Best Writers Poems
Quote By Poet "Art can come from anywhere.
Paint with paint or paint with words."
Writers write to write with pen or computer in hand, we hope when done it will be grand. The day could start out writing slow, as the words now start to grow. Day turns into night then back to day, as our fingers want to play. Is it now time to eat, lunch must be in a bowl at our seat. Our letters and words, are flying across the page like wild birds. Is this leading us on our merry way, never knowing what we might say. At last the day is done, it has been filled with creativity and fun. Off to bed to get some sleep, now time to count the big blue sheep. Will dreams give me a new poem to write, is this crazy writing world my birthright.
"AI has stolen my words and my imagination. As a human writer, I write from my heart. AI can not steal my heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
With a writers human heart,
writers pen in hand to start.
AI machine that is cold,
made out of tin and not gold.
Tell me this is a bad dream,
before I let out a scream.
Muse and pen will always stay,
a human voice all the way.
List of best twenty comments writers, in the last three years in PS!
Monoku poem.
Best active comments writers in PS, in the last three years, based on my personal reading, in aliphatic order are:
Andrea Dietrich.
Arthur Vaso.
Beryl Edmonds.
Brandy Nicole.
Daniel Henry Rodgers.
Darlene De Beaulieu.
Hiya Sharma.
I Am Anaya.
Ink Empress.
Jan Allison.
Joanna Daniel.
Karen Jones.
Kim Rodrigues.
Nette Onclaud.
Paige Hind.
Paula Goldsmith.
Sotto Poet.
Tania Kitchin.
Tom Cunningham.
Valsa George.
"Escalating the Muse"
Written on the body
passive complacence
stretches sharp ink
etched pain in the soul
then real beauty
from the
Book of Truth,
a page moored
in transparent skin
;
Black,
tattooed ceremonially
on the tongue
speaks diaphonous
Freedom
Written on the body
stretches stories ripped
and tall, they are torn,
a small revolution
amongst the crowds of
alphabet coding
in a tight sealed tin
akin to a
Can of Campbell’s Soup
Escalates the
Muse
Written in the body
a work of art, beautiful,
pure and stubborn centred,
dirt muddied yet,
clean stripped,
balanced for the
Laymen betwixt
Papillon
folded Wings,
en stasis,
looks through the Chrysalis
towards the you in gilded story
the Higher requires analyses,
there She thinks,
writes the Muse
tattooed on the tongue
Words
projecting Muse to
Escalation
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
llb/gvlm
for my daughter,
Georgia
;
"LUX VITAE"
"Brûle-moi" / Jean-Louis Murat
https://youtu.be/M6l_sQQ8lS0
"Distractions" / Zero 7
https://youtu.be/6ng6IKp8uao
"What New York Couples Fight About" / Morcheeba
https://youtu.be/RUE0J2UvThM
"Golden Years" / Bowie
https://youtu.be/JUuRGRcY9O0
Battement de coeur dans
;
Battement de coeur vers l'extérieur
Writers love their letters,
letters turn into words.
Words turn into sentences,
waiting to be read.
Poems come from writing,
writing about the past.
Maybe from the present,
maybe true or false.
As a faithful reader,
we laugh we cry.
Many love to read,
yet again and again.
The reader and writer,
then become as one.
Both in love with,
letters-words-sentences-reading.
Blank pages stare back at me
waiting for my mind to pour
its' heart out.
I grab my pen, throw on my
headphones wait, wait for my
mind to give my heart words
that need to be written.
I make my mark, withdraw my hand, I stare.
This is all you see _____
Months have passed since words have
been written, my mind is hesitant
to reveal what my heart tries to
conceal.
Music plays in my ears in hopes
of encouraging my mind to find
its hidden words.
I stop, quote Jonson in my head
an English dramatist & poet...
"Suns, that set, may rise again
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night. (Volpone)
Yet my mind still remains empty.
Perspiration runs down my face,
my temperature rises, frustration
runs through my veins.
I try yet again
I quote Apollinaire in my head
a French poet...
"Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meunt le bruit parmi le vent"
My anger grows
My mind weary
My eyes tire.
As night falls, & its all over
my pages still remain empty
A poet exposes scenes to explore new horizons
unfolding under expansive or confining domes
We slow it down, decelerate, discern
unveiling are a fable's morals and concerns
taking pause to commune with fauna and elm
serenely does nature speak throughout her realm
our phrases linger with new colors
hues vibrant encompass as skylines
our dimensions broaden anew
sentences chosen carefully carry more import
with words nuanced, renewed
with a more sentient bite
with emotions more candid
abashedly bare, a despair founded
with paroxysm of catharsis we quill
weeping of our dormant essence shaken to life
confessions deepening, plunging in thought
letting the afflatus of passion flow
I Am Anaya
quill & inkwell love
11/14/25
My soul yearns to wander
the thoughts of beauty
where my dreams drift endlessly
on winds of wishes
when I read the words
forming in my mind
as metaphors scatter cold
and sentences run wild
and I'm drawn toward
mystic meadows of wordy mists
where illusions are scribed
in wondrous wonder
to become crumbled pages
of poems that could have been
Tonight I'll cry for my unwritten words
as I sit before the fire
and toast to my heart
beating like a drum
calling out the poems in my mind
that vanished, leaving me empty
drowning in darkness
Words are to writers like flowers to bees,
Oil to engines and thank you to please.
