Proofing Poems | Examples

Potholes

Happily cheering and laughing ,swinging,
as the dad is carefully pushing it.
He is on cloud nine ,looking at her joyous face.
The bright skies have fallen  ,clouds turned dark,
and the storm has washed away  the roads,
taking away the only rainbow in his life.
Taking her ashes to high and low places
for justice but in vain,they cant fight
against a pothole,which is gallows to
the people taking these paths.
Pain,aganst,agony ,beautiful memories,
deep void of his heart,have all
turned him into filling the holes
and safe proofing the paths,so 
no one ever loses their love like him.
This torch has been burning since two decades
and will do,as long as ill people exist.
It was supposed to be a torch but
we made him burn an eternal flame.
Will this flame ever see a shine,
well.....you tell me.......

PS:This poem is written after knowing about a father who lost his daughter to potholes filled roads
     in an accident(kaam chaalu hai..movie trailer).
Written on:12-4-2024

Matthew Shepard Of Wyoming

Twenty-one years old,
or should I say young,
with the fair coloring and
grace of a trumpeting swan.
Youth of intellect and
a goodness.

He attended an LGBTQ+ meeting
on the campus of the
University of Wyoming on
October 6, 1998,
afterwards he dropped by
the Fireside Bar for a drink.

Two malevolent men lured
him from the bar.
They tortured the youth of
the peaceful presence.
They left him to die on 
a deer-proofing fence
near a rural roadside.

Hours later a young man
on a bicycle at first thought
Matthew was a scarecrow,
then recognized him.
He, Matthew of an angelic face.
The swan, the delicate swan.
Tear tracks streamed on his cheeks.

After a six day coma in the hospital,
Matthew of this sad earth passed away.
Candlelight  vigils glowed the world over.
Hate crime legislation across the U.S.
was born.
Matthew, a citizen of global humanity,
was murdered for being gay.
Love and Hope lying bereft,
bleeding still.

Matthew's angels still console the
tearful hearts of light,
neverending. ~

Following Arrows Backwards

Back I go retracing steps.
Against the tide I must tread,
Following the arrows down in reverse.
Each arrow head points back to moments gone,
To a time before the dawn of days past.

The footprints I must retread
Lead backwards on the path trod.
Heel to toe carefully placed in reverse,
To echo the way I felt at each step.
To unravel the memories woven.

Rewinding your life's design,
Sopping up past tears you shed,
Muting the cries with rags and sound proofing,
Pulling back from embraces hugs and kisses.
Is the toughest part of these retraces.

With each step, a tale unfurls,
Of joys and sorrows retold,
Where songs I knew, old and new are unsung.
I walk through gardens which were once in bloom,
Where flowers long since withered, met their doom,

This journey back to the past,
Rejigs it, to could have been!

What Does Clothes Have To Do With It

I am who I am
Born to live and breathe
No stress but being relieved
Sense of feeling don’t belong
It’s a situation of no get along
Clothes identify a person
Distinction
It’s not a fashion statement proofing a point
Its clothing taste being unique
One doesn’t have to have a physique
Yesterday relished with a tomorrow setting
One’s moment
Committed no crime
Not asking for a dime
Hourglass time after time
Secluded with one’s own enterprise
It’s only one’s realize
Fallen knee deep within the cries
There are no lies
Simply emphasize
Clothes don’t say a person is different, but stand proud of who they are
No one can take that away
Standing solid with no getaway
No ride
Only what the inner soul can provide
Echoes from what words derive
Living to fulfill
Strength with a will
This day
Every day
Inherited name
One of a kind
A name genuine
Accomplish
Establish
Distinguished
Inspired beyond
A tomorrow here
A moment in time to preserver

Proofing Blues

When an uptick in violet crimes
Made the front page of the New York Times,
Seems the cause of the botch
Was the proof of the scotch;
Now the checker hawks greeting card rhymes.


—————


SECOND PLACE WINNER
For the “Valentine Challenge” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Form: Limerick
2/6/2022

Surviving the Dream

I hate the business of writing
the commerce of word craft
the tedium of publishing
the deadlines imposed

I hate the word count 
the editing and proofing
the book signing travel
and agents exposed

I hate the promotion
each workshop and fair
the reviews and the podcasts 
the bookstores that sell

But I love the writing
when the words come together
releasing my spirit
—my fortune to tell

(The New Room: January, 2022)

Faithland

Critical tendencies and agitated mind,
misread beginnings to like all in kind.
Air of the heaven and sensation in prime,
force of life and death at the same time.

Devotion aroused giving all for nothing,
which reality turns perception touching.
Endurance crowns goodness with beauty,
possessor through holiness of duty.

