The Bard questioned whether to be or not,
and Keats gave us all that we need to know,
but do you think either would be called hot
were they to read at a poetry show?
What would Wordsworth ‘s words be worth,
performed at poetry slams, would he find
at any popular event on Earth
the external world fitted to his mind?
If Emily overcame her stage-fright,
her passions might give her audience pause,
but isn’t it just as likely she might
bomb in silence as be drowned in applause?
Sometimes it seems the old saying’s absurd
that poetry’s always meant to be heard.
Our poetry is a window into our souls..
We all get to see insights that are not usually told..
A poets eyes can see more then what's on paper..
Our pages have sides and angles that are deeper..
A cube with words scribed that translates far..
Each tale is another way to raise the creative bar..
inspired by Linda the Sweetheart of Poetry Soup..
THE POETRY PALACE
Perhaps the finest building in the city
Or the country for that matter, you see -
Either extant or extinct - would seem to be
The Poetry Palace, the nurturing cradle of CREATIVITY,
Replete with verses from writers of great and small activity.
You will not fail to receive an ILLUSION
Perhaps more - maybe even an INFUSION
And EVENTUALLY a conviction - that within these walls lie
Limitless richness, lavish anguish, oceans of emotion, aye!
And finally the INEVITABLE profusion of confusion
Caused by the differing styles and intentions
Each poet has with his wordy inventions.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for
Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S. Contest "POETRY PALACE"
There is one funny man I'd especially like to greet
Over morning coffee I hope that we might meet
He has a sense of humor that resounds with me
Larry can make me laugh out loud with glee
But he has more serious and lovely things to say
I'd like to ask him how his poetry found its way
His poetry is some of the best I've seen
The way his mind works seems so very keen
In our coffee plan there just is one little flaw
I think he wants to bring his mother-in-law.....
For Michael's contest...
My Poetry Line
Jumbled and sloppy
broken tattered and choppy
Yet, you are mine
Random revels revealed
disfigured
characters
concealed
Still, you are mine
Scattered moments
thoughts of the day
things remembered
and things to pray
reflective art penned
Blue
Black
or Grey
memories forever on display
Yes, you are mine
Your canvas has many forms
computer, napkin
blank, lined, or torn
Your beauty shines
Though... you make no sense sometimes
Still, you are mine
My poetry line
Lay
You can learn anything and everything about yours truly
simply by giving my poetry a read,
so don't ask me stupid questions you would otherwise know
if only you gave my poetry a go.
I write all this crap to get it all out of my head my friend.
The last thing I need to do is to repeat it all again,
because then I'm simply putting it all back in
and I'd rather not carry that burden again.
The printed word, to me, is art.
As beautiful as any painting.
Poetry, prose or a well written book,
Is an art form, I'm maintaining.
When I create a tactile piece
With wood or wool or clay,
I'm fiercely proud of what I've made.
About poetry, I feel the same way.
I have a creative personality.
It appears in forms, varied.
Writing is just one of my tools.
My thoughts to paper, carried.
So an artist I consider myself
Though I don't paint landscapes bright,
But in other ways, an artist I am,
With my crafts and the poetry I write.
for Linda Marie's Poetry Panorama contest
P erhaps you need to visit sometime
O ver the internet for a rhyme
E ven if you stay for just awhile
T ry writing verse to beguile
R ather than to sit and twiddle thumbs
Y earning for stardom, that someday comes
S ubmit words with meaning that sings
O pen your troubled heart and fly with wings
U nfold your wisdom you possess
P ost your work online, seek success
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fifth Place Winner ~ "Poetic Picture of Poetry Soup” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Adeleke Adeite
Nov. 10, 2010
His poetry moves me.
It stirs my soul.
Brings out emotions
I try too often to suppress.
Like a fine wine
It needs to be savored,
Appreciated for it's worth.
His poetry moves me.
It stirs my soul.
It's a sudden rush for me, the ultimate high.
That my poetry is metaphorically like a Samurai.
The punctuations are deadly as my steel blades.
Death and poetry become a medley, so be afraid!
Like an acrobat, my sentences dance across the page.
My couplet's trained for combat, and my words are filled with rage.
I slice and dice spinning my blazing Katana!
It's not nice when winning can bite like a piranha.
I'm addicted to the push of my writing pen;
And I've been convicted of every past and present sin!
As I purge myself of every sin through my poetry;
I can't guarantee it won't happen again so accept an early apology!
So as the last couplet comes to a close, feel my energy.
I leave bodies to discompose, and their burial is my poetry!
All
Poets
Who believed
That they belonged
To a group of supportive free thinkers
And who believed that poetry was "FREE"
Just discovered
Their belief
Was a
Lie
What
Is all
Of the fuss
Really about
Or are you capable of honesty
Or is this about being upset
Because you are
No longer
At the
Top
Words
Belong
To any
Creative mind
Who can find something good to do with them
Who have a right to control their own words
And use those words
To connect
With their
Fans
Names
Are used
To describe
Poetry forms
That would exist without the labels
Because poetry does not need labels
To justify
If it is
Really
Real
My Poetry Book contains poems about love, family, pets, faith, humor, children, grandsons,
and analogy..My favorite poem in my Poetry Book is in Senryu Form and reads as follows:
.
My love for mankind
Is burning fire when alone
Then I leave my home
rhythm,melody and sound
in perfect poetry is found;
if such verse is read aloud,
then ,will poetry attract the crowd
A poem's a painting of a verse
whose artist never once rehearsed
the hues that he himself conceived
for print.
For poetry cannot be taught,
nor can the perfect poem be sought--
a poet's words are not produced,
but sent.
A poem's a planted evergreen,
the likes of which no one has seen,
whose leaves are luscious and exempt
from wane.
For poetry cannot be stopped,
nor can existing trunks be chopped--
the trees of ancient planters still
remain.
A poem's a lie sincerely sold
or truth that is corruptly told,
completely clear or indistinct
when read.
For poetry cannot be wrong,
nor can it ever not belong
to life-- the two forever will
be wed.
A poet is a medium,
and through his art the world becomes
available to be perceived
as such.
A poem can never be or say
too much.
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.