Poetry's Chaste White Walls - 0242
True offspring of pure poet's pen
As unclaimed orphans wait till when
Line's links are stimulated, trace
Each ph[r]ase in roundelay's embrace.
Once catalyzed, and only then,
Find we without tri[s]te mise en scène
Purity Time can't deface,
A note in tune with Time and Space.
Reality? Hallucinogen?
As senses swirl clock seems suspen.
Drawn in, laid out, both breath and verse,
Impact intense all should rehearse,
Subject of, to, experience?
Echo imagination, sense?
Reflection fair? rhyme? prose perverse?
Epic dramatic, haiku terse?
Flow grows at nobody's expense,
Links old to new with no pretence,
Extending themes, dreams universe
Creative. Centuries traverse
To future from the present tense,
Sustains ideas, ideals immense.
Underwriting bards of old
Pure poetry need ne'er grow [c]old.
Of course, new meanings may appear,
Need reference points, text should stay clear
Providing into story told
Outstanding insight all behold
Excluding copies insincere
That plagiary posts to pay small beer.
Refusing censor's stranglehold
Your poet chimes rhymes manifold,
See soul's script magic skywards steer.
Chaste white walls border pristine page
Hibernating in purity
As, from judgemental values free,
Signal slumbers, till siren sage
Time calls, walls fall, all's filled in; cage
Empties when pen pursues mind's key.
Whitewash blushes. Absentee,
Harsh ego hides pride's head off-stage
In shame, game-playing 'off the page! '
To self stay true, coeur et esprit,
Enshrines ideals effortlessly.
Write pure sustainability,
Authentic creativity,
Links and ensures. Enduring gage
Leaves rant's spree to precocious age,
'Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste' waste fee.
(21 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Offspring - 0242 - Current Version of Once
True offspring of pure poet's pen
As unclaimed orphans wait till when
Life's links are stimulated, trace
Each ph[r]ase in roundelay's embrace.
Once catalyzed, and only then,
Find we without tri[s]te mise en scène,
Purity Time can't deface,
A note in tune with Time and Space.
Reality? Hallucinogen?
As senses swirl clock seems suspen.
Drawn in, laid out, both breath and verse,
Impact intense all should rehearse,
Subject of, to, experience?
Echo imagination, sense?
Reflection fair? rhyme? prose perverse?
Epic dramatic, haiku terse?
Flow grows at nobody's expense,
Links old to new with no pretence,
Extending themes, dreams universe
Creative. Centuries traverse
To future from the present tense,
Sustains ideas, ideals immense.
Underwriting bards of old
Pure poetry need ne'er grow cold,
Of course, new meanings may appear,
Need reference points, text should stay clear
Providing into story told
Outstanding insight all behold
Excluding copies insincere
That plagiary posts to pay small beer.
Refusing censor's stranglehold,
Your poet chimes rhymes manifold.
(2 September 2009) Offspring - 0242 - Current Version of Once
Acrostic Tale of Paradise Reflects Upon Poetry
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Once - 0242 - 2008 Version
These offspring of a poet's pen
As unclaimed orphans wait till when
Love's links are stimulated, trace
Each ph[r]ase in roundelay's embrace.
Once in a lifetime, only then,
Find we without tri[s]te mise en scène,
Purity Time can't deface,
A note in tune with Time and Space.
Reality? Hallucinogen?
As senses swirl, defenceless men,
Drawn in, reborn, gaze on true grace,
Impact intense naught could replace,
Seen once, to be forgotten never,
Eternal aura awes forever.
(11 October 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Online As You Like It after William Shakespeare Jacques Seven Ages of Man
All their world's a page,
and all the players Internet addicted,
they have their resumés, their pseudonyms,
each actor for a time plays many parts,
his acts taking seven stages. At first computer,
with WINDOWS bugs well hid in viral links.
And then the neophyte's instruction manual,
and wide-eyed eager face, googling some site
so willingly to screen. Then follows practice,
with MAIL, TRASH, SPAM and FORWARD, shortcuts everywhere,
colliding in his brain with mistress' eyebrow,
the fantasies and fictions of the game
tied to an IP number's trace race chase.
Then the user, sudden and quick to answer;
seeking ever new experience
even in deception's mouth. And then the addict
rejoicing in his bandwidth always on,
weary eyed a-seeking Second Life,
or You Tube, Facebook, Meetic dating quest,
full of wise ways and easy answerings,
heedless of phishing, firewall disrepair,
and so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
into the bored and blasé demi-loon,
with carnet for his prose, and instant message rote,
whose self assessments leave what friends remain
at sea when he some siren seeks to trap,
attention span a-waste, webworld too wide
for his shrunk purse, and his high manly hopes
betrayed by longings, dreams and discontent,
discretion all awry.
