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Best Poems Written by Andrew Yates

Below are the all-time best Andrew Yates poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Ode To Literature

‘Tis a wondrous bit of structure,
 Literature is indeed
And from this, an insightful glimpse of culture 
Truly marvelous to read
Lest we negate such writings, these we overlook 
Nay, treasure these works of fine penmanship 
These that have been structured by true finesse
 Every page of every book
Is truly something of craftsmanship 
Certainly more, but never less

Oh literature, how you’ve stood the test of time
And many trials you have faced
You have no preference, be it free verse or rhyme
 Every work is something of beauty, and not merely haste
 Ay, ‘tis exquisite writing I do sincerely cherish
Writing that shall never decay
For mankind is bound to cessation, this, not known to writing 
Man will see finality, but ideas shall never perish
Truly, a notion to live by each day
Words that are surely inciting

Language lends inspiration to the mind
This we transfer to paper by pen
Such moving words one labors to find
And this process, we repeat again
But what is in literature that which we seek?
Is it the sophisticated nature of such diction,
That of probable bombast?
Truly we have intentions both mild and meek
For such articulated words are surely not that of dereliction 
Thus we discover a divine afflatus from edifying writings of the past

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Father Time

Seize the day, they said
For tomorrow may never come
“Live each day to the fullest,” I’ve always read
And bear good fruits of many and of some

The clock is ever ticking 
And the hour is of near
For Father Time to impose some picking 
Of those who live in fear

The eve is drawing to a close
And by this, the end of human life
So it is, the distinction both of friend and foe
As the minute hand proceeds in strife

Father Time does not forget
And inflicts great wrath with no regret

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Marble Facade

Lo, what stands before me is most certainly peculiar
This bombast wall of mystery crafted by an artificer unknown
Thus I shall pursue my inquiry by light that is lunar,
And cast away every unturned stone



As I draw near this pillar now, 
A certain notion becomes quite clear
Its facade is of great beauty, this, I cannot disavow
For the marble is exquisite, ‘tis something to revere


Assuredly, this work serves for a greater purpose indeed
To arouse inspiration amongst mankind,
And to hasten the pace at which we succeed
As to not rush articulation, but to ensure all deeds are refined



The sun commences to rise and this pillar turns to waste
For what is valuable at night; in the day, is erased

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For Caesar, For Rome

Ay, the Ides of March are surely here
Hark Caesar’s words, these that are true
For the time of prosperity is certainly near
This, being reassured by the dawning sun’s yellow hue



Romans, countrymen, what opportunities shall we avail?
Do we not pay our dues to the good Caesar in the day?
And surely we must do the same by night, as the moon shines pale 
So shall our dear Caesar be thought highly of in his glorious array



Doth my eyes be deceitful, a fellow Roman with an evil intention?
Surely, this Brutus cannot be so daring 
To slay the Great Caesar of such humble discretion
How now will Rome be so forbearing?



For there are snakes in the shrubbery, and slowly do they slither
And the very grass upon which they lay, surely does wither

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As the Storm Clouds Gather

Now as I sit, my mind sets to ponder
Past woes it finds and lends despair to reality 
Thus I remain seated, my imagination seems to wander 
‘Tis only fiction, I affirm, and proceed with normality

But behold, what is this conjuring before me?
An assemblage of storm clouds as dark as the night 
Certainly, such a storm could never be so beastly 
To consume the atmosphere with such powerful might

Lo, ‘tis the sun, ever so dim
Shall I assume a safe position?
Or is it my own mind that is much more grim? 
Ay, let my being be of much humble submission

As surely as the mind is ever nefarious
The body does follow, in a fashion so precarious

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A Most Humble Abode

Who is it that knocks on my door?
It is nearly midnight and not a single creature stirs about 
Yet, I hear a faint tapping of feet upon my cedar floor 
Assuredly, my mind lends to perception, a sense of doubt

Lo, a man stands before me
His hands very much contused
In better light, I come to observe the somber face I see 
A broken man indeed, very much confused

I extended to the visitor, a kind greeting
One, of a most humble nature
The ailing man appears to have received some sort of beating
 Perhaps he was involved in an unsettled wager?

This guest of mine spoke clearly now, and his words were of fright 
The man was my brother, whom I attended to on this dreadful night

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An Endless Trek

The time has come, let us make haste
For the sun grows ever so dim
By this, we have not time to waste
And surely, the raging storms appear to be grim

Let not fear be the captain of our mind’s
Rather, muster up your might in the presence of darkness 
Lest we fail to overcome the prospect of mankind 
And let us not be known by any unfavorable harkness

Surely, the seas are wavering and unsteady
Thus we are bound to this boundless expedition
And surely seek a route in which we’ve found comfort already 
How exquisite it is, one’s inevitable rendition

Ay, the sun abdicates the sky, surely marking the day’s end
And from this endless voyage of life, we must surely transcend

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The Essence of a Sonnet

So what can one expect next?
Is it the complexity of words that draws us near?
To delve deeper into the void of interminable text 
Would one have to first examine what to them is dear?

What is in a word?
Is it the sound one makes when vocalizing vocabulary?
Or is it the emotion a word produces, such as the flight of a bird? 
This, is unknown, thus my motives are extraordinary

To write poetry, is to live
And all sonnets are beautiful, this, a preconceived notion 
Despite a piece’s theme, be it realistic or fictive
Assuredly, sonnets remain as poetry in motion

‘Tis only my humble speculation
That poetry will endure the most onerous tribulation

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Mirage

There it was, my thoughts now plentiful
So ‘tis that my imagination running wild
Doth my eyes be deceitful?
A woman so fair and mild

But behold, my mind lends trickery
To visions of fiction 
A complex dream, so persnickety
My heart feels away not explicable by diction

How can this be?
For I eat and drink interminably, and am of great health
For it is not what I imagine, but see
A woman appearing before me of great wealth

It is so, that by my eyes I have sight
But not all things seen, are proven right

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A Noteworthy Notion

There is a faint chatter very far off and distant 
Doth my ears deceive me?
This intonation cannot simply be so persistent
Like a vastitude of rattling leaves in a halcyon tree

By this I am disposed to pursue such clamor
In doing so, I am overwhelmed with much anticipation
And stroll onward in a much troubled manner
To only discover a man in anxious prostration

I curiously ask, “Sir, what is the matter?”
As the man gradually rose to his feet
He said, “They all think I’m crazy, a mere mad-hatter”
The man was a philosopher, surely discreet

A lesson I did learn, to bear fruits that are good 
And to truly be great, is to be misunderstood