Tips Writing Poems | Examples
These Tips Writing poems are examples of Writing poems about Tips. These are the best examples of Writing Tips poems written by international poets.
This Is a Tanka written by Eileen Manassain and reimagined by me by
adding every other verse in order to create Lyrics we could put to music.
please visit Eileen recent page and enjoy This poem in it's original Form.
I want to Thank Eileen for the privilege of working with her on these poems
Nothing seems to last
The present now the past
flowers weep faded petals
Like flaking paint or rusty metal
A faint scent lingers
Upon the barren tips of fingers
once blooming in bright color
Now appear quite smothered
My poems have lost their appeal
No longer things seem real
emotions wither
And darkness comes hither
Wilted words whirl in the wind
Until they blow my way again
bereft of beauty
Void of duty
I strive to remain rooted
In a world so polluted
hoping for droplets of love
Droplets from above
What do you write about? I am asked at least once a week
I try to give people tips, but I am not sure what they seek.
anecdotes are crawling out of my woodwork and my mind.
some of them are wild and funny, others dark and unkind
Nouns and vowels fly through the room and hit me in the head
Sometimes adjectives and adverbs shake me awake as I lie in bed.
So I give the best advice to everyone who asks me so.
Just write something fun and clever, about something you know.
Toss words down in a notebook and don’t try so very hard.
It is tremendously easy and fun being a witty young bard.
Or an old crone who likes to toss stories down on a page.
This is the most wizen advice you will get from this sage.
I was frustrated at work about seven years ago.
A painter, cartoonist, and scrabble player, where next would I go?
I needed something new to do.
Not sure where to start.
Suddenly feeling bored with my own art.
We were required to stay until seven that night.
Parent Teacher Conferences, but I stayed out of sight.
Being the counselor, seeing me makes them blue.
That is something I did not want to do.
Suddenly the word poetry came into my head.
I used to write short stories, now they lay dead.
I had not written anything since I was twenty-nine.
I found a poetry site and began typing poems online.
One poem, two poem, three poems, four.
I liked doing this, but I wanted to know a lot more.
I zoomed around the site and found types of poems and tips.
I have no more story; this is simply it….
Palest shades on top
White lilacs above violets
Softens bouquet's look
[based on reading tips for the floral design called
"A Sense of Colour" pg. 142-143 in "BUNCH UP!:
A Step-by-step Guide for Budding Florists"
by Irene Cuzzaniti]
You have to fit your words through
the tiniest of pencil points,
pen tips,
into boxes and drawers with no light,
and invisible,
be noticed
and voiceless,
be heard.
Yet you keep on,
pushing the words through.
You write and write and write and write
until all of the misty streets
are covered with your pages
and people pick them up-
They take them home
and read them to their husbands and wives
and children and parents
while leaning over the stove,
steam loosening your words.
They fall asleep with your words.
and awake wearing them
feeling them-
In them.
I used to move as fast as cars
runways built in space and mars.
I would dart as far as I could trace
the words moving off the chart
Every other sound that rhymes
Feels like argh, I paint a corner squiggle
argh, I’m bankrupt, gridlocked power struggle
argh no way out of a jigsaw puzzle
Stopped and bound, inside my head
as round as this machine could bleed
My life into moving tree -
BANG! Bark and Fire Stark!
I awake inside a maze
Forest lost to the barren dark
Mixing things that didn’t mix
Stories I couldn't fix,
I felt a apart
I couldn’t even paint an argh
no where left but something leapt
Silent meaning had effect
Movement kept me on a stretch
where rhymes were just erect -
waving signs above my head,
hard and fixed, solid bricks
I really wanted sounds and tricks,
clever tips and catchy bits
songs that keep me in a fix
Kungfu, water, flowing bliss
Then words fell off the page again
I was back it didn’t matter
rhymes could be like fish batter
but narrative was fatter!
I often think of the sea,
not so much of vastness
but of depth, and what I
can't see, all the life just
beneath the surface – sort
of like, a newborn, 70 years
from now; sunlight blotting
out the sky, until rescued by
night...each of us a legacy
of many –
we find one another again, in
the shallow eddies – where waters
meet in manageable pools,
our circles pushing back against
a far greater current –
Where tide
tips the shore, we are nestles
of shelly kisses...sharing what
we can recall of both slippery
and pointed journeys –
in a real sense
all our forms and words
are a bit cliché
creative writing
the antithetical
of language
Two spiders dance cross ivory keys
The sounds they make reprise songs of trees
Phantom fingers flick like legs from hands
Over blacks and whites on baby grands
Every touch, every note played with care
Silken chords 'n tones flow through the air
This music written by nature's mind
From its tips to human hearts it finds
Flying digits riff rare rhapsodies
Prancing predators play melodies
My thumb crushes the soft clay, pushing a single fingerprint into the malleable surface.