Last stage of all that ends this strange eventful history
is deconnection and mere oblivion,
where online search can't google happiness,
CONTROL ALT SUP still failing to reboot,
sans screen, sans time, sans reason, rhyme, sans everything.
(22 February 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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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
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On Time and Space after T.S. Eliot
If Space and Time through ages weigh
thing that have been or might
bear decay, Sun's seeming might
will flare then fade one day.
So why, fair dove, waste time to play
when you should LIVE, soul free?
The butterfly that lives a day
tips synchronicity.
The blooms bedecked with bright dawn's dew
may tremble on the vine,
Time conquers all who nectar knew
bee, blossom, tree, root, all sign
haste chase to pluck anew
life's sweets before defeat's slow pine,
Yet days of love transform the few
to many spells divine.
If Time and Space mock sage page play,
dreams' beams may cause to be
'in grain of sand' eternal stay
prismatic creativity.
Transcend Time's strictures, sects which lay
down laws sans cause nor reason:
Exception proves life's rules, life's ray
for you may know no season.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Minitel after William Shakespeare Jacques Seven Ages of Man
All their world's a page,
and all the players minitel-mad players,
they have their résumés, their pseudonyms,
each actor for a time plays many parts,
his acts taking seven stages. At first equipment,
fresh ordered from the Poste, in welcome arms.
And then the neophyte with his instructions
and wide-eyed eager face, tapping the code
so willingly to screen. And then the practice,
with SUITE, ENVOI, RETOUR and REPETITION
colliding in his brain with mistress' eyebrow,
the fantasies and fictions of the game.
Then the user, sudden and quick to answer;
seeking ever new experience
even in deception's mouth. And then the addict
dialling sans respite 3-6-1-5.
With weary eyes ere telephones are cut,
full of wise ways and easy answerings.
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
into the bored and blasé demi-loon,
with carnet for his prose, spare telephone at side,
his coins once saved a-waste, the world too wide
for his shrunk purse, and his high manly hopes
turned against his longings, imagination
canting, all at sea. Last stage of all
that ends this strange eventful history
is deconnection and mere oblivion,
sans phone, sans sous, sans job, sans everything.
(1 June 1987)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
(16 February 2002 robi03_0986)
for previous version see below
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets insight channel, air: -
one canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams with rare
sensitive perspective, care.
When true to self then neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, to share
with perfect strangers anywhere
how beauty may beyond the brink
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free...
(16 February 2002)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Rhyme Rant on Prose Rants
RHYME RANT ON PROSE RANTS
Prose which with capitals would rant
against pet hate, for favoured cause
is often filled with fatal flaws,
or pays attention far too scant
to harmony, stays ignorant
of rhythm which enhances, draws
skein polychrome. Its pointed jaws
restrict free scope increasing cant,
seldom perceived as elegant.
True poet purity implores
to etch, to sketch, to open doors
upon perspective which prose [r]ant
encounters rarely where it roams
on well trod trails of barren tomes.
3 December 2007
robi03_1688_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX
Rhyme Rant on Prose Rant poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Trials & Tribulations Of Poetry...
Melodrama..........has never been my cup of tea
'Less, the spotlight of center stage.....be on me
Cross pens are mightier...than a sterling sword
Still i'd rather a Bugatti...than a brand new Ford.
When sunsets catch my eye's......i'm so inclined
To paint a scape of words.....of twilights skyline
I'm just an imagist.....spinning picturebook tales
Some simpatico in weight......on prosaic scales
'Tis what i do, to keep my mind's eye free of rust
Never wrote Sestina.........6 of 6 is too much fuss
Yet true poetry is fuss about perfection, an' more
Requiring the will, and want to adhere, 'n explore
Many say poetry...is merely image and depiction
Yet this claim falls far short....of its pure definition
Beauty of the substance.......the sweet of the flow
That's what draws the line, 'tween poetry, 'n prose
One need not rhyme, true poetry's self-melodious
Lyrical in flounce 'n flux, and yes quite harmonious
Too many think themselves a''Poet''......so absurd
For so few have mastered the art of Written Word
Thats why prose today....is the substitute of poetry
With no restrictions.......your limits are virtually free
As for me, i am no Poet..............Nor shall i ever be
I'm just an imagist....content with my picture stories
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Leave Judgemental Values
Leave judgemental values far behind
Inner feelings changes ring to free
The links which let '[s]he thinks' melt into 'We',
Trust soul which whole would be in heart AND mind.
