The Potty Poet
Upon the computer keyboard,
With QWERTY squashed about,
The poet slept and soon he snored,
Four-thirty... tired out...
And there he dreamt he was awake
And typing poems still,
As if he didn't need a break
Or tiny sleeping pill...
But God was keen to calm him down,
Excited as he was
And gently eased away each frown
For he was loved because
The poet had a heart of gold,
Although his eyes were red,
Yet didn't do what he'd been told
And simply go to bed...
God sighed at such a silly man,
His whole life left to live,
As if God didn't have a plan,
More poems still to give...
Impatience is a tragic mask
That blinds the weary soul,
Such that the poet didn't ask
The Lord to take control...
So pace yourselves, don't be like him,
Take one day at a time...
Don't be obsessed, filled to the brim
With poetry and rhyme...
Sleep brings a boost, a needed lift,
As if to grease the wheels,
Sleep is a precious holy gift,
A sacred rest that heals...
Let eyes stay closed, let dreams unfold,
Let lessons still be learned,
Let fantasy at last take hold
Till daylight has returned...
The potty poet gave his all,
He'll sleep ten hours or more...
Regardless, poets, great or small,
That's what our beds are for...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Related quotes
For my poems, written so early
For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,
That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
-- For my unread poems!
Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.
poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Unable To Sleep
didn't sleep well last night
I didn't dream last night
Losing all the battles
Losing all my fight
I didn't sleep well last night
Barely closed my eyes
tossed and turned and paced
until sunrise
I didn't dream last night
Any time I tried
I cried inside
and wanted to run and hide
I didn't sleep well last night
My world seems confused
Like a dead-end in a maze
like an ocean without a sky
All my friends are far away
the hands I hold are imagined
my life in shades of blue and grey
A life derailed and gone astray
I didn't dream last night
All my dreams feel broken
Hardly uttered or spoken
my tears have run dry
I didn't sleep at all last night
caught up in dispair
for all the things not right
not all black and white
I didn't dream last night
my heart is ablaze
with sadness and fright
No way to make things right
I didn't sleep at all last night
My ship must have sailed away
All I can do is pray
but I've forgotten why
2008 © James T. Adair
poem by James T. Adair
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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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The Tale Of Two Poets
Though dreams may come and dreams may go,
One dream stays in my mind...
It was of Christ, that much I know,
Yet modern day to find...
He preached to poets in a crowd,
To all men everywhere,
If of the Gospel they are proud
And still intent on prayer.
Christ told the tale of modern men,
Two poets side-by-side,
Who chose computers, not the pen,
Their poems to provide...
Each seated there before the screen,
Content to type away...
Until God chose to intervene...
One solemn fateful day...
Computer hard drives don't last long,
Two poets soon observed...
Technology is not that strong...
The poets were unnerved!
The first decided he'd update
And buy a new PC...
The second chose to hesitate
And chose to disagree...
His first intent was to replace
And yet he had his doubts!
Another PC to embrace?
With all its perks and pouts?
With all its programs to download?
With all its joy and pain...
Oh, no! he sighed. Forget that road!
I'll not go there again!
Instead, he gave up poetry!
He sold the things he could
And gave the cash to charity,
Perchance to do some good!
When God looked down, He loved each one,
For each heart had its worth...
And blessed them both for what they'd done,
Since each one blessed the Earth...
The crowd agreed, if God was pleased
And every poet prayed
And thus, by faith, from great to least,
Continued unafraid...
Their poetry spread far and wide,
To north, south, east and west...
Revitalised by Christ inside
Who helped them write their best!
Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.
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
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The Peculiar Poetry Competition
The £10,000 prize attracted numerous contributions,
Some national and some as distant as Australia.
All poetry submitted by email for a specific purpose,
So that the emails could be filtered upon their arrival...
Folders had been created and incoming filters, too,
With keywords like God, Jesus or the Holy Spirit.
Other folders received names or places or events.
Other folders received specific topics or famous causes.
Other folders received swear words or hate words...
Then there were extra folders for specific spelling errors,
Punctuation queries or historical interpretations...
Finally, the hundreds left in the Inbox were considered...
One human judge had been selected to read these.
Usually, with his or her decision being final...
As a published poet, he was truly determined to do well.
This was his golden opportunity to find something precious.
Using his own poetry-reading filters as to what pleased him,
Vibrant themes, exquisite rhymes, rhythms and romance...
Dividing the surviving poets into men, women, boys and girls,
He searched for something profound beyond the norm...
Something that didn't involve the mere commonplace,
Something that didn't rewrite poems already done.
Twenty poems remained from the hundreds he'd read.
Each impossibly wonderful, yet there they were...
All by the same poet, with each meriting special regard.
