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New Writing Poems

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Writing New Sonnet Of Life by Sinha-Roy, Subimal
THE JOY OF WRITING - CHARLIEKU by ALLISON, JAN
Invisible Man Writing Poems In His Journal by Lee Sr., James Edward
i'm writing haikus by AWTRY, P.S.
writing of writing by AWTRY, P.S.
Writing Crazy Today by Krutsinger, Caren
Of Writing by BANGALEE, MAHTAB
on writing by hansen, jan
Indigenous Creatures of My Writing Desk by McFerran, Rhona
Writing Healthy Copy by Dillenbeck, Gerald

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The Best Writing Poems

Details | Writing Poem |

POETRY FOR POETS: i own this- edition

Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...

POETRY FOR POETS 
(I own this- edition)

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
manure

Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.

Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet

			though occasionally
		poems require		to be forged
	beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
	accurately placed
		ensuring they		will be nailed
			to their purpose

Pruned
dead words and metaphors 
selectively snipped away
stunning display

There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love

Details | Writing Poem |

RETREAT TO HEED OUR HONEST DEEDS

RETREAT TO HEED OUR HONEST DEEDS

Two old oak trees weathered by winds and rain
with fallen leaves, branches and toughened bark
to shield a core of grandeur, and sustain
the wisdom borne to see the light from dark.
Two noble men aware of twilight time
both face evil world with courage and grace
Love and Nature gifts each, a life sublime
all standing with courage none can erase.
Each rooted within mother earth's great fold
weathering this world's darkest raging storms
images show lives lived regally and bold
tho' existing in weakened earthen forms.
With words of wisdom written in our seeds
we seek retreat to heed our honest deeds.

22nd June, 2018
T.J Grén & Robert Lindley

Details | Writing Poem |

The Last Love Letter To the West

         I can't recall 
       the day you left
  Empty words going west
                ***

~To: The West Coast~

My love, my sweet love -- my soulmate
I will cherish our time, with the sun
My love, my friend, my lover
Today we part, on this day June 3rd 15

My love, my sweet love -- my everything
On this day, I will take the long way home
On this day, I will look back and smile
To know it was not a dream

My love, my sweet love -- my true love
With this pen, I write this letter, 
My bed now knits a different sweater, 
Preparing my linens for darker weather
I want you to know, I'm writing this with a swollen heart
It was never you, it was I who grew apart
Patience kept you warm when I was cold
Every night, I cried, I tried to feed you my dreams
My hollow soul sat like a fool under a heavy cloud 
Holding back, the needing of proceeding who I was

My love -- please forgive me
I was inconsiderate of us
I would lay without opening the windows of trust
Your smiles I wiped away with my faults
However you stayed, you watched, 
You meant to kiss and stop the pouring rain 
You kept strong, holding my hand, 
When everything around my life persisted to perish
You soaked every time I stormed, 
I regret when I refused to let you touched the women in me

My love -- it was never you
I was broken before our hearts met
Like a villain and a thief, 
You took my diamonds in hopes to see them shine again
Your demons found a way into the shadows of my life
Trying to complete what you could not see
You could not feel, still you believed in me
My dreams, you held me close, loving who I am

My love -- you are the sunrise the sunset
Your limbs kept me up when I would fall
I will miss the touch of light in every stare
Thank you for not looking my way, the day you left
I did not want you to see the mask I used to cover it all
Pretending, I was strong when I was weak
Knowing I had fallen in love with you
Forever yours, 

~From: South Texas--

Details | Writing Poem |

Simple Words for Simple People

If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart

maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse

maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words

maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!

But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.

Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.

Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday

breathing softly  in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.

Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.

Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse

but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world

Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society 

would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole

and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.

Maybe a little child who understands only little words

would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned

rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries

and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh 

Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream

and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet

or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers

And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and  maybe I feel blessed.


Charma

Details | Writing Poem |

When I first surrendered all to You
it wasn’t clear to me,
that You became the author;
my life, Your poetry.
The pages of my life were dark.
You made them snowy white.
And then with mastery and skill
You began to write.
Each day a different style and form
something fresh and new
always timely and spot on
and never overdue.

