Chatter Chief of Staff Application 1331 after William Shakespeare, Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion,
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher]
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?
There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
ability's terms of reference unsustained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds,
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, ah well!
Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend
[or else to disillusion most descend]
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?
Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps.
To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight,
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
earn due reward to compensate long hours,
so unacknowledged, taxing all their powers.
expending energy for scant applause
as others benefit at their expense,
to few the points, to most so little sense.
For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised,
[the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience, we've cried! ]
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too,
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal!
The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of writing!
Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!
then the principles inspire to undertake
cooperation by your side, correct mistake
create a pool of judges early, late,
who either added are to contests' weight
or offer critiques daily of the fate
doled out to worthy writers ill displaced
by favorites applauseless trophy placed.
The Chatterer should Mission Statement draft
to standards raise as current wordy draught
blows best away - we witness with disgust
both fore and aft enthusiasms bust
by mini groups with macro pains to spill
on others where no praise may ever fill
the offline void some here avoid with just
a minimum of contact, feathers fussed.
On Mission Statement we could dwell awhile,
with workshops, shining sense and grooming style,
but who can guarantee attention span
with four thoughts max, as forethought many ban?
One could continue till the cows come home
to roost, to working shed, led docile in the gloam,
conclusion's called for here so I perceive
with Chatterer to booster A.P. heave
sigh of relief as quality improves,
emotions interplay - which feeling moves;
ambition principled and well perceived
to Karma adds Divin as verse we leave.
(13 January 2007]
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion -
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher] -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?
There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
when terms of reference ability are not retained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds -
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, - ah well!
Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, - observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend -
(or else to disillusion most descend) -
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?
Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps...
To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight -
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
earn due reward to compensate long hours,
so unacknowledged, taxing all their powers.
expending energy for scant applause
as others benefit at their expense,
to few the points, to most so little sense.
For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised, -
(the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience - we've cried!) -
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, - strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too, -
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal!
The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of writing!
Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!
then the principles inspire to undertake
cooperation by your side, correct mistake
create a pool of judges early, late,
who either added are to contests' weight
or offer critiques daily of the fate
doled out to worthy writers ill displaced
by favorites applauseless trophy placed.
The Chatterer should Mission Statement draft
to standards raise as current wordy draught
blows best away - we witness with disgust
both fore and aft enthusiasms bust
by mini groups with macro pains to spill
on others where no praise may ever fill
the offline void some here avoid with just
a minimum of contact, feathers fussed.
On Mission Statement we could dwell awhile,
with workshops, shining sense and grooming style,
but who can guarantee attention span
with four thoughts max, as forethought many ban?
One could continue till the cows come home
to roost, to working shed, led docile in the gloam,
conclusion's called for here so I perceive
with Chatterer to booster A.P. heave
sigh of relief as quality improves,
emotions interplay - which feeling moves -
ambition principled and well perceived
to Karma adds Divine as verse we leave.
Hamlet's Soliloquy
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.
'Tis a consumation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To Sleep? Perchance to dream! aye there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of such long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang's of depised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare Hamlet
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bachelor's Soliloquy
To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,
Or to say "nit" when she proposes,
And by declining cut her. To wed; to smoke
No more; And have a wife at home to mend
The holes in socks and shirts
And underwear and so forth. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;
To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there's the rub;
For in that married life what fights may come,
When we have honeymooning ceased
Must give us pause; there's the respect
That makes the joy of single life.
For who would bear her mother's scornful tongue,
Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;
The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;
The pain of barking shins upon a chair and
Closing waists that button down the back,
When he himself might all these troubles shirk
With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,
And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?
Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,
Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night
For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro
After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing
Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools
To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights
In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed
At ten o'clock to save the light bills?
Thus duty does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of chores;
And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,
And loses its attraction.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Soliloquy of the first time buyer
To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.
Whether it is better in the end to suffer
The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord
Or take A.R.M.S. against your future earnings
And end up owning something? In hock, for years;
Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end
The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
Home ownership is heir to. Reduced Consumption?
