Prismatic Appraisal
Stop, look, and listen, imprint glistens, see
words wire taut, well caught, of themselves require
standards unset, spontaneous, to be -
though goal unsought - far from the crowd's mud mire.
Let dropp by dropp from inspiration's tree
pearl down to crown rhyme, rhythm all admire,
encapsulate amber eternity
to time-trap thoughts, acts, objects, free from ire.
One stores verse story's glory in the mind,
retinal rainbow stimulating each
synaptic link both in and out of reach, -
display whose ray may play before, behind.
Word flow sensations sows and by degree,
can catalyze a metamorphic fire
as empathy extends its energy
incandescent, lends dimensions higher
to time and space and place which, falling free,
rise to surprise and stimulate the lyre.
Time loses its accustomed hierarchy
thus finite frontiers, limits soon expire.
In context crystalline we find outlined
prismatic tones some play, which more may teach
than meets the eye, contact points combined,
with ease - these inner inhibitions breach.
Words flow where none could know they'd go, - no key
is needed where there's no directive spire,
no cue restrictive, new priority
in depth is found, ground falls away, kite flyer
spins toplike, fights against Earth's gravity
reintegrates new levels which aspire
to spread, to wed when seedbed cavity
spores explode, explore, more growth inspire.
Words flow, emotions echo, each assigned
its place to interaction trace where speech
is often too restrictive, predefined, -
thought modes aligned, too taut one must impeach.
Words taught, untaught, exchanged, are vector we
extend from passing trend as minds enquire,
as echoes through blue organ flue flow free
or meanings ancient bend to suit soul's choir
in harmony, or melting melody,
or raven caw reacting to some liar,
cabalist, hermetic, open key,
energy decoding deep desire.
So verse to verse responds spontaneous
to take up arms against a troubled seed,
to laugh with, never at unless some cuss,
to read behind the lines for more to read…
These featured points outline one Poet's view
though points, when featured, comments draw too few
1029 14 November 2003 and 8 August 2007
(28 March 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Fractal Interactions
Fractal interactions weave warp wire
supporting pattern framework harmonies,
knit through elastic links whose spiral gyre
rejects all artificial boundaries,
to tickle stars, bridge light years, won't expire
despite Time's second-thoughts, eternal frieze,
to silver speech pin turquoise and sapphire,
extending planes from plain refrain most tire
to echo some celestial melodies.
From prose pedestrian and its quicksand mire
word-flow sensations sows and, by degrees,
can catalyze true metamorphic fire
as empathy extends its energies
incandescent, lends dimensions higher
through time and space, replacing which, falling, frees
rises, surprises, stimulates higher lyre,
drops finite frontiers that often require
reverential, referencial hierarchies.
Straitjackets shed, inventing sense, wildfire
words flow where none could know they'd go, - no keys
are needed where there's no directive spire,
no cue restrictive, new priorities
in depth are found, ground falls away, desire
spins toplike, whose magnetic gravity
adds novel levels which combine, aspire
to spread, to wed with further growth, inspire
exploding spores exploring unknown seas.
From neutral neural pathways gear up higher,
from seedbed cavity captivity
evolve to conquer galaxies, retire
all obstacles as carpe diem, seize
the day, encouragement maintains, admire
how liberating versatility
linguistic stimulates synaptic twire
to interact, reduplicate, refire
open-ended opportunity.
Words taught, untaught, exchanged, are vector we
extend from passing trend as minds enquire
of echoes true that through blue flue flow free
that meanings ancient b[l]end to bond soul's choir
to harmony through melting melody
not raven caw reaction, brazen liar.
Dichotomies discard, to draw on deep desire
dissolve hermetic code, decipher open key!
(15 July 2008)
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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Rubaiyat of Ghosts
One can, who strangers scan, too few admire,
as most play ghosts deprived of phantom choir,
tripping, tripping up, upon life’s board,
stillborn refuting intimate desire.
In game of give and take what ranks the higher
self-interest or charity? Enquire
about ambitions intimate, bond word,
suspicion from the shadows whispers: 'Liar! '
Most men as puppets dance upon a wire
taut from birth to death, - as seller, buyer,
taught to act and not to BE - Fate’s sword
to dust must sooner, later, each retire.
