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-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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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 shit 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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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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~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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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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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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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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-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 (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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Writing Poem
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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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Writing Poem
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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
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Writing Poem
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I am but a dreamer
and in my dreams I play
where I live so happily
writing them my way
inside my illusions
where I know I belong
whistling a joyful tune
as I go along
Like a little spirit
I venture on the breeze
skipping in the gentle wind
doing what I please
with the rising sun I dance
wrapped inside his charms
across the golden morning sky
twirling in his arms
I can climb a mountain
or live among the trees
sail in a silver sailboat
on the seven seas
I can draw a moonlit night
ride on a bright moonbeam
and swim among the diamonds
in a velvet stream
I am but a dreamer
there's nothing in my way
living in the place I love
loving everyday
maybe it's a fairytale
but that's all right by me
I'm the master of my dreams
where I wander free
No one there can tell me
what is wrong or right
following what's in my heart
I live in the light
happy in my dream world
that's where I choose to stay
in the world where I belong
writing dreams my way
Copyright © Robin L. Gass | Year Posted 2009
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Writing Poem
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Sometimes, life has no reason unlike the seasons
It aimlessly drifts with the wind
We find ourselves in places of unfamiliar faces
Bathing in the shadows of sin
Our souls become lost up in the holocaust
That once was a beautiful life
Like a ship drifting upon the tide we bang and then we ride
The white horse straight into death
Into a giant black hole we dive in with our soul
Until we have nothing left
We then fall prey to our host who spreads butter on our toast
Our habits take over our lives
Everything we hold dear falls with one last tear
Into the darkness of night
Tired and defeated all our hope is depleted
Because we have nothing left to lose
Sometimes the storm passes as slow as molasses
Left frozen somewhere in the snow
Then our red eyes run dry with no tears left to cry
As we admit, I’d rather be dead
If you have a desire to live right, please take heed of my plight
And know that it’s never to late
Soon as you give it away find your knees and pray
You will find the comfort of home
And all of the disgrace will fall off of your face
Like the leaves that fall off the tree
And just like the bare tree soon you will see
Life is reborn in the spring
Like a warm days cool breeze, God fills us with his ease
And through him we find some peace
One day at time the trials all unwind
As the jigsaw falls into place
As everything gets better we become one with the weather
And the seasons suddenly become our friend
Our lives suddenly fly past, because we want to make them last
Like an ice-cream on a really hot day
We are overcome with the obligation to tell of our salvation
Remembering all of those left behind
Some will find their way, others all we can say
Is Lord, we truly did our best
Dear Lord we write for your glory, telling our stories
That we would rather keep hid on the shelf
Our desire is to aspire so we can rise ever higher
With the words that flow though our pen
Giving of ourselves becomes our greatest wealth
As our souls become one with the Son
No high could be higher than faith and desire
Knowing we have been born again
One day we will stand before the gates that shall open to our fate
As heaven welcomes us in
We will look down on this earth, spirits of a new birth
Watching over the seeds that we spread
Knowing their lives were made better, because we were able to weather
The storm that raged through night
Until the day I become shadows and dust I'll forever trust
The words that flow through my pen
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2010
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Writing Poem
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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
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Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
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Writing Poem
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My favourite pastime:
crafting poetry in rhyme
but not so this time
Ordered by Debbie:
from your comfy box break free
haiku it will be
Debbie, what's with you
to rhythm and rhyme I'm true
I loathe haiku
I'll stay in my sphere
sans rhythm poetry's queer
Oops! I rhymed in here
Copyright © delysia hendricks | Year Posted 2011
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Writing Poem
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His poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
hunting grounds
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
that inspire
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where poetry lives
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006
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Writing Poem
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"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." - Percy Shelley
Do not tell me to smile
while tears run down my cheek,
just because I am melancholy
does not mean I am weak.
I cannot fake happiness
these are real tears I cry,
if they are invisible to you
I really wonder why.
They say look on the bright side
and this only makes me mad,
my emotions are not hidden
I am unafraid to be sad.
You cannot understand it
wished, prayed for it to go,
these sorrows you tried to end
yet, this is all I know.
Tears flow through my veins
not the red blood of life,
this heart sobs, it does not beat
outpouring all my cares and strife.
I am happy in sadness
not in a fake smile,
so, let my tears fall
I want to be sad for awhile.
If you hate sad poetry
than I am not for you,
I will write a "happy" poem
when I am ready to.
September 20th, 2013
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013
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Writing Poem
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liberty in verse
atypical on the Soup
born a free-spirited caballero
I’ll not dangle
from another poet’s noose
jigsaw puzzles presented
by contest sponsors
jump through hoops
win their accolades
who’s to say what makes good verse?
flash your PhD at me
“Oh yes, oh yes, you are the best,”
most wholeheartedly agree
those who compromise
win a nebulous prize
preset rhyme patterns
syllable and word counts
twisted forms, multiple forms, mega-forms
atrocities created
messages secondary
to prescribed presentations
poetic constipation
forced by over-regulation
Copyright © Diane Locksley | Year Posted 2010
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Writing Poem
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FEELINGS
Feelings,
Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions
Burning fire you are
Consuming my whole
Being:
My heart
My mind
My soul
My spirit,
As you relentlessly
Demand:
To be conceived
To be formulated
To be understood
To be expressed!
A Herculean task it is,
I swear,
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained
And mold you into:
Phonemes
Syllables
Words
Phrases
Sentences
And still retain
Your explosive
Dynamism?
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!
Thus, having no
Alternative,
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the
Cosmos speaks,
And
The universe alone
Comprehends:
The language of
Harmony,
That we humans
POETRY name
BUT
Even then
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!
©Demetrios Trifiatis
28 January 2013
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
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