Light touch, much worthy magic may unwind,
Expanding outwards opportunity,
Mocking blind conformity to see
Inside to widen scope but not to blind.
Dreams evolve, anticipate, remind
Need independent mind to enth degree
Ideas, ideals refute rule by decree,
Guard from lip-service, context pre-designed.
Hold convictions high, spurn compromise,
To learn to learn, not follow others’ lies.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Under Standing
Time waves goodbye to standards narrow when,
triste tryst stood up, adversity defeats,
finds icy veils of no avail, mind zen; -
clocks are locked out, at best a stand-off meet.
One poet pulls the stops to stand upon
no ceremony blending penned soul's sense.
Time, in suspense, can only flow along
rhyme’s wit unwrit by standing on the fence.
This sonnet calls no understanding wrong,
no Spenser needs for Poesy's Defence,
reading between bright lines, night’s shadows gone,
hope shed dark cloak, awoke to joy intense.
Outstanding talent spreads dreams' rainbow seeds
which bloom beyond dumb tomb as goal succeeds.
Ambitions mercantile fall by the way
as day by day solutions fresh are found
to heal man's vast scarred opencast display
of greed, perceiving needs which torture ground.
While global warming warnings are rehearsed
the tide is turning, fresher currents flow
preparing for tsunami role-reversed
as innovation offers space to sow
hope's harvest free from ills that trouble now,
emancipation long, long overdue,
empowerment, expansion far from Dow,
which from return to nature take their cue.
Though present woes attention grab, plague years
may lead to serendipity sans tears...
28 December 2006 revised 8 June 2009
robi03_1543_robi03_0000 SXX_IJK
For previous version see below
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII
UNDER STANDING
Jack Frost delays when Time stands on one pen,
Triste tryst stood up as warm verse cloak defeats,
Minds icy veil find no avail here, when
clocks are locked out, at best a stand-off meet.
One poet pulls the stops to stand upon
no ceremony blending soul and sense.
Time, in suspense, can only flow along
rhyme’s wit unwrit by standing on the fence.
This sonnet calls no understanding wrong,
no Spenser needs for Poesy's Defence,
Read, robin writes reply before night’s gone
to rest, with praise for colours so intense.
Outstanding latent talent seems whose seed
will come to bloom beyond dumb tomb, succeed …
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Countless Waiting Gems
My fingers move across the empty page.
Its shining smoothness pure and newly felt.
But not one word on it has yet been spelt,
All inspiration hides within a cage.
And sadly there’s no key, to set it free.
Ideas come and then ideas go,
No single letter, up to now’s been writ.
Perhaps one’s trying too hard, just a bit.
I’ll ease up for a while, and take it slow.
Let my tired mind believe that I’ll achieve.
Ink within my pen has suddenly dried,
So has my font of countless waiting gems.
Nothing is left now in my old brainstems.
I think my mind is on a downward slide.
Could this then be my age, my final stage.
No it is just a bleep, all will be well,
My mind will open up and will receive,
New thoughts that form and I will then retrieve,
All the information, clear as a bell.
For as knowledge can grow, my pen will flow.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Eyes Without A Face
Im all out of hope
One more bad dream could bring a fall
When Im far from home
Dont call me on the phone
To tell me youre alone
Its easy to deceive
Its easy to tease
But hard to get release
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
I spend so much time
Believing all the lies
To keep the dream alive
Now it makes me sad
It makes me mad at truth
For loving what was you
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
When you hear the music you make a dip
Into someone elses pocket then make a slip.
Steal a car and go to las vegas oh, the gigolo pool.
Hanging out by the state line,
Turning holy water into wine
Drinkin it down
Im on a bus on a psychedelic trip
Reading murder books tryin to stay hip.
Im thinkin of you youre out there so
Say your prayers.
Say your prayers.
Say your prayers.
Now I close my eyes
And I wonder why
I dont despise
Now all I can do
Is love what was once
So alive and new
But its gone from your eyes
Id better realise
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Les yeux sans visage eyes without a face
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
Such a human waste your eyes without a face
And now its getting worse.
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Speed Read
Quick response serves not if message dim,
Unclear or out of kilter prove to be.
Importance lies retaining verity
Combined with style, - still keeping in the swim -
Knowing, sowing, owing naught to whim.