So few dare seek far stars, less dare aspire
for freedom, seldom search above their mire,
for seventy or eighty years life’s cord
they eke out, seldom seeking something higher.
A burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to Time the purifier -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
by those who spurn each prophet as a liar.
Life is too short. Who’d play the poet’s lyre
must tame the vagrant strings, the versifier
tunes into harmony whose every chord
responds to inspiration all desire.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Words Woven - Parody Mary BEULEY - Words Woven
Words woven into speech
soon reach
intact thread spirit of each act,
knit warp and weft of wit wish fact,
dreams' tapestry may teach.
Words express essentials,
transmit, unwind
from mind to mind,
address ideas which, blind,
would grope for means to equate
sensations refined,
coarse, sophisticate.
Thus they incarnate
emotion's multi coloured coat, pattern twist
around ideas which form,
unform,
inform or disinform,
or take by storm
precisely or by gist
the geist soul kissed.
Words woven into speech
pen hand,
when scanned
from thoughts’ life blood leach
emotions, sense, dressed to suit
points phallic and points mute,
ideo-grand!
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY 1837_1916 written 12 December 1995 – Words Woven revised 31 July 2008 notably first verse below
Words woven into speech
soon reach
to knit the spirit of each act,
the warp and weft of every fact,
through dreams to teach.
______________
Words Woven
Words woven into rhyme
In time
Become a tapestry of thought
A canvas of experience in which
Our dreams are wrought.
Words are the evidence of what goes on
communicate
Within the mind.
They clothe the invisible
With robes of speech,
Sophisticated as silk,
Homespun as hessian,
And in between
The many-patterned, many-textured range,
Familiar and strange,
Of words -
Woven and dyed and spun
For Fun
Or seriously aware
Of what is there.
Words woven into rhyme
Or prose
Transpose
Giving the tiny embryo of thought
A dress to wear, most delicately wrought,
And caught for ever in a form know
And understand.
Mary BEULEY 1837_1916
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY written 12 December 1995
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ghosts
Last passing leaves leave, life's page sage admires,
most boasts are ghost hosts, post haste phantom choirs,
now tripping, hesitant, upon life’s board,
stillborn, denying deepest heart’s desire.
As puppets men, leaves, dance upon branch wire
taut from birth to death, - staged play's proved liar,
taught to act but not to BE! - the sword
of Fate each early, late, must all retire.
For few dare seek the stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above their mire,
fear chloroforming chlorophyll cuts cord
that holds life's journey from horizons higher.
The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
as Fall to Winter wanes, frost snaps high-flyer.
Lifes leaves soon grieve, deceived by Summer, ire
replacing lush greens flush, Time sees misfire
intimations of immortality
when verdant vibrance turns red, brown, then mire.
Life is too short, who strums soul poet’s lyre
must tame frame's vagrant strings. Sole versifier
intensely seeks sense off the fence, each chord
in tune with Autumn moon runes' mortal quire!
Leaves drop, hearts stop, in season all retire
from green-scene bud to has been dud quagmire,
so little space to race then silent doom,
strum still tombed, dumb will catacombed entire.
Revised 19 October 2011
see also Rubaiyat of Ghosts
GHOSTS
Few passing strangers may the sage admire,
as most are ghosts without a phantom choir,
now tripping, hesitant, upon life’s board,
stillborn, denying e’en their heart’s desire.
Most men as puppets dance upon a wire
taut from birth to death, - to play as liar,
taught to act but not to BE! - the sword
of Fate each early, late, must all retire.
For few dare seek the stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above their mire,
for eighty, maybe ninety years life’s cord
they tread and never aim at something higher.
The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
by those who shun each prophet as a liar.
