~The breath drawn deep is but a borrowed stay,
~~A fleeting spark within the endless night,
~~~~Where light and shadow's. in a silent play,
~Will fade and flicker, in the morning light.
~~~~~~~The bud unfurls, a vibrant splash of green,
~Bloom in sunlight, then wilt in autumn's chill;
~~~~~~~~~~~~ragile beauty on a fleeting scene,
~~~~~~~~Caroming seasons on a lonely hill.
~~~~~~~~~~~So man appears, a whisper in the wind,
~~~ A passing thought in time's unconcerned hand,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A story written, ultimately sinned,
~ ~~~~~~~~~Before the final grains of silver sand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~We rise and fall, as ocean's restless tide,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Where the universe enigmas reside.
Epilogue: The Voice of Rome
CHORUS:
The years roll on, and men ascend and fall,
As waves that break upon time’s stony shore.
Yet virtue, like the sun, doth never set,
Though clouds may veil her face from mortal eyes.
We saw the tyrant crowned in purple pride,
And saw him cast to exile’s bitter wind.
We heard the sage rebuke with tempered flame,
And watched his seed take root in youthful hearts.
Now one who sat beneath his olive shade
Doth wear the robe once stained by Varro’s hand.
Temptation knocks, as ever it hath done,
Yet wisdom speaks, and he doth not betray.
O Rome, thy soul is not in marble bound,
Nor in the clang of arms or Senate’s cry.
It lives in minds that hold the law as sacred,
And hearts that scorn the lure of fleeting gold.
Let every age remember Lucilius,
Who taught that power is but a trust bestowed,
And that the highest rank is servitude
To truth, to justice, and the common man.
So ends our tale, but not its living flame.
For though the actors vanish from the world,
Their deeds endure, inscribed in memory’s stone.
And Rome shall rise, if Romans still be wise.
You said it’s just the night relax unwind
But whispers cut like static through the mind
You said it’s just the kids the jokes the play
But footsteps trailed and never walked away
You said it’s just the wind behind the door
But air grew thick and colder than before
You said it’s just the moon the silver haze
But every street was smoke and phantom blaze
You said it’s just the dark it hides the town
But eyes lit up when all the lights went down
You said it’s just a dream the fear the fun
But dawn came slow and found the street undone
You said it’s just a tale forget move on
But some of us still swear we heard that song
You said it’s just one night it fades by noon
Then something laughed beneath the dying moon
Dear Florence,
How the evening sun sets upon us,
To garnish the sky in marigold wreaths;
For it sprouts the mist of heavenly light,
The myth I wish to garner from thee.
O’ deathly lady, speak unto me truth,
Does beauty cower ‘neath thy sanctum of stone?
Or perhaps it hides within moss ridden yards,
And loves anew each death it’s outgrown.
O’ deathly lady, veiled under the breeze,
How I envy thine eyes lain barest at dawn;
Awaiting the sun through tender spring leaves,
And blinding thyself – awake to true beauty.
Florence Margaret Mainland
(Nov. 25, 1903-June 8, 1925)
Mound Cemetery, Racine, Wisconsin
Grab the steeple and pretend
The life you had would end
Months gone we move along
We still hear whispers friend
Moulded night drowns flight
Drenched withered dred
Victimized, the whites, her eyes
Consumed chemical bed
If I pretend to lie and mend
What lesson ever learned?
Escaping safety sleepy daisy
The peddles pulled and again
Echoed wave, waned moons fade
This is the darkest hour
Admitting fault and not exalt
Lies the laureled flower
Design your time and keep in mind
Evading isn't owning fate
As you had presumed this final move
Bankrupt that fatal freight
Vindictive lips once did kiss
Solemn they were a home
And forgotten passion project
Rotten to the bone
Mourning hearts mooring marks
Flee shattered scenes
Believed to be deceased at peace
Was my own response to misery
What gorgeousness is Beauty most treasured,
that breathes life, air, and health into starving lungs,
so ecstasy that's beyond being measured,
make even angels rejoice and speak in tongues?
Nothing is more blissful than passion enjoyed;
and nothing's greater than love supernal,
which inspires joy when two hearts are alloyed,
in union of mind and soul eternal.
Love everlasting and preternatural,
and Beauty incomparable, divine,
transcendent, and utterly ethereal,
transform lovers that join, and intertwine.
To love is beauty, and beauty will not move:
what more could the world need now to know,
than heaven and earth were made from Beauty's love,
and grace, that sanctify with a sacred glow?
In our measure of the passing time,
Curious circles fill the counted days—
Numbered moments scarred by transiting light,
The heaven’s moguls bruise our joy and blight,
And give, and take, and measure what we mean.
Time, indifferent, measures us; it loops
Around the heaven’s span and grids the world.
Saturn still stutters—constant sorrow speaks—
Today recedes into tomorrow’s loss;
Yet clocks in circles go, and we pay cost.
O god of time, your circles go and go,
Returning slow, then turning wingèd, fast—
They come, they go—there’s time enough for love.
Meanwhile I scan the horizon with my mind,
And seek the curve of her Belt of Venus—fire—
A circumference of sunset reds that span
The sky; on sight she’s timeless, swaying slow,
A pendulum—its fixed foot steady—rings
My day; her pulse keeps measure as it swings.
And in night’s sanctuary, as we roll
On sweat-slippery fields of red-ochre bliss,
We kiss the kiss that turns and kisses back.
Then, as I watch her breathing come to rest,
Time stops—
and takes my breath away.
Dragons don't cry, nor laugh-- not that they can't!
It's just exhausting, to accumulate
Years, wisdom, and gold: emotion they slant.
For all their beating wings, their heart runs cold.
