When picking the poet to precisely perform your poem of preference, the poet should be able to project their words to a populated package of people in a party at any given part of the day. If this poet produces a pathetic presentation of your poem, you may punish them with pits of pointy spikes. While your poet personally picked from the pool of poets you perused performs the piece, you may pitch a new poem to your professor. If the professor has positive words to pass onto you about your progressive poetry, the parcel of poetry will be passed onto the next pool of poets you personally know.
What maketh bards delineate the fairer sex,
Whilst the withering, ephemeral bouquet?
Doth portray sanity—inner traits,
Else the bewitching statute?
Oh, winged boy! Whither begone art thou,
Devoured of bards’ sanity—poetic reasoning.
Methinks insane compare, loitering
Phoebe
Of waxing, waning—alas, crescent!
Captivating eyes, enticing countenance of traits,
Mesmerizing words oft maketh spell on bards.
Hardly be a lamp lit with water;
Akin to it, portraying is the illusionary love.
Perhaps thought may, sans language—
Bards lack not, depicting the fairer sex.
dear Meta I known and been with Facebook since 2010 on my original one long gone
you let me talk with my mom and my best friend ana
I remember sharing thousands of my photos with you on facebook and instagram
We left myspace to join you and made new friends
I made so many friends on your site Facebook and instagram
I hardly ever used whatsapp
Jesus is with us Meta cause Jesus is always with us
Love you Meta I have gotten angry with you but that is how family are we are family Meta
Jesus is always with us meta
Start with the fracture -
the splintered thing lodged in your ribs
that no cough can dislodge.
Call it "inspiration" if you must,
but know it is just hunger
with a prettier name.
Next, the bones:
a rhythm tapped absentmindedly
on a diner table,
the half-heard melody
of a stranger’s laugh,
the way your childhood home
still hums in your teeth
when you say its name.
Now, the bloodwork -
verbs writhing like minnows in your palms,
adjectives that stick like burrs to your sleeves.
(Here is where you’ll bleed.
A poem is not a wound,
but the salt rubbed into one.)
Arrange the fragments on the page.
Watch them refuse to fit.
This is the part where you learn:
a poem is not a puzzle,
but the hand that shakes
as it forces the pieces together.
Finally, the lie -
the smoothing, the sanding,
the pretense that this
was always the shape
you intended.
Sign your name at the bottom.
Walk away before it cracks.
I drove the meaning of the poem home,
dropped her at her front door, then drove home alone.
And I never heard much more about her after that,
except a rumor that some scholarly types had made a sanctum of her flat,
where twice a month they meet to chew her fat.
I heard a voice convicting me
prompting calling
knocking at my door
to turn back to God
...drawing me
The Holy Spirit helped me
to op'ed this door
I heard Jesus
He came through
He dined with me and I with He.
I understood I’m born again
made free,eyes opened
now I see !
Deep in my mind's eye
A vision, clear as day
The face of this man
had become known to me
& I began to walk His way
In Christ I am
made right by Him
blessed by grace
Born anew*
by the Spirit
my counsellor friend
& guide
On a future day**
to be
changed in a moment
with a new resurrection body
* Feb 1987
**First Resurrection tba
In front of a blank page, I sit with my pen,
Writing a poem for a contest again.
With thoughts in a tangle, I ponder and fret,
“What metaphor fits?” but none come to me yet.
I gaze at my cat, dear Sami by name,
Her eyes hold a mystery, yet nothing to claim.
“Could she be my muse?” I wonder aloud,
But my page remains blank as a lion is proud.
My room is disheveled, my thoughts just the same.
Chaos surrounds me, and I feel such shame.
The words that I seek, they elude my grasp,
In the silence, I hear my own desperate gasp.
Perhaps this contest is not meant for me,
I’m tangled in words that I struggle to see.
But here with my pen and my faithful cat's stare,
I’ll find my own way, through this poet’s despair.
I write of this struggle, this quest for a line,
In hopes that my efforts will somehow align.
My poetry’s nothing if perfection’s my goal
Here I am flawed with a true poet’s soul.
April 30—Poem about poetry
Why Do I write
These poems every day?
Why do I spend so much time
Writing down these verses
That few will ever see?
Why do I bother?
The only answer is because
I must write daily
My inner muse compels me
And I have to write down
These mad thoughts.
And share them
With the world
Even if no one reads them
Other than my wife
And some of my friends.
I have no choice
That is what I am.
I am just a writer,
And a mad poet
At heart.
I can't really write a sonnet
But if you want a limerick i'm on it
And if I had to write without rhymezone
My mind would have blown
Therefore I have to reliable upon it
Dick the dog dangles his balls for all to see.
I greet him on the way.
"How they hanging Dick?"
The question is rhetorical.
"Bark once if I smell immortal."
Dick pisses on my leg
while his owner speaks of Keats.
once met...
a force blooms
and
metaphors met...
a'fore are
the
meta force and...
meta farse that
are
metas for the...
meta-force we've
woven
meta-four forces...
met a'fore as
space-time
stan sand
roman times meant...
roam'n soldiers
conquered villages...
by killing the men and
fathering a...
next generation of
soldier-sons to sacrifice...
themselves for
sake of the empire...
first the father
and then the son...
became wholly ghost
stans sand
It appears that the Metaverse
is doing decidedly worse;
seems folks are forgetting
‘bout virtual jetting,
creating real holes in the purse.
—————
Facebook announced it was putting a $1.5B expansion of their data center in Hunstville on hold. Seems the Metaverse has lost the company $9.4B in the first nine months of 2022, according to 1819news dot com.
ideas framed...
as some
meta-force
that be just...
a time thought
meta for some
metaphorical?...
stans sand
I never meta man I liked
Who censored what I had to say.
For when you limit what we write,
Our freedom slowly slips away.
At issue: social media;
The first amendment, in the morgue.
The leader is the offspring of
Commander Data and the Borg.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.