Life Iambic Pentameter Poems | Examples
These Life Iambic Pentameter poems are examples of Iambic Pentameter poems about Life. These are the best examples of Iambic Pentameter Life poems written by international poets.
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?
A black child knows the song of heavy trains,
as clanging engines brought my father home.
His weary, sweaty, fat thighs bearing strain,
from cooking pots of food for those well-known.
We felt the forceful song of heavy trains,
not rails or trams that ride below the street.
A move that in your gut of gut does reign,
black power that comes up beneath your feet.
Our past has known the song of steel on steel
as trains have carried tired heads held high.
When we approached we heard the air brakes squeal,
and at that sound we thought our hopes were nigh.
We've listened for the song of trains for years.
Their mournful horns just croon a memory,
and often resurrect the blues of tears,
or flash across the mind as reverie.
For many years we've sang the sad refrain,
with strength and power striving in the soul.
This melody of freedom laced with pain.
The weight of all life's longings taking toll.
Oh, sing a song of praise for those who bare
the weight of heavy trains within our past,
a rocking to and 'fro' from here to there,
maintaining in our spirits WILL to last.
“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.
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.
O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.
Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow as eyes on a predator? Pill.
Alcohol, wormwood, erasure, vile vial.
Guns, thy salute. Funeral. Lunge, then still.
Ravine, out back and filled with water. Caught.
Animals afloat, belly up, life flew.
Grey old men, hope is a mystery. Clue?
Sparks, burned out and skittering. Fire, cold. Bought.
Doom, close in on all. Deliverance? None.
Stifled by Fate and Fortune? Withheld. New?
Nothing under the sun, scion. Red run.
Grasping fingers and a quill, quahog. Brew.
Wasteland, receive. Gold, far. Sandbar, choke. Smoke.
Poison, leap from serpent's fang. Deeply sunk.
Peril, everywhere. Round upward, time. Soak.
Continent, beneath water. Ocean, plunk.
As night falls from above I ponder when
My thoughts do wonder far beyond the skies
Of life’s actions unjust to me and then
A mind that's gone across the nation flies
In thoughts that one can meet their very end
In time so fast as one can bat an eye
With much not done as one might well intend
As God alone can judge on throne up high
What's life without but love for we to have
An age where we must get and yet we take
To find a soul which thinks to only serve
An act so lost beneath the truth that's fake
I'll still give thanks to all everything that stays
With faith and hope I'll see the latter days
I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.
But when greedy hands infected the land,
The beauty was ruined; life lost its home—
And the gentle calls of sparrows and swifts
Were quickly replaced with thundering guns
Foxes found their homes within dead bodies,
And owls on the hunt flew above shellfire;
Butterflies drank from the growing poppies,
Tainted by the blood of the innocent,
That grew like a plague sent to cleanse the land.
In some places, only the dead remained,
Strewn about randomly and carelessly—
Lying like dolls on a child’s playroom floor;
Never even given a proper grave.
With patience, they wait to be discovered—
To be welcomed home by beloved arms;
But, within all their rosy dreams of home,
Hides the truth they have known for far too long:
They remained forgotten; their names are dead.
Out of anguish for all those who were killed,
Nature returned to reclaim its power.
Marina, Motherina, Baba, Mum!
Reflect upon what your life has become:
Born in Harbin to refugee Russians,
Tossed out by Mao, with mild repercussions.
Aussie girl, country girl, raised by grandmas,
And grandpa and parents (both pains in her ****).
Small school, to high school with penguin-ed nuns,
Bespeckled and bikeless - childhood is done!
Went off to college at Melbourne Uni,
Made friends, stole a goat and earned a degree.
Entered the workforce for airliner doomed,
Later a teaching position assumed.
Married a beardy fresh in from Hungry
(also a Russian circuitously)...
Moved to the suburbs - East of the border,
Had a few children (not in that order).
Two in-laws out back, who helped with offspring,
Replaced by her mum, who started writing.
Son and two daughters, she raised to adult,
Some better than others - not all her fault.
Each offspring took flight, with their other half.
All but the youngest, who forged her own path.
Some grandkids were born, they grew up a bit,
Throw in some church stuff and that's about it.
"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth
find reserves of strength that will endure
as long as life lasts.” Rachel Carson
Some thoughts of Earth as just routine, exist;
for it's the only way we know to live.
