The Perfect Perfect Poem
Imagine that God asked you to write the perfect poem.
You sat down at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
You let your mind drift, as if in gentle wholesome prayer.
You wait for some guidance as to the main theme.
Into your mind came the title. How? You could not say.
Yet there it was, as if it were your destiny... your duty...
You write the title down and pause to think about it...
Into your mind come images, unbidden, unrehearsed.
Images unfolding, as from some midnight dream.
You think you should write down the first line.
You force the first verse to fit your new desire.
The words work well and you are warmly pleased.
With a faithful heart, you press on with joy.
The images continue and more words flow...
Who is the writer now? Who is leading the pen?
You are puzzled as the images stop suddenly.
You are given time to catch up, so all is well.
The words become eloquent, bold and fanciful.
The story becomes more than what is first known.
A hidden meaning has yet to be revealed.
You sense it is on its way and you strain to know it.
What can it be? Is it a secret from the Lord?
Is it a precious prophecy, is it a holy revelation?
And you tremble, with eyes closed tight, waiting.
'Tell me! ' you plead with God... 'Tell me! '
Then the secret comes and all you see is light.
White hot burning light, the essence of God's glory.
It is fitting to kneel in the presence of Christ.
Behold the Son of the Most High, the risen Lord...
And all that was written before means nothing.
Now is the time for revelation, for the Lord speaks.
And you are truly ready, for now is the time to write.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Penitent's Pen
I knew that it was but a dream, yet what a dream I had,
For in the cosmic sleeping stream I sensed that I was sad.
There was this gnawing emptiness, this missing peace within,
A constant need that I confess all kinds of mortal sin...
My eyes upto the Heavens strayed, as if to seek God's word,
As in the dream I knelt and prayed, a miracle occurred.
Upon the sky one word appeared, red letters large and bold,
God's revelation, clouds had cleared, His message to behold.
That word was EASTER, nothing more, the Gospel to reveal,
To share God's royal pardon for a second chance to heal.
Thus Jesus filled my heart anew with love I'd never known
And then I asked what must I do that others could be shown...
A pen was placed into my hand, yet no-one stood nearby,
Then paper laid upon the land with ink in full supply
And so, with pen and paper there, I asked what should I write,
Then Jesus knelt with me in prayer to plead for new insight...
Christ told me secrets hid from Man that God declared to me,
That's how I wrote God had a plan, explained in prophecy.
On waking up, I searched to find the same pen I'd dreamt of
And bought an identical kind, this precious pen I love...
It didn't cost the Earth, my friend and yet it means so much,
What inspiration God can send to those that stay in touch.
God blesses me each time I write completely overawed...
That's why I hold this pen so tight, my lifeline to the Lord!
---
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Need to Write
I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,
First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;
Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,
All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.
Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,
No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;
Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,
Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.
I know what sort of holiday would people like,
And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;
Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,
And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.
It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,
It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;
It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,
Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.
So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,
Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;
Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,
Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.
Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,
You might even end up, turning it into a song;
Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,
And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.
poem by Margaret Haig
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painted Canvass: Perspective Master Strokes
Luxury. Time and a whole new poem to cite.
Exquisite. An exceptional poem a classic write.
A great poem from a favourite master poet.
And mine all mine to read now in the night.
With deep appreciation, I read these words in hues of light.
Others may fear fail to tread, this path that shines so bright.
First we avid read, then deconstruct, then reconstruct,
the words are whole again, with new fair crafted insight.
If we do not venture, into the words?
How will we know, there meanings?
The poem was whole, written in theme concepts.
Word play gifted images, savour ponder contrasts.
Mine eye perceives perspective, shaped in logic art.
The images drawn forever grace, astound my heart.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Distinct Work
Never be hard at distinct work,
For you delve into the nightmares;
Open the work of the words you write,
Closing the pages as you send letters.
The better writer forces his mind
To act in a strange way, almighty at last.
The work carries on working like words,
Worlds of pictures design our images so late.
May the weight of the pages abhor the life
To come. It defines us as we write on the shelf.
Opening words of slaughter is like being drunk,
Heavy business is about, with clarity.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Mark My Words!
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians know what lies ahead
And we will steer you right.'
Then he explained his earnest faith
In Jesus Christ the Lord
And said that He was strong to save,
That's why He is adored.
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Christ is the light of men!
Lord Jesus Christ rose from the dead!
He's coming back again!
The Holy Bible's prophecies
Are meant to put us straight.
They prove Christ is the Prince of Peace
For whom us Christians wait.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Lord Jesus died for you!
Upon that Cross His Blood was shed
To prove God's love is true.
For all our sins He took the blame,
Then took our sins away.
That's why us Christians praise His Name!
That's why us Christians pray.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians must be Spirit-led,
Serve God with all our might! '
The passenger had understood.
He was a Christian, too.
His heart was warmed, 'Our God is good!
Good night and God bless you! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2011.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital and
via the Watch Now webpage on the
Revelation TV website:
revelationtv-dot-com
: : : : : : : : : :
This poem was also uploaded with
the title, You Mark My Words! and this
has its own shortcut for that page:
tinyurl-dot-com/mark-my-words-poem
The poem was written for Mark the Cabbie and
it was read out to him on the Revelation TV
show Thank God For Fridays,20th of July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Waiting And Wanting To Write Something Else
WAITING AND WANTING TO WRITE SOMETHING ELSE
Waiting and wanting to write something else
The spirit of poetry comes to me
It does not say a specific subject or theme
It has no meaning in mind for itself
But it sings in me
It calls to me
It says ‘now you have the music- let it flow’
And I write it down now
Not as if it is my poem or your poem or anyone’s poem
But only words which God is kind enough to give me
As God has given me so much else which I can be grateful for
A poem to You then
Who have so many poems
And need not my poem
Thank You God My Father.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mark My Words!