To love, fiery? No. To mourn unto tears?
Again, no, they don't. And having lost love,
Laughter too is gone. Have you heard echoes,
Arumble in the canyons? Fierce laughter?
Dragons do not cry. They are too old, tired.
So let the ocean salt the wounds you bear,
And let your madness mount the dragon, ere
You see the dawn and dusk, the cloudy draw.
Soar, winged emotion, drown sorrow in tears.
But be not dragon, for whom the cold heart
Beats without laughter, tears of joy, nor grief,
Lives uncounted eons, born nether shadow,
Without connection, regret, love, nor loss.
No.
Laugh with the spring rain, Sorrow over loss,
And most of all, love. Love with tempest tears
Grieve with your short years, and be not dragon.
When it came to iambic pentameter
Alexander Pope was no dumb amateur.
In his strict use of it he achieved a skill
often with a monotonous overkill –
a danger every poet should not commit
unless he likes his thoughts in a straitjacket,
and the flow so turgid and mechanical
the line will cease to sound natural –
more strident, unmellifluous and harsh
like a stomping, goose-stepping march.
Now here’s a fast and easy suggestion
to unclog a line’s bumpy congestion
which Pope and other poets used to great
effect when they deemed it appropriate :
they added an extra syllable or stress
which opened it and gave it smoothness.
These little extras acted like a breach
and made the line read like spoken speech.
It may not work even with a first try
and take it from me, it’s not a lie.
In fact, you may require a new line or couplet
to be rewritten with a little extra sweat.
But, hey, think back to when you started writing
how many drafts required no editing?
Laughter hides in the strangest of places.
I laughed when she spoke, the sun's rays kissing her
Beautiful smiling, the lilt in her eyes
Betrayed promises of many tomorrows.
It's no secret that our life's been hard-- NO--
A betrayal of modest happiness.
And yet, I found joy. Laughter whilst walking,
Joyful moments of tender lovesickness.
I forgot sorrow, and laughed at clowns,
Awed at acrobats, and, entranced I watched
Fish and sharks, colors shimmering behind
Glass walled cages, swimming. It was a day spent
More of emotion than of my wallet.
My wife squeezed my hand, reminding me, “Love.”
I forgot sorrow, anxiety, and…
What was I saying?
“Life's a gift, but sometimes sorrow
moves the path of our tomorrow."
_ by Poet
From happy to heartbroken, we've become,
without a thought, her life would take a turn.
Strange symptoms that were very worrisome,
with outcomes that took many months to learn.
It started with the hurt in her left arm
when moving it became a painful chore.
Then, day by day, this triggered an alarm,
as her left side became more stiff and sore.
A search for diagnosis was the goal.
It was not easy as her symptoms grew;
from sleeplessness and mental stress, her whole
demeanor, doing things, was changing, too.
With visits to physicians, days went by
for swings in blood pressure, her beating heart.
New doctors and neurologists would try
to diagnose these symptoms from the start.
In early June this year, the verdict came-
one which we feared, but hoped would not be true.
For then we knew she'd never be the same.
There was no cure; just medicine would do.
From happy to heartbroken, we've become.
Our daughter, early 60s- Lord help, please!
This outcome is now very worrisome.
She's diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease.
Her beauty turned to malison and woe,
As ladies, envious, scorn her radiant face,
Their hearts, inclined to rivalry, bestow,
A bitter enmity, her charm’s disgrace.
The world casts down her fortune with its spite,
Her colleagues seethe when she but speaks to one,
The officers and ministers, not right,
Exploit her grace, their honor left undone,
She faces all the world with matchless heart,
And ward the wolves in men with stead fast might,
Her struggle tames her family’s raging part,
To prove herself a lady of great light
A nation seeking progress shall revere,
Such women, striving still to persevere.
Presence of you ignites my heart with joy,
If you go out of sight it makes me sad.
This bond between us always brings me joy,
The world will try to break our steadfast bond
By phone we share some talks of daily life,
And they do keep a watch on all our deeds,
To save my life from those who cause much strife,
Your care for me is praiseworthy, your deeds.
Your plan to fight the world nearby is best,
And keep me hide from them with daring flair,
The efforts to protect our bond are best,
It was you who made it ever to endure.
The friendships full of love and care is boon
To make it fail the world efforts are vain
The sea waves live- both fast and slow;
they gallop high, then tiptoe low,
_by Poet
There's nothing quite as moving as the sea
that takes my breath away with mystic bliss;
the strength of waves that move with majesty
as white-caps froth and roll with no resists.
With deepest roar, they crash upon the shore
and then change course in rolling back that force.
Their rhythm never fails as they implore
that circling motion fed by endless source.
Astounding is the power that never ends;
though tides with shifting boundaries contend,
for as the Moon, with push and pull amends-
the highs and lows retract and then extend.
Majestic sea, I feel your mighty drive
which leaves me breathless as I walk the sand.
No force on earth can change your will to thrive!
Oh, gift for life, I honor your command.
What is truth, Where does it reside?
Is it mere appearance or bride dyed-white?
Was Gandhi the truth or the Dreams of Freud?
Or did you find it when the infant cried?
In Slaying Slogans of Soldiers' Pride
Or in the mistakes which a child hide?
For me, truth is like a naked bride
You veil it as a corpse in graveside
Tis' Unbroken, Wrapt in spider's hide
Mother Instint'll be there to guide
Go deep to search that treasure in mines
Indeed you'll see it between the lines.
Specific Types of Iambic Pentameter Poems
Read wonderful iambic pentameter poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, dog, family, food, friends, funny, kids, life, love, music, nature, school, sports, war
and more.
Definition | What is Iambic Pentameter in Poetry?