throttle
How I'd love to bestow all the beauty life holds
For each suffering soul, put an end to life's woes
A hitchhikers fate may be yours to command
Are the cards they've been dealt in the palm of your hand
If the tale of each fate's in the past that we've penned
Are we destined to travel the wrong road again
Should we crawl on our knees, bow down when He calls
Should we cower at heel in Elysians Halls
Is faith but a chore under tightening reins
Is religion the cure or the cause of our pains
If peace has a place in rhe hearts of all men
Could hatred be quelled at the stroke of a pen
Lay claim ro your lives in rhe Game of all thrones
Carats cut like a knife the most precious of stones
If tomorrow's been written in the annals of time
To what lies the purpose of your life or mine
Do we stand tall and proud like our fathers before
Or sink like a stone to be lost evermore
Taking the punishment
Hatred weighs down on this pure soul
Never to see the brilliance of the sun
Loses life before given the chance
Oblivious to its scale
Eyes closed forever
Shove down your words
No one wants to hear them
You're everything you claim to hate
You're hated by everything you thought you knew
Your reasons won't justify
They won't save you
It should've been you
The length of your arm
Measures your love for your child
The succession of your existence
All they'll remember is how bad this hurt
They choked down tears
Out of hate and fear
No want of provocation
Shove down your excuses
It won't bring them back to life
Burn in your hell before you reach the one waiting for you
You are the reason for the unborn child
The darkness smothering our youth
Sit down, you're pathetic
It should've been you
Choking on your smoke
Waste of an excuse
Lack of life, you sit and laugh
While it still has its hold on you
You gave up before you even tried
Your little brother pays your price
You sit and soak up the visions dancing 'round your head
Shove down your pills
Swallow your existence or lack thereof
A cowardice piece of driftwood
You never dared to live
Drown in your bottle
He's dropped out, a workaholic
Nothing for him, but the hole eating his stomach
He lies alone now, in a bed, waiting for his heart to stop
It should've been you
What are you waiting for?
Take your stand and make a point
How wise you are in the ways of ignorance
Tranquil in your lack of purpose
You destroy our lives and gain a kingdom
Tear our hopes in two and say it's sacrifice
Shove down your words
They belong in your stomach
Spare us the agonizing nausea
And feel it for yourself
Fighting a war behind a desk
You kill with the stroke of a pen
If the death of one of them is of such little value
Imagine how worthless yours would be
It should've been you
Have you ever wondered about all the things that require your signature in life
How about a marriage certificate, I now pronounce you man and wife
A steady hand is needed as you buy your first home
If a writer's cramp occurs with so many places to sign, you are not alone
The car of your dreams you are about to drive off the lot
Or maybe the insurance for that car you just bought
Your passport for an upcoming dream trip you are about to take
The officer speeding ticket for moving too fast, oh for heaven's sake
Your birth certificate your parents sign to prove you are alive
Your driver's license after you show you know how to drive
The only thing I would like to sign is a big check from the lottery I just won
One more stroke of the pen and my work day will be done
June nineteenth one hundred and fifty years ago
Juneteenth hint: three hundred
and sixty six days
after eighteen sixty four.
Major General Gordon Granger
led the Union Soldiers to Galveston, Texas,
to announce the end of the Civil war
and the freedom of all enslaved people.
Jim Crow sat perched
over the event horizon
waiting in the wings,
which brought darkened
(non-sheltering) skies
not only for the hot pocket
of suddenly emancipated
persons of color,
who would subsequently experience
immense prejudice
upon their embarkation
as (no pun intended)
"masters" of their own selves
while attempting to eke out a living
dirt poor, yet resourceful
hunkering down on plantations,
which property eminent domain
of federal government,
(a political entity
characterized by union
of partially self-governing provinces,
states, or other regions),
whereby said body electric
codified, fortified, and indemnified
manifest destiny, a phrase
coined in 1845, the idea
that United States destined—
by God advocates believed—
to expand its dominion
and spread democracy and capitalism
across the entire North American continent.
Though institution of slavery
supposedly rendered null and void
at the stroke of a pen
(courtesy Abraham Lincoln)
well actual legislation
passed by Congress on January 31, 1865,
and ratified on December 6, 1865,
the 13th Amendment abolished slavery
in the United States.
Nevertheless merciless abuse
heaped upon the *****
despite their legal status
being Granted leeway
to persevere life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness.
Recognition as equal brethren
among collective soul of American
fraught with bitter aversion,
condemnation, and ejaculation
of physical and verbal violence
against people of color,
whose melanin enriched complexion
birthrights rendered hidebound
severely limited
inalienable rights as declared
in Declaration of Independence,
now still utter abhorrence
regarding treatment
of those proud enterprising people,
whose once storied
African past left in tatters
leaving sparse threads
woven together by diligent dogged research
nsync with twenty first century technology
to allow, enable and provide opportunity
to stitch together a more complete tapestry
and spiritual fusion with shackled ancestors.
"The Last of the Letters - Z" is a poem that personifies the letter Z, giving it a distinctive voice and character. The poem is structured into four quatrains and uses rhyming couplets to create a playful and whimsical tone.
The first stanza establishes the unique qualities of the letter Z, emphasizing its sharp edges and zigzag form. The letter is personified as proud and distinctive, and its position as the last letter of the alphabet is emphasized.
The second stanza contrasts the letter Z with more common letters like A, B, and C, emphasizing its status as a letter of surprise. The poem suggests that the letter Z is a sound of buzzing bees and the zip of a zipper, which creates a sense of liveliness and energy.
The third stanza reinforces the importance of the letter Z as the last letter of the alphabet. The poem suggests that the letter is unforgettable and has a lasting impact on language and communication.
The fourth stanza concludes the poem by emphasizing the importance of the letter Z as a final stroke of a pen and the end of words and stories. The poem suggests that the letter Z is forever young and will continue to be a part of language and communication.
Overall, "The Last of the Letters - Z" is a playful and lighthearted poem that uses personification to give the letter Z a distinctive voice and character. The poem emphasizes the unique qualities of the letter and its importance in language and communication. The use of rhyme and playful language creates a sense of fun and whimsy, making the poem a joy to read.