Ramble On Poems | Examples

hitchhiking to mars

We’ll hitchhike to mars
on a rocket not a car,
so say your au revoirs.

We’ll steer towards Polaris, the north star
right through the center of the milky-way-bar.
See, the universe is dark and chocolatey.

Stars that glitter like multi-faceted gems,
are just shiny, yellow, peanut M&Ms,
take a handful, if you’d like, they’re free.

We’ll dodge the silhouetted moon,
which is made of enough coconut macaroon,
to make a French confectioner swoon.

As we go streaking, like a comet’s tail,
drag a finger through Saturn’s rings as well,
those are made of marshmallow.

We’ll  pass nebulae made of cotton-kandi,
and here’s a fact Einstein would have found handy,
the speed of light doesn’t apply to candy.
.
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Ramble on by Toni Jevicky

Ramble On

If only we could see the world thru someone else's lies. Or spend fond moments in the pain that's well disguised. You understood that clearly, you didn't miss a beat, all my thoughts are jumbled round and incomplete. Can you hear what I see are you seeing anything I hear?? I know you caught a quick glimpse, I could faintly smell the fear. Everything irrelevant is amplified thru need. All of your insanity is the waste produced by greed.

Who's the Problem

If you have some troubled times,
Which some are prone to do,
Inside you should leave behind,
And take an outside view.

Maybe you can’t fine the one,
To interlock your souls,
Overlooked, maybe to some,
But you point out the holes.

Often times, you’re 2 months in,
When dating seems to falter.
In the wedding, you have been,
But never at the altar.

When gathering, you ramble on,
Of others that are rotten.
Then the next, you cry upon,
When somehow you’re forgotten.

Job to job until you’re numb,
You say that you’re too good,
Can’t converse with anyone,
And you’re misunderstood.

Many others will agree,
About this point of view,
We hope you begin to see,
Perhaps, the problem’s you.

Moving On

Stepping from the fray
And towards the way beyond 
the sunrise cries freedom
And my feet ramble on

Weary, I will continue 
Missing you along the way
But still I will press forward
Until my trails last day

I am alone, now
But alone I'm in command
And I will see this through
Until the very end

Rhyme Schemes

Is science an everchanging paradigm
akin to poetry’s everchanging rhyme

interpreted by those who never write
yet keep a dark thesaurus out of sight

and so when I place paper beneath pen
I seldom rate the outcome “lose or win”.

One breakthrough gave the surgeons laughing fits
when told, “between your cutting - wash your mitts”

as poets play the game of “almost rhymes”
comparing it to misdemeanor crimes

not punishable with a failing grade
a shallow grave filled in without a spade.

As poets who doctor soul with wit
ramble on and don’t know when to quit

science will not learn the lessons taught
folded within the dust of crumpled thought.


John G. Lawless
8/13/2021

Moon Talks

It's that time of the night again
when I call the moon to my window sill
Eager to tell it stories of the day gone by
Because it listens to them silent and still...
I ramble on my thoughts, my angst, my pain
while it travels past the night with little stress or strain
As it bids goodbye at the break of dawn
I know it will miss me too like a lover lovelorn !

Love's Aroma

Must keep writing, got much to relive
It's easy just to say, “got no more to give!”
As long as I'm sniffing
Love's aroma I'm wishing
If I ramble on incoherently, please do forgive

I'Ll Never Be a Poet

You're very talented
one of the best
very few could reach your heights
me I just ramble on
‘bout my feelings and my thoughts.
I thought that’s what poetry was
but I see that I was wrong
you’ve set me straight
and your friends agree
that I will never be a poet.
Whether in verse or rhyme
no, I’ll never be a poet
at least not in your league
but we’ll carry on just the same
my thoughts my feelings and me.

