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The Best Writing Poems

Details | Writing Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Of Ink

   Partial Paper
 -A poet in heat-

Ink carries its own tale,
When moonshine intoxicates your pen
Bottles of ink fill your mind
Composing symphonies on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails

This part of you 
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The tough skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking  words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger plus anger "GIVE ME MORE!"

You have a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions 
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet:  "Ink Never Lies."

Pretty pink acrostic ink when she's nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Ode's of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth

~*~


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013


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COMMON Commonality


WE ...

Slaves to the pen, (or our keyboard, more apt)
          The molding of words, in a word, holds us rapt
                    Fine fancies or fears take us places unknown
                              Our muse and our craft, better focused alone

The voice of our id, the bounce of our rhyme
          Thus, charming or edgy, depending the time
                    In romantic puddles and whimsical trees
                              We splash our ideas, cast love to the breeze

Danger or hope, or a scorched trist-or-two
          Occur mind-to-matter with the lines we imbue
                    The light and the dark, they both hold allure
                              Our child's heart within, just a tad bit impure

For though we adore all things blithe and bright
          We also know beauty blooms deep in the night
                    Somber or joyous, through passage or pain
                              Creatively ordered through rhyme and refrain

It's not that we're consonant, or that we agree
          It's how we can sculpt all the life that we see
                    So though we may be as different as spices
                              We spend all for poetry, whatever the price is

For it's a rare language that few can command
          And we speak it together, a pen in our hand
                    You may be a person that I've never met
                              But the gift of your writing, I'll never ...

Forget.




~ 1st Place ~  in the "What Do We Have In Common" Poetry Contest, Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor.

~ Poem of the Day ~  featured on Poetry Soup.com on May 11, 2018 - many thanks to those in charge for the honor.



Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2018


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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


Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015


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You Know

Yes, my dear, you know, You are my source of joy, rejuvenation, hope I need your emotion spread onto my life, I need your heart to sing among the darkness surrounding Do not let our words run dry Together, in strength, we will always know And now you know, So smile, be joyous, and kiss these candid truths For they proclaim your greatness to the universe In shouts of glory, in loving whispers, On every shine of ocean shivers, You know You will always know I love you for you
To all my poetic friends, this poem is dedicated to you! This includes: David Breidenthal, Sharon Breidenthal, Rebecca Larkin, Justin A. Bordner, Just That Archaic Poet(Chan), HGarvey Daniel Esquire, James Peranteau, Guillermo Soto, Mystic Rose(Vienna), Dan Kearley, Liam Mcdaid, Kim Patrice Nunez, Rob S, Jack Ellison, Duke Beaufort, Drake Eszes(Gabriel), Davina Browne, Gary Bateman , Kyle Carlson, John Fleming, Peter Walsh, Sarah Kendrick, Jade Celeste(Eileen), Mikey Scribner, Bindu Vijayan, Don Johnson, Jake Ponce, FJ Thomas, Jan Allison, Emile Pinet, Honestly J.T, Stephen Kilmer, SKAT A, Tim Ryerson, Richard Lamoureaux, Maurice Yvonne, Giorgio A.V, Lyric Man, Mustapha Mohammed, Justin Connor, Tim Smith, Poet Destroyer A (Linda), Olive Eloisa Guillermo, James Marshall Goff, Hannington Mumo, scott thirtyseven, Judy Kronos, Eve Roper, Sandra Haight, Gautami Phookan, Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, Connie Marcum Wong,Rightly Jennings Nathan Fehr, Devin Irving, Robert L. Hinshaw, Ralph Taylor,Tanja Vermaak,Nicole Viernes,Neva Romaine, Anne Lise Andreson, Nandita Das, Funom Makama, Kevin Leake, Tammy Reams, Dean Marais, David Meade, Debbie Guzzi, Peter Holmes, Sunflower Poetess, Dr.Upma A. Sharma, William Gray, Rajat Kanti Chakraba Rty, Courtney Courtney, Cherl Dunn, David Brown, Casarah Nance, Paul Callus, Ronald Zammit, Jiril Clemons, Carl Fraser, Afolabi Muideen, Dr. Ram Mehta, Shadow Hamilton, Donovan Willis, Cynthia Ferguson, Ed Ebbs, Nette Onclaud, Cindy Cayton, Wayne Riley, Muhammad Safa Thajudeen, Sheri Fresonke Harper, Yeisiel Rios, Chelsea Chords, David Mohn, Gerald Moise, Verlena S. Walker, Kelly Deschler, Ettie Christian, Arild Andresen Ertsland, Malik Yaseen, Kurdt Cohen, Arlene Smith, Karl Marszalowicz, Pace INK-U-SCRIPT, Elly D. A. Wouterse, Pandita Sanchez, Elisabeth Wesley, Carrie Richards, John Loving iii, Andrea Dietrich, Chris D. Aechtner, Robert Petitt, Jay Loveless, KJ Force, Vicky Tsiluma, Craig Cornish, Johnney Rhinem, Keith Bickerstaffe, David Scott, The Situation, Red Fiery, Painted Hunter, Harry Horseman, Edward Orozco, Wayland Bunch, Wally Flint ,James Horn...and so many more!!!


Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015


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LIBERTY OF EXPRESSION is HERE

Why I am here in Poetrysoup?

I like a seed carelessly thrown 
upon dirty solid black, brown rocks,
I strive, thrived to grow 
despite big rough blocks..

words... phrases... sentences...
They are screaming to be released
or climbing to burst in climax seize
or if not drifting upon crinkled seas

but how can I? 
When will I?
If within
minute by minute
salty prints roll down my cheeks
caused by bitter-lava  of emotions.

Heart is in state of stroke:
my mouth now mute
my lips lethargic to speak
yet my fingers found the head of a captain:

  wandering, wandering
  'til a shoreline glistens
  in the name of hope

Pressed. Pushed, 
I puddle anew the currents,
nothing but my desire to share;
to live, to be happy, to be healed,
to pour safely  fears, frustrations;
trials, dreams that I always pray.

Stabbed from behind,
bang and troubled by shark sharp words,
the powerhouse I built 
slowly, slowly fell to short.

Curiosity ignited my interest,
I attempt to pass a five stanza rhyme verse
eyes shut, ears closed to comments.
Not long, 
sleeping poems from my head popped,
they escaped

  teasing and tickling,
  unafraid, I bite every challenge
  swimming, soaking, diving deep.

Seven months until I taste glory
excitement crawl and peak
nervous yet I...

   I clamor to learn,
   I clamor to move on,
   I clamor to sing,
   I clamor to run,
   I clamor to fly,
   I clamor to soar

from the bluest ocean to darkest clouds,
from lair of lilacs to fruitless air,
from reality to ecstatic speech of fantasy
with pinching memories of past rejections, lost love 

   I hide behind the mask of metaphors
   I tease torrid with personification, 
   I sassy seduce using alliteration
   I heighten arousal with my pose, my muse
   I recite in my own right the rhymes of my soul

Ring! Ring! Ring
allow my poetry  be the bells
clanging blues echoing hues containing feelings.
Permit the tinkles permeate, 
impregnate your thoughts.
Freedom of expression, 
this you and I yearn.

Here in Poetrysoup liberty, I did earn!

Supporters, friends, challengers, lover I gained
yet these I never ask. I never expect.
They landed softly to my open palms,
I accepted. I treasure them.

Finally, my congested suffering heart 
today, beats systematically:

   gratitude, I can only inhale
   smile, I can only show
   prayers, I can only blow...

I know, 
respect, peace and order we all want.
Your verses and so is mine will be of powder rust, dust
but am humbled to be connected.
Pages I will leave here are my immortalized sentiments,
I do believe not all may agree because...
   
