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Best Poems Written by Roger Wilson

Below are the all-time best Roger Wilson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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I Want To Be a Poet

I want to be a poet to write those words which rhyme
But it seems I'm having trouble with tempo, tense and time
How do the poets do it rhyme words so undisputed
They neatly find the perfect word and exactly where to put it

They make it seem so simple words flow in easy verse
While my words go from good to bad and then they just get worse
Oh to have the poets flair for grasping words from out the air
But alas I stare at paper bare and pine for words which are not there

With ease the poets do it pen words so neatly dressed
While I sit here debating and getting more depressed
To them it's not too arduous to mete out rosy prose
While in my mind bewildering a musty cobweb grows

Ornately Poets do it scribe sentiment so clear
That lifts the heart and stirs the soul like music to the ear
As I scan their lines which meld and knit I envy those who conjured it
And when I read their words united tis my id which gets excited

I twitch and get elated when I find two words of whit
But I'll be darned if I can find another two which neatly fit
I thumb through my thesaurus till the moon is fully lit
But my brain is still in neutral and not a rhymes been writ

Each pair I work to sound enhance fails to bring the bards due dance
And the prose I opt for seems to lack the poet's gift of word romance
But I'll persist and see how it goes
And perhaps one day I'll write some prose

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Seasons of My Life

Seasons of my life

In the autumn of my life ti's springtime I recall
when the pregnancy of winter gives birth to flora all

colour hue and freshness as only sol may rise
seeds faithfully long trusted yield fruit in blush surprise

bulbs beget their flowers in colours hot and cold
while rose buds blossom gently their fragrance sweetly bold

candied dew upon their petals reflects the morning sun
which is busy lifting blankets of mist where rivers run

creation in profusion life's spectrum how it glows
in a sea of waving splendour earths bounty ebbs and flows

in the winter of my years let springtime be my bed
lay me neath the flora so my spirit ne'er be dead

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She Is Gone

She is gone now
Gone but not fogotten
Is her touch
Soft upon me 
Soft as mist upon the morn 
She is gone now
As mist upon the morn
I mourn

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Seasons of My Life

Season of my life

In the autumn of my life tis springtime I recall
when the pregnancy of winter gives birth to flora all

colour hue and freshness as only sol my rise
seeds faithfully long trusted yield fruit in blush surprise

bulbs beget their flowers in colours hot and cold
while rose buds blossom gently their fragrance sweetly bold

candied dew upon their petals reflects the morning sun
which is busy lifting blankets of mist where rivers run

creation in profusion life's spectrum how it glows
in a sea of waving splendour earths bounty ebbs and flows 

in the winter of my years let springtime be my bed
lay me neath the flora so my spirit ne'er be dead

Details | Roger Wilson Poem

The Grape

 In my many years I have found the ideal travelling companion.  An escort who can be quiet and reserved yet sometimes,when required, strong and bold. Most times pleasantly agreeable.  Her age it does not matter and in some cases the older the better.  My companion can be sweet and sugary and maybe at times a little tart.  Yet every now and then,contemporary with plenty of drive and a certain nuance of audacity. Red or white it makes no difference to me.  Tis the grape that has become my friend, my travel guide to the world.  She (and she must always be a she) has seduced me to sip my way through life.  To enjoy its many pleasures and endure its many hardships. A cool sweet Chardonnay has been my Orient Express to intrigue, a potent port my African Queen to adventure and, a delicate red-fruit pinot noir my Apollo to the moon.  I toast to you my friends and to my friend "The Grape".

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The Frog and the Cricket

The Frog croaked
The Cricket chirped
The Cricket croaked
The Frog burped

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Painters, Writers, Poets

Painters, Writers, Poets live in a world apart
Crazed and demented they somehow create art
Commentary varies as to what is good or bad
Laud the creative architects who are nothing short of mad

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Ode To Our Cat Tom

I know I should apologise but I ponder at my fault
I truly thought that every cat had abilities to vault
Most other times he ran away when I backed out of the drive
I mean it's only natural a cat's instinct to survive

I'll admit I've damaged other things like skateboards bikes and toys
But this time it was different you could tell so by the noise
Now the kids won't talk my wife won't talk I'm really in the pooh
Especially when I made that joke the one about cat stew

I said I'll buy another cat same type and age and fur
But unforgiving voices choired "He had a special purr"
What about a robot cat immune to hurt and pain
No support from either camp only looks iced with disdain

Eight times that cat survived a life with luck more apt than mine
I hap to be the luckless one who snuffed out number nine
Well old Tom I'm really sad and regret I did you wrong
So to prove my worth when I'm heaven bound I'll bring a mouse along

3/4/2023 Free Submission Sponsor: Sotto Poet

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Darkness

DARKNESS

Sometimes when I'm frightened and darkness fills my night
I speak into the darkness to chase away my fright

Darkness I say

I know you're but a cover to beauty sweet and kind
and if you give to me tomorrow these things I know Ill find

The lustre of a sunrise lighting waves across the bay
a field of flowers waving as with the breeze they play

rivers that run from snow capped peaks as for a sea they search
steeple bells that call to all from a friendly country church

the taste of cool fresh water from a bubbling mountain spring
the call of springtime swallows returning on the wing

the blushing of the setting sun as it paints the dying light
pulling with it after the blanket of the night

Darkness

you do not take these things you but grant a short repose
all is safe within your keeping until the morning glows

so darkness I will give to you my heart and soul to keep
until I feel the dawning just cover me with sleep

Details | Roger Wilson Poem

My Desk Drawer

I am sitting at my desk attempting at some prose
But nothing seems to come to me nothing to compose
My minds a canvas blank not two words can I rhyme
So I try counting backwards just to pass the time

Then without a conscious reason except for boredom's reach
I open my desk drawer to a mixture of mystique

A magnetic magic bracelet used to cure my rheumatism
Surrounded now with pins and staples an error in optimism
A yellow wooden pencil its rubber now a stub
An unused lifetime membership to some forgotten club

A mechanical lead pencil with no refills in sight
A bottle of used white-out the top cemented tight

Post-it notes with messages which I can't understand
Telephone numbers without a name not written in my hand
Ballpoint pens with dried-up ink no longer do they write
A solar-powered calculator gone flat for lack of light

Rubber-bands that no longer stretch and little bits of string
Two black dice and a deck of cards missing a red king

Sun glasses a mini racing car and a worn-out golf shoe cleat
A funny little package which reads "Silica Do Not Eat
Orange sore-throat soothers now melted to a bar
Finger-nail clippers picture hooks and a pick for a guitar

A polishing cloth and a lucky charm that never seemed to pay
Needle and cotten a used band-aid and a bottle of nasal spray
Screw drivers erasers fluro-pens that have gone dry
Sticky tape a set of keys and a flashy bright bow-tie

This jumble of confusion has failed to solve my plight
I'll just keep counting backwards till I find something to write