to dwell in physical form
neglects our inner being
to breathe in essence of self
never owned by anyone
the drabbest of birds
sings a lullaby of hope
whereas the ostentatious
will try to drown out the truth
as hope is the last to die
its song
will be there for all
who wish to hear it
hope perches in the soul
folding its wings
around our fluttering hearts
Inspired by: ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers’, by Emily Dickinson
What an opportunity this would be
to be able to write a book
little old me's name in print
let's take a peek so it's no fluke
My two great loves in life
they are poetry and classical music
together they truly connect
holding each other up with a pen stick
Melodies fit into them both
bringing rhythm together in rhyme
both have skills that suit each other
combined, they are in equal time
Many a poem converts to a song
ably penned through skilled writers
then music brought the piece to life
listening in makes it all brighter
There's such beauty in poetic classics
it brings one to calmness and peace
sitting in silence, taking it in
wishing for it all never to cease
(This is written with the idea that If I could write a book, what would it be about.)
Poetically Political
Or
Politically Poetic
Is that the question
As both poets and politicians
Are flawed
By the interpretations
Of their actions and words
Poets write of “perfect” things
While exposing their imperfections
Politicians play the shell game
While sipping pea soup
Not everyone likes the poet
Or votes for the politician
Yet, the poet continues to write
And the politician continues to run
Words
verbs
aimless
adjectives
amalgams of verse
unshaped until
imagination's birth
bursts
fly free
on unfettered wings
blown to
&fro
to settle
long
forgotten dreams
as words floating
as petals
on a stream
a fragrance that lingers
a passage of light
inspiration
delineated
as
a thought
ribbon
originality
conceived perceived
crystallised
in relief
Poetically sound ,
Meanings discerned round & round ,
Tide full embrace ,
Lets us keep up the pace ,
Lightning reflects ,
Our egos project ,
We search for the verse ,
Our minds will rehearse,
The lyrics we sing,
So the melody stings ,
As we reach far for the stars ,
We plan from afar ,
As your eyes write the tale ,
So your soul will prevail ,
Telling all that we reap,
Our eyes close for sleep,
Hills are so deep,
We can’t help but weep,
Looking for love ,
Emotions rise from above.
Copyright©AlanShapiro2025
Tis the way of life's challenge as an adult male,
the prize parts in two fates: flock ownership tethered
innate skills, exiting rights the Bachelor's Herd
as skills tested, foes midst or yond; fail or prevail.
Cascading through my mind
deluge of dreams
floods of fantasy
rivers of reverie
torrents of thoughts
vapours of visions
waterfalls of words
In folios of verse
Her beauty draped, a silhouette divine,
The most beautiful woman, her grace defined.
Eyes like constellations, deep and profound,
Wisdom their gaze, a universe found.
Golden tresses cascade, a waterfall of light,
Soft as whispers, in the moonlit night.
Her skin, a canvas, where stories are told,
A tapestry of warmth, in hues untold.
A symphony of laughter, a melody sweet,
Intellect sparkles, in every thought she greets.
Her words, like poetry, dance in the air,
A reflection of brilliance, beyond compare.
Graceful as a swan, she moves with ease,
A dance of intellect, a gentle breeze.
Her smile, a sunrise, breaking the dawn,
In her presence, a symphony of sound.
The most beautiful woman, a blend so rare,
Physical allure, and intellect, so rare.
In her existence, a masterpiece is spun,
For she is the art, the moon and the sun,
Aunt Shirle Moore .
Freedom is the colour pink
that I can now display
after horrible shades of grey
that led my world astray,
Poetically pink in sync.
Rise & fall
cadence is all
one breath..... is
the natural call
Love
offers
love...
stars
fairies
lights
winds
cuddle
breezes...
Auroras
illuminate
days...
twilights
magnify
nights...
Colors
brush
colorful...
When one is poetically possessed,
Nothing like the truest rest:
For every braved forty winks
Whacks for new poems and resistance sinks!
One is very free to weep
But one isn’t snatching any sleep:
One’s Poetic Tormentors, a zillion number,
Obsessed with The Ecstatic no less The Sombre!.
You’re hailing your tormentors but with reluctance,
This act dragging to a crushing distance;
At God’s feet dropping respectful grudges,
Not as forgivable as sexual urges …
Only God Himself knows when it shall end,
For those spirits aren’t ready to bend;
When one is poetically possessed,
Sleep becomes one’s rarest guest.
Allow readers to write comments
On these sweet sensible statements.
Poetically, i die
all days... and
i live this way...
my fear
is stop dying... !
How will I live...
How Will i survive !
N-ote
E-mploys
N-ame
Z-one
M-aking
A-uthor
P-oetically
A-mazing
Topic: Birthday of Nenz C. Mapa (November 03)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Sub Categories
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.