No Politician’s wish! To rent? To lease?
To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought
For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills
Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil
It gives one pause. That’s the aspect
That makes calamity of adjusting rates
For who would bear the years and years of debt
Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,
Buyers remorse, and the long delays.
The Questionable title and the risk
Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.
When you yourself know if you lose your job
You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.
To grunt and sweat under a heavy load
Under the threat of something worse than debt
The forced short sale, from which, once closed
No equity returns. It puzzles the will.
And makes us rather bear such debts we have
And, if necessary, refinance them still.
Compounding thus make cowards of us all.
And so our youthful promise and ambition
Is hobbled by the weight of student loans
Made by lenders judged too big to fail.
In this regard the risk is very real
We lose the house to auction.
quote by by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Letter to AP Parody William Mackworth Praed A Letter of Advice
Dear AP, I leave you this letter
after writing from ten until nine
for a site I'd delight to know better,
for a smile that my heart can't decline.
But I found after lengthily pacing
for points in the cold for some sign
that my heart which with hope had been racing
in darkest despair did repine.
Dear AP from twelve to eleven
last night saw me knock at your door
in hope that an angel from heaven
should show me the light - but no more
shall I screed in my need if no answer
can echo, where no joy's in store -
I won't dangle as puppet-stringed dancer,
not even for one I adore!
When I came through a link all seemed dandy
but when one digs deeper one finds
some exchange trophy's gold, sold like candy
to boost up friends' ignorant minds.
While some bore with gore and knives cutting,
some 'WOW', 'ain't it AWESOME! ' exclaim,
my mind is on archives rebutting
the flame of my name for life's fame!
Dear AP a contest has started
to ask how and what we should change
from far and near writers are charted
to test the extent of their range.
One thought one would add, tender hearted,
that the category archives strange
one votes for sane system that lets id
and ego poor upgrades arrange.
Dear AP I'm asked about blocking
those who comments oft copy and paste,
and those with insults in their stocking
who, bitter, goodwill fritter, waste.
Should one justly ignore with door locking
those who trophies exchange in their haste
to hold contests too quickie, taste mocking -
what would you advise, culprit traced?
Should one tolerate those, the boat rocking,
with pseudo anonymous based,
or respond - not react - to their shocking
behaviour online both debased
and short term as they squirm, blow half-cocking
credibility - consequence faced
too seldom while points they are clocking
at others' expense, trust misplaced?
So though contests appear open wide, Dear,
there is so little logic, the game
soon must tire as the outflowing tide, Dear,
should erase every unworthy frame.
And how I detest comments wise may
be wiped out because some can't stand
home truths but prefer good surprise pay,
in AH, OOH and ERR 'missedtyped' hand!
Dear AP twenty hours have I waited
day in and day out by grief torn,
all attempts that I made were ill-fated
as my consonants vowed my vowels scorn.
The wonder my dunderhead brought you
tonight may steal thunder at morn,
but the blossoms whose beauty besought you
fade so fast when few look, - I'm foresworn.
Dear AP twenty hours have I waited
day in and day out by grief torn,
all attempts that I made were ill-fated
as my consonants vowed my vowels scorn.
The wonder my dunderhead brought you
tonight may steal thunder at morn,
but the blossoms whose beauty besought you
fade as fast as last season's drenched corn.
As on Thursday applauseless, defeated,
so on Friday all clauseless I'm spurned,
is the cycle of love thus completed,
is this all the thanks that I've earned?
It is hard for a fool to be taken -
and sure signal one's soft in the head, -
but the reason that slept must awaken,
and the spirit, restored, won't be lead!
I'd have offered you all in my power,
to cherish, to share, to be kind,
I'd have nurtured emotions to flower
and found wings for soul unresigned.
It is not just the whim of an hour
but life spent with no bent chains to bind,
in a warm, in a warm, tender bower
with blank verse, even worse, left behind!
How can I be present tomorrow,
bear false witness with stanzas prewrit.
Once again 'less in anger than sorrow'
I will try to bar love from my wit.