Life is too short, who strums the poet’s lyre
must tame the vagrant strings. The versifier
must seek deep harmony where every chord
in tune responds to feelings all inspire!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Silence Between
the silence between
words being written and read
seduces the mind to think
thoughts of creation anticipate
the blank canvas of the mind
which mirrors the open soul
calling out to listen
to the sound of pen upon paper
a mind at work
is a beautiful thing
and in writing seductive
words flow into sentence
a verse crafts itself
to be seen, felt
all in the aftermath
of the silence between
words being written
words being read
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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I wrote a verse and thought no more
(to the Afrikaans poet Louis Esterhuyzen)
I wrote a verse and thought no more,
will I write, not another thought to paper put,
and I will be free from petty critics, who with words do cut,
be free from elitist poets who my work deplore,
who claim that I write faster than they can type,
that no real expertise is found in my art,
that I have sold my soul to every reader in parcel and part
that I am the stereotype
of the rubble that are trying to become something
and when I put my pen down
while my thoughts were wandering,
You reminded me that I am Your very own,
that my talent, the words I do impart,
flow freely from my heart.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
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Weigh Words’ Worth
Weigh well worth of wide vocabulary
Empowering experiences rich,
Intense at times, at times with playful pitch -
Gambol space to trace thoughts fair and free.
However, weight and size of words may be
Wor[l]ds apart when into sense we’d stitch
Or knit together floating concepts which
Represent the seed the knowledge tree
Dreams roots need to reach maturity.
Sage phrases softly shaded may bewitch,
Where letters lengthy linked lose touch, so hitch
Onto emotion’s star, provide true key.
Read and rehearse more than verse second hand, -
THoughts flow through words which share tuned hearts’ wave band.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Verses From God
I’m just the pen; God is the ink, Who fills me as I write and think,
And God’s ink never runs dry, as it flows from His Spirit on high.
Penning verse that never ends, as He talks to a world of friends,
As I go to God in prayer, He pens down each blessing and care.
In a trial God helps me through, He pens verse to share with you,
And the blessing He brings my way, as He helps me, day to day.
As I write every word and line, I do not claim the verses as mine,
For as the pen to page is pressed, it is my heart that is blessed.
Blessing seem to come my way, as He helps me, in what to say,
To illustrate to all those who read, that Jesus is The Lord indeed.
His Words just seem to flow, not knowing where His idea will go,
But His point He makes every time, as God speaks on each line.
He draws from deep inside, my heart, where His Scriptures hide,
Always used at the proper place, to pen down a verse of Grace.
And as the page begins to fill, it is not my poem, but God’s will,
That fills lines with His Word, which some who read, never heard.
It’s God above who fills my pen, with words for the eyes of men,
By means of only poetic verse, to claim victory, over sin’s curse.
The page is filled by God above, with true examples of His Love,
Penning Truth for men to see, He’s a God who loves you and me.
(Copyright ©08/2007)
Let It Flow
Another wave has arrived
Being funk is so surprise
Welcome the world of xtc
When the funk takes over me
No need to try to run away
The funk will find you the mail today
Its best if you relax your soul
Grab someone, take the floor, let it go
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(whatd you say)
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(in your heart and in your vein)
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(free your mind)
Did you ever make it stop?
Feel it groovin hard within
Body is shakin and heads in sea
Why would anyone dare to deny it
Funk is fine, dont try to fight it
The funk is the epitome
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(whatd you say)
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(in your heart and in your vein)
Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow(free your mind)
Did you ever make it stop?
Dont you part with it
I devoured it
You can work with it
You can part with it
Satisfaction guaranteed
Giveem folks what they need
What you need is indeed
A little funk from ev
Now hit me
Sounds so funky, youd agree
Funky divas in 3-d
Let if flow
Did you ever make it stop?
[rap]
song performed by by En Vogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chapter and Verse 1023 - Current Version
Chapter and verse in sonnet setting here
have sought to recognize beyond all speech
effects and causes, time-lines over-reach,
encapsulating thoughts as they appear.
Words inked together in attempt sincere
to link youth to maturity may breach
distances so all evolve to teach
themselves to learn from others, spirit clear,
crystalline, to thought-waves tuned, to steer
ideas along chord patterns chorded - each
enabled [not empowered, not to preach].
Understanding overcomes false fear.
Emotions, once interpreted, translate
into emancipation, share, create.
(21 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Free verse
I want to write always in free verse
In free verse there is no pressure.
I do not want to keep any goal
I really do not want any roll
I also do not want to play any role.
I want to see this earth free from hunger
Free from poverty and I do not want to
keep anybody within an artificial boundary.
I want to write always in free verse
I want to move freely from place to place
To see people in various glaze.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Missing My Soul
In Despair of Loss,
Great surprise found me happiness
An absent father figure lend a hand,
Time proved restrictive conditional stand.
