Best Well Read Poems
I've thrown my quill in quiet rage
sometimes, when mocked by empty page.
I read such vibrant poetry
in awe, and ask how can this be?
Fresh imagery splashed on the page
with wisdom of the ancient sage,
allusions from the well-read shelf
with rhymes to please the Bard himself.
Thus insecure, I feel defeat -
believing I cannot compete.
My words like sap from maple trees,
I strain as others write with ease.
Poetic thoughts freeze like a creek -
why does my muse play hide and seek?
Why grow downcast when I compare
their gifts to mine - what gain is there?
It's then I spot a butterfly
and see my story flitting by,
with wings unique and delicate,
in colors bold and elegant.
It draws the flower's nectar sweet
and knows that it need not compete,
for nature's bounty will abound -
there's plenty there to go around.
My double-helix DNA
will dance its own distinct ballet,
no other tale could I design,
no other poet could write mine.
So I retrieve neglected quill
and vow to write again! I will
share thoughts to fill another's cup
with odes to hope, not giving up.
If insecure, make this your creed:
to learn from poets - read, read, read.
Let thoughts ascend to soaring height
to hone your craft then write, write, write!
Wait patiently upon your muse
to send fresh words to speak your views,
for only YOU can speak what's there
within your heart, your poet heart
so rare.
Written 19 May 2022
Categories:
well read, butterfly, poetry, uplifting,
Form:
Couplet
I am Nan, no relation of Jan
Just an admirer and a fan
Her poems are well read
Mine are masterpieces (only in my head)
So you see I can't do what she can.
I am Nan, no relation of Jan
Just an admirer and a fan
Her sense of humor is godsent
Mine would be too if it wasn't absent
So you see I can't do what she can.
I am Nan, no relation of Jan
Just an admirer and a fan
Her sense of humour is very fine
I wrack my brains can't find mine
So you see I can't do what she can
I am Nan, no relation of Jan
Just an admirer and a fan
You say we are poles apart?
But we looked so similar at the start
Shortened my name to Nan so I can, like Jan.
26th APRIL 2015
Categories:
well read, dedication, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
When men were kings with steeds
women were handmaids to their needs.
repositories for their seed to grow
...I didn't know.
When men worked to make fields right,
women worked both day and night,
with bleeding hands, she'd try to sew
...I didn't know.
Men talked politics to only men
women weren't allowed back then.
If she had a brain, it mustn't show,
...I didn't know.
A woman couldn't own things herself;
like chattel, she sat on the shelf.
Her children were only his to show,
...I didn't know.
This is one thing to take note:
at one time, a woman could not vote;
until Suffragists began their show,
...I didn't know.
She worked and the check went to the man.
He'd give her cash within his own plan.
Altho tired, she helped her children grow,
...I didn't know.
Now women sit as corporate heads,
doctors, lawyers, all well-read.
We're living in the afterglow,
on the shoulders of all those women
...we didn't know.
Categories:
well read, appreciation, bullying, childhood, endurance,
Form:
Rhyme
A soul is divine it is said,
by spiritualists, well read,
but what soul is, most have not seen,
who are by scriptures blindly led.
Detached hermits, whose needs are lean,
in staid stillness have felt soul’s sheen,
which we too can know, if we choose,
erst fears and desires, from heart wean.
With agape love as our heart’s muse,
following truth without excuse,
we then see soul, as light of God,
whence mind games no longer amuse.
Made in God’s image, soul’s a pod,
blooming when we give love our nod,
shining within, as living light;
revelation that leaves us awed.
Bliss drenched soul pulsates with delight,
humming gently by day and night,
as God’s essence, alive, aglow,
known when awakens inner sight.
Thus truth of soul, if we would know,
we must make first, our thought flow slow,
whereupon we see soul’s divine;
whence God guides us and we follow.
Categories:
well read, spiritual,
Form:
Rubaiyat
Vision, a window divine, open wide to aspirations of heart,
A lens paramount, for perusing aesthetics of beauty and art;
A sight beaming imagination, on ambitions of curious soul,
A focus coherent, shaping impulses, passions studious cajole.
A medium of communication, an engaging lure of romance,
An infatuated response, a jubilant hint of enamored glance,
Blossoming in language of love, without utterance of word,
Extolling meaning amorous, that desires romantic spurred.
Perceptive of worldview, on mission to observe and learn,
A journey into the unknown, yearning curiously to discern,
Vision quests for knowledge, aiming to be literate, well read,
Vision peers into future, navigating life’s road maps ahead.
It thrills watching a baby smile, elates in celebration of life,
Saddens when mind summons anguish of grief and strife;
Dejecting violent places, thoughts kindred deeply deplore,
Preferring banks of avid shores, dreams endearing implore.
Vision captures images of life, ruminating in joys and sighs,
Rejoicing in blissful memories, or tearing-up its forlorn eyes;
Reveling in exuberant prairies, vying for flowering springs,
Or shuddering amid barren trees, bearing angst winter brings.