So Lord, what will it be today
that flows from Your ready pen
across this chapter of my life
that will be read by men?
Will it be a monorhyme
of how You came through for me just in time?
Perhaps it’s an ottava rima
in perfect pentameter
that tells how my love for You
has grown deeper and much sweeter.
It just might be a ballad
with a tender and touching refrain
of how I stumbled and faltered
but You picked me back up again.
Could there be a principle
that I really need to learn
which You’ll write upon my life
as a repetitive quatern?
Since the furtherance of Your kingdom
is Your holy and noble tactic
perhaps You’ll craft in me
a revelatory didactic.
Diamante, tanka, limerick, haiku,
Lord, the choice is up to You.
Of all poetic forms that be
You know what to engrave on me.
Free verse or even hexaverse diminished
Dear God, please write on until my story is finished.

4/26/17

I learned several years ago from a minister that preached at our church that the Greek word for workmanship in the verse below is “poiema”, from which our English word “poem” is derived. This was my inspiration for this poem.

Ephesians 2:10(KJV) For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.

For we are His workmanship [His own master work, a work of art], created in Christ Jesus [reborn from above—spiritually transformed, renewed, ready to be used] for good works, which God prepared [for us] beforehand [taking paths which He set], so that we would walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us].Ephesians 2:10(Amplified Bible)

Details | Writing Poem |

For My Children

You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.

Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance

If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink

There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret

But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks	
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks

Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters

Details | Writing Poem |

A Rattling Rhyme

Words can be whimsical, a merry-go-round
They run in a circle, they go up and down
They play hide-and-seek until they are found
Look how quickly the little ones grow!

Words can seduce like a sizzling dance
They'll perplex the complex, if given a chance
They're as sincere as England, as sexy as France
As reckless as the caution they throw

Words can get tipsy if taken too much
The pretentious go on and on about such-and-such
The brutish ones can bail you out in a clutch
The foolhardy don't know they don't know

Words can be gossips who can't wait to gab
Words can be lavish and leave you the tab
Words can covertly steal and grab
Their guile is only for show

Words can impulsively issue a dare
Words can react with extravagant flare
But words must always be handled with care
When timing's too slow, for words on the go

Look how quickly the little ones grow!
As reckless as the caution they throw
The foolhardy don't know they don't know
Their guile is only for show
When timing's too slow 
For words on the go-

8/7/18

Details | Writing Poem |

Lisa: My Romance

I sit in front of my brand new computer, flex my hand, and poise my fingers over the keyboard.

It does not take me long to realize that I've a writer's block. Can't disappoint Mr. Tristan Tribe can I? After all, Tristan was an editor and kind enough to ask me to send in a contribution to his competition.

Must write this noir story or go bust. Best look over the rules. Now where did I save them? Ah, there they are. Felony, Fiery, Flagrant, Femme fatale. Interesting bit that. Let's think. What words would describe such a woman? Luscious? Lavish? Lustful? Luxurious? Say, what's this? An exercise in alliteration? Best start typing something.

The telephone rang. Slick Sammy, cigarette hanging from his lower lip, answered: "Yes?"
"Slick, Lisa here. Remember me, luscious?" The voice was low and mellow. Slick felt pins and needles piercing his skin. How could he ever forget Lisa!
"What's up, hon?" Slick tried to play it cool, but in his mind he could easily picture her lying on a sofa, her full lips slightly parted, her ravishing body supine and inviting. Her hair was dark and her face pale. When she smiled at you the moon waned and you felt you had to do something to address the situation. Lisa was fun. When she kissed you, you'd feel you're the only man in the world. She had that kind o' effect on Slick.
"Slick, you gotta kill ‘HIM’. He kidnapped my brother. He'll kill him if I don't give in."
Fate has a habit of putting Slick in a corner. Slick hated Lisa's brother. Jack was a cut-throat and a bully. Some say he loved beating women… and men for that matter. Best thing for this world was to hang and quarter him, preferably at the same time. As for "HIM"! Alas "HIM" was even worse. "HIM" was a son-of-a-, perverse and deadly. Killing "HIM" won't be easy though. Slimy "HIM"! Sammy Slick spat his cigarette slickly into a corner of the room and licked his lips.

Corny. What am I writing? This would never win me a contest. Even the name is wrong. Slick Sammy or Sammy Slick. Perhaps Sammy the Slick. This writer's block must be hitting me at fever pitch.

