Best Well Written Poems
He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
Let me write you a poem.
A poem so great Bukowski would give me a hats off-
And hand me a beer.
A poem so well-written, John Mayer would play me a
Tribute song with his guitar.
Let me bring Shakespeare to shame-
Let me write you sonnets one and two,
Three, Four and maybe
Five hundred.
Let the only alliteration be that of our laughter,
As we exchange puns and stories.
Let the words “I love you” be an understatement.
Let us be the Paradox – and let the popcorn munching crowd watch us with awe.
Let the touching of our lips write Concrete poems.
Let your embraces warm me with Haikus.
Chase me through Couplets where we are the only couple.
Let the only Dramatic Monologue be that within my palpitating heart.
Wrap me with imagery-
Shower me with smiles and similes.
Be the Free Verse,
Be the Epic poem,
Be the Ghazal poetry drunkards wrote to their loved ones…
Be the hero in my Heroic couplets,
Be the one.
Just let me write you a poem-
Where your name is the only repeated term.
Where the only irony is the twist of fate that brought us together.
Where the only onomatopoeia is the ROAR of your rusty car’s engine.
Where we stand like Oxymorons- contradictory but side by side.
Just let me write you a poem.
Or a novel
Or a play
Or a song-
Let me write you something.
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!
Never again will you send my friend a frown
you will be shot down and you won't wear the crown
I as a doctor myself am ashamed to be in your presence
as far a the destroyer she is the pure slam essence
I am just a boy with the power of millions
you can't break anyone down with your billions
you don't see that your slams are not well written
and the only thing we get is nothing far from bitten
so Doc are you ready to pay all the fines?
because in the end I write the last slam line
back up the boat
you'll never cross my moat
my archers are in place
all aimed at your face
if you need me I'll be here
sharpening my sword's steel
waiting for an actual challenge
worth the fight and the balance
get back up or walk away
but in the end, I must say:
my personal display of affliction
isn't countered by your decision
Chance seeing that shooting star, death by brilliant light.
Interpreting dreams, from the day or the night.
Chasing rainbows, it’s treasure foretold.
Facing the mirror, lines drawn, time is so cruel, just getting old.
A wish from adolescence, so fleeting, soon gone,
Finding it, losing it, then, the will to go on.
Fish in the ocean, songs soulful and sad.
Movie star glances, playing well written lines.
Maybe for 7 years, perhaps 10 if you are lucky.
It’s all gone so quiet, time to do it again?
Change for the better, could be sublime.
Forget the life of the past, move on in time.
Or live with the niggles, the mundane and the sour,
A fresh face, a smile, a feeling empowered.
What should you do, how will it end,
Seek advice from a stranger or support of a friend.
The truth is in there, somewhere, but it’s a gamble of trust.
Old for the new, the passion or lust
It’s a question asked over again, driving us to despair, as we
Wrestle with our head and our heart, with neither so clear.
To stay with the familiar, or infatuation so sweet.
In a throwaway society, where quality and value should last,
But a new toy is shinier than the comfort of a past.
An old barn burns the fastest; it’s always been the same,
From Maggie V and onwards, in a broken dream.
It has destroyed me, ne’er mind the cost
Of hearts sold and broken, it all falls into dust.
Water it, nurture it, see it grow and sustain,
So easy to turn it from the glow to mundane.
We are surrounded by it, with its passion and desire,
It’s too small a word, which we can always shift blame,
Yet we let it run amok with our emotions and mind.
We need to learn to be honest with it, to use other words of desire,
Fascination, drawn, enamoured, stimulated or lust
The feeling of tenderness, that electrifying touch.
A life for a life, a time for a time,
You get older, perhaps wiser; you seek solace, something quite unreal,
So why is it too easy to fall in love?
