There was a poor poet from Portleen,
He wrote a haiku that he thought keen.
But he used upper case,
And sadly lost face,
And never has since been seen.
Pablo Picasso was not a poet of note.
Anyone know any poem that Picasso wrote?
I’d love to have you look at his output a bit,
so you, yourself, can assess the artistry of it,
but I don't know which are the lines to quote.
Iambic pentameter--such a pain,
Draining and straining this old poet's brain.
I am a poet
Not just any poet
But one whose heart
Both feels and bleeds
I write of many things
The rights of women
Corruption, discrimination, humanity
Wounds the world laughs off as jokes
Yet all I write
Slips silent as a black cat in the dark
My voice unheard
Even when my shadow cries for help
Still, I will write
Until my voice breaks through
Until my name is spoken
Not as a saint, but as one who saw the future.
Inspired by He Has a Name, by Suzette Richards (2021)
I. Ink and Ashes
Steeped
in the pain
of his slain countryman,
surrounded by the t u r m o i l
of real fears
laid bare —
exposed —
on the s.t.o.n.e - c.o.l.d
T A R M A C.
A poet dipped his I N K
in the spilled
T
E
A
R
S
Hero
or
Zero?
He had a name —
he had a name …
II. The Son Who Stood
A mother’s S O N
stood up
to be counted
in a time
when voices
were made
M U T E;
indoctrinated —
to the edge of
S T U P O R.
A poet watches.
Waits.
Remains
R E S O L U T E.
He had a name?
He had a name.
III. No Monument
NO statue
would be erected
in his name
because he wasn’t
the first man to be
s*l*a*i*n.
At the next
roll call of
C I V I L U N R E S T
this poet’s words
E A S E
some of
the N A K E D P A I N.
He has a name!
HE HAS A NAME!
OF AND IN POETIC GARDENING
(Apropos Of A Tanka Flow)
First, plow free your mind,
Then sow liberating seeds;
Letting others reap:-
Cultivating mentally,
Fertilizes destiny:-
Gardening poets,
Continue to plow and sow
Inspiring word-seeds:
Germinating reaped wisdom
Fruited with navigation:-
Poetic farmers,
Laboring in works of love,
Keep nourishing us
With those cistern-juices flow
From your gardens’ word-fruits:-
Through this vast world,
In the onederful oneness
Of fruiting onement,
Praises to farming poets,
For flowing fruiting fullness:-
I want to hear your voice
Not by will but by choice
I seek your guidance
For on you alone is where
I place my reliance,
Alliance, radical defiance.
I want to hear your voice
Above all voices that ever pieced
My ear I seek your final word what
Is it your declare?
I wish to hear your voice
To calm the turmoil of inner
dialogue and rumination.
I want to hear your voice,
the divine melody that guides my footsteps
Your words are the calm to all storms
Protection from external devastation.
I want to hear your voice
A light house and beacon
among all dark forces that
may come against me.
I want to hear your voice, the gentle thunder
that awakens my soul from slumber,
I want to hear your voice calling me to purpose beyond the noise of this world.
I want to hear your voice, the sacred song that resonates
in the silence of my heart,
I want to hear your voice reminding me I am never alone,
That within your words I find my true home
Artist Versus Entertainers
Philosophically well educated
Obfuscation methods in placement
Evolution from their predecessors
Thought induction with language
Interpretation may vary
Subjective and misinterpretation
Hopeful to make changes
Unleashing words as weapons
Mental landscape vivisection
Anomaly amongst the lilies
Nature appointed tether
Ideological meaning hidden
Thunder before the rain
Yugen laced Ya'aburnee
the closest of my friend chose to desert me
your letter never engraved a word called sorry
but you shamelessly pleaded your case
that how it was me who was the problem
the closes of my friend chose to desert me
the one keeping a record of my wishes, my muse
and all the untold secrets i never refused to tell
every second chance was a new way to betray
maybe you are happy with your new friends
maybe you are happy with your new found love
maybe you are happy with chasing your dreams
maybe i'm happy with you no longer being in life
i'm this dramatic poet who should direct a theater
my friend returned to me after committing infidelity
i'm not his lover but a savior when he is in crisis
i wrote this plea as a way to channel my emotions
A poet at the supermarket
At the supermarket, yes, we have one near Faro. I met a poet.
The mall is nicely built and has two bell towers.
From time to time, they chime to remind us why we are
Here, not sit on a bench in its courtyard looking up to
The sky is seeing mind-blowing cumulus configurations.
The poet I met had a white beard, wore an old black suit,
a tie with red wine spots on, a black beret that whiffed
Of garlic, I think. You could see that it wasn’t really there.
His eyes scanning the ground, he bent down, picking up.
Half-smoked butts of cigarettes. Ok, not so rich
So what? Haven’t you heard of a poor poet before?
They are not all idle sons of the rich, and with a university.
Degrees in literature. A notebook in the side pocket and
Two pencils in his breast pocket; so he was a poet, ok.
Moonsack Reynolds and Sylvester Brime
are funny names that do not rhyme,
and while that's no reason for you to care
that I wear batman underwear,
consider that as I turn to leave,
your silverware is up my sleeve.
Published Poet
I wrote a poem 24 years ago,
I have forgotten it now,
but I was paid twenty quids
and my plan was to frame it
for anyone doubt
I was truly a poet,
My wife was sarcastic about this
paltry sum, she didn’t get it
I had joined the rarefied
of a poet who had been paid
for his work.
I do not do poetry comps
anymore,
The excitement of winning was
too overwhelming.
“Put the team first ...
and the ball seems to find you”
(Torry Holt: September, 2025)
A poet writes from what they see,
From stories told, from memory.
Not every line is their own pain,
But borrowed clouds, or gentle rain.
They speak in ink, not spoken word,
They catch the cries that go unheard.
Yet people think each verse they weave,
Is just the life that they believe.
A poet shapes both joy and strife,
Not only from their inner life.
They hold a lantern in the dark,
And light the world with but a spark.
But poetry is a mirror’s art,
A crafted song from every heart.
It holds the world in shaded light,
And turns our shadows into sight.
Their craft is more than flesh and bone,
It sings of all, not theirs alone.
A mirror held to every face,
A written song, a timeless trace.
I'm a poet and soliloquist,
both dummy and ventriloquist.
I wonder if I even exist,
or how I ever could.
She left me floating on a river.
I have no heart to forgive her.
I shed no tears, just a sliver.
I'm a poet made of wood.
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