I will try to contain my emotion -
just go through the motions to ease
the emptiness born from devotion
to one who my [he]art pleased to tease.
Good luck with your plans to continue
support for the wor[l]d caught in art!
Good luck for the talent that sings you!
Good luck for applause roars most chart!
I'll return into cold hibernation
all alone til your smile shines bright through
the slough of despondent elation,
these Elysian fields cropped by few.
Dear AP, don't answer this letter
should sentiments biased appear,
I'll remain evermore your deep debtor -
who taught me to share and feel near.
Intuitions are fine for romantic,
sensations that blossom in dreams,
but a chasm as deep as Atlantic
drowns my talent, it seems, AP, Dear!
Kindly, sometimes remember I follow
your footsteps as forward they flow,
and the shadow which seems to be hollow
is an echo which helps me to know
how the sun shines for YOU as Apollo
his steeds urges onwards, - and though
daily night insight penned Styx shall swallow
tomorrow dawn's brightness will glow!
Oh Dear AP! the contest suggested
I restrict blank verse thinklings to four,
and although I am 'AWE'fully congested
my mind keeps outreaching for more!
So perhaps if no 'honorable mention'
I am offered with trophy awry,
at least I can hope for attention
before ink runs dry, - so Good bye!
(12 April 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Well Crafted Word
Why am I so philosophical, a philosopher a long time ago once wrote.
The song writer, script writer, poet and novelist like to use a great quote.
Some poems are written with a catchy rhyme and a theme.
A well crafted word can help and be a great writers dream.
Everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the sword.
A well crafted word can give the reader great reward.
'A metaphor is just like a simile'; An unknown author once quoted.
It's true about all writers I know, they all hate their words being misquoted.
To writers one and all, a well crafted word is always a must to write down.
Just remember this about all writers, they can make great use of a pronoun.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'd Do Anything For Love
and i would do anything for love, i'd run right into hell and back
I would do anything for love, i'll never lie to you and that's a fact
But i'll never forget the way you feel right now, oh no, no way
And i would do anything for love, but i won't do that, i won't do that
Anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, oh i won't do that
Some days it don't come easy, and some days it don't come hard
Some days it don't come at all, and these are the days that never end
Some nights you're breathing fire, and some nights you're carved in ice
Some nights you're like nothing i've ever seen before or will again
Maybe i'm crazy, but it's crazy and it's true
I know you can save me, no one else can save me now but you
As long as the planets are turning, as long as the stars are burning
As long as your dreams are coming true, you better believe it
That i would do anything for love, and i'll be there til the final act
I would do anything for love, and i'll take a vow and seal a pact
But i'll never forgive myself if we don't go all the way tonight
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
Oh i would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no i won't do that
I would do anything for love, anything you've been dreaming of
But i just won't do that
Some days i pray for silence, and somedays i pray for soul
Some days i just pray to the god of sex and drums and rock 'n roll
Some nights i lose the feeling, and some nights i lose control
Some nights i just lose it all when i watch you dance and the thunder rolls
Maybe i'm lonely and that's all i'm qualified to be
There's just one and only, the one and only promise i can keep
As long as the wheels are turning, as long as the fires are burning
As long as your prayers are coming true, you better believe it
That i would do anything for love, and you know it's true and that's a fact
I would do anything for love, and there'll never be no turning back
But i'll never do it better than i do it with you, so long, so long
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no no no i won't do that
I would do anything for love, anything you've been dreaming of
But i just won't do that
But i'll never stop dreaming of you every night of my life, no way
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love
But i won't do that
No i won't do that
Will you raise me up, will you help me down?
Will you get me right out of this godforsaken town?
Will you make it all a little less cold?
I can do that! i can do that!
Will you hold me sacred? will you hold me tight?
Can you colorize my life, i'm so sick of black and white?
Can you make it all a little less old?
I can do that! oh oh, now i can do that!
Will you make me some magic, with your own two hands?
Can you build an emerald city with these grains of sand?
Can you give me something i can take home?