The parched sycamore leaf
Walked across the patio
Past the portal of my dwelling
The alder slab was immobilized
By a decorative door stopper
Arranged to let the warm
November day work its way in
I snapped out of the life I was leading
Amongst the absorbing pages
Of a well written book
With my space saved and novel snapped shut
I arose to meet the weary traveler
At the threshold of my hut
There before me was an empty meadow
It's vastness leading to my oppressor's home
I live here
I am my own oppressor
I burden myself with
Great weights of unjustified restraints
I use unused corners
To keep my quiet complaints
I am well aware of my inabilities
To cut myself some slack
I speak poorly of myself
Behind my own back
Never the less I yell
Demanding a presence to be shown
After several minutes filled with
Absolutely nothing at all
A second weary traveler crinkles
As it somersaults by my feet
Tricked by a tumbling leaf
There is no one out here for me to meet
The melted basil plants
Have returned to the ground
From which they have came
Once formidable weeds
Are now all laying lame
Once fruitful tomato vines
Are now blackened with
Nobody but the frost to blame
The land is ripe for winter to claim
There is no one out here
Nobody but my oppressor
Who demands I retreat inside
I revisit the position
I held in my large armed chair
Easily returning to where I left off
With no acknowledgment
To the bookmarks job well done
No appreciation to it's
Silent steadfast work
Trapped through the ages
A life pressed between the pages
It is here I will remain
Free from the steady glare
Of my all consuming oppressor
Free from time restraints
Free from reality
Free from idiosyncrasies
Free from the world
In which my position is unclear
It is here I will remain
Till my eyes fall heavy
The last page is turned
Or I'm disturbed by my next imaginary guest
3/5/18
(Instrumental)
Music is the liberation of the mind
Many nights I get lost in its depths
Eyes closed, in each moment of solitude,
Forgetting about life and its loud parties
Feeling the spiritual mending in my heart
There are well written lyrics
in most of the songs that I love,
But if my poems were put to music
There wouldn't be any words…
And it would be the same feeling,
and feelings are where all meaningful art is born
That’s what music or any art should do for someone
It should make them feel something
Feeling the art is better than hearing it
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Or are you just reading these poems?
August 14th, 2013
Grammar
When it comes to grammar
I always break the rules
I am from the old school
I never adhere to the “do and don’t
I am a devious character indeed... oh! guess what!
My Dali lama teaching
Was never influential because
Nothing else matters to me
I am who I am
Prose and complete
And most of the time
Politically or grammatical incorrect
Whatever, or whoever I am.
I am a poetess with a mean ***** switch
my main focus is to get my point across
Artful and prose; I play the devil’s advocate
Guilty as charge, I am in charge of my anthology
No outsiders can never curve my pen
To construct a well written poem
When I am on a roll I never stop to compose
Or worry about starting my sentences with “and our but”
Even if it makes me clunky; no biggie that me
I have no intention of offering a toast
or pretend I am your host at your table.
I am the artful dodger, I know how to submit and watch
As my pen become public enemy number one.
(mostly to some)
Sorry my master! My mentor, Dali lama (my conscience)
...................................................................
May I examine my mind in all actions?
And as soon as a negative state occurs,
Since it endangers me and others,
May I firmly face and avert it. : Quote Dali Lama
Life came without instructions,
and when looking for balance,
I found verses in this life
written in the pages of poetry.
Poems are the fingerprints of life
from cultures today
and those of centuries past.
Poetry is a gift to us
from the minds of others
to teach us about ourselves.
Meditating well written poetry
was transforming for me,
and writing poetry myself
releases restless energies
from deep within my soul.
Poetry organizes my thoughts,
it allows me to visualize and feel life
from a different perspective.
Poetry has a calming effect.
Edward J. Ebbs - 12/03/11
Written for a Contest, What brought you to poetry???
WELL-WRITTEN
Eighteen times he lied and he had nine lives to live.
He got shot and became a better man.
But oh, he was in a schizophrenic mind where his thoughts were awe-inspiring.
He was one that loved to nature walk.
He would set goals for himself and do his best to accomplish them.
Yet, he never achieved anything big, but what he did made him somebody.
You would see him articulating like a university professor.
He was ever-changing in his expressions and gestures.
His parents named him Andy and Billups is the surname.
He occupied his time as a Sears and Roebuck home improvement representative.
He did very well in sales and marketing.
Andy strived to be that perfect family man.
Of course, he is happily married and has one child.
Andy spends a lot of quality time.
He says family matters as owning your own home is the biggest investment to booth today.
Hence, he must be more conscientious about his way of making a way out no way.
He has a reputation that he feels is vast and wide.
He has the willpower and the courage of a creative mind.
Andy is maturing in his determination of protecting his wants, needs, and desires.
But oh, you may ask why Andy is important.
Why did you desire to share him with us?
It is about the image presented.
Well-written is the thingamajigism.
Andy Billups provides his life-force and his essence.
Thus, sharing it is within diversity.
And therefore, an inner core of humanity has been titivated.
________________________________________________________|
Written March 04, 2016!
Tall, dark and handsome
With a muscular physic
He's everything a woman could ask for
He even has an impressive technique
Smooth as an aged
Bottle of fine wine
And filled with words
That’ll make a woman
Loose her mind
How can there be such a man
That’s just that sweet
And still be called a heterosexual
Never in my wildest dreams
Have I met a man
That’s plushed, polished and oh so sleek
Like a well written book
That I could critique
I’d give him nothing but rave reviews
And awards up the creek
DIAMOND DUST DEVIL
1169 Dominion...
A dark world lives beyond Orion.
