Best Writes Poems
To those who think that poetry must be
of lofty things, not sensuality
To those who write of stars and sun and moon
and who to romance will not ever swoon
To those who write of angst and misery
of all that has gone wrong in history
To those who think I write frivolity
and read not what I write: an oddity!
I write to you, and all my thought's I'll bare
and see if you can argue if you dare
If you’ve forgotten passion's blazing fire
Or how consumed your heart was with desire
If you’ve forgotten romance in the night
Or making love in early morning light
If you’re denied the thrill of ecstasy
And can’t bear witness to its urgency
If you have come of age when health concerns
are all of life that now your mind discerns
I tell you dear, the fault is yours not mine
Devoid of love life meets not plan divine
The gift of love is granted from on high
You can’t deny that even if you try
the pleasure’s woven in anatomy
He formed and blessed our sensuality
To reproduce was in his own design
But also to enjoy the act sublime
There is a little bud that’s meant to thrill
It’s only use is pleasure to fulfill
So tell me, what is life if not for this
To show commitment with the sweetest kiss
In right communion to be drenched in love
And in its throes to glide to heights above
My fellow poet, write of lofty things
And all the finer thoughts that wisdom brings
I pity you for love and passion’s reign
Has banished you from glory with disdain
All nature and all life with love is mixed
And so my mind with passion is transfixed
It’s love that makes this world go round and round
Without it, best be buried underground.
Eileen Manassian
~words reflect ripples
~across a pond of dreaming
~syllables falter
~ ukiyo wabi-sabi
~ a thought feather floating down
~ haiku writes itself
`
And as
she writes
her pen
touches me
as I cry
poetic tears
so that I
may drench
myself
in her
sorrow
so that she
will not
have to
cry alone
The voice inside me writes,
Every dawn with no reason nor cause,
Just wandering those hands down the page painted white,
Singing the chorus of words, with no pause.
Every morning with no reason nor cause,
When inspiration weaves like a thread into my brain,
Singing the chorus of words, with no pause,
I feel the rhythm of those bouncing words through my vein.
When inspiration weaves like a thread to my brain,
My feelings are painted on an uneven page,
I feel the rhythm of those bouncing words through my vein
I connect my heart and brain to my feelings with no pain nor rage.
My feelings are painted on an uneven page,
With an unsteady hand on uneven line,
I connect my heart and brain to my feelings with no pain nor rage,
Writing scrolls of would be wonders of my own design.
With an unsteady hand on uneven line,
Just wandering those hands down the page painted white,
Writing scrolls of would be wonders of my own design.
The voice inside me writes.
...
~ so heavenly beautiful ~ I don't like it ~ makes my poems fade ~
04/01/2020
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
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Who Flips your Trolley Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Bobby May
Monoku : 16 syllables
2nd place in the contest
Lost love gone
Pain found
An empty room
So many thoughts
So peaceful
So secret
A man scarred
Sits upon his bed
With a wand he writes
Lets it all hang out
A gift given
A way to express
He sits
Wonders about the future
Can he make it?
Show the world his inner self
Find love
Find happiness
Rejoice till life comes to an end
A Poetry-man writes
Witnesses the world
Explores himself and others around
Scared he is
Claims to know all
In essence knows nothing
Wants so much
Realizes he can't have it all
A Poetry-man writes
Tries to make sense of his world
Discovers many hidden feelings
Searches for words to explain
Desperation he feels
Angry words he speaks
A twisted tongue he talks with inner love he may have
Outer love he cannot see
A Poetry-man writes
Needs to experience it all
Discover him discover her
Loneliness he knows all so well
A monster he sees himself as
A Poetry-man wonders with words
Ponders ideas
Writes endlessly till time stands still.
Written March 30, 1997 2:55 am
So let me get this straight
(if I can use that word
in a totally non-offensive way)
Jack and Jill now get bottled water
Delivered.
Little Bo Peep
Keeps her sheep on leash
And cleans up after them.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
And the troll
Play Bridge
The Ugly Duckling
Can no longer identify
As a Swan
Hansel and Gretel
Take the “witch”
To the spa
For a steam and sauna
Little Miss Muffet
Moved her tuffet
To a “spider free” zone
The “Big Bad Wolf”
Is now with “IT”
Trouble shooting
Grandma’s laptop
After installing 5G
Internet access
For the Three Little Pigs.
And the Three bears
Take Goldilocks
To IKEA.
John G. Lawless
©3/29/2023
The calico cat sat firmly
on my quill.
I commanded she get off,
it was my will!
She slanted her green eyes
and hissed.
Here, sat a fierce feline poet,
demanding her poem not be
dismissed.
So, I slunk quietly into my
kitchen.
What could a cat write, what
am I missing?