The Sun comes up each day to coexist
with Earth that's tethered by its rule to give.
The air we breathe- like magic fills our need
for balanced oxygen our lungs require.
The gifts from land and sea are here to feed;
fulfill the hunger of innate desire.
Besides sustaining us, our Earth provides
grand scenery that takes our breath away.
Real land and seascapes offer stunning slides
of artistry- alive in full display.
And, with all this, the gift to procreate;
the flowers, trees- Earth's species, one and all.
A miracle for sure, that steers the fate
to multiply- extinction to forestall.
Earth seasons come and go without a flaw
providing shifts for rebirth after death;
all living things will die by nature's law-
to sleep in Winter- rise with Springtime breath.
Must contemplate this beauty of our Earth
that grants the strength to recognize its worth.
I opened a large book- my rose to lay
aft lifted from his graveside to my breast.
Oh, yes- God stood beside me on that day
and led me to the place where it would rest.
One night I prayed to Him- please send a sign
my father was at peace in Heaven's light
with everlasting life and soul divine-
which I felt true- but longed to know was right.
Some days passed by and in the opened book
I read the words beneath the wilted rose.
Emotions flowed, and teardrops overtook-
as God, beside me, banished all my woes.
The rose lay on a poem named “The Grave.”
Its words by Robert Blair, bode life anew.
In God's eternal life, great hope it gave;
and so I knew this answer made it true.
This miracle now rules my soul and heart.
Oh, yes- God stood beside me on that day.
Now I believe that death is a new start-
as proved to me with words- where my rose lay.
I swore I’d never let myself get old
That time and I would always be good friends
It’s all just attitude is what I’m told
Well, tell that to my broke back as it bends
I swore I’d never go to bed at nine
The nightlife that I knew would always be
To dance ’til dawn would always be just fine
Well, tell that to my swollen, creaky knee
And yes, I’ll always dress like Brummell, Beau
A tux, a tie to trot around the globe
Don’t look too hard, you wouldn’t want to know
I haven’t left the sofa in my robe
I swore I’d never let my hair go gray
There’s dye for that and for my mustache too
I guess that’s what I thought back in the day
But now a silver fox looks back at you
So in my robe in bed at nine o’clock
With aspirin for my aches and pains in hand
I’m happy with my dreams and missing sock
I’ve had enough damn dancing, ain’t it grand
When I finish this course called life, I'll die;
and be glad, for no more must I be sad;
for I'll know that I gave it my best try,
my best attempt, my all, all that I had.
Until that time, I'll live and just abide;
have faith and trust in God, give thanks and pray;
remember what it's all for, and besides;
though life brings sorrow, in the end today
is all we have. And if along the way,
I can help make this world a better place
(by tearing down man's hate, though it's cliché),
then the love of God manifests His grace
through me. Nothing else matters to me now,
except loved ones, true friends, and rhythmic verse.
Because of His death, I have made my vow:
my past's long gone, and my future's now no worse!
Wish I, a journal of my days, had kept
from my teen years until the present time;
I'd have a way to view and intercept
each memory by date- a gift sublime.
Be able to flip back on pages bound;
recall those facts my mind, in time erased.
The story of my life would then be found
in written words- in real-time, be based.
A day, a week, a month, a year- review
the felt emotions then expressed each day;
for most of them, long gone or faded, flew
so far beyond what memories convey.
My journal- snapshot of each day that passed-
the good, the bad, and all those in between;
the story of my life, through words, recast-
to let what's known, what's buried, reconvene.
I am so blessed to have great-grandchildren.
Four generations now upon our tree;
three girls- age four, one and a half, nine weeks.
How fortunate to have them now to see.
But, something I did not expect to feel;
my mind now dwelling on my last days when-
if even blessed to live one hundred years-
the three of them- just teenagers by then.
These gifts, for certain, God has given me;
was graced to see my children- theirs too, know.
But now, these younger ones grant little time
for me to love- watch them mature and grow.
My years now steer to life's finality;
Such painful thoughts I've come to realize.
As great grand-mom- the time is flying fast;
so much I'll miss- abrupt or late demise.
But, I must grasp my life as nearly full-
enjoying them for just a little while;
more empty if they never graced my world!
So, thank you, God- for brightening my smile!