Write Poets Poems | Examples
These Write Poets poems are examples of Poets poems about Write. These are the best examples of Poets Write poems written by international poets.
I notice the things everyone else overlooks
while they are busy trying to grab content.
Hindered by a host of hot button hooks
it’s the details that memorex sentiment.
Phantom scent you will not taste again
keeps coming back until you write it out.
A fierce ache waits to transform your pen.
Trace it behind your eyes with pink neon
so it is crystal clear when the day is done.
Catching the line that was slightly jagged
changed that repro into a masterpiece.
The flash of brilliance my eyes snagged
served only to let the zeitgeist increase.
All five of my senses remain on high alert,
it’s hard to put into words a poet’s intuition.
Fantasy and reality inspire when they flirt.
Something inconsequential as you walk by
is that writer’s high in such short supply.
Not too many fellow poets read my lines anymore
I’m either rather predictable or a total bore
So, I’ve read the tea leaves; I’ve got to change
My mental approach I need to rearrange
Instead of couplets, should I write sonnets?
Or on every rhyme, put more spin on it?
I’m not sure, but something’s got to give
~ unless with a handful of readers I’m content to live
I attempted to write
another poem today
attempted
for no poem is complete
learned representative of one’s
best
each merely prelude
to hopefully an ever higher
quest --
Each poem, a tower platform
Each poem a Babel, destined
to fall short~ for each, his own
lyric god unreachable
-----------------------------------
I have attempted thousands already
Have published thousands, sharing
publicly my many, titled defeats --
Some nights she can write about anything
Her imagination simply takes wing
On other nights, she cannot
~ She’s a poet, not a robot
But who will free the poetry
Of its endless binding history
In doing so free you and me
To write as if we’re truly free
Of meters lockstep droning march
Of lifeless linen, too much starch
Tongues twisted by alliteration
Trains of words leaving the station
But who will free the poetry
Still locked within the who of me
Until I shout – “just let it be”
For poetry’s always been free
Its forms a method to a means
Ekphrasis words creating scenes
Of city streets in tattered jeans
Fairy tales of rescued Queens
So, fill the page with loving’s rage
A gentle breeze on windblown sage
Release the Kraken of the mind
Rescue the poet left behind
Yellow roses.
One stunning sight
Yellow roses.
It just seems right
Yellow roses.
She makes me write
Yellow roses.
Of them I read
Yellow roses.
Not roses red
Nor roses pink
Not roses white
Nor roses purple
Yellow roses.
Saw them differently today.
Read of a yellow rose I say.
She was named 'The Poet's Wife'.
The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest. Sponsored by: Constance La France
By Poet "Oh yes, 100% human here. No AI for me."
Come let me tell you a story,
how writers once wrote.
They wrote from their loving hearts,
telling stories in different styles.
Some were rhymes or funny limericks,
verse was a favorite along with a tanka.
I find acrostic to be fun,
but taking more thought and time.
Today this new thing called AI,
is the new kid on the block.
AI has no loving heart to write with,
yet many readers have been blinded.
I put much thought and reflection,
into each poem for my readers.
A true writer writes because they love to,
also writing for their many readers.
As I sit up and lay in my bed
Poetry comes to my mind in my head
I write them down without hesitation
They calm my soul like frequent meditation
I love to read them after they are written
Because I shock myself with the words as they become sentences
People say you're talented, and that might be true
Their just words from my head, and it a great view
I can't believe it sometimes, the finishing touch seem so real
Some people don't like to read them, some make a big deal
But it's not all about what anyone thinks
This just brings joy to my heart, because I try to represent
“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
— Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
Well known or not, we write our poetry
Our inner souls reflected in our ink
Also influenced by our family tree
We every now and then cause some to think
The years pass by and then away we go
Well known are some, but others not so much
‘Tis easier to honor those we know
While unknowns by the wayside fall as such
Each unknown poet lived a real life too
Their love of verse sprang from their dear hearts’ wells
Their memory forgotten, but still true
For remembrance and respect we ring the bells
This tribute to an unknown poet’s life
Shows that we care and mitigates our strife
a word
another word
a line
a verse
pulling
a
rabbit
out
of
a
hat
imagination incantation
ghosts of poets past
abracadabra
I’m a poet
The erstwhile poet chose
to write hideous prose
Narratives of mangled fingers
of twisted elbows linger
Hardening readers’ hearts
though they could not bear to part
from every line the genius wrote
his brilliance in sickening verse cloaked
"It takes a real heart to write forevermore." By Poet
Here I sit with pen in hand,
staring at a blank notepad.
I need many letters,
to make my words come alive.
I thought I was a writer,
but as I sit here I wonder.
Poems come from the love of writing,
writing about the past or about the present.
Poems can be true or false,
some will make you cry and others will make you laugh.
True writers write from their heart,
as the ink rushes through their veins.
Now the words flow faster then I can write,
don't think, just write.
The writer and reader are both in love,
in love with letters, words, sentences and reading.
Now I am writing away,
forevermore.
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.” — Allen Ginsberg”
What drives them to put pen to paper?
To be famous is that their caper?
The world to change?
Tell a story so strange?
Is it a more personal flaw?
Drawn the short straw?
Life made them feel dismay?
They have to live this way....
Prone to despair
Pull out their hair?
Caught in a landslide
Can't escape the ride...
They can analyse
Maybe even surprise
Put words to their feelings
They may even do healings
A pen you did choose
Your ideas more than clues
Why does a poet write
Because they can..... alright
"A true writer must write. Ink is in their veins." By Poet
H=How do we mingle,
O=Over at your place?
W=Writing away.
T=To write a funny limerick,
O=Ode poems work for me.
M=Mingle with friends is fun,
I=In the world of words.
N=Never knowing where it will take us,
G=Going from humor to sad.
L=Laughing until we cry,
E=Editing every page.
We need to feel the cheer and inspiration of meeting
each other, we need to gain the courage and fresh life that comes from mingling of congenial souls of those working for the same ends
Quote by Josephine St Pierre Ruffin
Publisher and Journalist
We mingle with like minded people here
across this worldly spectrum we appear.
A melting pot of thoughts turned into words
each one unique, when passion has occurred.
Yes, writing is a solitary game
however when you think, we're all the same.
Our universal language when we write
when mixed together makes us all unite.
Therefore, we mingle in our hearts and mind
creative forces seen when we're combined.
We are our words when all is said and done
We bare our soul with each and everyone.