I'm sublime chime rhyme,
climb from and to nothingness,
prime-time grime, slime diem
haiku by Jonathan Robin (10 April 2005)
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Courbe Bête ou Courbette?
I'm
sublime
chime
rhyme
climb
Prim e
Time
dime
grime
slime
13 April 2005 robi3_1200_robi3_0000 QWX_DJZ
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Song: On Borrowed Time
We're all living on borrowed time,
Near the brooding sea and brine.
And we grow our primate's spine,
In every clime.
Since we crawled out from 'neath the grime,
And evolved to a species – prime.
We've been living on borrowed time,
On borrowed time.
On borrowed time. We feed and dine.
On borrowed time. In swill like swine.
On borrowed time. We sup our wine.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!
On borrowed time. In slow decline.
On borrowed time. No season shines.
On borrowed time. No reason rhymes.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!
We're all living on borrowed time,
Acting out our roles in mime,
As if you cannot tell that I'm confused.
We're all living on borrowed time,
And we're captured hook and line.
Enraptured lives entwine as minds unloose.
On borrowed time, by frantic chime,
Of doomsday clocks and scam sub-prime.
On borrowed time, we count the dime.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!
From that day of Eve's droll crime,
When dull Adam su*ked the lime,
We've been living on borrowed time,
On borrowed time.
On borrowed time. By dread defined.
On borrowed time. Knee-deep in slime.
On borrowed time. We moan and whine.
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!
On borrowed time. To heights sublime.
On borrowed time. Statistics climb.
On borrowed time. Who reads the signs?
On borrowed time. On borrowed time!
poem by David SmithWhite
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Decades
By this time
She will be awake
As her clock would always chime
Missing breakfast that I make
She'll be crying
By this time
She unlocks the door
Sees my goodbye note in rhyme
And she throws it on the floor
She'll be crying
By this time
She walks by the well
Where we used to throw some dime
Wishing what we would not tell
She'll be crying
By this time
She waters the rose
Careful not to splash the grime
She'll recall the blooms I chose
She'll be crying
By this time
Laughter she will miss
Once, she play-acted as mime
Whereby I gave her a kiss
She'll be crying
By this time
I have gone ten years
She is now way past her prime
With a baby that she bears
And I'm crying.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Lone Bone
and then when we arrive at the prime
after a hard climb only to find nothing but thyme
life tastes like lime and we begin to mime
what to us was all grime and slime
to our face the ill-winds are blown
and what remains is the clown
we feel now that a clone has grown
inside ourselves we find what we own
the seeds have been sown in the throne
of the stone where our lips are sewn
the moan is thrown
& now back to the lone bone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Prospects
We have set out from here for the sublime
Pastures of summer shade and mountain stream;
I have no doubt we shall arrive on time.
Is all the green of that enameled prime
A snapshot recollection or a dream?
We have set out from here for the sublime
Without provisions, without one thin dime,
And yet, for all our clumsiness, I deem
It certain that we shall arrive on time.
No guidebook tells you if you'll have to climb
Or swim. However foolish we may seem,
We have set out from here for the sublime
And must get past the scene of an old crime
Before we falter and run out of steam,
Riddled by doubt that we'll arrive on time.
Yet even in winter a pale paradigm
Of birdsong utters its obsessive theme.
We have set out from here for the sublime;
I have no doubt we shall arrive on time.
poem by Anthony Evan Hecht
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Blood, Sweat and Tears
Think just think, of all the blood, sweat and tears
London has shed with the passing of years.
The dirt, dust and smog, the noise and the grime.
Poverty, slavery, squalor and crime.
Ambitions and hopes, mad schemings and fears,
Disease, depravity, vice, wines and beers,
Arts and culture can pass the test of time,
City of contrast from base to sublime.
Historical monuments, long endears,
Symbolize prestige of people and peers.
Noise of the traffic and church bells still chime,
Rags next to riches, cultures rise from slime.
Millions of people have lived, worked and died-
London remembers few only with pride.
poem by Susan Mary Robertson
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Adored
I have loved a time.
I really adored my rhyme as one to climb.
My reality is such that time does not stand still, and chime.
This is mine.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Wordfall
Among the dark trees these in autumn prime
rise under empty skies/Let colour leaven
the shadowed woods I wander through in time.
Red oak and bright sweet chestnut spread sublime
rich canopies for jay or squirrel, woven
among the dark trees, these. In autumn prime,
acorns and prickly chestuts challenge rhyme,
pale cases and their gilt-speared leaves enliven
the shadowed woods I wander through. In time,
late summer chills the landscape. As I climb
words dropp like a snow-warning, white as heaven
among the dark trees. These in autumn prime
their measures with the season, pulse and mime
and fall in hasty turbulence, panic driven
from sahdowed words I wander through. In time
drifts of their meaning overwhelm me. I'm
victim and foool of wordall in this haven
among the darkteres, thefse, in autumn, prime
the shadowed woods. I wander through, in time.
From the Great North Road,2007
poem by Sally Evans
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Rhyme
Poets rhyme from time to time
They don’t find rhyme a crime
It’s no sin, their using rhyme
Inspired rhyme is so sublime
Can often form a perfect line
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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An_thology - Acrostic Sonnet
Adjoined is an anthology to bring
New enjoyment, world-view versed in rhyme,
Natural reflections over time
Engendered by a mind whose soul would sing
A word or two to string in golden ring
Necklace bound by no known chain, whose chime
Never fails to tune a bell sublime.