They may be as heavy as concrete or lead
Or light as feather and thoughts in our heads.
They may cut like a knife and bite like a snake,
Or purr like a kitten and calm all our aches.
Letters combined in word perfect tense
Lift humanity higher like pauper to prince.
Words are like paint before canvas lay bare
In the hands of the artist, eternity’s there.
Waiting to brush one more story-book tale
From right of nowhere, words take to sail.
With wind from the writer and ink from the pen,
Destinies change for women and men.
From The Iliad and Odyssey to Paine’s Common Sense,
Plato’s Apology to Shelley’s Poetic Defense.
From Genesis to Leviticus and Matthew to St. John,
Aristotle’s Ethics to White’s Trumpet of the Swan.
From the US Constitution to King’s “I Have a Dream,”
Words are to writers as air is to breath.
They transcend human consciousness
And send us well past Mars,
Making movies, plays and music move us
To the moon and stars.
The possibilities are limitless
When words are focused clear;
If one merely stops to think it through:
They’re always waiting near.
Some writers are a lexicon
an educational experience
Some writers are simplicity
reaching far and wide
Some play your heart strings
or tickle your sweet spot
Some grab evil and send chills running
then make me sleep with the lights burning!
**Thanks to all the poetry soup group for the support and well wishes!
Your fine writing makes me seek out what is new everday!
Lord God thank you
for showing us the true meaning of love.
And loving us
despite our faults,
is unconditional love.
Help us to be more like You,
and put our differences aside.
So we can choose love over hate.
I want to thank you Lord
for turning my doubts
into reality.
I would've never thought
I would be writing,
and I'm sorry for not trusting you.
Thank you God for speaking through my pen
and into people's hearts.
Thank you for the bloggers
that follow my blogs,
and for those who stumble across it.
May the words that speak through my pen,
continue to reach the masses.
I can write for days
Keep on planting trees trees trees
Tell the world not to run out of seeds
That paper is useful
I write with it
Not a single writer's cramp live in my body I can write for days
So tell the writers cramp player haters to watch out
what you say about me
because now you hitting up my line asking for advice
I can write for days
so watch out what you say about me
No single writers cramp live in my body
Hitting them from left and right
By the morning time I wrote a thousands more poems
You can never stop me
Its even worst that you trying to have skills like me
You can never beat me
This gift was embedded
Keep on writing
I let you know if you can ever ever reach my level
Mean while keep on watching
You know the old saying
Practices makes perfect
Writers cramp player haters stay away from me
Don't even try to waste your time
Trying to get like me
I can write for days so watch out what you say
You hitting my line for advices
What is beauty if I cannot write it
On the pages of my book,
What nature in it’s endless glory
If I can but stand and look?
If fragments of a broken sunset
Glimmer in a purple sky,
And etched against the glowing background
Silhouettes of eagles fly.
If night is born in every shadow,
Growing with the dying day,
And slowly, slowly, hill by mountain
Shape and colour melt away.
If stars in multitudes, in millions
Shape the heaven’s works of art,
And in each stellar constellation
Beat an ancient legends heart.
If whispers stir the leaves and branches
Of the mighty Blackwood trees,
And in the dark I watch the wind
That bend the wattles to their knees.
How can I stand and hear the calling
Of the night’s elusive birds,
Or watch the silver shafts of moonlight
Without searching for the words?
If I could write these hills and valleys
Fable-like reality,
If only, oh if only
I could trap in words what I can see.
“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world . . . "
— Percy Bysshe Shelley
________________________________
poets have existed since antiquity
once troubadours travelling to different places
singing their lyrical poems
the poets of old are found in dusty, tattered old books
their beauty and sorrow fading on pages yellow
they exist in each poem penned
for although they left this earth
the tears and words
and poetry will stay within hearts and souls
no poet lasts forever for time is precious
so, write poems that kiss your flaws, speak of brokenness
poems brave, strong and beautiful
we poets do not die truly
for our words stay behind in books- journals
sheets of paper that in time will curl and yellow
in the memories of those who loved our poems
even in our engraved name in stone
for our name is sacred to a poet
and we are everywhere like in the brightest star
in swaying trees and blooming flowers
in hued wildflowers and the wind
in rippling streams and birds singing in trees
in the rain and filigree snowflakes
in our weeping words that bled from our pens
in our words of love, friendship and family
we will stay always in the written word that never dies
but, we will not last forever for time is precious
so, write poems that kiss your flaws, speak of brokenness
poems brave, strong and beautiful
________________________
November 27, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/'writers of beauty and pain'
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1319-101-27
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Where Do We Poets Go?
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 11/29/20, First Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, Battle of Most Acclaimed
sponsor, John Hamilton, Judged 01/08/21
Third Place
Writers and poets are a different breed
They live and breathe phrases and concepts
Awash with all manner of clever speech
At engaging the reader, they're adept
They invite you on travels to distant lands
To discover strange customs and beliefs
To experience a whole new world apart
The Rain Forests, The Great Barrier Reef
Through the eyes of these intrepid travellers
We witness different morals and rituals
Experiences people wouldn't normally view
Many of which, are sacred and spiritual
Imagine if we didn't have these literary giants
To warn us of mistakes of the past
The Great Depression, the two World Wars
How great nations through history never last
Writers and poets are a different breed
They focus on the ethereal side of being
Flying high above the horizons
In a world of unknown and unseeing
© Jack Ellison 2014