Categories:
well read, senses,
Form:
Rhyme
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Categories:
well read, angst, confusion, death, depression,
Form:
Blank verse
We met a few years ago, then suddenly you were gone
We danced the very last dance to our favourite song
Happenings in our lives took control of our tomorrows
That evening when you walked away, filled my heart with sorrow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When I heard the telephone ring, I answered and you were there
And we spoke of the past few years, these years we could have shared
The time flew by when we talked, sharing our pasts to date
When you said you'd like to meet up again, my heart just couldn't wait
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When I picked you up from the Airport, you hadn't changed at all
Six foot plus with sky blue eyes, still leaving me enthralled
We settled into our night for tomorrows journey we'll make
To a rented cottage so idyllically set, down by the lake
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The morning came so fast as we set of on our trip
Again going over the years, picturing like a movie clip
Our destination now reached, refreshed we head for a meal
At a restaurant overlooking the lake, our pasts begin to seal
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Back to the cottage we go, as you gently take my hand
So dreamy under the full moon, is this what fate had planned
You play our favourite song, the one we danced to so long ago
As you take me in your arms, something in me flows
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We look into each others eyes as you ruffle my long blond hair
I see desire looking back from your manly sky blue stare
Slowly we discard our clothes as you lay me on the bed
Adventurous discovering hands declare our minds well read
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Our passion resonates, excitement fills the air
Years of catching up in delightful bodily share
We awaken in the morning, spooned within my reach
Our love has been reborn, re-found visiting Qualicum Beach
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-15.php
Categories:
well read, love, passion, people, placesme,
Form:
Couplet
THE MALT SHOP
I would wager every school has a no-touch clan -
Four or five debs who really know how to play
And they share company only with those coolest
studs of the day
Money, looks and politics are basic to the royal
suiting up
One must look just so, act just so and appear only
at just so places
Well? do they appear at the malt shop?
Oh, no – none will see those faces
It’s just so too common for them to show
So? Where did I fit in?
I didn’t – to dances didn’t go
Didn’t know how to smile just so
Didn’t kiss VIP bottoms, you know
I used to pass the noisy place and shake my head –
Such a waste of time, such decadence, values dead
And did I, mister well read, want to go
to the malt shop,
Smile, laugh, flirt with the girls?
Damn right I did!
Dave Austin
Categories:
well read, abuse,
Form:
Free verse
~The Green Eyed Lad~
Nah Then, I’d like to spin you a yarn and weave a story for you to enjoy
It’s about a lad I know and I would have liked to have met as a boy
He is well traveled and I believe well read
His family worldwide they now seem to have spread.
Age is there now and his maturity abounds,
A deep sense of fun though is still around.
His eyes are green even though I’ve not seen
He says they are fading, but I bet they still gleam.
We have never met we are miles apart.
But I don’t have to see him for him to capture my heart
He has a deep affection for the place of his birth
He writes with a skill a longing and mirth.
It would have been nice to play up Wingate Nick
Share spice, have fun, and then take the mick.
We could have made up such fanciful fables
But we can’t go back or wish no, no one is able.
And round Heber’s Ghyll and perhaps Sugar Hill
At the bottom of which the Post Office is still.
His words that soothe and manipulate my senses
Upbuilding and mindful, no need for defenses.
If ?we met for a dinner He’s say “Get yourself outside of that” I think…
Because that’s the way they speak, they are violets that don’t shrink
It would have been fun to meet him weaving and plying his trade
Bought up with the clickerty clack that the weaving looms made.
But time passes us by and at too great a speed
Events mold our lives how they want, and not how we need
So to this green eyed lad I say thanks for being there
You know who you are, it's up to you if you share….
©~GG~ 17/08/2012
Categories:
well read, friendship, fun, green, longing,
Form:
Quatrain
I found a book from long before
And thought to read the book once more.
The pages, yellowed, slightly torn;
The book well-read, now bent and worn.
And as I turned each page with care
I found a rose was lying there--
The symbol of a love repressed,
A rose between the pages pressed.
And still the rose was bloody red
While uttering the words unsaid.
The rose said all there was to say
So I left it for another day,
And placed the novel in the den
Until the rose should speak again.
The discourse of a bloody rose--
The one I picked; the one I chose.
And even now that flower grows
And sows whatever seeds it sows.
~M
Categories:
well read, lost love,
Form:
Couplet
“Written in the Time of Something”
“Insignificant you are, don’t you know, this is the time of Nothing.” She said.
“I am?” I replied.
“In the time of Something, you will read, what is the Becoming. Believe.” She said
“What then?” I questioned the solemn silence.
“Perdition.” She responded."For a little while, in Insignificance." She Said.
“It's in the blood, don't you know? It is written by slow minds, insignificantly, the stories are read by their fast declines”. Someone said.
“Never by I.” I said.
“I am quick, I am clever, I am hidden in the Never.” She said.
"True. The story that matters, is unseen." He said.
“The minds behind the eyes reading - are disjointed, ambiguous, exploring, out of time”, he said.
