Once upon a time
I set out to write a story
about going to north Africa
arriving in Ceuta
things were all in order
but no sooner on the bus
than detected reported
ejected from escorted to
and deported 'cross the border
it was to be an expensive
soft leather-covered book
and altho' I took
more than one look
I could not find the words
would fill a tome
and so
tho' second-best
I settled for less
and instead
I wrote this pome
Once there was a young writer whose name unique her name was Poem young and free with her time what would she see, see fit to do she saw a tree as time went by she sat there all the time no one liked her name was so weird and she was more all they saw was a girl who sat staring into space but behind that frozen smiling face lived a lovely and wilder place she made masterpieces but no one did care when she tried to share they would point and stare and drive her back home, under the tree which she loved were the poems one day after she changed her name out of shame her art was found she left her name her old name back at the tree her legacy is pometree
As I pull on my socks
At the start of each day
I notice my feet
Seem further away.
I writ a pome that shocked the teachers
Knocked the collars off the preachers
Awoke those sleeping in the bleachers
Then I wrote another one
Made it funny just for fun
It ended ‘fore it was begun
My pencil, such a heavy weight
My lines all crooked, never straight
I cast my lines, as wormless bait
Then someone said: “I liked your poem”
“it took me places I can’t roam”
I said: “thank you” and floated home
Now I have stacks of yellowed pages
I am more prolific than the sages
For poetry inside me rages
So, write you pencil toting fool
A rhyming verse to make them drool
For poetry is but a tool
To glorify a fallen tree
A shipwrecked vessel lost at sea
The hearts of poets now set free
I rited a pome
While sitting at home
And scratching my dome
With a toothless old comb.
I tried really hard
Out there in the yard
To make a neat rhyme
But it took too much time.
I looked up and down,
I searched left and right.
I felt like a clown
Whose wig was too tight.
Then down came the rain
And cooled off my brain.
My head had grown hot
From thinking a lot.
At last I could see
No hope there for me.
So I ran back inside
From neighbors to hide.
My mood was so foul
That I started to howl.
Then I kicked at the cat,
Told my wife she was fat.
The divorce went through quick
And I fell very sick.
It was all for my craft;
Close that door, there's a draft.
bite of wisdom
shaken baby syndrome
happens
*Not for contest
I wanted to be famous,
So I thought I'd write a pome.
Somethin' reely spiritchul,
With touching undertones.
Somethin' folks would reed about,
When I'm dead and gone,
And call me poet, artist, bard,
And put it in a tome.
Them great, big heavy books folks buy,
And never reely reed;
But if yer in one of them books,
Then folks are all agreed,
That yer the best that ever was.
A reglar Willem Shakespear;
So I set down to write it,
And found that it has took near,
All my time and energy,
To come up with a title,
Let alone the pome itself,
For me this writing's futile.
(Fergive me Y'all, I got writer's block)
Pome du jour
Rudderless and leaderless we will traverse
The seas and the trails
Of meter, rhyme schemes and tropes
(If we please)
And land on Moot Point - somewhere north of San Francisco.
The medium is, after all, the message (per Marshall McLuhan)
And a poem must need not 'mean' but 'be' (per Archibald McLeish)
Hence, loose the bonds of that inveterate evil thing - mind
And think tangentially, not crossing, not intersecting
(think in terms of a curve approaching its asymptote),
For therein lies the truly spiritual beings we are.
A god is immaterial here. But: Vaya con dios,mi amigo.
God bless the counter tenor
King of Kings, Lord of Lords
Member of my divine Parliament
Halos abounding and sounding
Of Celestial bliss and perfectude.
\Pitching pulchritudinous pitches,
Pushing me to transcendence.
No God can touch this
Nor man bring down.
God bless the counter tenor
THE POME
I wanted to be famous,
So I thought I`d write a pome,
Somethin`reely spiritchul,
With touching undertones.
Somethin`folks would reed about,
When I`m dead and gone,
And call me poet, artist, bard,
And put it in a tome.
Them great big heavy books folks buy,
And never reely reed;
But if yer in one of them books,
Then folks are all agreed,
That yer the best that ever was,
A reglar Willem Shakespear,
So I set down to write it,
And found that it has took near,
All my time and energy,
To come up with a title,
Let alone the pome itself,
For me this writing`s futile.
Judy Ball
Fergive me Yàll.
I got writer`s block.
All the things i've come to bleed for in the past
childhood held hopes that where never ment to last
my inosence long since sinned away
carrying the crossafix i'll hang from it's my grave
but your beleafs be long to you
in the end will they hold true
when refelcting on the life you've lead
and all the tears you've dread to shead
and when you find your lost in thought
contemplating all you not
the promised bliss of ignorince
whats my stance on gods apscence
did he send his son as our savior
are we the betrayer
blessed but still damned by free will
not to force thoughts apawn you
simply to remind you
there are other points of view
so as you deside please keep in mind
these are my revalations revealed
mermaid pome
she is lofty but not out of reach
hair is shimmering in waves
waking me with her touch
almost
but not too much
she calls out my name
wait she says
and then she stops to breathe
she is my mermaid
playing me like the fish i am
honey i was still asleep i cry
yes she said and that is why i try
to love yew
she is my ewe
my life
my wife
Whiteflowers Poem
A Pome for Amarylliss
A pome _a heart without a home,
finding its way alone no song
singing endlessly in time
never drinking wine but sober this time
righting words in the nite and then
writing them on paper that never crinkles
sensing smiles in ladies dimples
wondering at love.
Copyright © 2006 charles hice
Word will not describe
world can not hide
young man looking in yard
for something to do (Oh look)
these flowers are funny(purple)
they are smell funny(holds it to his nose)
Someday I will have a woman like my mother
some one to love me a wife?
no it will now never be
but I tried Oh how I tried
but I have something better
better than a wife
I have a ParmeFlower
A pome _a heart without a home,
finding its way alone no song
singing endlessly in time
never drinking wine but sober this time
righting words in the nite and then
writing them on paper that never crinkles
sensing smiles in ladies dimples
wondering at love.
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.