“The Wheel of Fortune” turns
as Kay sang – also the dead are
recycled some faiths believe --
circles upon circles, cycles of
time, history been that, done
that, still is that again and again --
I’ve loved you before, vowed
we eternal, just mouthing “Till Death
Do Us Part”...was it old age or war
our many separations? Is
love better the second time around?
The third, the fourth!? Count life’s
stock certificates, issues of reissues? –
those tears of Rome, of the cross, the washes
of the past are no different from
the floods of today...some do,
some pray...nothing changes!
Hollywood awards its counterfeit
films and compositions – I could
be rich, were I a dishonest mere
study. Imagination far deeper
than an Emmy or Oscar – a new
name means nothing to a recognized
old countenance. “When will they
EVEr Learn?”-- not yet apparently!
You came and lingered into my life so early
Through recitation, you dwelled upon me
You played a big role in my stage of growing up
When I learned many poems to gesture
Innocently, I was joyfully seated on your lap.
Appreciation to your splendor promptly started
At young age, rhymes easily retained in my head
If sometimes I needed to share some ideas at school
And reflections on bible verses at churches
Mostly were expressed in rhymes… so fun, so cool.
At teen age years, when I’d an infatuation or crush
My scribbled short rhyme poem was sent in a rush
One of those boys sent me back his reply
My joy was flailing high for it was love letter in rhyme
After a year or two, I found out, a song of Air Supply.
Ever since I was in the field of my profession
You’ve been a great help as I impart skills, my vocation
I’ve compositions for my children’s choral recitation
Written in English and in our own language
For our class, campus programs and competitions.
My dearest poetry, you’re my best buddy
In all seasons, you’re here for me
To light my path, giving powers or energy
My forever gratitude for your company
You’re my precious gift from our God, Almighty.
O, dear poetry, how old are you?
give me a glimpse, The Story of Sinuhe
the art just might predate literacy,
before the birth of the written word, BCE
Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor the eldest fictious
the Epic of Gilgamesh on papyrus
the world’s oldest love poems, verselets
Homer’s ancient epics
Compositions made for spoken word
I finally found out from all I’ve heard
what my dear poetry means to me
the love of artistic lyrical spontaneity
learning of words using them expressively
or impressively, excessively, whatever it takes
with poetic license, there are no mistakes
Works that lead to electric elucidation
with rhythmic flow, meter and alliteration
my primo priority is; my poem pieces make sense,
with rhyme and my love for classic cadence
having the quality of amatory ambiguity,
steered adrift with ominous obscurity
strapping images of suggestive metaphors
I’ll write to inspire as do the troubadours…..
PARADOXICAL AMBIGUITIES
precocious
visual
energies
intensify
monumental
iconographic
polarities
in
retrospect
reminiscent
motifs
cling
to
innocuous
ambivalent
perpetual
intimate
conventional
compositions
highlights
ground
a plenitude
of familiar
innovative
interpretatIons
Poets say that Love is everything
Artists give it much but just a start
Convinced hearts like paintings
Forever in progress I sense having
Dabbled also in studios of romantic
Art --
A brush stoke here, a warmth
Of color, unsigned for Love’s
Playful compositions when true
Never entirely done –
The poet writes, the artist shows
His voice charms, Her canvas glows
Everything lost, everything won
No greater wager than chips of love --
PRECISE PERSPECTIVES
off
reflected
hues
reclining
stretching
topography
in
painstakingly
perfect
proportions
frictionless
compositions
directly
confront
distant
discomfort
in
muted
sophisticated
eccentricity
with
unsettling
rigour
in
captured
layered
perceptions
Silence fell and all the world stood still
as towers crumbled down
with hopes and dreams to
smash upon the broken streets below.
Birds no longer sang.
The music of the streets
was murdered under clouds
of dust that choked the
air from gasping lungs and stilled the blood.
A moments calm before then sound rushed
back in symphony of screaming
highs and crashing lows,
discordant in its first chaotic riff.
We held our breath.
Believing time could never bring
the harmonies back into
lives so shattered and bereft
by such a deed as never 'fore was seen.
But music heals.
And if the turning of the world
brings forth new melodies and form
in intermingled compositions,
we can sing again.
Then once more we can hope.
And where the music stopped will ever be
the centre in which dreams begin anew
Music has always been the life sustaining incubator in my life that Is filled with its vibes, its cords, its beats, its harmonies, its compositions, and its arrangements. Music will forever be for my venting, my releasing, my therapy, and healing
Just listen to the nightingale’s song—
you will know God’s compositions
are flawless, without error.
No earthly force can drown its melody,
woven with beauty and complexity,
for every ear to savor.
Its voice never cracks nor falters,
a gift no man can bestow.
Whistles, trills, and warbled phrases,
unwritten, yet always pleasing,
teaching us that music
needs no single tongue.