   Each one is unique
   Each one has a style
________________________________________________________
8:21 pm, December 26, 2015





Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015


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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


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2018


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Plethora of Poetry

~STRIP TEASE~     Featuring:) SKAT

Silver Skimpy Ink, String, A POET DESTROYER's bling, bling
Think of me as a human ditty delicious decoration,
Something along the line of a sweet tooth temptation
Cherry tastes, between the slit of tender toast 
Fine jumble jam slams down the tongueless throat 
Dance like a diamond on The tight South Pacific Rim
I'll feed you with a slithering seductive sound
My hair soaking, -wet and wild, tonight I trim
A dulcet apple acrostic bottom, to squeeze the greed
Feathers, on top, poetic diction describing to please
At times, I'm in deep dire need of something sweet, and sour 
Endless epic words, and ode to the naked poetic world
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, the freaking awesome
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)

---

Symbol of the spiritual Sexy SKAT Slang
--Provocative-- A slippery succulent, scrumptious kiss 
Counterparts working the tension, another arrant appetite
I am the Illuminati illusion, laminating luscious illustrated letters  
Indulging in the, satire of one stilt spoken sunset
Like a child's spiking temperature, I often throw tantrums, 
Teasing attentions, by incorporating a pole, paper and pen, 
If someone is uncomfortable with facing the fact, 
When I reveal everything, without removing my high heels
Then you must not be worldly or women and man enough 
I love to spoil and slur my scenery, using my best assets
My strength and power parallel, any unique universe 
That's how confident the audience makes me feel
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, fantastic and fabulous
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)


~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014


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Pretty Poet

Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone? 

A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect world wide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day! 
  
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today, 
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it was cocaine, 
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you

Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one 

By: ME
5-25-14


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014


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We Push The Pen

We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.

We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.

We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.

We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.

We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.

We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.





Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015


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Painting with Words

Painting with Words

If I were an artist instead of a poet
I’d paint what I knew as others would know it.

I’d be a Renoir and never a Klee
I’d paint what I saw as others would see.

If I were a painting instead of a poem
I’d use vivid colors on flowers or crone.

It’s the texture that matters , the curl of the line
Not the meter or syntax or even the rhyme.

I’d paint up a heaven, bright stars in the sky.
My colors would dazzle and make people cry.

I’d paint with abandon but nothing too styled.
I’d paint a dog barking, the cry of a child.

The blush of the morning, awash with the dew,
The eyes of a lover I’d capture for you.

But I’m just a poem, a small little rhyme
So I’ll paint with my words while you paint with your mind.


Copyright © Richard Jordan | Year Posted 2015


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Poet -This Poem is About You

-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet- 

Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off 
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause 

The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse 
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse 
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse 
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance, 
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers 
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest, 
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein

You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal, 
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree 
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."

I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter, 
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer 
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer

Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light, 
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes, 
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.

If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause

by;PD
I do it for fun


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014


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Toilet Bowl Committee

Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)

A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
---
If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low

Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger, 
straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself

Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors 
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dry grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood, 
overpower any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs

Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T


By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood) 
Date: 12-15-13

~*~


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014


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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--


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015


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A Reminder: To Be


Those of you who have a unique voice
filled with vision that paints outside the lines 
of over-regulated cadence and rhyme,
I implore you to continue exploring a core
that is fearless in writing against the grain of convention—
fearless friction is sandpaper that helps to perpetually re-invent 
yourself, by smoothing your raw passion into a timeless chair 
in which people of the future will sit in
while digesting your words. And their brows will crease, 

their eyebrows will arch into gates
where sighs of enlightenment will pass through,
for they are reading poetry that has not lost its novelty—
nor is it mimicry: a despondent, washed-out version
of 20 million other identically tired poems 
already written and read.

If you feel yourself being sucked down by the undertow 
of homogenization, fight against the current, drag yourself onto shore,
and let sunlight percolate pure word-intentions from the nucleus 
of your ancient, psalm-writing ancestry.

Your ancestors left behind DNA building blocks:
disciplinary examples and practices 
with which to construct mitochondrial drift
that bridges together the past and future
into a runway for you to lift-off from
after the training wheels have been removed,
to gain a bird's eye view of what was,
and what will always be sacred 
as long as you don't build a mynah nest in it, 
once truth's marrow is tasted from its winged divine inspiration
that soars above carbon-copy complacency.

To always be the freedom that manifests your luminous originality.