Emotions, shared, reverberate. Time’s swing
At last is counterbalanced, and its sting
No longer palls as phrases fuse and climb
Now past all past experience, masqued mime: -
Enchanted insight’s flight on poet’s wing!
Just twenty six the soldiers are whose line
Rekindles hope for scope, draws from each sign.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet: Climb, We Must
Climb we must, each step in life every day;
Climb we must, each rung in life, one by one;
Climb we must, with care slowly all the way;
Climb but steadily, it isn’t merely fun.
Haste could make a waste: fatal could be fall;
Tougher’s the climb when on the steeper side;
Time is short but still we obey His call;
God is our Master in whom we abide.
We ought to rest but when we find the time;
Climb we must, all day and rest during night;
Though success may not come, our duty’s prime;
God is our guide always: Beacon of light.
We ought to reach the place earmarked by God,
Although unshod and though we are from clod.
poem by John Celes
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Cusp Choice - 0548
Coincidence spins web when into place
life slips choice puzzle pieces in due time.
Flair/feeling twins awareness of fall, climb,
keys karmic scene between lines few dare face.
Dreams decode subtle signals, interface
past, present, future, patterns sees through grime,
aligning intersections, prose rerhyme.
Pace swift and slow tune into links to trace
instinctive correspondence, interlace
unique potential, untapped options prime,
deny the base which smothers in its slime,
Cause, effect, await cusp's state of grace.
"Chance" intercepts flow's waves, 'free choice' would bring
order into chaos, tune fate's [s]wing.
(15 January 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Cusp Choice - 0548 - Initial Version
Coincidence is seen when into place
life slips its puzzle pieces for a time.
Flair/feeling twins awareness of some clime,
where, karmic scene set, two met face to face.
Dreams interpret signals, interface
existence past and present, future, climb
limits conscious, set together rhyme,
light and laughter, bright hereafter trace,
instinctive correspondence interlace?
Unique potential, future options prime,
deny the base which smothers in its slime,
Cause, effect, await cusp choice's grace.
'Chance' intercepts flow pattern waves to bring
order into chaos, tune its swing.
(21 February 1992)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ballade Of Youth And Age
Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme -
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball -
These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,
Swords that clatter in onsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb -
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Hymnals old in a dusty stall,
A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival -
These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime -
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral -
These are a type of the world of Age.
Envoy
Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl -
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage -
These are a type of the world of Age.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Dainty Thing's The Villanelle
A DAINTY thing's the Villanelle,
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.
A double-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.
You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime--
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.
Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Villanelle
A dainty thing's the Villanelle.
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.
A doublc-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.
You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime-
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.
Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Sonnet: Wisdom of Life
The higher up you climb a taller pole,
The taller tree you climb: perils evoke;
A ladder’s higher rungs shouldn’t be one’s goal;
The wind is strong up there, so is your yoke!
A faster pace can make you slip sometime;
A shorter time to do makes you tired;
The aim to win shouldn’t be emotion prime;
For you end up prematurely retired.
For everything in life, there is a pace;
For everything in life, there is a time;
And everyone in life can’t win a race;
And everyone his life can’t make sublime.
Sometimes, life’s lower rungs appear the best!
But keep your cool and soul: God does the rest.
poem by John Celes
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A poem with the perfect rhyme
If a poem could cost a dime
I will spend my ink and spend my time
Making the perfect rhyme
More than a million people may read it
Even if I have to sell it on credit
I will be the businesswoman with wit
Sit down! Think about it!
A penny for the perfect sentence
A penny for a poem glaring with essence
A penny for writing about the present and past tense
A penny for describing a situation that is intense
A penny if I write truthfully without pretence
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme
If a poem could cost a pound
I will turn my life around
As I compose the perfect poetic sound
That rhymes against any background
My words will be sublime
Not just the perfect rhyme
They will be read both at teatime and during bedtime
My sentences will mature in their prime with time
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Good People
How true in all time, good people can’t see
How true and sublime, their good could just be
How true in life’s grime, good people agree
How true with their chime, they sing of happy
This thank you decrees, to holding the keys
Of thanking with pleas, to hug good with ease
Good people make haste, to help and befriend
Good people are placed, with help that they lend
Good people won’t waste, the love that they tend
Good people are faced, with love to defend
This thank you extends, where it knows no ends
Of thanking my friends, where help and love blends
poem by Paul Moosberg
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Many Muddied Sluggers Live With Something To Prove
Slime backs,
Who are slime backs...
Will slime back.
On backs.
Slime backs,
Who are slime backs...
Will slime back.
On backs.
Many mud sluggers thowing sludge,
Don't think they're slime backs...
Sliming back.
Those mud sluggers throwing sludge,
Don't think they're slime backs...
Sliming back.
Slime backs,
Who are slime backs...
Will slime back.
On backs.
Slime backs,
Who are slime backs...
Will slime back,
On backs.
Those mud sluggers throwing sludge...
Are slime backs,
Sliming back!
And many muddied sluggers live with something to prove...
Are slime backs,
Sliming back.
Mud sluggers living lives with nothing else to do...
Are slime backs,
Sliming back.
Slime backs,
Who are slime backs...
Will slime back,
On other backs.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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