Legible Poems | Examples

Wounds

A vicious rehearsal 
has forked out. It is a flame that 
bothers but borders on the 
essence of life—the 
survival of a community 
searching for answers 
after the quake and 
the flood. I gather 
         these rhymes like 
firewood 
as I piece together the lines 
only legible to the living.
      These metaphors speak 
to me, dressing my wounds, 
unveiling my 
       valleys, as my rivers 
flow downstream, before 
emptying into the Atlantic.

awarding ink test

journalism is objective by law
the decrease in legible statements is mathematically irrelevant to peaceful assembly
disruption of legislation is against the law.
how to correct young journalists? no press pass, press pass is test for editor to observe through french general assembly window if ink should be awarded.

Under the Overpass

wings could drive you crazy
under the overpass, the crows
gather one by one, flapping
it is a perfect day, stuck underneath
where cars borrow the bird’s view
without a whisper or toll, torrent
of landings to complete the murder
the row, on an inner ledge, legible
perhaps eligible to a mate, could be
a male society or female offering
we who pass so quickly, only stopping
for a light or traffic jamming, see
what flies in the dark, in the face
we are the ones out of place
the fury of the flock, frenetics
relics, energetic, spot on sketchy
do they see some of the same old
cars? do they care or turn a blind eye
i haven’t forgotten but what does it matter?
it does because a poetic fuse ensues
and must in the end die out, forgotten
except by the rear end reader
who will extend the imagery for a blink
or think a deja vu when flocking with crows
in trees, on lines, under the overpass

Abiding Beaches

in the backwash of my mind
memories still legible
sunken crystalized in sands



AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Ink and Sand - the Test

Ink and Sand - The Test
Ink and sand... the test
  The last stain of ink on our Constitution,
is legible until the moment the last grain of time measured falls.

  Thoughts, ideals and determination etched by purpose, with sacrifice and blood, staining land and men,
will its intent, legacy and resolve remain in our spirit as one people under God?

   What God?
      What land?
         What people?
            What nation?
   The foundation of our existence preserved by a chain of memories is already beginning to blur into oblivion by: 
  carelessness, apathy, self-interest, and vanity.

Diluted by time and man's fallibility, how much time remains, 
   before we will no longer make out the stains of who we are, 
before a stranger from a distant land stands 
   before us,
      and reminds us, 
why they came... 
   to become...
      a citizen.

Frozen In Plain Sight of a Melting Pot

what i saw
i can never see
seeing is not always believing 
a question mark exists
exclamatory sentences are all run on
completion is still in the process in progress
all i have seen are all tested and owned by those braver than i, me, and myself
i draw inspiration from them
yet the art of it all is not legible and very incomprehensible
the story of my life is all sticks and no bricks
the definition of the description is all struggle and strife with no life
in the brightest part of the day, i light a candle like it is the darkest hour
repetition is inevitable
confusion is pretty much guaranteed
the old shoes that i once threw away, like a very nose observant dog, 
has found their way back into my endless tunnel closet

A Feared Justice

A lot of body shifts by an inch,
While vengeful killer teeth they clench:
A prosecutor is addressing The Bench,
Concerning dastardly murder of a wench
By a whisky-soaked German French
Whom he’s sure could also in Vodka drench!

Shovel handy they could dig The Quickest Trench
And from Prosecutor A Talkative life wrench,
His tongue-less corpse for A Disgracing Stench …

And maximally in the next one hour,
They shall all Waiters for Justice devour
Between The Adjudged Sweet and The Thought Sour
All the fine bakery with its flour,
Because read they can the legible unfairness
And God so kind, sharp of awareness.

