Should it be the year three-thousand seventeen,
I shall still write as an 'old' wizard,
forgotten it seems for the charlatans,
and modernists who have forgotten their roots,
and fail to understand that good art is timeless;
like the rappers who have forsaken Jimmy Hendrix ---
and real black music like jazz and blues ---
they have done so because they don't care about art,
but the glitter of gold and plastic-fame;
but fifty years hence,
will someone put their face on the Statue of Liberty?
Categories:
modernists, art,
Form: Light Verse
He can't stop rhyming.
His mind races in cadence and timing.
Writing muses from within,
In both darkness and light, they begin.
Put to paper, in one pen stroke,
No force edits, and none of the hoke.
Modernists may very well blaspheme,
Believing they write, in deeper theme.
Cluttered words, and punctuation on a page,
As if contortion, should serve as the gauge.
A rhyme might accidentally appear,
but only in likeness, feeling quite 'impure'.
A well-known Frosted poet, left readers stunned;
This poem's title may find you, unknowingly punned.
This Flake will write, as his mind dances,
Until proven otherwise, he'll take his chances.
7/26/2017
Relatively new to PS, this first poem tried to poke fun at modernism. I grew up with poems that rhymed. I was surprised by the number of free verse poems and their popularity. Being on PS has allowed me to broaden my idea of poetry. I've learned that Free verse is universal, while rhyming is limited by dialect. The best lesson I've learned is that less is often more. It is surprising how a three, line 20 word poem can say so much. I'm still a rhyming addict...
Categories:
modernists, art, funny, humor, irony,
Form: Rhyme
Hey, I'm in no position, to pre-judge or undermine
What beggars my thoughts, just what do others find
Hey, look out today's windows, pray tell me what you see
Is it the World of forty years ago, I don't think so for me
Hey, where has it all gone wrong, whether your Islam or another
Just maybe Islamist countries, needed the West to discover
Hey, tolerance has probably bitten, just where's our resources
Or even the proportioned profits, is it horses for courses
Hey, with predominant factions growing, having their say
It looks like the West has festered, their modernists display
Hey, especially to this day, have the fundamentalists sight
Have we gone beyond before, and we find nobody is right!
Hey, look where this has lead us, incredible as it sounds
Simply hatred unknown forty years ago, by who's Devils Hand.
Categories:
modernists, abuse, addiction, allah, faith,
Form: Couplet
I belong to a book discussion group at our local library. There are about a dozen of us
that meet once a month and discuss a book that we all agreed (voted) to read. At each
meeting, I am usually the oldest participant and I have noticed that our individual tastes
for prose varies exceedingly.
Myself, I prefer the Classics. The others prefer the modernists works of prose.
Consequently, due to our democratic process, my choices rarely are voted for.
Anyway, the situation inspired me to compose a sonnet for all the great forgotten prose of
yesteryear.
On dusty shelves the books of dated time
have stood for years. Abandoned, slighted lore
that years before the favorite pastime
discussion topics, literati lords
adored. Among the blossomed aging tomes,
a rather large imposing book secured
it’s stately charm amongst the few unknowns.
The title slightly injured and obscured.
Author and faithful readers long ago
deceased. Along with fragmentary bits
of time. Until unearthed, desired to know
about its past distinction, this poet
alone, composed a special poem for It.
Its often called: Shakespearean sonnet.
Categories:
modernists, dedication
Form: Sonnet
I belong to a book discussion group at our local library. There are about a dozen of us
that meet once a month and discuss a book that we all agreed (voted) to read. At each
meeting, I am usually the oldest participant and I have noticed that our individual tastes
for prose varies exceedingly.
Myself, I prefer the Classics. The others prefer the modernists’ works of prose.
Consequently, due to our democratic process, my choices rarely are voted for.
Anyway, the situation inspired me to compose a sonnet for all the great forgotten prose of
yesteryear.
On dusty shelves the books of dated time
Have stood for years. Abandoned, slighted lore
Those years before were favorite pastime
Discussion topics, literati lords
Adored. Among the seasoned aging tomes,
A rather large imposing book secured
It’s stately charm amongst the few unknowns.
The title slightly injured and obscured.
Author and faithful readers long ago
Deceased along with fragmentary bits
Of time. Until uncovered, read to know
About its past distinction, this poet
Aroused, composed a special poem for it.
It’s often called: Shakespearean sonnet.
Categories:
modernists, dedication
Form: Sonnet
Am I prejudiced?
I am a slave to poetry.
I do not wish to be set free
a willing prisoner happily.
Constrained by strict parameters.
Which form the rules for formal verse,
to discipline I’m not averse.
Though modernists all claim to be
Poets. I find I can’t agree.
Their work has small appeal for me.
I can’t commit to memory
One single piece of free form verse.
In my opinion even worse
they are deliberately perverse.
Delighting in obscurity
contemptuous of clarity.
Yet still they claim it’s poetry.
9-Oct-07
Categories:
modernists, on writing and words,
Form: I do not know?