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Best Poems Written by Robert Zimmerman

Below are the all-time best Robert Zimmerman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Robots

Smooth paper lay up on the desk.
My thoughts were odd, but not grotesque.
Will robots take what I did write,
extracting words by dark of night?

The robot came with stealth today.
It took my thoughts and words away.
The words were mine and reas’ning clear.
I asked myself, “What’s hap’ning here?”

The robot comes with guile and theft.
When words are stripped, what then is left?
It takes what others’ work has grown.
Has often reaped, but never sown.

Don’t tell me now there is no chance.
My gaze is fixed, no way askance.
My apprehension grows each time
I see a robot pose a rhyme.

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Walkin' the Dog

I walked my dog down by the junction
When he had a canine malfunction
He jumped on a snake
A bite he did take
And now he has reptile dysfunction.

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After Pain

The one who brought fun, laughs, and smiles
travailed his path for miles and miles.

Amusing quips that filled his mind
Were formed by tragedies behind.

When one has never felt real pain
True joy the soul cannot attain.

Do not let pain that storms your way 
Deprive your heart of joy each day.

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The Sound of Silence

The sound of silence shrieked today.
I ran... to not be near it.
The thing I thought was really weird,
I didn't even hear it.

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Fred, the Pinto

Strict 8-8-5-5-8 meter.


I once owned a Pinto named Fred. 
Its color was some shade of red. 
I pulled on the choke. 
The steering wheel broke. 
But now it is mercif'ly dead.

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Fearing the Storm

The dark night did his fearfulness arouse,
While flashing-booming-crackling filled the air.
This night of trepidation fills the house; 
breath shortened running fingers through his hair.

Dark fear descends the mountain with a scream,
like flames from mouths of dragons, fear burns deep.
He cannot rest, perchance he moves to dream.
There is no sanctuary within sleep.

With every fear that populates his heart,
his head is buried ‘neath the pillow soft.
The fear that stalks his soul will not depart.
“Perhaps this is the last time.” Then he coughed.

Brief reassurance panics, then soon flees.
All hopes and dreams will not his life appease.

"A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once. It seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come." ? (Julius Caesar) William Shakespeare

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Garden Of Eatin'

I saw a big bird on the table
I asked him to move... t'was unable
With feet in the air
His feathers were bare
I called his two legs Caine and Abel.

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The Termite and the Cow

I watched the peaceful cattle stroll
around the pleasant field.
We gain from them both food and milk, 
such benefits they yield.

However, when they eat the grass, 
they digest all that stuff.
The gas produced from peaceful cows,
makes air a little rough.

But what about that lowly bug, 
with termite as his name?
What he can do, with little help
can change the breathing game.

He gobbles up the wood and grass,
and does his worldly part.
Wet tears roll down my glist’ning cheeks
when I hear termites fart.

They pump their methane in the air,
not ending once it starts.
And all the people hang their heads,
whene’er the termite farts.


Termites are a major contributor of methane and CO2 into the atmosphere.

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Ruthless

Time is not our master; it's our measure.

I watch the hands that sweep the face,
one second at a time.
While contemplating minutes passed,
they’re silent, as a mime. 

The crawl of time is ruthless, and
considers others not.
Ignores life’s circumstances, plus
inhibits peaceful thought.

The mysteries of time abound.
All secrets so well kept.
I cannot understand its scope,
my reasoning, inept.

Time won’t move fast, it won’t move slow,
so steady is its pace.
Perception’s how it seems to flow,
its dust I can’t erase.

I know not when the clock will halt,
and move no more for me.
But when it does, I'll move into
The Lord’s eternity.

There are no days in God’s domain.
He measures time in love.
My journey ends when I’m secure 
in His sure hands above.

Details | Robert Zimmerman Poem

Maisie

I once had a doggy named Maisie
Who acted a little bit crazy
She didn't like fetch 
and wouldn't play ketch
I guess that old dog was just lazy