Nonexistent Pages

I write this poem and send it across the white
nonexistent pages on a screen of tiny pixels,
and wonder what causes it to remain while
a grayish color followed by a scene appears,
and I am asking, “Where does it go when…?”
I vigorously tap the “enter” key and watch while
it floats into the nebulous world of the WWW,
only to reappear far away on a small computer,
legible and clear, in India, Malta, the Isle of Man.
Marvel not that your words came to me here,
showing themselves a world away from fingers
that firmly typed them lovingly into nothingness.

written December 23, 2021

Hide and Seek In the Office

We're here to discuss the proposed 
Move to allow one game of hide & seek
On the premises once every workday
To boost staff morale

Some proven strategies we have tried
Have failed including a meeting-free day 
Sunflowers in the workplace
Funny employee awards

The proposed bring a pet into work
Idea was rejected by security personnel 
Office karaoke was a catastrophe
Jigsaw puzzles were scoffed at 

Morale is below par and continues to be low
After a disagreement with HR in regard to
What and what is not legible for reimbursement
When travelling on business

This needs to be hammered into the staff -
Purchases of cigarettes and toilet paper
Do not meet the requirements and neither do
Multiple muffin purchases 

From Monday we will play a game of hide & seek
In the sales department office 
From eleven to eleven-twenty 
Report back findings three weeks from now

When We Were Little

Sometimes I wish that we could  
return to the days when we were little.
We use to lie on our backs in the grass,
the four of us; chewing on sour weeds,
watching the clouds change forms from flowers to faces, 
until the airplanes disfigured them.

We sent all our dreams up to God,
where He hid them away
from everyone  except us. 
We were simple then;
when we were little.
Even now, you and I sometimes lie on our backs.  
Waiting patiently on God, as our dreams are redistributed.

Wrinkled and worn with age, 
we uncrumble them.
Still legible, we smooth them out
and share them with one another.
But, they sound silly now.
Probably because we're aware
that He'd already fulfilled them ...
long ago, back 
when we were little.

Alph: a Bettor

- our reality bubbles move in all directions in a 4d soda glass and burst -

poetry soup is a gamble
...of legible randomnessess...

of letter markings upon which
...the writers and readers...

agree as to meanings
...that lend a comprehensive...

order understood as direction
...of design metaphors...

manifested to create
...thought bubbles...

but not as 3d- 50/50 gambling
...but as an intent...

with respect a perspective
...or commonality that is the 4d medium...

of change we label relativity
...of years days and seconds...

all demanding a common constant
...off/on rate that we might speak...

live and jive together
...simply to its common beat...

relative to any thought-density rhythm
...as a lyrical limit of mind...

reality music 'sent sought sensed'
...with respect our 1/14 input retention...

and 'relative' logic-foundation 'sureness'ity
...a perception accuracy of just over 56%...



stan sand

Prose Poetry the Eclectic

The natural& the normal,synthetic yet,small scale,regular and the 
irregular, embossed.Illumed in the artificial light .Drawings and legible forms intrique and beguile creating mind-games in memory.
Characature & cartoon avant-garde of the geometric in three dimensional desire.

Handwriting

Malformed loops and curls
followed my unsteady pen,
as I wrote homework 
and answers in examination booklets.

With difficulty, one might
navigate where occasional legible
words formed stepping-stones
across my rivers of confusion.

Creating whirls with flare
remained a dream
in my spastic world
of uncertainty.

Jabs and lurches,
scratches and corrections
desecrated traditional
tools of writing.

I lived with this cursive curse
until meeting QWERTY,
my closest companion
of sixty years.

And So It Begins

And so it begins, At 2am
awakened by Muse,
I grab my pen;
my journal open To a blank page;
I set the scene upon the stage.

From Muse’s mind to mine,
down the arm to the pen,
flow letters, words
and they spill haphazardly
upon the page;
painting the first scene with,
colors bold.

Repeat, repeat;
a second scene…
a third, a fourth,
now pouring clean
and fresh, crisp;
more legible;
and I wonder…
Will she ever finish?
I need sleep.


Written: 2-9-19

Saturated In Solitude

SATURATED IN SOLITUDE

The sweat and toil of snowflakes fall like great big oaks.
Silent when no one’s around to hear, but I hear them call.
I sweep the bounty flakes with the soul of my boot. Folks
absent from this flight of serenity, solitude of downy strokes.
The tip of my tongue cleansed. Soap petals after the brawl.

Shivering satisfaction, saturation of snow queen’s court.
My hair ribboned in whitest white of purity and regal right.
Eyelashes gather wisdom’s chill, woolen hands wield forte
of legible knowledge. My sacred head cauterized in port.*
Saturated in solitude, my bruises and scars see the light.

4/16/2018
Laura Loo’s Rhyme Time 2

Fictional account
*port - sweet wine

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