The judge cautiously informed the competition organisers,
Who, at first, were amazed, for they couldn't believe it.
The winning poet lived in the same street as he did...
She had known the poetry judge for several years.
She was well aware of all his poetry preferences...
She'd written each rhyming poem as if for him alone,
Using time-tested sage advice to write-what-you-know.
He had no inkling of these actions behind the scenes,
He just knew her poetry was truly magical, wonderful...
The organisers heard him read these powerful poems out,
Nodding their immediate winsome approval at each one.
Without a single doubt, her poems were awesome, lovely.
But for the life of them, nobody could select a winner.
The poems were so special they enhanced each other.
They had to be joint winners, no other choice possible,
Each worthy, receiving its rightful share of the prize.
Brenda Burton received her well-deserved winnings.
She donated it all to the Oxfam charity to help save lives.
Along with her gift aid entitlement, the blessing increased.
Her photo was in the papers, pictured next to the judge.
Yes, many thought there was a secret romance behind it all,
Yet the only romance was in the poetry itself... honest.
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Power Of The Poet
When the power of the poet
Comes from the Lord above,
The whole of Mankind will know it
And know it well enough...
For now, he sits and simply stares,
With phrases in his mind,
But suddenly he says his prayers,
God's secrets to unwind...
Then God looks down and nods His head,
With scrolls held in His hand
That tell the world why Jesus bled
And what the Lord has planned...
The poet humbly waits, receives
And then begins to write,
Sometimes he smiles, sometimes he grieves
As he shares each insight...
For now, a prophet has been born!
His eyes are open wide!
As if to greet a brand new dawn
That fills his soul with pride...
The Lord has blessed him secretly,
With prophecies galore
And his heart is thrilled completely,
Yes, to its very core...
He trembles as he writes each truth,
Describing what must come,
Condemning men with harsh reproof,
So conscience makes them dumb...
So men can't speak or find excuse,
So they seek mercy fast...
So that the Gentiles and the Jews
Find God before life's past...
The power of the poet grows,
As prophecies unfold
And match the beauty of the rose
Through revelations told...
The world will change because he prayed
And God the future shared...
The poet hoped the ones that strayed
Would find that God still cared...
That's why he wept in Jesus Name,
For future mercies when
So many sinners were to blame,
No greater time than then...
The poet's words were stored in books,
Across the centuries...
They're found in Bibles where each looks
Who seeks the Lord to please...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
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
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Sonnet: the Master Poet
’Tis God who inspires in me fire!
He is the Master-Sculptor and Poet!
I play a melody with strings well-set;
God-kindled heart of mine becomes a lyre.
Every poet speaks to God in his mind,
In ways so strange that both can understand;
The Poet is a singer in his band;
To God’s tenets, his songs will always bind,
With time, he communicates very fast;
The Poet takes up every word of His;
And so the poems get very well cast;
As if God gave the poet’s mind- bliss.
To thee belongs my poems, O my Lord!
They are made great byThy divine accord.
3-3-2000
poem by John Celes
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tom Zart's = Life Before Death
LIFE BEFORE DEATH
The Lord can close doors no man can open
And open doors no man can close.
It's up to us to prove our Heavenly worth
By our lifetime example of the path we chose.
Every night before sleep I say thank you to Heaven
For the past day I was allowed to love you and serve.
If I awake I say thank you once more
For God has blessed me far beyond what I deserve.
Tom's 480 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
Tom's 480 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Aliens Are Coming!
Yes, I know I'm just a poet and yet I'm quite sincere -
Just in case you didn't know it, the aliens are here!
I saw them leaving their spaceships, just like the Twilight Zone!
That's when they went on searching trips for me and me alone!
Of course, I ran when they saw me! I didn't stick around!
I didn't hide inside a tree - I hid beneath the ground!
Within a cave, where few have trod, I struggled to be safe...
From there, I prayed, in fear to God, somehow to make me brave!
I didn't feint, as some would do... and soon they went away...
So I was glad, I'm telling you, to live another day!
I told my Doctor who sat still and listened with a smile.
But then prescribed a purple pill that calmed me for a while.
The Mental Home has proved so nice... I've made so many friends.
I've met some aliens in disguise! More pills! It never ends!
My M.P. doesn't give a damn! It's time that he was sacked!
He's such a horrid little man! He also thinks I'm cracked...
My wife has been the worst of all! She sold the house last year!
While she's having herself a ball, the aliens love it here!
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Poet Laureate
One day Ill hold that title yes
One day just wait for me
Cos Ill give up all happiness
Too earn that legacy..
Ill write a thousand verses down
As every month goes bye
Sharing poems across the town
Till Im a famous guy!
Dont count me out Ive studied hard
Its not that easy friend
Cos not all poets act the bard
On that you can deep end..
