With a pending pen, a pensive poet ponders
As he wonders when and where to wedge the next rhyme
To split the rhythm hidden from passerby eyes
Only heard then, by those willing to wander
Daydreaming bare day, with just a hint for misty skies
A hint is but a hint to the tint of a poets eyes
So many wonder why his eyes open amidst his slumbers
When the seemingly soothing rain gently knocks lullabies
Call his name once, you'd think he turned a blind eye
Call his name twice. Do forgive his ventured mind
Bear in mind, like most, he bares the best of tough love
That Mother Nature gives along with swift Father Time
Bare in mind, his mind will write his every struggle
So give him time, peace of mind, a piece of yours shall come
By the boldest boast of thunder post the tundra coast
With his oldest, mostly tattered, tightly tethered poems
Roams the pensive poet - tired - holding on Dear Hope
Such is where the pensive poet's mind would wander most
The Blue Collar Poet
I am but a poet of simple, rigid mind,
With formal education, where hindsight isn't blind.
Sometimes I look at TRUE poets of education in the lits,
And wonder if it's true or if I'll ever fit.
For I look at other works of art and see that I'm quite plain;
I don't have the background to achieve the glory, fame.
But I am quite popular among my workers on the crew,
For my simple message just shines right on through.
I can speak in riddles, backward, or in rhymes,
But my simply worded message creates the best of times.
They are my blue-collar audience of hardworking men,
Soaking up the poetry as an honest clan.
I hope I've brought a little hope or introverted thought,
Something they can take with them that wasn't even bought.
Sometimes, when it hits with them, it's like water to and fro,
Wetting down the soil and planting seeds to grow.
Sometimes there's a snicker, sometimes there's a laugh,
But when they go quietly, I know they feel my path.
Yes, it's true I wish to master my art,
But the day my crew don't know me by my heart or my pen,
That's the day I wrap it up and truly say amen.
They ask me what is race —
I say: a border drawn in skin,
a lie that learned to breathe,
A wicked seed planted from within.
It’s not blood. Blood doesn’t know color.
It’s not bone. Bone doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s a story — told so long,
so loud, so often,
we mistook the telling for the truth.
Race is a costume
A made up competition
Of existence.
HIS-Story made us wear.
Prejudice is the cousin
Of racism for they both go hand in hand.
While they prevent every color and creed from coming together and joining hands.
Some days it fits like armor,
some days it cuts like wire,
but underneath it, every time,
is just a person
asking to be free
of the box somebody else built.
So don’t ask me what race is.
Ask what it costs.
Ask who it protects.
Ask why we’re still drawing lines
on a map that was never really there.
10 The poet’s dream
Say my friend,
What would you like to reincarnate into?
Bee first, or dragonfly
but life would be too short,
So as an elephant,
But I would be chased into the Savannah,
No, actually,
In jay, swallow, or seagull
To fly every day,
AND never have any worries.
the saddest poem
words for the end of the world~
the science was right
Dear Poetry,
We met when I was just a child,
Still full of dreams, a little wild.
But then time held me in your grasp,
So many thrills, my soul forever clasp.
We found each other on summer nights,
Unburdened by plans or tempting delights.
Life took us over some slips and turns,
When my spirit knew its deepest concerns.
We knew the amazing of autumn’s mist,
Such love when September and October kissed.
Joy would tremble inside our soul,
Playing a song that would make us whole.
We once died in the arms of a prayer,
Feelings blessed by praise to share.
In the wind, I felt the breath of grace,
Needless to say, you – time wouldn’t erase.
We knew each other when things were good
And, with you inside, I always felt understood.
Melancholic, excited or elated – I always knew
You were the music that felt so fresh and new.
We wouldn’t believe that our story would end,
You were the answer to a prayer that God would send.
I’m thankful for your friendship, one so very rare,
Because of you, my friend, I know how much I care.
Gotta get the kinks out of his keyboard
warm up well before he performs
Like a fencer plays with the tip of his sword
sets his fingers to fly like a unicorn ...
Ah, but that's simple: it’s a pianist, you say
poets don’t speed along their way
Consider this, though, my newfound friend ~
poets race their thoughts as they round the bend
If a poet writes in a forest,
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a poem?
The jury is hung, the verdict is split.
A child wonders for freedom,the sky speaks,
Yearning to become a bird and fly through peaks,
To taste the cold breeze above the clouds,
To dance and sing, “I’m free” aloud.
A child wonders at the calmness the forest provides,
Yearning to become a horse, galloping through the wild,
To leave behind the life of a cultivator,
And roam untamed, where nature is the creator.
Coffee stained canvases and pages,
A sweet life of art and rhyme,
a Snake River
painter and poet
Loses track of time
Because he's so caught up
in the beauty
He's bringing to life
By: J.N.R Dutton
Anyone can become a poet,
Drinking cognac for love,
Visit the Palace of Versailles,
Thinking about Lucille’s jewelry,
To remove her black blouse.
If he doesn’t meet his muse,
He will wander ten years in California,
In the plains of the Serengeti,
He will wander in the museums
will remove Lucille’s blouse
To meet her black gaze,
He will drink three glasses of liquor,
Anyone can become a poet.
Chacun, peut devenir un poète,
Boire du cognac par amour,
Visiter le château de Versailles,
Penser au bijoux de Lucille,
Pour ôter son chemisier noir.
S’il ne rencontre sa muse,
Il errera dix ans en Californie,
Dans les plaines du Serengeti,
Il errera dans les musées
ôtera le chemisier de Lucille
Pour croiser son regard noir,
Il boira trois verres de liqueur
Chacun, peut devenir un poète.
Solitude in search of peace
Omnipresent with the.universal being
Obedient to my chain of command
Kindhearted and willing to share
Dedicated to my family and duty
Enthusiastic about the future
Optimistic over the choices I make
Magnetically inclined to the truth
Artististically believing in myself
Neutral towards everyone I make contact
Ambitious to present my talent
Nonsensical leader to follow what is right
Skeptical about my friends
Intuitive patterns of thoughts
Naturalistic to the call of creation
Generous towards the weak and unfortunate
Honest and hardworking to achieve
As a poet
as far as I am,
I can surely tell
It is painful to rhyme.
Much more it is,
to bear these words
with greatest of senses.
But I believe I can
While attempting my best
So here it is one,
Let's put it to a test.
Today, for a few
Let me tell you
the wisdom of those dusty pages
of the ages
which carry the epistomology
of these verses.
They answer that-
'How words lifeless like these
to read
and to hear
cause us to please and to care?'
First and foremost,
The sound of rhythm
does the work enough
And
then the play of words
makes up the whole.
Next,
About the beauty tied to
the letters
makes it uneasy to ignore.
The description of senses
May take deep into denses
So do lookout for the tree of depth
that can even tempt you
to think about the miracle of life
And the truth of death.
Furthermore,
Let's not ignore
the devices
of these verses,
and dig out together all the
treasure of literacies.
Oh..
What a foolish I am?
To end the page
By ignoring the significances
of non rhymes.
Finally,
I would like to tell
The most hidden of all-
'It's all just beauty
And a beautiful poetry.'
I once was a serious poet
rubbing my forehead ‘til it wrinkled
Scratched my beard night and day
spreading flakes of dandruff every which way
But then I had an epiphany
writing pop songs was ten times as easy
I limited my lyrics to ‘O, Baby’
the rest of my story ~ pure gravy
Howdy - put this in your craw!
Tell your ma. Tell your pa.
Yes sir, you have my word -
verily, I'll pull my sword.
I'm the poet swordsman of Arkansas.
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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.