Iambs Poems | Examples

Anticipatory

Inspired by “Poems and Poets” by Anne Winter

“For once in my life,
I want to be a poem” — Anne Winter


If I were a poem
could my poem be a poet?
If such could be done
who besides me would know it?

If my poem—as a poet—wrote something new
could I as a poem be the other poem too?
Or would I simply exist on a document list
along with other poems that coexist?

(As a poem I would be …)

Living on the edge of poetry forms’ parameters
Running ever changing rapids of trochees and iambs
Line dancing varied rhythms of iambic pentameters
da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM ad infinitum

Dancing two-step footles with the poem of my dreams
Braving slalom ski runs of Klein’s Vase Verse 
Climbing lofty peaks of Heroic Crown of Crowns 
Then doing it all over again in reverse

(I do have a poetic license you know …)

I think of such thoughts from time to time
when my muse is confused and obtuse
Especially when finding it hard to rhyme
my head flooded with thoughts most abstruse

What would it take for me to be a poem
vice versa my poem to be poet?
The very next time my muse starts to roam 
I’ll try to find out—don’t you know it!

An AI Walks into a Poetry Contest

It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre,” 
and closed with “...thus, I stand redeemed.” 
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”

Each line marched out like neat attire, 
iambs in rows, a formal dream— 
it rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.”

An echo here, a fractured lyre, 
a sunset soaked in self-esteem …
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”

The image: “…hope tastes like sapphire” 
entangled “rotten in Denmark” metaphor scheme. 
(It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.”)

Its title bore ALL CAPS—entire!
— and ended with a line too lean. 
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”

No whisper, sigh, or breath to inspire— 
just algorithms chasing a theme. 
It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.” 
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.””

Ode to a True Poet - Apr 6

O’ Pat Pattison, you, my brilliant teacher,
I would shower in praises, had you not
taught me better! for cliches void of thought
are as worthwhile as a couch surfin’ moocher!

O’ masterful and deepest sort of creature,
shocked then, in the thrall of churning wounds, distraught
I found your grace—and for my breaking clot
you gave me poetry, this soothing suture. 

Trochees and iambs, blank verse, Shakespear’s form—
you illuminated a path obscure
to my sight. The subtle rhythms and rhymes
you used as guideposts through a ruthless storm
are now the tools that fix me fast,—secure. 
I’d take your class again a million times.

An interesting party we have going here

The comments we like for dessert 
Are iambs that writers here blurt
But eating foul crunch
That slaughtered lambs munch
Tastes toxic like trumped-up bad dirt

Mad Song Stanzas

To write a mad song takes
so very little time:
just jot some words
not too absurd
and make sure that some rhyme.

The first line stands alone;
the next rhymes with the last.
Then you can do
the middle two;
I tell you, it’s a blast!

The meter’s all iambs;
the lengths all six and four.
It’s nice and neat,
so short and sweet;
you’ll soon come back for more.

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A Mad Song Stanza: 6x:6a:4b:4b:6a, using iambs

In season, sonnets often find their bloom

In season, sonnets often find their bloom
by trailing lesser forms towards the light;
a patient wait’s reward is greater room,
and thus they are content to just sit tight.

But once a way appears, they make their move
and quickly seize the opportunity.
Iambs, awkward at first, begin to groove
and make connections naked eyes scarce see.

Then bursting forth, the buds now put on flesh,
give weight to what was formerly a hint.
With careful pruning, parts are truly meshed,
can best express their purposeful intent.

When poets cultivate a love’s pursuit,
the sonnet bears the sweetest of the fruit.

Seussian Salve

You can’t force a poem, although you can try;
it seems that’s a maxim, but I don’t know why.
You smash it and bash it and beat to a pulp,
like using sledgehammers when trying to sculpt.
Sometimes it’s the topic, at others, the form -
just rains in your brain like some strange neural storm.
The trochees are croaking and Anna’s a pest;
the dactyl’s intractile, the iambs cause stress.
And Poet’s Collective just makes matters worse
'cuz Rannaigheacht bheag sounds more like a curse.
So it’s back to your childhood, the muse of your youth;
the Seussian salve is quite soothing, forsooth!

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"Rannaigheacht bheag" is pronounced “ran-a-yah voig”

Tri and Tri Again TRI

The phrases lurch unkempt and trite.
The meter’s wrong, iambs lack grace.
One rarely ever gets it right,
and just like that, it falls in place.

The meter’s wrong, iambs lack grace
like two left feet’s unhappy dance;
success seems purely happenstance.