I can do that! oh oh now, i can do that!
Will you cater to every fantasy i got?
Will ya hose me down with holy water, if i get too hot?
Will you take me places i've never known?
I can do that! oh oh now, i can do that!
After a while you'll forget everything
It was a brief interlude and a midsummer night's fling
And you'll see that it's time to move on
I won't do that! no i won't do that!
I know the territory, i've been around
It'll all turn to dust and we'll all fall down
And sooner or later, you'll be screwing around
I won't do that! no i won't do that!
Anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no i won't do that
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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All restless days
All restless days to count on in mind
No more wait or anxiety to find
Still it was there for me to slow down
For me alone to bear and wait on
The was rising daily with bright sun shine
Burning my skin in mid day for a while
Where was the shed I was searching for?
I was pacing with steps to the door
I have loved him from long days
I had not made it known but strived in many ways
What a joy I was finding in his daily rise?
Giving me all hopes with full of, promises
It with difference and wide angle
I wanted it to be proved as triangle
With arrival of his sign in my belly
To witness greenery in natural valley
I never desired for hot or warmth closeness
I did not venture for it or tied to trace
I knew it was well desired and expected phase
Still it was not to be had at ease
I wanted it to be a welcome acceptance
Long wait with meaningful substance
To be merged with soul at early stage or at once
I dared not to give it name of romance
I am not at all at cross road
Neither is it unbearable load
Nor an uninvited odd
It is after all blessings from the God
Will it rain in coming days?
Will it bring shower all the ways?
Will it end crunch much to the relief?
I will long for it with strong belief
It may prove in turning
All happiness and joy returning
Happy days again and end of long wait
All attributed to luck and fate
Was I right in hiding the sun?
Had it not made me to wait and run?
Well shadow may desert the body
I had still waited for somebody
I knew fully well that it will quench my thrust
As I had thrown whole wait and had complete trust
These are all needed in such trivial matter and is must
There were many other factors too to offer boost
I was well prepared for rejection
But tried hard without any inaction
I waited passionately even for good bye
But left no stone unturned with full try
The days are nearing to end day dreaming
Sun is getting hot and directly beaming
I shall have warmth and can plan its bath
There lays ahead a beautiful and lovely path
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Totally Biased
I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.
31-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Is Second Best Just Jest Test or Unjust Protest Gest?
When second best protests against dire chance
he or she echoes stress at life's twist dance.
Self-confidence is put to sorry test,
ambitions, on the shelf, are laid to rest.
Inadequacy often will deny
the will to try, succeed, luck's lies decry.
'They also serve, who only stand and wait'
survivor said, regretting callous fate.
'They also serve who wait without the gate'
time-server grates, perceiving patron's pate.
'What service, light denied, anticipate? '
'Light - despite paradoxical life's plate! '
They're served, who only put on weight, expand,
whose judgement lies, so heavy on the land.
They swerve from justice, who, with heavy hand,
pervert the law- for which they should be damned.
They wait, who only seem to serve and stand,
beware! banned revolution is at hand.
To stand and wait in life to some seems nice
to taste of time, like salad, lacking spice!
When dream of self esteem turns rancid, raw,
apologies tears crocodile soon pour.
Poor too is mind that looks behind not for
top flight successes, recognized, in store.
Fresh opportunities are infinite,
no need to mope, scorn hope, of goals lose sigh.
What second best may seem at any time
can role-reverse distress, blessed see self climb.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Pursuit of a Poetry Prize
I’m constructing a poem in a strategic new way.
So they won’t comprehend what I’m trying to say.
For a poetry contest with a fabulous prize,
I studied what seems to attract judges’ eyes.
I was reading the ones recognized in the past,
seeking form and design for the words I will cast,
when I noticed a pattern, a key to their prose,
illogical thoughts in unorganized rows.
The first verse confuses, that’s part of the game.
The second verse vague, just more of the same.
Like, “In the beginning the ending was near, ”
or, “We basked in an ardent recollection of fear.”
They conclude with some incomprehensible phrase,
like, “The prolific embrace of our foregone days.”
