Metres Poems | Examples

Driving

I love this road.
Every little mound, and every crevasse,
Flower filled, to the brim.
The moths and mosquitos caught in my headlamps.
Trees of aspen and oak keeping me on track.
And here, the night clouds are much darker than the night sky.
And jets zoom 50 metres above my head, asking,
"What are you here for?"
In which I respond, "I'm taking in the sights."
"This road is beautiful."
"I wonder where it ends."
                  "Does it really have to end?"

And as for the rest,
Every single time, at every single jet,
I'm shaking, trembling, I'm speeding at each bump.
Pot-holes ruin my suspension.
My engine weakens (believably gently) at the thought.
My brake pads and wheels through the wearing of my rubber--
They're guiding me slowly out of this car.
And here, glowing brighter than the moon, I ask them,
"Why are you so weak?"
In which they respond, "I'm just burning bright."
"This road is beautiful."
"I'm wondering when does it end."
                 "And, will it end before me?"

Prisoner of Poetry

I'm a prisoner of poetry
Chained to the curse of the verse
Locked in the labyrinth of lyrics
For my better or for worse

I'm a prisoner of poetry
Captive to words and notions
Jailed by the jubilee of jingles
Confined by my emotions

I'm a prisoner of poetry
Restrained by the rhythm of rhymes
Immured by the mad myths of metres
Thoughts tied to my Muse's crimes

I'm a prisoner of poetry
Shackled to enchanting runes
Fettered by the freedom it gives me
Bound to literary tunes

I'm a prisoner of poetry
Liberated by my writes
It hooks me, holds me, helps me, heals me
With my Muse, I touch new heights

A dirge in PRAISE of MGonagall's Forth Bridge

A poetaster I will always be
Renowned throughout eternity
For wonky metres and dodgy rhymes
Amongst my other versifying crimes
Like dull images and dreary words
Not to the liking of animals and birds
Whom Orpheus charmed with lyrics rare
While my efforts they  just cannot bear
McGonagall is the master to whom I bow down
The man who merits the peerless crown
Of poetry so ludicrously solemn
That it earns derision in any newspaper column
His Forth Bridge production  garners distinction
For drawing down mockery on its versification.
I must thank the website to which I belong
In allowing me to keep singing my song
That honour I bestow upon Poetry Soup
With its generosity  towards  my glutinous gloop

BOLTON - 2

Big yellow bus, I know you wont be long
Over nine metres, unless I am wrong
Left hand stretched out, it feels grand to hop on
Twists and then turns, towards my home beyond
Old places, old faces, tea nice and strong
Now this is my stop, it's where I belong

Unseasonal

Unseasonal

Leaves shuffle on their stems
fall onto ones which fell before
not yet a storm of Autumn tints 
those will blaze in a month

these are an early shedding host
that leave before the cold appears
in months of heat and sweaty brows
what signal do they heed

still green among the fallen fruit
now turning into soft brown dirt
as fresh shoots spring into the light
rosebuds plump in April sun

no hint of cooler nights to come
our evenings set to dine outside
with singlet days of Summer skies
this pleasure now declines

too long, too wet, too hot we cry
as humans always must complain
the tropics stretching south to us
our discomfort metres rise

none can say we’ve time to burn
or urge us spin the wheel and wait
the dial is set for our demise
for life to build a kinder race.

A Wild Animal Personified

Gerry the giraffe am I
on tiptoes six metres high

In Africa I was born in the wild
& grew up there as a child

I went exploring as I was  very bold
&  now I reside in the English  Cotswold

I can easily see over my  stable stall
for it has only a ten foot wall

Everyday in my yard,I take tea
& lots of folk come to visit me

With my long tongue I lick clean my face
so some say my manners are a disgrace

A Creative Right

How to express 
        what I see within
..its frame my mind
is so much smaller 
than
this view before me
& yet
my eyes can only focus ahead 
or a few metres either side
to view my world I must move 
& then turn &turn about

inside.. my
restricted frame
I can see without focus
as I please
back & forth in surreal time

change ..
at will from black& white
still life to movie

 so many choices
 to select
    to paint or write 
or perhaps 
merely contemplate

A Tall Story

Gerry the giraffe,six metres tall,
greets me over his stable stall
Hello ,as a long tongue licks my face
before we take tea please say grace

Z Is For Zoo

Today we went to the zoo,
clouds scud high and the sky was blue.
Mum,sis and me filed in the queue,
Gran and Gramps waited too.

