School Iambic Pentameter Poems | Examples
These School Iambic Pentameter poems are examples of Iambic Pentameter poems about School. These are the best examples of Iambic Pentameter School poems written by international poets.
Unnumbered army etheric;
Dost thou oppose his rule?
Prefer then the nerves a-prick!
Utmost, adverse, school!
Dubious battle on those plains?
Heaven, must ye fall?
Throne afire? Wait for the rains!
Field, get rid of all!
All is lost? Nowhere I've seen.
Unconquerable will.
Only in a dream, machine!
Immortals, pay bill.
Vengeance study? Thus requite.
Courage, doth submit?
Hatred, sing in me and fight!
Enemies to quit.
Nine full days and nights ahead?
Tartarean gloom.
Tonight we dine with the dead.
Red lighthouse a-tomb.
Abashed, devil? But you stood!
Awful, history? Good!
Naga tomb, thy neighborhood.
Nether regions, brood.
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.
This ode's impossible, a structured mess
of playful praise, stacked serious on a shelf,
closed spheres of wit contained. I must confess
I think of it in excess to myself.
It hoards the writing room inside my brain;
it locks the door four times, once for each page.
It's taken me a year; I must abstain
from overthinking at the thinking stage.
Clichés and tired words are enemies;
they're banging on the wall, then plummeting
into that mushy high school poetry
that thins and deconstructs like rotten string.
This ode's impossible, a four-page worm.
It coils around me so enticingly;
I declare that I will finish and affirm
commitment to the art of purity.
If I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I’d change a few things,
and shake up the flow.
I might go to class,
be where I should be,
Say and wear what I wish,
And only be me.
Ignore the ignorant,
hold dearest friends close,
Respect authority,
never stick up my nose.
Have love and compassion,
a watchful mind,
Keep ears wide open,
and always be kind.
Harbor a strong heart,
let others be shared,
Make sure I remind them,
that I always cared.
So, if I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I might change a few things,
and see where it goes.
Iambic Pentameter To Utmost
So up to what now have I been leading
My brilliant poems should be reading
On you will have such a severe effect
Regardless of which one you do select.
Many of them always seem to be apropos
To what has become such a severe blow
Witch seems to amount to very much
But with reality may be out of touch.
Even if I were to both brag and boast
Poem is iambic pentameter to utmost
And will anyone you know a poem vet
Making format of it into that of a tet.
When you draw a broad, wide diameter
And prefect poem as Iambic Pentameter
What we have heard as a general rule
Of thought is usually used in each school.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
In many places where most poets live
Some thought tet may sound offensive.
I think of distant things and start to cry.
Why must my heart be grieved by many miles?
To place where I was born, I will not fly,
for I don't want to lose remembered smiles.
The land which I have loved has changed, and now
it does not bear the mark of honored grace.
I must be covered, and I don't know how
to hold back tears from streaming down my face.
Where is the school? Where is the gentle stream?
With what audacity did they assume
that they could confiscate our land, our dream?
They took and now our sorrow does consume.
Where is the pool? Where are the orchards fine?
Remembered are the times we'd swim and play
We'd feast on all the fruits and feel sublime
No one to harm or take our voice away
My country now is not a place to be
For freedom is no longer part of life
Were I to go, the weight would burden me
And I would weep with thoughts of all the strife
So distant from my heart my land remains
A land that in the sacred Word is praised
My childhood memories, this land contains
It's flag of freedom in my heart is raised
For the Distant Things Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
June 12, 2016
Misty lived on the tracks on the other side;
What was perhaps a nice home in thirty-nine.
Now a decaying shell of mortar and wood,
On the gray banks of a foul, polluted creek.
Windows now boarded, with a loose, hanging door;
Inside was dark, bleak, an austere barren shell.
Electric been shut off for many a year;
Only its doleful ghosts to shed their sad tears.
She lived with her father, a homeless old bum;
They lived off the welfare and a few begged crumbs.
At night she'd come home from her studies at school,
No one the wiser, Misty had them all fooled.
Only just nine, the acumen of a teen,
Her studies she'd do in the light of the lamp.
Her father a shadow of a once proud man:
Old and now lame with but one reason to live.
This sad man, out begging on the streets til' dark,
He'd stay, until all the people had gone home.
The Mission people came that terrible night;
Whisked Misty to the Orphanage - not a word!
Misty never knew her father's sacrifice;
She never knew, how close they'd been to her door.
She's now thirteen and her new life is on course;
Though she yearns for her boarded home on the creek.