Ideas aren't finished in these literary events,
and it seems they avoid any words that make sense.
When they don’t understand, it becomes a deep thought.
In depth they will ponder what meaning was sought.
They'll scoff if you've written a limerick or rhyme,
then cast it aside as a waste of their time.
I'll likely be banned, or be forced to concede,
but I'm sharing the secret it takes to succeed;
Don't stress over structure or fret about flow,
use thoughts you don’t have and words you don’t know.
poem by Kevin Pace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet- Life Is Flexible
It is not wrong to make mistakes often;
It is not wrong to do blunders in life;
It is not wrong to see mishaps happen;
It is not wrong to panic 'midst your strife.
It is not wrong to be lazy some days;
It is not wrong to make decisions wrong;
It is not wrong to squander wealth some ways;
It is not wrong to love a thing for long.
It is not wrong to come late while bell chimes,
It is not wrong to selfish be, at times;
It is not wrong to envy some sometimes;
It is not wrong to sin too many times.
It is not wrong to err where others don't;
'Tis wrong to feel guilty when others won't.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who to blame for writers block?
Risen up from his cold dark tomb
the malevolent poet is alive again
his evil master has given him power
to confuse poets and bring them pain.
He's invisible to the poets eye
and he doesn't make a sound
his mission is to bring writers block
to all poets everywhere around.
The unaware poet stares at a blank screen
unable to create one single verse
the satanic force takes over his mind
his thoughts go from bad to worse.
The romantic poet thinks about death
his thoughts no longer on love and light
he wants to write about misery and war
and things that go bump in the night.
So the next time you can't write a poem
and your sitting there full of despair
you now know it's not you who's at fault
but it's the evil poet and he's over there!
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Writer's Pen
Today is the writer's pen but,
Yesterday was the lying pens of the scribes!
Read it yourself in Jeremiah chapter eight verse eight;
Because, they've changed the laws.
What then do we expect to come out when tomorrow comes?
Most of our own writers today are afraid to tell the truth,
And they are blind leaders of the blind.
Of my imaginations,
Of my words,
Like a Doctor of letters to make the world go round;
They have prophesied but, i am fulfilling the message.
My mind is true,
My council is positive,
And i am the writer's pen with a vision on a mission;
They have written but, i am now telling the truth!
Like a locust that eats the grass.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writers and Poets
Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.
It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Life.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.
Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Satyr V. Verse
Thou soft Engager of my tender years
Divertive verse now come & ease my cares
The Rake has wine the aged knave ye view
Of what his death bed Charity will do
to lay his cares & mine are layd by you
You give my mind when I unbend relief
Raise ev'ry Joy & lessen ev'ry grief
Nor do I onely these thy comforts find
thy comforts are diffusive to mankind
The men of sense of buisness or of whims
half witts or lovers ev'ry one sometimes
Will toy away a vacant hour in rimes
& they give all but lovers troubles ease
the Muses fires the flames of love encrease
Yet the fond fooles write more yn all ye rest
as if they studyd to be more unblest
of Moving things they speak in moving strains
& moan & beg a cure of all their pains
till at the last theyre workd to a belief
that what they said has been their reall grief
As strong as fate they call the chains they wear
To starrs & Angells ev'ry nymph compare
Then think their chains as strong, their nymphs as fair
thus our loves more & more the womens pride
so the wounds deeper & the cure denyd
Long may you gentle souls your fetters wear
if still you write upon ye pangs you bear
Yet know that writing makes them more severe
If Celia or Aminta scornfull grow
On the great praises which your lines bestow
Long may you feel them since you make ym so
Verse is on other subjects less unkind
& with its transports brightens up ye mind
the Drunkards catch is half the rogues delight
Where noise & briskness do their charms unite
The drawers calld & ink & paper brought
& so extempore the work is wrought
While wine inspires they never stay for thought
the Jolly words are roard in tunefull sound
While the full bottles run the tables round
& Ecchoes from the Empty ones rebound
Raisd to the Joyes above the cares of kings
