Swan Song
A poets quill lies on his desk
Atop a sheet of coffee-stained
Paper containing stylish script-
An Edwardian handwriting.
The quills point appeared to be dry
For sometime, likewise the inkwell.
On closer inspection the words
On the page became legible:
“My Swan Song” the title began.
It continued: “The flame of life
Grows dim and everything I have
Seen in this light was through the eyes
Of love. Love was writing verses
With this pen.” The words ended there.
Further searching found a yellowed,
Crinkled obituary clip:
“Today the town is saddened by
The loss of its poet Albert__...”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
Swansong
“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour? ”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door.
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor.”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak.
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”
“Where do you lead me
Erato? Oh! The study
What for may I ask? ”
He sits at his desk with his pen in hand
Writing vigorously on a tablet
Almost as if it were by some command.
His outline cast a dreamy silhouette
On the study wall caused by the moonbeam
Shinning through a curtained opened window.
“He writes with eyes closed in his dream”
“Be still! He calls out the name, Erato”
“Erato, you say
This love poem is my last?
How so, may I ask? ”
The poets hand stops writing a moment
Than briefly begins again then desists
Completely; lays the pen down and laments
While rising from his chair clenching both fists
Then begins to walk toward his bedroom
“Should we read what the old bard has written? ”
“Not now! Let’s follow him back to his room
“But...” “Please keep quiet! He speaks once again.”
“Erato I have
Finished what you asked of me
This is my swansong.”
The old poet reached the side of his bed
And gently slid under the bed covers
A smile appears than wanes. “Is the bard dead? ”
“Yes! He’s gone where all the poet lovers’
Always go: with the lovely Erato”
“I hear a lyre! Do your ears hear the same? ”
“Yes! It plays for another poet’s soul
That enters Erato’s love poems domain”
*******************************
Standing at the old poets study desk
The two men look down upon the tablet
And begin to read the verses expressed
This saddest of nights both will not forget
My Swansong
In life all things must always reach its end
My life is no exception to this rule
True love was writing verses with this pen
And know for sure I had not been a fool
Love was all I had to offer in life
Expressed in many forms of poetry
Each I shared with my friends and loving wife
Intent was never a commodity
My time has come; the flame of life grows dim
And everything I have seen in this light
Was through the eyes of love I owe to Him
My hand grows weak, my effort ebbs tonight
I see your face, your myrtle crown and lyre
You strum the strings, sweet music to my ears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Unrequited Love Poem
Accidentally chanced upon
While browsing through a set of tomes
An unrequited love poem
Marked between the yellowed pages
Within a volume rifled through.
Thereupon, I eagerly read
The words in Edwardian script
Predated nineteen hundred six-
A sad age of class distinction-
Where lines describe a futile love
Of two unfortunates in love
The beau from high society
His belle of notoriety
The aging ink was droplet smeared
I want to think it was from tears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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An Old Flame
The writing faded on the page
The paper yellowing with age
An age of innocence then died
The blurring marks where once i cried
The memories flow back to me
Why did she ever have to leave?
The writing fading from the page
The sadness now becomes of age
The paper's corner now a flame
I shall not see those words again.
poem by David Keig
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Writers Block
He was going to write a brilliant poem
probably the best one he'd ever done
but when he sat down at his desk
the inspiration just wouldn't come.
No matter how hard the poet tried
to get some ideas down onto the page
nothing worth writing about arrived
leaving him on the verge of rage.
Then an Eureka moment hit him
while listening to the ticking of the clock
he'd write a poem on the frustration
of that dreaded writers block.
He ended up writing five verses
about a poets worst nightmare
when your wanting to write a masterpiece
but end up pulling out your hair.
So the moral of this poem must be
that writers block isn't so bad after all
as you can use it as a poetry subject
instead of sitting there staring at the wall!
poem by Kevin Halls
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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Poets Of A Feather
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time-
Revolved and returned-hopeful-yet concerned...
I set forth on my mission of rhyme;
So many have inspired my writing...
For many and multiple reasons...
Catching my breath and my very words-
I extend them-as a poet for all seasons;
Come read me in the Dead of Winter...
Come pore over my Springtime Prose...
Peruse me in the Heated Summer...
Or read me as the Fall time grows;
All nestled in the fallen leaves...
Blown crisp through Autumns Northern air...
Burnished-Gold influence emulates...
In poetic verse that my muse dares to bare;
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time...
Written and erased-edited and chased-
My words are not hidden in mime;
I am a mover and a shaker by nature...
But age and ill health have had their way with me...
