Best Tagged Poems
I’m a young boy
A single mother’s son
I’m a young beach beaten by a tsunami
Sent by an undersea earthquake delivering ripples of death
Carrying my mother and hers out to sea
Ravaged sands asking the sunset to reveal the secrets of the sunrise
I’m a father to a wonderful child
A beautiful wife’s husband
I’m the love in each rain drop of a gentle rain
Nurturing arid hearts with the moisture of my words
Watering seeds of the future with hope
The catalyst for the magic of spring
I’m a teacher
A Painter
I’m the strike of a snake
My fang: a pen’s nib full of black venom
Poisoning compressed cellulose pulp;
The anti-venom: beautiful words
Administered through the ink gracing the surface
A student of verse
~ I am a poet ~
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was tagged by raul to write a poem that ends with
"I am a poet"
now I'm tagging Elaine George
The heat of summer makes her brain gelatin
The Arizona sun turns her into a skeleton
Time and space she does not put to waste
Really, this poet lady is one of great taste
Iced tea and lemonade in the Arizona sunlight
Create an atmosphere for her that’s just right
Ink just drying on her newly crafted poem
Always ready to rate on the pole of totem
Tall she stands with stature in poet's land
Only doing right waving her magic wand
Leading other poets to higher heights
Lovely readings are on her poetic site
Everyone should look in her poetic bag
What? Jill Martin, you are now tagged!
Comments: Okay Jill, I was tagged by Tamiviolet Manchas. As a result, I have to
pass the tag along. Your name is on the top of the list. Your poetry is just
wonderful! Now, you must find a poet whose poetry you enjoy reading, and tag
that poet with a poem. Man, this is so much fun! Chau!
After reading your comment to Sharon so true
I decided oh yes, I must tag Phyllis to
”Tag game” is about people sharing their heart
It would sure be special if you shared your part
It seems sometimes we just run out of time
Remember when a phone call cost a dime
So did a bottle of soda as a matter of fact
Remember the machines when they slid on a track
Well hopefully not because these words are true
Remembering those things means you’ve seen life to
So many changes between those times and now
Now days they have lasers that operate the plow
With me it all changed way faster than most
Years in day is the story of a convict ghost
But that is the past and praise God I am free
Exercising my right to tag Phyllis you see
Every game should have a Mentor Raul is his name
He was tagging us all without knowing of the game
I’m tagging Phyllis and giving honor to Raul
For without a doubt he is a model for us all
------------------------------------------------------
You know a while back the "Tag" game was a part
of our site. This was a very special part of our site
and Raul with his unselfishness writing Poem's to
members on our site reminded me of this and to be
honest I tried hard to ignore the impulse. So in Honor
of "Our Mentor" lets bring that special part of our Soup
Back, spend our time writing of love instead of some knack.
She is the cloud’s savior (coming
like silver linings across a long, and desolate sky);
a violet’s heaven (watching
her purple, while guiding the steps of eager spring feet
away, from the un-noticed)
screaming down like rain upon lipped petals, crying,
“See them! See them!” until
the clouds break, and all there is (and ever has been) to see
is violet against the obvious
and swanky, green border. She is the revealer of truths
through the art of the subtle
fragrance of blunt words, colors, and fruits from her
delectable, ever sprouting vine.
This one’s for you, Miss Stacey Haislop – a prized jewel
on the crown of poetic royalty.
© Kristin Reynolds 5 18 09
WE LOVE YOU, STACE!
There once was a Santa from Nome.
From house to house he did roam,
When done he stopped for a beer
And some friendly Holiday cheer.
Alas…… he couldn’t find his way home.
thank you Carolyn..lets see what the chef can come up with...
Great day in the morning
All poets take warning
Cause this man is hoot hollerin' fun
He says he's a senior
But by his demeanor
His youthful spirit will not be out done
So Daver it's true
We can learn much from you
For life doesn't end as we age
So youth watch out
When Davers about
His pizzazz will take center stage
I'm reserved..Don't say much...
I'm shy..but confident as well..
I don't Express b/c I feel lurch...
When my own said thoughts make my life hell !!
My thoughts are pure and I know that!
You make me feel like I've made a mistake...
Mistaken..In choosing you from the lot!
Mistaken...b/c my emotions r being put at stake!
You'll one day realize what you've lost!
I bet you will !
Just as now i'm realizing my fault!
Realizing after being thrown from top of the hill !
.
Will never expressmy sentiments again ever !
Optimism is dealt with pessimism everywhere
Innocent being tagged as ''Clever''
Enough done ! Now can't bear !
.
Not Everybody can know you !
Not Everybody can Understand you!
Not everybody can feel the real person in You !
Everybody can NEVER be YOU !
Lyric poets, lovers of fine rhyme;
balladeers who weave with lines a tale;
satirists and bards of the sublime,
and troubadours who sing a light rondel.
Will my muse appear to me and show it?
That place I long to be, where they all dwell. . .
and I'm with them because I am a poet.