Truth Be Told

Art thou deaf to logic
or dumb to sound
Is thy mind broken
Canst you not see

Deliver thy thought
and fear not others
Speak with the mouth
and utter sound

Be not a quiet noise
Letting others ramble on
If the be right then speak
If the be wrong be silent

If truth not be told
Then a lie will be heard
Leading others wrong
Spew the truth always

If not shut up

My Island Home Sq

I wake up at the break of dawn
stretching, I stifle a huge yawn
then fumble for my coffee cup
at the break of dawn I wake up

I must prepare a little snack
and pack it into my rucksack
For my days out in the fresh air
a little snack I must prepare

I’ll ramble on lush verdant hills
admiring golden daffodils
I’ll stay out till the sun has gone
lush verdant hills I’ll ramble on

I’ll stay outside for quite a while
and clamber over fence and stile
Our Island makes me beam with pride
for quite a while I’ll stay outside

Swap The Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May

06/05/20

There's the Door

I find it funny
bordering absurd
to hear people ramble on
and spill their beans

they must be all delusional
thinking they are entitled

do they really
not hear themselves

I’m absolutely delighted
to send them on their quirky
and eccentric way

I shake my head 
clear the air and try hard to pretend
they were never here nor there



Submitted on March 26, 2022 for contest A BRIAN STRAND 1097 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND  -  RANKED 1ST

Originally posted on February 15, 2020

Kiss My Donkey

I will beat you black and blue 
and even add in purple too, 
I’d rather not be hurting you, 
have a chat and lager drink 
exchanging thoughts that we think 
end the night with breath that stink 
over toilets people kitchen sinks, 
next day saying oh what a night 
and it weren’t December or 63, 
the 23rd night of September it be, 
is this plagiarising lyrically 
you tell me, probably, possibly,
twenty first not twenty three
no today's the twenty fourth
I'm still drunk like a dead horse 
did they copyright the copyright sign,
a poem write with no thought in mind 
the winding road climbs decline 
no transportation walk the hill 
no chance mate not how I feel 
display a random writing skill 
tried to stop no brake or will 
no take a break rolling wheels 
strolling hills can't stay still
a few minutes of the day now passed 
time to get up of my donkey
Why did I write this stupid rhyme 
I’m just here killing time
I don’t do crosswords or solitaire 
I just ramble on and go no where
See you later hope that was fun
If it weren’t write your own bloody one

I Was Born

I was born and it was evident at an early age,
that I was a storyteller because I would ramble on and on to anyone;
who was unfortunate to be looking at me . . . .

But, I met death too early in my life and it scarred me deeply,
and eventually I picked up a bleeding pen and wrote the darkness;
oh, it was not right for a young girl to write such sadness in life.

   Now, today all my beloved are names engraved,
     yet, I have many happy memories I press to my heart;
       and tons of wonderful friends like precious gems and flowers,
         but still I must write from my soul poems of life and of nature.

_____________________________
September 28, 2019


Poetry/Narrative/I Was Born
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1184-490-02
All Rights Reserved.  Written under Pseudonym.


Written for the contest, Story of My Life in Ten Lines
sponsor, Silent One

Second Place

Me My Muse and I

i think
i'll make this
my new home
my alternate abode

i’m comfy
and could sit all day
kick up my feet
and watch the sun

its arch way across the sky
in hues i’d watch it fade
waiting till the moon appears
and stars light up the sky

i’d sit here pen in hand
me my muse and i
i’d listen to her ramble on
and i’d scribble all night long

at closing time
they’d have to kick me out
but i'd be right back 
at the crack of early dawn
         


Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~IN THE GARDEN OF MY FANTASY~ 2023

AP: Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021

Posted on August 22, 2019

Only For Show

I’m a Type A Poet,
  literarily incorrect

In the company of fools,
  my pen goes for their neck

They sing to the choir,
  while we cry and spill blood

Their trash in the fire,
  their lies in the mud

The things that we struggle with,
  just folly to them

As their dilettante pleadings,
  ramble on and pretend

Their self psycho-analysis,
  and the time that they steal

Turn to dead broken promises,
  masking what they can’t feel

The thing they most run from,
  we welcome inside

As they tunnel and burrow,
  trying harder to hide

And their one greatest fantasy,
   for us never to know

That their self-proclaimed mastery
   —was at best just a show

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

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