Conscious unity with the ultimate provider,
life’s culmination and transcendent rider.
Natures reach for no conventionality,
proofing in tune thinking ability.

Belief’s conception via faith’s conviction,
political metaphor for egos addiction.
Liberty of faith and only integrity,
impossible current of all mystery.

Days Gone

Were I a drifter before?
Wandering in a world I haven’t a clue I was from?
Perhaps closer to the truth I saw
How wondering into nights were days gone...

I sat and watch another day going by
Did I earn enough to see another tomorrow?
I sat alone wishing I could die
Only to have yesterday proofing what hope doesn’t follow

I would drift away in my thoughts
I would be lost and unfound
And to be what I am not
Guess the world and me hasn’t come round

Leave me be for now and ever
Simply because I was left wandering and alone
I’ve seen what the world has to offer
Have I not often wonder how my offer was left unknown...

I was a drifter before
To have wandered far from where I once belong
Perhaps my truth is what I finally stood for
Have I not wonder in nights from my days gone...

Renewal

An affinity for romance re-kindled
Our autumn walk severed from the rush of people
A different kind of membership
       a cool zone
       as leaves fall like mellow tones in ballads 
       weather proofing our path
       brittle coins of gold, red, orange
       that rattle the ground with color
       that brush against the soothing ease of desire.

Leaves bedding to mute the snap of word sharpness
                             to meld decay and comfort
                             to filter an air of ghostly tension.

Our fingers entwine as we re-build faith together
        push through the crowded disappointments of memory
        store ourselves away from past damaged pieces.

Cradled walking
         amid leaves, bone weary
         that fall as footprints
         re-imagined
         as hurt unraveling





Poem revised late September 2020

The Word

The word is the housing forged as a proofing of thought. God's word is it's Temple.

Brand New Proofing Box

EACH EDGE
CURVED
BEYOND IT'S
END
EACH CORNER WAS DEFINED
BY THE SMOOTH, SOOTHING
EDGE WHICH DECERATED
THE EDGE
IT'S FINALLITYWAS
APPROACHED BY THE
LINES OF THE CREATURES
 CHOSE OF NEW BEGANNINGS
ECHTINGS
AND MARVELOUS SIGNUTURES
WORDS FOR THOSE WHO
 LOVED BEAUTITY TO ADMIRE
LIFE BEYOND THE NEWNESS
CAUSED THE CREATER TO MAKE SIMPLE
THE SURFACE TO BE CLEANED

Trim the Rime

A poem can be left adrift
a deserted, floating wreck

Words wash over rails
on board, a slippery deck

Every poem I've ever written
helps me write the next

A gaggle of "lilliputian critics"
ensure I craft my text

True, I do the proofing
readers do the check

No No

No No; that's my name 

Name I was given 

Given when I started crawling

Crawling and exploring my world

World that I couldn't touch until I was able to crawl

Crawl where my curiosity would take

Take me into a world of excitement

Excitement of a few bumps and bruises

Bruises mommy didn't want to see for my future

Future... mommy baby proofing our home

Our home that my grandma calls me Sweetheart

1/13/2016 by Eve Roper

Going Home

The rain appeared, arctic 
Spattered the duck board 
As angry pellets flinched 
And recoiled 

Boathouse dank, bleak 
Galley proofing transpire 
Moist and humid 
With sense of Frangelico 
And bitter almonds 

The sord chattered 
With new fervor 
And feeders sojourned 
Past darkled dawn 

Composition turned to 
Decomposition 
Place in basket 
Not to collate 

Wits and writer’s block 
Onset of migraine 
Twinge 
With visual disturbance 
And sorrow 

Write of grief 
She is not coming back 
Time heals 
Do not die 

Spring frontward 
Go home 

Sun is aching to flicker 
Drop downbeat design 
Bloom buds of dreams

The Seeker

Hungering, thirsting, my stammering lips burst
With words floundering at the bridge of need
I stagger each lonely time away from the curst
The broken wings of long lament, the dry weed
Of discontent, the abused bitter penitent. And I
In circles return each time to voids where I cry.

I am the seeker of the Golden Fleece fated still
To suffer in the thrill of desire, I am voyager
For Holy Grail, proofing substance of that hill
Where hung the Creator and the good great giver
Bringing my bareness to be filled, and to know
What is this desire in me that must glow and glow?

There before you I know I am incomplete, rift
Of dominion and indwelling to the full extreme
I am the latent wonder, the bloom of broken gift
The child tossed about inside a wide sea of dream
And when I unite with her, beyond passion, we
As one receiving you, give us, Lord, thy eternity.

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