(LInda-Marie, I know how you love doing spur of the moment stuff. haha. You are IT. You
have to end your poem with those words, "I am a poet.")
his words come trough with such fierce emotion
a strong brother with pride and devotion
he writes from his heart and when he starts
he continues till the ink runs dry
sticking to his beliefs and holding his heritage close
he injects us with another dose of reality
we tend to stray a bit too far away from the truth
then comes along this man who reminds us of our roots
although we never met in our words we built a bond
remaining true to ourselves and spreading the word
that many are scared to hear
he comes through throwing punches of lifes little secrets
reminding us that in our minds we must keep it
his poetry is devine and makes us feel in different ways
showing us that the world today is still like it was back in the days
i wish i could say more about my new friend but this is hardly the end
a new dawn will arise and pens and paper are in his hand
he's ready to take us on new journeys in his mothers land
family reunion
the young playing tag
with our memories
Admired some artwork on somebody’s walls
And noticed that tags were attached.
I thought that the gallery’d left on the price,
But an answer was quickly dispatched.
No, those paintings have claimants, so after we’re gone,
Our grandchildren know what they’re getting.
They’ve made their selections so no one will fight –
On that outcome, at least, we are betting.
Though I like the idea and have heard it before,
I had never seen tags on display
And I’d worry that each day I didn’t drop dead,
All my grandkids would mourn the delay.
So perhaps if their choices were part of a will
Or were logged in a ledger or binder,
Then mortality’d keep himself hidden from view
And that art wouldn’t be a reminder.
Hey diddle diddle
We poets that fiddle
With poems that jump over the moon.
But sometimes we blunder
She still claps like thunder
And soon we are smiling a tune.
Like little Miss Muffet,
Laurie Ginn on her tuffet
Brings smiles with each comment she's made
Collecting her wits,
With humorous bits
Jay Leno would gladly have paid
To have her write jokes
And cheer all the folks
Who stay up by light of the moon
Even little dogs laugh,
While the rest of us grin
You're a darling, we love you! ... Ms Ginn
young buck, half buck, maybe two buck duo
maybe troubled like infamous Dutch painter
maybe a whole gang'a bucks that you know
shakin' cans for markin' their container
a mark of art - some meaty graffiti
you see it's in the eye of the beholder
some show as crass trash junkin' thinkin'
some show as true talent a bit bolder
tag lines, Graffito, in muraled center-city
socio-arterial politico feigned angry, witty
truth's not pristine, it's dirty and gritty
walled-up feelings sprayed out upon the city
been runnin' the rails since the rails converged
been runnin' in streets since ancient antiquity
been runnin' since peoples opinions diverged
been runnin' thoughout civilization's calligraphy
there's been ugly crap - there's been beauty
there's been lies lined up on concrete walls
there's been tags behind corner cops on duty
there's graffiti hanging in the MoMA art halls
ever'body's got som'thin' they wanna say
ever'body wants their ideas to have weight
ever'body really wants to have their own way
ever'body's clean-slatein' with urge to create
Bomb the wall with eight cans o' Rustoleum
like Jef Aérosol, Avoid pi, and Cha in Barcelona
Bomb it good t' let 'em know where you're from
picture your mind floatin' with that aérosol aroma
so, is it some peoples art of expression
or is it an eyesore with no merit to us
that conversation is a never-ending question
really depends on tags you put on it, I guess
© Dave Lego 2013-01-14
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graffiti
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MoMA
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jef_A%C3%A9rosol
http://www.adamvoid.com/index.php?/archive/archive/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cha_(artist)
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/aerosol-200802.html
Michul Jordan you’re Tagged Mate !
Wots all this
I sed to meself in me wurst Inglish accent
Gorblimmey and lummy
Gimme a pint uh tea
An a cup uh beer
Wots all this ere then
Gotta be a riddle dum dee dum didle
Nah scrap that wherez me giunt flippin rubber
Can’t make ed or tail
Aint no sense in it
Is there now
Mube Michul Jordan can fix it
Ez a man of cunnin wit
Oy there Michul !
Can ya see up the frog mate
An sawt this one aht
Will ya mate
Its got me bogged
Like waadaya gonna do fry ya ruddy brain
In fish n chips
Put on ya best whistle
Pick up ya pencil
And scribble uhs a bettuh poem than this
Evur that or tag sum uver poor git
Dump it in there lap
Yup
That’s wot I did
TAG… !?!? waz all that
Nah nah you got it all rong in Ingland
( the land of nu blessid langwig and the Queenz
propa spokin flippin Inglish )
We say “ad”
Yur ad
gotya mate
Michul Jordan
Yur “it”
Two thin tangled medals
sway in the rearview mirror
of your dirt-caked Jeep.
Indented identification
on polished silver surfaces
clang together a constant
reminder in your ears.
I heard the anecdote once,
landmines and folded flags.
My eyes began to fall
on hints of gray
in cropped hair,
flat-lined lips
and shabby strapped boots.
I want to reach out,
tug at the laces.
Watch as you untie.