"Slick, you need a gun? Got a magnum for you."

Magnum? That's an ice-cream as far as I know. Prefer wine! Maybe a glass of cold Chablis would bring me some good ideas. So far everything has been lousy. I smell the Chablis, allowing its bouquet to fill my nostrils and anticipate the luxurious taste to follow. Here's to Mr. Tribe. Bet he has never tasted anything so … so….! Words fail me. I must be real bad if I can't describe the taste of Chablis. Ah those French! They know a thing or two about wines…and women. The hall clock strikes eleven. Blast. This story must be posted quickly, before midnight.

"Got a slick gun-slicker for you, Slick."

This is getting worse. Too many slicks. I sip more wine. Beautiful. A little more won't hurt. What am I thinking? Slick for wine! Must be getting fuzzy or something.

"Will you help me Slick?" Lisa put all her sex appeal in her voice. Sammy preferred the sex rather than the appeal.
"Sure babe. For you I'd go to hell and come back with a devil in a sack." An' Slick could tell a few guys, she won't find a better specimen of manhood better than Slick. "Where's "HIM" now?' Slick Sammy looked outta the window. It was dark and drizzlin'. This was going to be a hell of a night. Maybe he could get away with it. Brushin' Lisa's lips would be fun.
"Lured "HIM" to Chinese Indigo Dragon Motel, Slick. Better come over quick afore he starts his rough ways. I need you badly, honey."

This story is not shaping so well, is it? To use a word like afore is a sure sign of mental fatigue. Should I start all over? This story must be posted afore midnight. What a world! It's Tribe's fault really. Putting a deadline like that. I sip more wine.
Must find some sort of a gun. Now where can I find a list of guns? I'm sure I heard of a magnum gun before. But don't ask me its calibre. Maybe I can use a knife. No, no, too messy. Must be a gun.

Suddenly, Lisa my wife comes in, wearing next to nothing.
"What are you doing, honey? You got a hard day, tomorrow. Come with me, sweetheart." Her voice is husky and low.
I look at her and wonder. Femme fatale! Was I looking at one? Well she's seductive, glamorous, bewitching, alluring. Heck, am I a thesaurus or what?

I switch the computer off and follow her to bed.
Sorry Mr. Tristan Tribe. Must disappoint you. There are things more important than writing in life, aren't there?

8 October 2018
Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings

All characters are fictional.

Details | Writing Poem |

I Am A Poet

The entire world to me is a stage
Every era and every age
Upon which my paper and pen can engage.
I am a poet.

Emotions I’ve captured in spheres I’ve explored
With parchment my shield and quill my sword
For all, who with me will come on board.
I am a poet.

In words I write of what I feel
Of a principle, moral or ideal
And sometimes it becomes an appeal.
I am a poet.

I ride on the wings of imagination
To take me to my next destination
And hope to gain your participation.
I am a poet.

Toward words I have an enduring leaning
I love to ponder their nuance and meaning
And strive to share the wonders I’m gleaning.
I am a poet.

The things of which to inscribe are rife
So many circumstances of this life
Victories, defeats, joys and strife.
I am a poet.

I know this incessant writer’s itch
Will probably never make me rich
But I don’t care, I’ve found my niche.
I am a poet.

6/2/18

submitted for Best Rhyming Poem April-July 15, 2018 Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
2nd place

Details | Writing Poem |

Who Am I

I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend

I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies 
through speaking my thoughts into existence

I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance 
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen

I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery 
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry

I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards

I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels

I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent  of it

I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
Judge that

I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM

Details | Writing Poem |

Night Owl

Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!

Best Writing Poems | Poetry

New Writing Poems

The Best Writing Poems

Of Ink

COMMON Commonality

POETRY FOR POETS: i own this- edition

You Know

LIBERTY OF EXPRESSION is HERE

RETREAT TO HEED OUR HONEST DEEDS

Plethora of Poetry

Pretty Poet

We Push The Pen

Painting with Words

Poet -This Poem is About You

Toilet Bowl Committee

The Last Love Letter To the West

A Reminder: To Be

''silence sweet solitude''

When It Comes To Me

Super Soupers

Simple Words for Simple People

Write My Life

For My Children

A Rattling Rhyme

Lisa: My Romance

I Am A Poet

Who Am I

Night Owl