Giant giraffes,six metres tall,
looked over a stable stall.
Short sighted rhinos with a keen sense of smell,
hippos wallowing in a mud-filled well.
Asian elephants lifting logs,
leaving the crowd all agog.
Gorillas foraging fancy free,
penguins 'catching' fish for tea.
Free to roam,bok and antelope,
sea lions leaping over a rope.

Amazing scenes to recall and digest,
picnic places to eat and rest.
Gift shop,ices and more besides,
entertainment diverse and wide.

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007

Life Is a Race

Life is a race .
If you want to win the race ,
Wait for right time .
In the race of life ,we don't run as we run in hundred metres race .
There is necessary to understand the actual concept of life.
We must accept the reality of life.
Life demands hardwork , sincerity, devotion toward work , sacrifice and more than them.

I Dance With Shadows - Yclept Sonnet

When dappled shadows flit through darkened backstreets, 
and whispers rendezvous with one another,
the usual bright spirits take a backseat.
They nurture remnants of rebounds which smother. 
When cadence of sweet trilling of dawn chorus		
unwelcome thief: give dream a few more seconds.		 
Deceit of sun when rays are merely porous,		
its loving embrace reaches out and beckons.		 

Fomenting trouble ‘gainst my better judgement;  
tormented by unbidden thoughts of moments. 

The unexamined life is not worth living – 
fulfilment’s in the act of freely giving. 

Inspiration that’s echoed in poetry,
I dance with shadows in this vibrant city. 

Poetic form: Yclept Sonnet. For more details regarding this form, please see my article, Introducing Three New Sonnet Forms, here on PS. Also, a 'Summary of Metres' is depicted.

An Evanescent Life - Xaxa Sonnet

Our life is as evanescent as the 
trumpet flower of the morning glory. 
The merest chapter in the history 
of mankind’s ever compelling story. 
Various serendipitous ramblings 
ultimately contingent ‘on quarry; 
retold to captive audience in tones 
melodious as silver-tongued lory.
Redolent of an evening-scented stock, 
with a crown of wispy hair as hoary, 
we insist to recount all endeavours 
in its minute shocking details: gory. 
An experience that's unsavoury – 
remnants that cross river Styx in dory.

Poetic form: XAXA Sonnet. See my article, Introducing Three New Sonnet Forms, here on PS for more details. Also, a 'Summary of Metres' is depicted.

Clerihew Longfelow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
tragic marriage laid him low
Memorable metres made him tick
fame with a patrotic trochiac

2021

They say it is time to look back
At 2021 when COVID 19 had the knack
Of keeping us apart by 1.5 metres
And wearing of masks helped hide our expletives 

There were things that happen each year
With deaths of celebrities that we held dear
And politicians fell and rose in cheers and tears

But the images that remain in my head
Was of a little girl who was found when death we did dread
Then there was Kabul and the Taliban
Where thousands were routed at their command

And what did we learn from it all
As a society we need each other the call
Then when small hands reach out from turmoil 
Boost them up and help them should be our style.

© Paul Warren Poetry

War On Our Land

War on our land

          We walk hundred metres  
          We run thousands miles  
          Every one in different directions  
          For fear of war

          Children becomes     
          Wife becomes widow  
          Our street is littered with dead 
          With no one to buried them

          The day is full of panic 
          The night become terror  
          Our street become desolate
          The cities becomes battle field 

          No cock to announce new day  
          No birds to sing of brighter day 
          The  tick of the time is never heard  
          Every hour of the day becomes doom

          The night is silent  
          The moon and the star  
          With no children to gaze 
          Neither elders to tell the folklore 

         We have seen it 
         We have feel it 
         We have tasted it  
         With all its memories 

        Those that sing of your praise 
        All that sing of your glory 
        All gone down the drain  
        And never to see you agaìn

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