Hence it is often said:
music has no language.
Songs can stir the feet to dance
without a single word—
as the birds themselves have shown.
The wind too hisses its song,
yet it charms the earth.
Trees, shrubs, and grasses bend,
swaying back and forth
to its rhythm,
delighting in the dance.
Nature sings without instruments,
its melodies whole and pure.
We copy and claim them,
yet God never claimed a copyright
when He composed the first songs.
Through nature, God is the teacher:
the flight of birds in aeroplanes,
the sailing of fish in ships,
the motion of beast in cars.
Nothing we sing is truly new.
What we call song composition
was already in His creation.
All beautiful songs are first His,
for all good things begin with God.
Written By:
A. Pseudonym
The Motif was decided to
precede each new verse
The words were written
to inspire a sound
a big bold beautiful
sound
happy enough to smile
melancholy from the frustration
of lacking inspiration
having been blessed with those
who share the interest of completion
and a strong spirt
those music lovers
are willing to collaborate and compose
to complete that full rainbow of
emotion that put's signatures
on something which
pride allows those
to understand.words that inspire music
the joy of collaborative efforts
the sadness of not being able to full afford
the full Orchestra
the freedom to create
the human experience( in celebration of)
and the natural way it feels to be around lovers
of Music in a creative sense!
Characterized by Professionalism
and Collaborative Effects.
Strong Bold Big Sound Music Company
Performances By Us Inc.
Tux-Gowns
rags and Sheet' music
I saw him put sand on the epoxy rosined floor
to create a sound when he Tap Danced.
It was his way of helping up
create a sound a melody and beat.
It worked we did several Compositions from
this feat.
Woman is like art
It has beauty
It has value
It has fashion and elegance
It touches your very core
For those who know.
Woman is like melody
It's like poetry
It's like a song
It transcend emotions
It relaxes your soul
To those who can see.
Woman is like ceramic
It's like a visual art
A painting and a sculpture
For those who can read
It's like a book gripping with stories
Of different compositions in it.
Woman is like food
Once you taste it good
It becomes your favorite
Every meal has delicacy
You don't want to forget
The rest of your life you want it.
Try to write only one true thing
From within where siren songs sing
Something to which we all can cling
Imagine what joy they might bring
Others may bow to crown you king
Real wisdom shall forever ring
Feel the passion and pluck that string
So some will write just one true thing
53 words 8 lines monorhyme
Ernest Hemingway spoke this quote
to help writers starting compositions:
"All you have to do is write one true
sentence. Write the truest sentence
that you know."
Colored Pencil Illustration by G. Gaul
2024
There is something about matter
that keeps me spellbound,
enamored to its most exquisite blooms,
oceans, forests and mountain streams.
It holds who I am, gives me shape
and form, a home, a place in which
this awareness within me
can live out a life and from which
I have grown.
I am in awe of its compositions,
in love with its colors, perfumes
and sounds, the touch of warm skin
and the sweet taste of freshly
harvested fruit. All is matter.
It is a source of pleasure and joy
and yet inflicts equal measure
of suffering through loss and pain.
But what is matter
when scaled down
to its essence….mere particles
that can be smashed apart
to decay into ghostly spirals.
Is this all I am, a quantum
equation at my core. Or is it
a Creator's gift, the stuff
born out of the act
of a conscious mind, eternal
in some mysterious way.
And so it is with me,
beside the beloved river taking in
the last light of the day.
Full of hope and doubt
I see this lovely world slowly
slipping away and wonder
whether if this is all there is
and nothing more
or will I awake from this dream
as I may have done so many
lifetimes before.
They say the Scientist has a cold gaze
but that is not so.
He doesn't have a gaze.
All he has is an observation.
He doesn't look with his eyes or even his glasses.
He takes delight in filtered structural compositions
devoid of uncertainty.
He pauses the shockwave and expands the fireball.
He displaces the atoms within.
My parent’s library
Passed time, childhood age, memory, and feelings from my life
I was sitting in front of the bookshelf. Always. Amazing collection
I was twelve, hmm, life is an illusion. Dazzle life, hmm, but reality
The fact of existence passed years, but the books followed my life
Masterpieces of literature, my parents's collection gave me my life
I followed my mom and daddy, I got great compositions; life is love
Mother? Father? I love you. Masters of my life, your mind; literature
A son, a bad guy, remembering you. Always. Your library was my mind
Hmm. Library, in Hatvan, my childhood city, loved past, the garden lives in a heart
Yes, a love, a love from my heart. A city in Hungary, my young life, history
My parents are intellectuals, thank you my parents my life, a son loves you
I can’t be far, from London sent you a virtual card; read it: Love. My parents
My parent's books
I loved all
But I am following
My way
My parents book
In my mind
Maybe a rule
No
Not that
Just memory
of literature
My teacher
from school
I love you
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Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.