“But will they find what they are asking in their writing, their questions in their minds, finally answered?” she said
“Maybe in the time of Something.” He said
"Maybe." She said.
Written and very well read.
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2020)
"Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby"/ Cigarettes After Sex
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXIIAvd3w
"Affection"/Cigarettes After Sex
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QI8VrXkffcg
"Affection"/ Cigarettes After Sex/ LRYICS:
https://www.cigarettesaftersex.com/lyrics-affection
Categories:
well read, inspiration, romance, trust,
Form:
Romanticism
I am black and you
are white... of course;
my blood is red, what
colour is yours?
I am an African, you are an
American,
The Sun is my skin,
why do you tan?
''I am white, you are
black'', well said!
I have one head, have
you got 'dash' heads?
Oh you are well read,
you swim in books,
from where comest
these niggas in thy nooks?
I am black, you are a
Briton; that's right,
your speech sparkles
like stars at twilight.
You have two hands
and one high heart,
why crave this my
ancient African art?
I am black, I have this
simple sack,
Hey whiteman,
it seems you do not
lack,
I live in a hut, built
on a humble hill,
I see those misiles in
your power mill.
I am black, you are
white, that'swow!
You did not create
your skin-colour...why
cow?
You call mea monkey,
I eat sweet Bananas,
You look like a racist
with lustuous lacunas.
I am black, yet in my
eyes I see the stars,
from your white skies; you
see but scars...
You are so different,
why do you lament,
I am indifferent, you sound
like... accident!
I am black, but you are in a
black list,
You seem to be a
terrorist, yes a racist!
We will all be burried
someday... in a black soil,
create a white soil,
it is worth the toil!
Categories:
well read, black african american
Form:
Rhyme
Two peas in a pod?
My April and me?
No, not at all,
I would not agree
She is all sunshine
laughter and light
I’m shrouded in darkness
too much like the night
She is artistic, outgoing
well read,
I’m the quiet, shy
redhead
But no matter what
my sister and me,
on one thing,
we’ll always agree
Our friendship is
tried and true
over the years
it grew and grew
deeply rooted as
Aspen trees
snug as a bug
a pod with two peas
Yes, I have to agree
though we are far apart
my April is closely
endeared in my heart.
Trudy Diane Rider
8-21-2009
For My sister April, I miss her.
For Nathan's contest
Categories:
well read, dedication, sistersister, april, sister,
Form:
Rhyme
It was just a typical ordinary night
I was all tucked up in bed
Radio on reading a book
By lamp light.
When suddenly
I saw a flash in the corner of my eye
Boy I was so scared
I nearly wet myself
I was petrified.
For there under the wardrobe
I did see
A giant mouse twitching it's nose
I could have sworn
It was laughing at me.
It had two huge eyes
The size of dinner plates
It was nearly as huge as a house
It was my worst nightmare come true
A giant enormous mouse.
I screamed when I realized it wasn't a dream
At the huge hairy monster fiend
Well I panicked and jumped out of bed
Ran down stairs screaming!!!!!
And banged my head.
I grabbed a pile of books
And hid in the bathroom
And locked the door
and put some things against the door
And some towels at the bottom on the floor.
And there I stayed for two weeks or more only occationaly
Leaving to get a drink or some food
Anything else I wasn't in the mood.
Well I wasn't going to let a mouse outsmart me
That would have been so silly
You see
So I bought a humane mouse trap
Because I hate killing things
And tried to tempt it in
I tried every contraption on the market
But still the mouse would win
It was like a mouse hotel
I tried sardines cheese and pastabake
Chocolate and well done steak
Salmon toast boiled egg and sweets
It ate me out of house and home
With all the treats.
But still I couldn't get it.
Well soon I turned into a crazed mad killer!
With a shotgun and an axe
I was a hunter and my mouse was my prey
But still the mouse had it's day
Dynamite was the last resort
I tried real hard but it couldn't be bought.
Then one day I found it dead
The fattest mouse I'd ever seen laid by my bed.
It was finally over to my relief
But I felt so sorry for the critter
that caused me so much grief.
But having spent two weeks
In the bathroom with all those books
At least I came out a much wiser well read man
And a mouse is all that it took
But now I was broke
I didn't have a penny left
As I'd overfed the mouse to death
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. June.
Categories:
well read, angst, animal, fear, horror,
Form:
Free verse
I know a maid—her name is Rose.
She has long hair that’s thick and dark,
and great, green eyes like no one knows;
and she can sing just like a lark.
She loves to read, and is well-read:
she’s a genius, and knows a lot—
in truth, there’s so much in her head
to figure out than just let rot.
Glad to say she’s now a student
enrolled in classes at a college:—
how wonderful, how elegant,
that she attends a place of knowledge!
'Ere long, she’ll graduate with honors
and "summa cum laude" distinction,
with a master’s conferred upon her
to pursue disease intervention.
In all this time, I’ll support her;
and be the best friend that she needs:
I’ll be there to urge and exhort her,
to guide her from life's baleful "weeds."
Categories:
well read, best friend, celebration, for
Form:
Bio