Writing now comes from the positive and negative...
That shapes and forms my entirity;
So welcome fellow poets and laureates...
Lets celebrate this occasion most grand...
Coming together as birds of one feather-
With paper and quill in our hands;
poem by Theodora Onken
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For You, My Dear, When You Are So Blank
white sheet. a paper. like you.
iwant to write something
just to fill this white sheet a little bit
some words. i can utter them.
but i like writing them
just to make this white sheet looking
full. like
'i love you'.
the rest need not be written.
i know you know and you know that i know.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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More Letters
More letters found stuffed
Beneath his brown best shoes,
Which had yellowed with age.
Love letters with small crosses
For kisses at the bottom
Of the page. Words neatly penned,
Love spoken of, gifts thanked for,
Places seen, shared and remembered.
He was a dark horse, Mother said,
Never knew he had these, so many here,
Stuffed, forgotten or out of sight and mind.
Granddad had had some woman
On the go at some time and place
Years ago, before Gran, before
The whole circus of living had ended.
A photograph tucked between pages,
Some woman in old-fashioned hat
And dress and wide-open eyes.
Secrets hidden and kept, words
Upon words on pages, scribbled
By a hand now sure to be dead.
Best burn them, Mother sighed,
Nothing to be gained, best nothing’s said.
poem by Terry Collett
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To the spirits of Abn 'Arabi, poet, and Averroes, philosopher
The philosopher asked the poet,
Does what the poets and the mystics
find in their hearts, agree
with what the philosophers have discovered
or reasoned to be true?
The poet answered
Yes, and No
and between the two
is a place, a space, where
the mouth is silent,
the pen hovers poised above the paper,
the eyes sparkle,
the heart leaps and rejoices,
and the mind soars on journeys
beyond anything that was known before
and lives experiences never before experienced;
finds words behind words
that were never spoken before,
sounds behind sounds
never heard before,
a knowledge beyond love,
a love beyond knowledge..
a place where poets and philosophers
meet together in a world of wonder.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Never Found the Words
When you two asked me to write a poem for you wedding I felt so honored. But now on this your wedding I must apologize for not writing your poem, I never found the words.
I never found the words
that could describe the love you see for one another
when you gaze into each others eyes.
I never found the words
that would truly embraces the warmth you feel
when you’re holding one another in your arms.
I never found the words
that would magnify the passion
of your kisses.
So once again I do apologize.
But you two must understand
when it comes to your love for one another
there is no words, and that is why I
never found the words.
The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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In Memoriam (A Child Missed)
A desk lies empty
A missing face to find
A child soon missed by some
Another life consumed by one
A classmate questioned
A missing child to find
While a desk lies empty
A hope dwindles with time
As a child's life once abound
A child's fate is now found
While a desk lies empty
A lifeless child is found
As questions of why arise
A time for tears to flow
While a desk lies empty
A prayer for a missed child we know
A quiet voice to miss
A child missed we know
While a desk lies empty
A question of why to know
A future now not to be
A tragic loss we are told
While a desk lies empty
An answer of why yet untold
A myriad of lives changed
Another youthful innocent lost
While a desk lies empty
At a life's innocence cost
A society believed so rich
And yet a life's worth so poor
While a desk lies empty
Another child's life's no more
A time to ponder a commitment
A life's question to answer
While a desk lies empty...
poem by Robert John Meehan
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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God's Poets A Good Poem & Love
GOD'S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it's God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent His poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can't help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.
Words
Words on this paper
Words in my head
Words while I'm texting
Computing
Unsaid
Words between people
Words on the phone
Words upon words
Even when I'm alone
Words from the Bible
I question
Don't mesh
Words from pornography
Making them flesh
Words with flat letters
Written in black
Good words and bad words
You cannot take back
Words that are shallow
Words that are deep
When they're too many
They put me to sleep
Words that I'm writing
And rhyming you read
Whatever I'm saying
There's prolly no need
Words from the alphabet
Words that can't be
When you are blind
And it's Braile that you see
Words that are worthless
And said on the fly
My words or your words
Are most likely lies
Words in a sentence
Wise words or fair
The only words earnest
Are those said in prayer
Written by Sara Fielder © 2011
poem by Sara Fielder
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0124 A Dead Poet Comments on 'Comments
Erstwhiles,
of candle-laboured hours and screwed-up eyes,
the quill scratch-scratching, the paper ragged rough, the ink
unwieldy, black and unredeeming
as a judge’s cap –
fame – or barely fame,
the least to be hoped for, a mere ‘name’ – a
mere sheet of scrawled, curled paper
passed around a smoky coffee-house: they
so shrewd of eye and savage oft of wit;
or at the best, the whim of jobbing printer:
then, fame or forgetting lay beyond this life.