I take the clay into my hands, rolling it into a ball, methodically wiping the surface with water.
I jam my thumb down the center, and I increase the crater, using the tips of my fingers
To create a bowl.
I wipe away the cracks with water, strengthen the surface with well-placed slivers of clay,
Connecting the pieces.
The surface becomes as smooth as a glass mirror,
And I wonder,
As I wash my hands clean,
How many of my problems could be fixed with water?
Nothing disappoints like a misleading title
For your reader will look for its theme throughout
And if no plausible link can be made, the reader
Will wonder why you chose that random word or phrase
With no credible link to your chosen lines or your theme
Perhaps, you should rewrite it from the beginning
For if your work does not reflect the title you chose
The reader is certainly apt to think you missed the boat.
The title of your poem is like a door swinging wide open
Welcoming the curious reader to look at what is inside
When your readers step inside the scene you have created
They will search for meaningful words and appropriate phrases
Lines that explain the title you have painstakingly chosen
It can be clever, or funny, or point to what lies ahead, but
Make no mistake, my friend, when expressing yourself
Your title is the key that unlocks the story you are telling.
HONORABLE MENTION
Written on April 27, 2021
For "What's in a Title in 14-20 Lines" Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Tears of wine good feeling signs someone needs to sign me so I design my songwriting tries if only you saw the color of my eyes I still can not lie every day someone dies I having nothing to worry about my happiness is high my pity for people is dry oh my someday with my copy rights I am in for a surprise who is their to compromise away from wise guys slip on there own cries then blood of lies show their eyes watch out before you trip on your own cries for you trip before you ever should of had a grip of these tips just sit down be happy it's raining which means more wine to sip.
Once while sitting, idly, scribbling
thoughts, like drool, slow, slowly dribbling
eraser tips muse gnawing, nibbling
I spied a shadow on the floor
suddenly the muse came creeping
creeping through mind’s chamber door
The month was chilly, wet, and raw
goosebumps raised by wingless “caw”
pencils clutched in darkened maw
mocking me in retched slumber
muse dangling in her frozen claw
words fled the dying lead filled lumber.
“Muse” I cried, “be gone, be free”
“take you’re accursed touch from me”
“unclench my soul, let it be!”
retouch the page with warmth of pen
Heralds - in trumpeted decree
Rejoice – for Now is never Then.
So does the flow of lover’s hearts
celebrate such “fits and starts”
play both “joy and sadness” parts
from icy veins bring forth blood red
upon bare pages draped in art
‘tis passion’s heat the muse must bed.
©4/7/2018
//with apologies to the Bard//
submitted to – BRING ME TO LIFE – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Aiyah de Torres
The fresh, melodic air felt cool against my skin,
kissing the tips of my fingers, the back of my neck, even the tiny spaces between my toes.
A whirling, blissful rush of chilled waves rushed around me.
I could breathe, and with each breath I tasted the succulent, promising flavor of hope, love, and serenity.
A poem is a way,
A subtle , golden path-
From soul to the heart,
from heart to the head,
from head to the nerves,
from nerves to the blood,
from blood to the tips,
from tips to the nib,
from nib to the paper and
finally
from paper to the reader's soul
in the roundabout way.
Such is indeed a poem.
Mysterious,
he was
with much
to give,
The proof
change
is possible
while torment
and tradgidies
show their
negative face,
That's our reality
as we spin
through space
experiencing
a common plain,
All these words
giving perception
to our experience
spiraling
and colliding
inside our head,
Spirit, the soul and our intellect,
Detecting Ancient Wise Knowledge,
Consciousness communicating
through thought
having much to say,
Discovering Art,
Hand gesture,
Symbols
and numerical digits,
Information legit?
A generation
with knowledge
at our finger tips
but most
don't choose
this path,
Wasted time by design
manufactured from concepts
concieved from
cause
and effect,
Study this
and have it become
part of your being,
Also used by evil
bringing negative
interactions
so be aware,
Come up
with new ideas,
Positive with
productive growth
the imagination
is a funny thing...
Quincy Mac
Date Written: 20.1.2017