Ater a spot of aromatic tea,
I returned.
I saw a poem, indeed, I was
not spurned!
First line had 5 paw prints.
Second was 7 paw prints.
Last line was 5 prints!
My cat was learning from me.
This was her version of Catku.
Which she, indeed did pen,
most splendidly!
3/28/2021
~3~
Some days you're thrown an I just don't know
Other days it's all right there
A glimmer of hope in which to cope
A fresh breath of poetic air
A constant loop as the dial slowly moves
In its never ending search for the truth
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
From the ups and downs to the toss arounds
All grate on a soul in time
But what's growing there inside your despair
Can pour forth in the perfect rhyme
Some days you find the inner light
Others you have no clue
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
You can be more or less inspirationaless
Then your pen flairs with the finest finesse
The point that you make either blows them away
Or what you have to say is anyone's guess
Holding onto the theme of your color scheme
Being the brightest of hues
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
A WRITER WRITES, THAT'S WHAT THEY DO.
THAT'S THE WAY THEY EXPRESS THEMSELVES.
THEY LIVE, THEY LOVE, THEY WRITE, THEY DIE.
LATER THEIR GREATEST WORKS ARE FOUND ON OLD SHELVES.
A WRITER WRITES. THAT'S WHAT HE DOES.
HIS LIFE AND HIS DREAMS MUST BE TOLD,
MUST BE SHARED AND PASSED ON AS EXPERIENCE
THAT HE BOUGHT AND THROUGH WRITING HAS SOLD.
A WRITER WRITES. THAT WHAT SHE DOES.
SHE BRINGS SMILES, TEARS AND LAUGHTER
WITH THE CHARACTERS SHE CREATES TO LIVE
HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
A WRITER WRITES. THAT'S WHAT WE DO.
WE CREATE POETRY, SCRIPT AND SONG.
WE'RE GIFTED WITH THE MIGHTY POWER OF THE PEN.
WRITERS MAKE THE WORLD GO AROUND.
A WRITER WRITES. THAT'S WHAT I DO.
THE ONLY WAY ONE CAN REALLY KNOW ME
IS TO READ THE WORLD AS I SEE IT,
THAT I TRANSLATE INTO POETRY.
Woken from a sound sleep
listening to the walls breathe
sense something new on the cusp
of my imagination island
ears perking up
feel like I am not alone
hear the last five words of a poem
ideas flickering from my bowels
living poetry is difficult
loving poetry easier
I know a spirit guide is here
wanting me to do something
I wait for a sign
poems nestle in my soul heart
covert missives
espousing a truth
I do not recognize
a complete stanza writes herself
in my mind’s eye
I shudder
time to write
my soul knows
He writes of love…
of friends…
of family…
and he is the first one to concede…
not because they are all he has
but because they are all he needs.
verdant colors in the horizon call to my heart
my step is livelier now
for my she-shed is ahead,
waiting for presence and truth, mine
there is no writing like outdoor writing
active anticipation resonates in my brain
I can leave the bumble bramble of the city
and the evil naysayers in their concrete crypts
trees sprinkling acorns and walnuts give a whistle
day is breezy, sky an over-washed denim blue
ideas are promenading in the outskirts of my dendrites
Thoreau-like passion toward nature brings me home
"Love Writes Its Book: Elysian Fields and the Concept of Force Majeure"
Love writes its book
opens each page
and reads it to you like your Its lover
words drip like honey over your force majeure
judge, jury and earnest revelator
Love dances barefeet in its claret poetry
and holds your bleeding heart in its Elysian hands
you’ve lost your head like The Baptist
and Love, only Love, is your first and last thought
it could be the making of the eternal you;
notes,
like bare legs freedom running
find themselves wrapped around your keys, for playing
a different way of delivering poetry -
an informal opening;
Love writes its book
a fantasy,
a ripe confectionary
Love writes its book
opens each page
and reads it to you like your Its lover
words drip like honey over your force majeure
you're a performance
of Love within
all of its shades
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."
"Elysian Fields" refers primarily to the paradise in Greek mythology where the souls of heroes and the virtuous reside after death.
“Force Majuere” is a French term for "superior force" that refers to a contractual clause excusing a party from performing its obligations due to an unforeseen, extraordinary event beyond their control, making performance impossible, illegal, or impractical. Common examples include natural disasters, pandemics, war, or government-imposed restrictions.
confectionary.
confectionery.
Cornelius was a linguist, not a poet -
though his ego was much too large to know it.
After penning a traditional Japanese tanka,
regarding the policies of la casa blanca,
he realized his multicultural poetry - though raw
in meter and message - lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.
Inspired by the writings of our own Maurice Rigoler
*la casa blanca = the white house
*je ne sais quoi = a quality that cannot be named easily.