The grave’s a humbling, private place
where even poets labelled ‘metaphysical’
begin their education quite anew…
and yet, and yet - some centuries ahead,
some divine post-classic irony may devise
a means of universal access
to poems quite unread
(alas, and oft unread their readers too…)
and so, humbled by cold grave and death,
there’s one more humbling yet to bear:
the stripling’s comments on a verse that lives,
the poet – would he know it – dead:
‘Not so great – keep writing’…
raising in these bleachwhite bones and grimjaw skull
the faintest meta-physical, unseen
ghost of a smile
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sir John de Vere
Sir John de Vere has took a quill
And set himself to sit and write
The sweetest love that is of men
To take unto his heart's delight.
And he has took a damsel fair
That flitteth by, beseemingly,
And with a strand of golden hair
Begun to weave her mystery.
The hair it flows from quill to sheet
In whorls and ripples it doth flow,
In twists and bends it eddies forth
To settle on the sheet below.
The hair is sweet in light perfume,
The quill it flows from page to page,
The lady's love has settled there
For all to read and all to know.
The lady's hair has bound her love
With golden tresses to the line,
Her heart is caught, it knows not where,
But may not move, and may not go.
Her skin, that of the lightest hue
Is soft to touch and soft to dare,
Sir John de Vere reveals anew
The secrets of her every where.
The more the pen skims on the page
The tighter are the bonds that bind,
The lady swoons in righteous rage
At whorls and eddies in her mind.
In whorls and eddies it doth flow
The golden hair, a flowing stream,
The cheek is caught and now the thigh,
Imprisoned for the world to know.
'You've made my love a whore', said she
'For all to come and take their sup,
My mind is open, disarrayed,
And so my thighs, my kirtle's up'.
Sir John heard not his lover's plea
But worked from day to night his joy
And took another golden strand
To work his quill another ploy.
And so his muse grew forth apace
His verse became a mighty work
And when his quill had run him dry
He went to seek his lover's face.
He sought and searched him far about
But never no sight of her did see,
Then mused apace before he turned
To seek the pages of his creed.
Among the parchment of his room
He found his love within the scrip',
And all the art and all the grace
He'd taken from his lover's lip.
And all the life and all the joy
Imprisoned on the churley sheet
To leave the shadow of his love
Bereft, and for the world to meet.
Sir John de Vere took on the thread
And pulled it from the final line,
That words that tumbled from his head
Should never not, nor now to bind.
And as the muse its thread was broke
A sigh came from his shadow love,
And colour caught in both the cheeks
And life came back in all the blood.
The arms he loosed then gripped him fast
And lips that whispered him to hear,
He will not write his love at last
Nor never again, will John de Vere.
25 April 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
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(Marie's The Name) His Latest Flame
(Marie's the Name of) His Latest Flame
Elvis Presley
(words & music by Doc Pomus - Mort Shuman)
A very old friend came by today
'Cause he was telling everyone in town
About the love that he just found
And Marie's the name of his latest flame
Though I smiled the tears inside were a-burning
I wished him luck and then he said goodbye
He was gone but still his words kept returning
What else was there for me to do but cry
He talked and talked and I heard him say
That she had the longest blackest hair
The prettiest green eyes anywhere
And Marie's the name of his latest flame
Would you believe that yesterday
This girl was in my arms and swore to me
She'd be mine eternally
And Marie's the name of his latest flame
From: gmv
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unaltered pages
so many want
to be poets
they let words
guide them
(take the lead)
writing in
a high fashion
for the glamour
i suppose
for me
i let my
humble heart and soul
guide me
to my poem
the first words
human uttered
were born there
and still are
for poets
who string verses
that lift readers
to the unaltered
realm (pages) of their life
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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His Latest Flame
(words & music by doc pomus - mort shuman)
A very old friend came by today
'cause he was telling everyone in town
About the love that he just found
And marie's the name of his latest flame
Though i smiled the tears inside were a-burning
I wished him luck and then he said goodbye
He was gone but still his words kept returning
What else was there for me to do but cry
He talked and talked and i heard him say
That she had the longest blackest hair
The prettiest green eyes anywhere
And marie's the name of his latest flame
Would you believe that yesterday
This girl was in my arms and swore to me
She'd be mine eternally
And marie's the name of his latest flame
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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