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians know what lies ahead
And we will steer you right.'
Then he explained his earnest faith
In Jesus Christ the Lord
And said that He was strong to save,
That's why He is adored.
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Christ is the light of men!
Lord Jesus Christ rose from the dead!
He's coming back again!
The Holy Bible's prophecies
Are meant to put us straight.
They prove Christ is the Prince of Peace
For whom us Christians wait.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Lord Jesus died for you!
Upon that Cross His Blood was shed
To prove God's love is true.
For all our sins He took the blame,
Then took our sins away.
That's why us Christians praise His Name!
That's why us Christians pray.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians must be Spirit-led,
Serve God with all our might! '
The passenger had understood.
He was a Christian, too.
His heart was warmed, 'Our God is good!
Good night and God bless you! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2011.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital and
via the Watch Now webpage on the
Revelation TV website:
revelationtv-dot-com
: : : : : : : : : :
This poem was also uploaded with
the title, You Mark My Words! and this
has its own shortcut for that page:
tinyurl-dot-com/you-mark-my-words
The poem was written for Mark the Cabbie and
it was read out to him on the Revelation TV
show Thank God For Fridays,20th of July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I'd Rather Write
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than mow the lawn today,
As mowing grass I'd soon be bored
And choose to walk away...
That wall needs painting, yes, I know,
Another month won't hurt,
I'd rather write and watch words flow
Than paint and hide the dirt...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than tidy up that room,
A tidy room's a poor reward
Compared with words that bloom...
That pile of clothes I'll get round to,
No pressure, they can wait,
I'd rather write my point of view,
As my views are first rate...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than wash the car outside,
It's not a Rolls, it's just a Ford,
With scratches dust can hide...
That stack of dishes, won't complain,
No rush to stand, wipe, stir,
I'd rather write my thoughts again
Before they melt and blur...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than shop for milk and bread,
Black coffee's okay, rest assured,
I'll give up toast instead...
I'll see my girlfriend, next week, soon,
Tomorrow or tonight...
I'd rather write this afternoon,
Please, Lord, if that's all right...
Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Only In My Mind
thoughts fire
mind blaze
run on wind
words sing mind melodies
words sing song new images
dance in heart veins flow
words shape shift
into new thoughts
concepts poems
several are written
in time heart beats
wonder stirs anew
but only in my mind
where the beauty sings
sung sight meditation
no words given unto paper
no words processed on light screen
no words kept mind record
dart of honeybird flight
bats fly sonar night vision
wing beats of wonder
words released born free
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Dottie Writes and Cries
Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.
Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.
She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.
She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she sucks the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.
She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.
She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.
She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal's page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.
A bird song, she cocks an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.
She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.
She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.
Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.
She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Silent Conversation With Myself
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.
That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Is Like A Beautiful Work Of Art
A poem has no write or
wrong,
How to write your poem
is up to you,
Visualize a perfect poem
That readers will love,
Adjust a poem as much as
you want,
Remember a poem is like
art,
You write it with meaning
and passion,
Add as much as your heart
desires,
Short or long it does not
matter,
Add a picture with your
poem,
Add a quote or a verse,
it is a poet's decision,
Always be proud of your poem,
Let the words flow when you
write,
A poem expresses a feeling,
thought and emotion,
Add a frame and hang it up
on a wall,
share your talents with the
world,
Poetry is like a beautiful
work of art.
poem by Derek James
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Once Again I Write...
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
I write to save my sanity.
I write to ease my heart.
I write to cleanse my soul.
I write to feel alive.
I write to keep my mind strong and my thoughts clear.
I write my words of sorrow, despair, pain, and love, as well as words of wisdom.
I write so that one day someone will truly know me.
This paper, this pen is once again my inspiration.
It is the inspiration to what I see.
It is the inspiration to what I hear.
It is the inspiration to what I feel.
It is the inspiration to the art I create.
It is the inspiration to what I draw.
It is the inspiration to the love for my daughter.
It is the inspiration to the love for my husband.
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
Once again I write to say thank you my timeless friends.
Thank you for saving me time and time again.
poem by Sara Jo Andrews
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Images of Time
The images in my mind is like my thoughts.
Expressing my thoughts is like expressing my feelings.
Words are spoken.All my images are broken.
Broken down into pieces, which can never be made into new dishes.
Those images of past.It takes time to last.
It will last forever for met to take over.
All those images wore my past life.
But it has nothing to do with my past life.
Those images can be forgotten.But not those people.
Those people who are in your images.Can be in a real image.
When you see those people in front of you.
You like to say 'How are you'?
If they say I am fine.Then you will think of those time.
poem by Yash Pradhan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writer's Block!
Yes, these two words came into mind...
Wordpad opened again,
New Rich True Format Document,
Followed by Arial ten...
No text displayed as I perused,
The cursor blinking still...
In readiness for brand new words
My thoughts were yet to spill...
I typed the title, first thing done,
Two line gaps then the verse...
With not a word to lead the way,
It couldn't get much worse...
But then I thought, I'll add my name
And copyright as well,
Then type the date, as if to claim
There's nothing left to tell...
The poem stands, no words at all,
To summarise the theme,
As if the empty heart and mind
Had nothing there to dream...
But then I thought, that's such a waste!
I'll let the reader know,
That even nothing has its place
Before the words can flow...
And so, from nothing came these rhymes,
These thoughts upon a page,
Or PC screen each time I type
To reach another stage...
Who knows? The poem I write next
Could be a great success,
That may grant tremendous insight,
Some cherished happiness...
So Writer's Block, I've beaten you!
I've conquered every doubt!
God gave me something that's brand new
And now I've typed it out!
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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