September 18th, 2013




+/-


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013


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''silence sweet solitude''

 
the solitude the silence silence of a bee in the forest silence of the leaves leaves on majestic trees leaves my soul quivering quivering treasures quivering happiness and joy joy of freedom and journeying on joy in my soul beyond time time entangled in vines time to pause in the emerald emerald windswept meadows trembling emerald velvet foliage creeping creeping and creeping the embroidery of green creeping sunlight fills the shadows shadows are where the violets sleep shadows hide a hundred chirping wings wings of the poets dreamy muse wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay decay in the tangled branches decay beautiful and divine divine tufts of yellow divine bliss in silence silence in the garlands of green silence in hushed echoes echoes of unseen songsters echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing flowing pen flowing words and verses verse amongst the scattered dandelions verses in the whispering calm calm the clusters of vines twining calm the bliss bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants bliss under an azure above above the cowslip and foxglove above blue birds fly fly downy wings fly with the sweet wind wind that whispers in my ears wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers flowers wilted and dying flowers with petals forlorn forlorn my poetic words forlorn and weeping weeping on tattered paper in solitude weeping poems and rhymes and verses created in the silence solitude . . . _______________________ May 23, 2015 Blitz Submitted to the contest, shhhhh , sponsor, Silent One 8th Place


Copyright © Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015


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When It Comes To Me

I often sit for long periods of time
hoping the perfect beginning will come to me.
To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital
leaving readers with great expectations.

But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight,
it's comes to my attention
that much like life, How it Began
isn't half as important as How it Finishes,

(And neither as important
as How it Is in the Present)

That's how it was, in any case,
when the landlord dropped the news
that sunny Idahoan morn;

It was a time for a change, they all said in unison:
my sister, my brother, my mother ---
And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree,

For I knew no matter where I went
I'd always have poetry ...

(but now it seems she has alluded me)

Through 2,500 miles and 9 states;
through a million and a half brand new things 

... and yet

Inspiration refuses to sing.
As I sit here in suspense
for that metaphorical gravy train,
wondering when the words
will start flowing again.

Will it be like it was before,
when it comes to me?
Ears perked to the extreme
with expectations of a symphony?

When it comes to me ...

Will they laugh? Will they cry?
Will my words come across
like softest lullaby?

Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves,
we wonder why.
But no my most cherished friends,
we mustn't cry,

for it's been a great adventure,
has it not?

Remember the words of Dr. Seuss:
Don't be sad that it's over,
Smile that it happened.

Though words were once putty in my hands
I now take in the beauty that encompasses me,
content to just let it sit,
without the need to express it ...

But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader,
for I have the highest hope
that stars will dance,
leaves will fly,
birds will sing,

WHEN it comes to me.

But will you believe me when I say
I've watched the stars fall and flicker
between the leaves
a hand's breadth from my fingertips?

(go on and take a sip
the magic's free)

That I've breathed in the air,
as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky
just for me.

Oh and how I wish you could see
beyond the words of this page,
for it's beyond a tragedy
that all I have to give is this poem.

You know I'd offer you my eyes
for you to see the things I'm seeing.

(put your hand on my chest,
can you feel it beating?)

Like the petals of a rose
she holds me close:
the place where the bright rubicund clay
makes way for my Armstrongian footprints

---just one small step
then comes the leap---

My arms spread wide
hoping for discovery,
but preparing for catastrophe ...

And believe me when I say
I couldn't dream of sleep,
for when it comes to me
the minstrels will weep,
the prisoners'll be set free ...
as emotions become ablaze
in new and surprising ways.

For there's a lily pad pond,
just outside my backdoor ....
that's begging for a tale to be penned.
There's a place called Mount Alto
sitting just like a storybook
outside the backdoor, my friends,

whilst I sit here
listening to the cicadas sing
in Valley Soprano,
reminding me that everything
is but a poem-in-waiting:

The rolling green hills
bearing witness of mountain familiarity;
the black butterflies
flitting between
the berry blossoms of May.

Everything is so new here ...
far beyond anything I could ever say.
And I hope I can do it justice,
to paint a picture in your head,
with every ounce of the things I've said ...

(auto-biography? fantasy?
you won't be able to tell the difference
when it comes to me)


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016


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Super Soupers

It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness 
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California 
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?


Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.



Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013


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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




Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2012


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Write My Life

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)


Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017


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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


Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018


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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




Copyright © Michelle Faulkner | Year Posted 2018


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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.


Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2018


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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


Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2018


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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




Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012


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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!



Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013