Ill get up early greet the dawn
Give thanks too God then try
It doesnt matter if I yawn
Cos coffee makes me high..
Ill read the papers for the news
So Ill keep upto date
And then some topics hope too use
And edit till their great..
Ive done OK so far at least
So Ill keep pressing on
Till the Poet Laureates ceased
Because his tern as gone..
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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On A Famed Poet
Forgive me if his greatness I cannot seem to note
His poems never rhyme but he is a famed poet
By literary experts considered to be knowledgeable and wise
And for his poems he has won many a prize.
Though poetry is not very popular today
The poet of the poetry lovers the experts do say
In University literary magazines students his verses read
And they all agree he's a fine poet indeed.
Of poets and poetry I must confess so little I know
My favourites old rhymers from ages ago
On the poetry I do not like most experts agree
That it is well written and quite good poetry.
Forgive me if the worth in his verse I can't see
His non rhyming poetry does nothing for me
Of reading blank verse I do quickly grow tired
My truth is by such stuff I do not feel inspired.
The experts on his poetry great interest show
And his stature as a poet only seems to grow
Of him great things are written and great things we hear
And good luck to him on his literary career.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Flat Out
The sun was mighty warm today!
The lioness concurred...
She found a pleasant rock to lay,
A spot that she preferred...
And then she sort of melted there...
And with that rock was one,
Such that she simply didn't care
About that sizzling sun...
Her heavy eyelids flickered still,
Some consciousness to keep,
As if a final act of will
Before she slipped to sleep...
Her breathing in and breathing out
Were simply not the same
And should there be a single doubt,
She'd swear, the sun's to blame!
Flat out, she was, her tail as well,
Like one long stretch of string...
As if the victim of a spell,
She couldn't do a thing!
The mighty huntress met her match!
Flat out, for all to see...
And there she stayed, some sleep to snatch,
From noon till half-past-three...
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Flat Out'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Amazing Joyce
On such rare and marvellous talent how can one put a price
She surely is amazing the one and only Joyce
She has tried every form of poetry one must say with success
And to lovers of poetry Worldwide she brings great happiness.
The marvellous Joyce Hemsley a poetic legend of our time
The internet queen of haiku and senryu and the internet queen of rhyme
Six thousand poems to her name she just goes on and on
One cannot say about her that her better days are gone.
In every one of her poems one can detect her poetic voice
The poet for all Seasons is the amazing Joyce
What can be said about her that has not been said before
Six thousand poems to her name and from her expect many more.
She waves the literary banner for England a true poetic great
The amazing poet from Sunderland we ought to celebrate
A legendary online poet by example she leads the way
And surely a great mentor to all young poets of today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Crown Of A Poet
When my pens are all dried up
And my writing on Earth is done
I will then take off my tarnished crown
And I will hand it off to my son.
To continue the writing that I have started
As from this world I have parted.
A poet my son he will become
To reflect his life in rhyme
To bring forth beauty and wonder of himself
Which will take a never ending life.
For the last poem is like a kiss,
For one is born whenever there is a wish.
A poets pencil is his best friend
And a piece of paper is his canvas of white
To paint the words that have been unpainted
And to stir the soul and open the mind.
To bring forth again the smiles and tears,
That has been locked away for so many years.
And when my pencils have all been broken
And my writing pads are burnt in fire
I will then loose my poetry crown
As I will seek a higher power.
Where my poems will be written upon the sky
Where tears again I will never cry.
My tarnished crown will become my sons
To write on Earth what he sees best
To write during the day and at night to pray
For a poet, as he knows no rest.
For sleep does seldom ever come.
To the one whose fingers are always numbed.
And when his hands are old and tired
The Lord then will give him his sleep
For a job isn't finished until the Lord says so
But then never again will He weep.
And then my crown I will give to my son,
So the dream of ours, will never be done.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Portrait Of A Poet
The poet looked at what he wrote,
The rhythm and the rhyme
And of each error he took note,
Correcting each in time...
His diligence was his best friend,
It helped him to relay
The English most could comprehend
So that they wouldn't stray...
The poet counted syllables,
Eight, six, eight, six each verse,
For these obeyed his rhyming rules
And helped him to rehearse...
You see, he spoke the lines out loud,
As if the Lord to hear,
As if to make his Father proud,
With diction crystal clear...
The poet shed a tear at last,
Because his work was done,
For every test the poem passed...
The battle had been won!
The publishers were well impressed!
In fact, he won first prize!
With diligence, he'd done his best...
That's always good advice!
He taught his children how to write!
So they'd get published, too...
With pearls of wisdom and insight,
So credit where it's due...
His poems were in magazines
And books both near and far,
Yet skills like his weren't in his genes,
He simply raised the bar...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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