This world is within an alien moon.
On its stable ground, stands a murder of mentality and childhood.
As babies are born, the mammoth scions brain from the dead.
The child life has been prepared.
The countryside is where he reclines.
He sits in his study analyzing his crimes.
He states to himself, deep in thought, “I am creating a world of great power.
My ancestors did not do this way. They only developed a twisted mentality.
Today, I cultivate identities.”
He is a tall and handsome man.
He is well spoken.
As a barrister, he is at the top of his game.
He walks with the same
who do not know they are creations of his sentiment.
His name is Emartra Van Doyle.
He is the “descendant of Dubhghall.”
Anglicization of the Irish
His disambiguation was superlative.
He is the origin of the Vikings.
His days in the world are yet to end.
There has been much darkness to manifest from him.
His balls were costume dramatic.
He lived in phantasm.
Hiberno-Normans balled with him.
The dark and epicaricacy history of Ireland is where Emartra Van Doyle thrives.
Well written via the imagination and deep in the mind, is a sphere of influence,
which cultivates perilous times.
A reverie aspirated.
Cross my heart and hope to die, if I am telling a lie.
S[k]at!
______________________________________________|
Sponsor: SKAT A
Contest Name: Diamond Dust Devil
THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT SUBMISSION
REVISED, RE-READ and RECONSIDERED it but REGRET
To decide not to include it in our issue next.
WISH YOU LUCK IN YOUR FUTURE PURSUITS
THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT SUBMISSION
The editors are also writers and they too
Receive WORTHY REJECTED poems of their own
AND DON’T LIKE SENDING THEM OUT
THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT SUBMISSION
We will have to pass on your poems
IN FACT INDEED IMPRESSIVE INPUTS you have
UNWILLINGLY WISH you success elsewhere.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT SUBMISSION
The poem is PRETTY UNFIT to our needs for publishing
HOWEVER HORBOR HIGH HOPE for writing
WE APPRECIATE THE OPPORTUNITY TO REVIEW IT.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT SUBMISSION
To consider our magazine as an outlet
WELL WRITTEN WORTHY WORK, but regret
TO USE THIS PARTICULAR SUBMISSION
====================================
(Oxymoron and Alliteration)
Seventh place winner in
Contest: FREE FOR ALL DO AS YOU PLEASE In honor of Charles Henderson
When I within your four library walls
Did engage with several books awhile
Your winsome glance, once read, still me enthrals
And my heart fast ensnared was by that smile.
While your look spoke to me in rich volumes
Little did I realise so much then
How my heart would surrender mid your tomes
That love is much mightier than the pen,
New chapters were well written in my mind
With every visit read between each line
I yearned in spirit with your soul to bind
And wished with all my heart that you were mine.
What would I not in some novel time give
To know that in your hands my tale would live.
A BLOCKBUSTER A POETRY DIVA!
Introduction please::
Through the eyes of a Spiritual Healer, sees Oblivion Dark Sunshine.
Visionary to her purpose, her life dances.
She is in search of the ultimate right; nom de plume is her name.
Her favorite flower is daffodil that blows in the wind.
Effortlessly she speaks without a written cue.
She is a poet and philosopher of the truth.
When prompted, she leaves in confidence that she can provide you
with the needed assistance you requested.
Never a task will she take that she cannot complete.
She is integrity and your virtual reality.
In the mind of her people, she is heard.
Candor is her way of administration.
Her outspokenness is loved by all that know her.
However, her honesty can hurt.
Therefore, she guards her words to be more professional.
Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said.
Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well.
We enjoy her through social media.
Her books should be on all shelves.
A Life Poet and Philosopher
A BLOCKBUSTER
Her Psalmist thumb is a gift from God.
She shares this with the world through a poetic verse.
She liberates herself from any form of poverty.
She delineates a world that is free.
Naturally, she writes about anything.
Oblivion is the sunshine to those that life vents darkness.
Strenuous are her themes, insofar as these are topics with universal meanings.
She provides dogma, philosophy of meaning and truths, to communities and neighborhoods .
With candor, she speaks outspokenly to withstand negativity.
Prolific to the cause, her name will be recognized systemically.
She thrives on esteem, truth, and self-worth.
Copiously, she strives to be heard.
Social media is her teeming vehicle.
Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said.
Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well.
We enjoy her through public mediums.
Her books are poetic instruments.
Blockbuster
Life Poet and Philosopher
Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Poetry Diva
______________________________________________________|
Verlena S. Walker
UPDATED SEPTEMBER 15, 2014!