their singing makes ym drink their drinking sing
O happy men if twere not for the curse
of qualms repentance & an empty purse
but happy men at least for some few hours
Who force the Muse to nothing else but rime
& when your sense is drownd sing off yr time
Verse has another powr on other men
When the vexd thoughts by writing grow serene
full of the spleen & rage & scorn to see
the tide of vice & folly run so high
some from the world retire to poetry
& when their pens what grieves their bosoms speak
how honesty's a cully witt a rake
fair Virtue beggerd beauty grown a baud
Religion made a masque & gold a God
their breasts find ease by laying down their load
so Prophetts usd inspird of old to swell
& when they spoke their Oracles grew well
For me who never have a drinker been
Nor provd the witty forces of the spleen
for me who be it chance or carelessness
(forgive me half the world when I confess)
have never been in love in all my dayes
On other principles my pen I take
for meer disintrested diversions sake
I onely write as many lovers woo
but just when I have nothing else to do
& then to please my self as well as you
I seek no praise & keep me safe from shame
Not known to many & unknown to fame
I woud not blunty rail a folly down
Nor with undecent rage on vices run
Our master Horace wisely sung of old
that satyrs better if it Jear then scold
the Gall too much prevailing spoils the ink
Nor woul I frett mankind but make ym think
tis farr more human thus to show ye place
Where you ly open then throw in ye pass
poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Work To Make My Dreams Come True
My working day draws to its close
The light is leaching from the sky.
The western sky shows tints of rose
appealing to my artists eye
I rose this morning with the sun
And broke my fast at break of day
Then did the chores that must be done
For soon I must be on my way.
I am not yet self sufficient
Although one day I hope to be.
For now I have to be content
with working in a factory.
I am well paid for what I do
I earn enough to pay my way
and add some to my savings too
The same old routine every day.
At half past four I cycle home
Back to where I'd rather be
My collie dog bids me welcome
I loose his chain and set him free
My pot bellied stove may be old
but it still works efficiently
To me it worth its weight in gold
I have no electricity
It heats my home and cooks my food
Cost less than nothing to maintain
All it requires is firewood
And a good clean out now and again
I have my own sweet water well
Although the pump is in the yard
The water flows clear as a bell
I do not need to pump too hard.
Whilst waiting for my meal to heat
There some things I need to do
Before my working day's complete
I feed the goats and chickens too
Then I shall brew a pot of tea
My stew will soon be heated through
I sit relaxing comfortably
There's nothing more I need to do.
Except to eat my meal and plan.
Improvements I intend to do.
I have no doubt at all I can
In time make all my dreams come true.
I am a very patient man
Dreams don't come true overnight.
I knew this when my dream began
It will take time to get it right.
I am quite sure one day I'll be
Free from the need to earn my pay
Escaping from the factory
To live my life a different way.
Growing what I need to eat.
and tending to my goats and hens.
No longer needing to compete
To me my dream makes perfect sense.
Although my friends think I am mad.
To choose to live a simple life.
I am quite sure I shall be glad
To leave behind the cares and strife.
Which daily I'm subjected to
Whilst working in a factory.
Where I am told what I must do.
It is less satisfactory.
Then living independently.
In my own house on my own land.
Which one day soon I hope to be.
My own domain which I command.
No one to tell me what to do.
No one to say me yea or nay.
I work to make my dreams come true
and it draws nearer day by day.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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They also Serve after John Milton On His Blindness
'They also serve, who only stand and wait'
survivor said, regretting others' fate.
'They also serve who wait without the gate'
time-server said, observing patron's gait.
'What service, light denied, anticipate? '
'Light - despite paradoxical life's plate! '
They're served, who only put on weight, expand,
whose judgement lies, so heavy on the land.
They swerve from justice, who, with heavy hand,
pervert the law, - for which they should be damned.
They wait, who only seem to serve and stand,
beware! a revolution is at hand.
To stand and wait in life to some seems nice
to taste of time, like salad, lacking spice!
(28 March 1981 revised 7 August 2007)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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