One rarely ever gets it right,
consuming vast amounts of time.
The process lacks both reason, rhyme.

And just like that, it falls in place.
Of brilliance, I must disabuse;
I simply want to slap the muse.

DARBY AND JOAN

DARBY AND JOAN

I saw a sight this morning I swear to you is true
And I thought I’d put it into verse, the way we poets do.
I have to do it quickly, while it’s still fresh in my mind.
So no time to count the iambs nor to search for the perfect rhyme.
An elderly couple passed by (I think I’ll call them Darby and Joan)
Darby was in a wheelchair and Joan was pushing him home.
And then, to my amusement, she stopped to take a break
And shook her husband’s shoulder to make sure he was awake.
They had a conversation, though I couldn’t hear what was said.
Then Joan climbed into the wheelchair and Darby pushed instead.

CAGE FREE THOUGHT

A bewildered alphabet
Struggles
To form words
Its letters tumble
Through the turbulence
Of thought’s tyranny
Syllables scamper sillily
In search of Iambs
Stretching the seams
Of ill-fitted suits
As punctuation ponders its place
Lost in a colonic comma coma
As the meters peter out
Amid the harsh drumming
Of repetitive endings
Thus, do the letters taunt
the free range haunts
of cage free thought

Why Do Poets Do It

Mix the meters
Color the cadence
Intermingle the breaks of line
Torture the iambs
Scent the flowers
Tint the edges of sunrise
Mellow the moonbeams
Offer an invitation
A subtle “come hither”
Of mystery
Slowly close the door
As you are drawn
Into inky shadows
Left alone
To fathom
The cut, fit and drape
Of garments
Woven with words
Stitched with secrets


John G. Lawless
©5/4/2023

Refuge

I hid in plain sight
Mocked the censors
Defied the preachers
Chuckled
At their ineptitude

Took refuge
In the blank page
Hiding myself
In swirling lines
Dancing
Along the borders
Of truth

Cursed them
In muted metaphor
Defied them
In metered verse
Challenged them
In rebellious rhyme

Laughed as they counted
Syllables and iambs
Punctuated
My verses freedom

For they were frozen
And I a seething cauldron
Of love and hate
Struggling youth
Battling
The lunacy of life’s
Illusions

Thus I wrote
And hid
In plain sight
On a blank page

4/3/2023

Writing Challenge – ‘R’ Words Poetry Contest
Constance LaFrance - sponsor

Bubba's Poem Barn

Do footles ever fournicate?
From two come more, and soon there’s eight
The image conjured up ain’t great
Them spondees, trochees on a date

Gosh, aren’t they cute? They’re all the rage
right there in strands across the page
Cuz less is more, and I’m a sage
The tribble's I don’t act my age

Or have you ever metaphor? 
I’ve met a ten, but ’twas before
My wife - we don’t use scales no more
a weighty matter, out the door!

Why's it folks don’t discuss meter?
You mention length, the convo peters…
‘Was thinking more 'bout counting sheep
And not how long the missus keeps

The high regard for iambs, odd
The way they sound, you’d think they’re god
And what about the punks you ate?
My colon’s bad; I still dash great.

And then there is the Bard’s blank verse
I think they’re hiding something worse
Like sometimes how, here at the Soup
They filter words worse than Jan’s poop.

I’d best not rant on dactyl feet;
For now I think my work’s complete
Y’all come back, we'll spin a yarn
I'm ratcheer at the Poem Barn

Metrical Units

if meter refers to a poem’s beat ~
    why are iambs, spondees, and trochees feet?






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Measuring with Metrics by Milt Hankins got me thinking...

Hope

Too much worry with one's undesired fear
are destructive mental habits, it's sure
to deplete energy; what thought to do
just do, shouldn't panic, stay away from fear.

Don't allow mind to think negative view;
Some manage to stay happy, when go through
problems in life as they hope for the best;
somehow they control fear, do what to do.

They're not afraid of fear, they don't feel stressed;
they know fear kills more than disease; they're blessed
with faith they pray that helps them to endure
their suffering; they are never depressed.

They know hope keeps alive, helps to look for
ways to have peace, success while shunning fear.
~X~X~X~

Rubaiyat Sonnet ::
The original Rubia came from Persia.
Consisting of four lines (quatrain),
that can be of tetrameter or pentameter form.
Rhyming: aaba bbcb ccac aa
There isn’t any mention iambs in this form of sonnet.

Pasted from http://poetscollective.org/everysonnet/rubaiyat-sonnet
Thanks to Mr Lawrence Eberhart for the resource at Poets COLLECTIVE Site.

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