My heart aches when I read poems with word play,
Like mixing all colors in painted clay.
Random images just leap out like sparks
The meaning intended misses the mark.
Some write and label their poems a nonet
While not taking time to see what is it.
Writing's a school for learning till the end
Tossed words are not salads we write and send.
Poets take time to weave their creation
Poems are born, like a child of expression.
Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~~03.19.16
He died so many years from old Blue Ridge
That all we knew of roots were faded names
Renewed in happy tales and banjo songs
He carried with him through the narrowing plots.
His vision went from horse and buggy youth,
Brush harbored preachers and a one room school,
From hard work started early on the farm
To satellites and men upon the moon.
He ran away, a boy to be a clown
And brought a ready humor down to us.
He was proud and self-sufficient man
Who loved to fish and caught a host of friends.
Five generations, father down to son,
A ministry had gone; he was its last.
He claimed a pact with God had made him preach
And proved it living purer than his words.
We watched the vacant temple through our tears
Because there is no place to place a love
That final, and because we cannot know
The secret dreams denied to let us dream.
In stuffy days when I would dress to please
And barter for belonging with a look,
In fussy days when I would don a thought
To hide a naked need and make it prim--
I could have healed myself from expectations,
Remembering how God left Sunday school
With me when I was five, and how we both
Played in the mud and soiled our special clothes.
Don"t
On the fourth
day of summer
The Holy Ghost led
me
to a prayer and meditation
grotto
in Mineral behind JOHN's
church
near the RR track
Most lovely place
Summer school has
already begun
I AM
A Teacher
I Pray
in tongues
What is wrong with that
They arrested me for that
Don't ask
stupid questions.
People most got corrupted
I trust few
anymore.
forgive them DAH they know
not what they do.
How do you like me as I am today?
Twenty years young, triumphantly boasting
Success through all you had been foreboding.
Casting my vast nets as far as the sun
While you cast your line in small empty streams,
Passionately chasing visions and dreams
While you bury your head in sand or run.
Do you still see no hope for my future?
See the wounds you thought I couldn't suture?
In my past I was but a ball of clay.
Shaped by your hands and your verbal roastings;
Scarred by abuse and spiteful goading.
I'm still not the one who mocks or makes fun.
I still don't pick guys last for my sports teams,
Because I know what hardship and hurt means;
How it feels to wish tomorrow won’t come.
Here I stand, the scar-ridden suitor
In full war paint, looking back with humour.
It’s normal to feel a dark cloud’s shadow
Rise above us every once and a while;
And to feel as though the sun has faded
Behind a mountain we can’t seem to climb.
To choke in the icy, blue waters of
Sadness; struggling for gasps; struggling to grasp
A hold; to relieve of that depression.
And somedays we wish we would just drown;
But breathe, still, no matter to the struggle.
So we harm ourselves to satisfy needs;
To feel a control over our own lives
And unoppressed by the world around us.
To remind us that we can hurt ourselves;
More grievously than the world can hurt us;
More courageously than our friends hurt us;
But with scars shallower than on our hearts.
Depression emanates real bravery;
Where in rain an eagle soars above clouds;
A sad survivor does so without wings.
This is a poem I've written to remind me when I'm at my lowest
that it's okay to be down and out; that I'm not a coward for not
feeling "normal". I was bullied a lot throughout my school years- through all of
them in fact- and with depression sometimes you're on top of the world and
sometimes you just want to dig your own grave.
I called my mother the other day- just to listen to her voice
She answered dear Steve – yes this is me- how are you this day
I said I was fine- it has been some time- I searched for more words to talk
She cantered a bit then came to a halt- as I began to say
Mother dear- this is Mark- how are you today
Mark she replied- I have a Mark- he was the oldest of three
How is school - are you making good grades- are you coming home real soon
I told her I would- If only I could- would she know me anyway
I visited my mother the other day- at a home for Alzheimer patients
Her stare in the air- made it be known- that she could not remember
I sat by her side- we nibbled on crackers- we looked out the window pane
Then I was father- she told me she miss me –I cried a thousand tears
She reached for my hand- I did not resist- I was blessed to make her happy
How are you Tom- I said I was fine- The kids will be home soon
I told her it’s time- I must go home - I have to work tomorrow
I took her hand- I’ll see you soon- Goodbye Steve she told me
As my Mother slips away today- how precious are my memories
For after this world –I can hardly wait- for my Mother to recognize me
Now give me hope when books begin
to bite, when school begins to strangle me.
My worries wear on me and Satan's sin
does weave and warp Hosannah's peace.