In despair of Loss,
I was found in a trap cause.
Lost the hope of unconditional parenting,
Lost my liberty of picking.
In despair of Loss,
I realized that my trap doesn’t go away,
Doesn’t let me free,
Takes my energy away, locked with conditions.
In order to be free, I must renounce.
In order to be free, I must reach the bottom.
In order to be free, I must find a new and hidden place.
In order to be free, I must reencounter unconditional love.
poem by Blue Angel
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Volcano Of Passion
As the passion builds inside, my heart beats faster
My mouth goes dry
My hands become clammy
My eyes widen in anticipation
Out comes a flow of words, a flow of meanings
A flow of thought and feelings
I can feel it growing inside me, waiting to burst out
I really just want to shout as the words flow out onto the page
Without any rage, just a desire, a passion
For my words to have their own stage
The volcano has erupted, the words flow
Yet when the dust settles, nobody but me knows whats happened
It's my very own volcano of passion
poem by Craig Piercy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Craddock’s Time Theory Age Relative
light years apart
in space time
continuum
youth three-dimensional
stretching into mathematical models
age a fourth dimension
spatial dimensions
our spacetime passing each other
is space and time in a single continuum
our shared Euclidean space
on this plane of existence
is but the trap of physical flesh
our atoms bound at every point
in three-dimensional Euclidean space
by flesh infused fixed points
determined by three coordinates
yet our thoughts are timeless
infinite bound by no scientific laws
they can flow spread be anywhere any time
in universe at instant thought speed
instant in arrival at multiple locations
they enter into realities past curved space
worn holes are for porous slow minds
higher dimensions bypass imagination
non-Euclidean geometry the cage play pen
Einstein’s general theory of relativity
a manifold universe of but three
dimensions of space one of time
denies all time existing simultaneously
within a God state span spun within eternity
supergalatic subatomic levels are but focused lenses
begging new observations into eye opening realities
unperceived ignored unknown awaiting perception orientation
before eureka moment God reloading reality matrix
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A real poem
What is real poem?
Is it flow of words or natural theme?
Does it echo sound of water?
Does it have capacity to alter?
To reduce the agony and pain?
To give honest call to rain
Words to flow in the direction of sea
Mix with the splendid music of tree
No words of differing
No more suffering
Helping hand with some offering
Music to their help in altering
The complete scene in harmony
Bees to sit at once place with more honey
Peace and calm with flow of words
Is it not the message of lords?
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Unaware of the fact
I am totally unaware of the fact
As why it has deserted me to act
Why no words are pouring in as it used to be?
Why do I feel so helpless and not free?
Yes it is God gift to have grip on writing
No reason can be advanced for sighting
Everything is just before the eyes
One may not depict correctly even if he tries
Of course they may be deeply lying in corner
It has to come out later or sooner
But it has got no use if untimely composed
It will be simply rejected and totally disposed
Words can’t flow until it has free message
Water can not flow in river until has the passage
The well has enough of water in the belt below
It will remain there as it is and not allow
As the fingers move on the head in hair rings
It may generate melody and words may try to sing
It will send pulses to and fro and resonance may start
Align all activities in one action with live active part
As the earth has become barren
It may need fall of rain even
Dry words may find new energy in roots
The greenery may come up for good scenes to put up
Find it not hard to come out the songs
They may come at right time and not at wrong
Your heart and mind may keenly exchange
It will have good synchronization and able to manage
It will have full sweetness and melancholy
The depth of it may be felt and enjoyed wholly
Let artificial things cover as pure illusion
Poetry may flow with natural tune without any confusion
Poems are not just free flow of words
They are holy words spoken by lords
Not everybody can pick it with intensity
Only good poet may find its full use and utility
It may face temporary setback sometimes
It has too some lean and bad times
It may loose sometimes rhythms and tunes
The creator (poet) should not worry over it and fume
Give it a full justice to come out with some reason
Nature too functions well with every season
How the flowers boom in different colors?
The spring has quality to offer more flavors
Don’t be upset if some time the door is locked
Don’t lament if it doesn’t come up and try to click
It will find its way when cuckoo breaks morning silence
Your mind will be fresh and free from being tense
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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