Links form, melt what appeared disparity,
Yet pulses patterns which provide true key -
Questions met when innovative vim
Unshackles chains to spirit free, or limb,
Incorporates sense hid as harmony
Crumbles Chinese walls with energy.
Keen mind on Time waits not to patterns trim,
Links signals swift, leaves noise behind, to piece
Years future, past, together, gains release...
11 June 2005
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Take Back the Virgin Page
Written on Returning a Blank Book
Take back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light
Pure as even you require;
But, oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as, o'er ocean far,
Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star
Through the cold deep;
So may the words I write
Tell through what storms I stray --
You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way.
poem by Thomas Moore
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An Open Gate, Speak Friend and Enter - 1222 - Current Version
Fair friendship, heart to heart, near, far apart,
remains unstained and omnipresent gift,
where each stays part of each to chart fresh start
to meat and to defeat hate's deadly dart,
imparting steadfast links which, Ã la carte,
ensures hope pure, scope sure, defies Descartes'
cold logic with warm love above schemes smart.
The need that tames the flames of inner fire
may seed ten thousand ripples, may be more.
Desire to feed the furnace of desire
creates from dust more than there was before.
Those letters [l]inked on parchment or those which
on pixel tell~tale tra[n]ce dance in the brain
may early, late, both stimulate, enrich,
cross reference, cross reference again.
Rich pitch one hears switch spheres have ever known
they knew they knew before tuned undertone
vibrating through the Universal, sown
as echo coeval with the wind thats blown
along the way as day and night advance ~
or is it coexist in parallel ~
with worlds dreams glimpse perhaps when changeling Chance
weird timeline opens till dawn's waking bell.
What counts is ways the wave bands interlink
from infra violent through the ultra read
judgmental values fade, flushed down Life's sink,
the Pattern counts, how waft and web are spread
within the flow itself should make one think
there is no past, no present, no ahead,
as Time can rhyme the span, at Man must wink ~
as [s]he's from Judge to Judgement, spinning, led.
The air we breathe with life must seethe and how
that interacts to marshal facts is strange,
coincidence may shape both 'here and now'
and still instill, fulfill, more scope, more range
without the trammels and the platitudes
which most repeat ~ both low and high ~ as each
delays, downplays unusual attitudes,
won't glow in flow with currents out of reach.
This flow is pattern icing on the cake
the poet bakes it takes the time to write,
which whirls around, spurns sight and sound to rake
no line dividing time, space, day or night.
Thus time itself appears conveyor belt
on belt 'die Welt' drives on at different speeds,
some contradictory, some helter-skelt
to feed the need to feed the need to seed
an echo which upon an unknown date
in turn may stimulate discovery
of what once known ~ unlocking open gate
calling upon the inner eye to see.
the need that tames the flames of inner fire
to seed ten thousand ripples, may be more,
desire to feed the furnace of desire
from doom creating more than bloomed before.
Thus 'friendship' - heart to heart though far apart -
remains unstained and omnipresent gift,
where each stays part of each to chart fresh start
puts emphasis on empathy, heals rift.
(16 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Eyes Without A Face
I'm all out of hope. One more bad break could bring a fall.
When I'm far from home don't call me on the phone to tell me you're alone
It's easy to deceive. It's easy to tease. But hard to get release.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
I spend so much time believing all the lies to keep the dream alive.
Now it makes me sad. It makes me mad at truth for lovin' what was you.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Your eyes without a face.
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Eyes without a face.
(Les yeux sans visage) Your eyes without a face.
Got no human grace your eyes without a face.
Such a human waste your eyes without a face.
And now it's getting worse. Yeah.
song performed by by Scooter from Encore (Live & Direct)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In comparison, Google is brilliant because it uses an algorithm that ranks Web pages by the number of links to them, with those links themselves valued by the number of links to their page of origin.
quote by Michael Shermer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crystal Clear
CRYSTAL CLEAR
If home is where the heart is, you and I
new-found may found a haven, there to be
united ever till eternity
engathers all as dust, - why must all die?
Reality links dreams as chains untie,
links through forever think mortality.
‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and Thee’
triumphant should Time’s desert tide defy.
Neither til now believed that somehow sky
or starry heavens so ruled Destiny.
Renascent minds find visibility
become tuned crystal, clear, no choice deny.
Souls Life transcend to prosper through Love’s fire
that naught need prove, yet all may move much higher...
23 April 1990
robi03_0307_robi03_0000 SXX_LXX
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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