What Mission Now?
What mission may the poet still retain
Here in this day and age, which sees the world
As lost as ever, while mankind is whirled
Too fast, and at a pace few can sustain.
Most mask their feelings, shield themselves from pain,
In hope that though no psalms are skywards skirled
Some light can filter through cocoons which, curled,
Shut out most aspirations, which remain
Ideals Man thinks he ought to seek. In vain
Or so it seems, the flag of hope unfurled
Now braves the insults philistine which, hurled,
Nor spare nor temper the poetic vein.
One voice, when clear, will break the glass of Time,
What matter if in free-verse or in rhyme?
Whenever rhyme is crafted on ideas
Heart tunes to rhythm, can effect enhance
Allowing invitation to a dance
That adds dimensions in way that clears
Muddy waters - often verse appears
In ways which heighten, lighten, help advance
Subtle emphasis where words through Chance
Seem to stream together. Inner ears
Intuitive may key to song that steers
Over prose bound limits, elegance
Neat meanings adding through rhyme's happenstance
No forms need hamper thought where heart heart cheers.
Open mind behind the [t]racing pen
Will channel words creating worlds again...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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Sonnet # 17
Though I know thy heart is taken
These words to you I must say
Thou art lovely to gaze upon my dear
Your pretty smile shines brightly forth each day
No offence to thee is intended
But by a poet's honour I am duty bound
That when ever inspired by beauty such as yours
Poetic words of love must be written down
Sweet words of stirring romantic verse
Every other line to rhyme,
If only to say that if thy heart were free
I would swim the widest ocean to join your heart with mine
Your an angel sent from heaven you be just like a star
Thee ever seeming so close but yet so far
poem by John A. Hancock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No More Rhyme
Verse 1:
When the fear sets in
Where the fire burns
Where I find a place
Where theres nowhere to turn
When the evening sings
An eerie song
Longing for the day
You say Im wrong
Verse 2:
You can find your place
But never fit in
And only when youve left
Do you know where youve been
I can see the light
But only when its gone
You can go on waiting
But only for so long (so long, so long)
Chorus:
I know we are right
Its not always clear
Because Ive never felt the fear
Can it stay so good
Forever in time?
Ive always felt the rhythm
What happens when
Theres no more rhyme?
Verse 3:
Can we face ourselves
Like we face each other?
Weve never felt anything
On our own
I cant wait much longer
To feel any danger
I hope were not living for
A lifetime alone
Chorus
Bridge:
Hard to go on
Its like waiting for
The other shoe to drop
Ill never stop
Believing in you
Its just we never had to struggle
It all came too easy
I hope we felt what we felt from the start
Weve never suffered a broken heart
Weve been so blinded by all the best
We never put our love to the test (to the test)
Ive always felt the rhythm
What happens when
Theres no more rhyme?
song performed by by Debbie Gibson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing Frustrations I've Known
-It would seem, I've run out of words.
Nothing left to say.
I have lost my inner voice.
It's gone, completely astray.
Perhaps I should lay down pen and pad.
Never more write a rhyme.
On this poetry that I love
I shall spend no further time.
... not that I was ever truly a poet anyway
... it's just that, well, I did love it so;
... still, it feels the well is dry
... time to just let it go.
- So now, what of me shall be
Feeling empty in heart and head?
What purpose-without a word-shall be heard
With no way to express both hope and dread?
Where have the words gone
Must they ever stay away?
Who has taken my spirit's song
Why has the music of my soul nothing more to say?
... I try... seems of no use...
My mind torn asunder, literary abuse.
(this next part wrote a couple months later)
Listen, what do I hear?
Something is knocking at my gate!
A few months later now
But, not altogether too late.
A lonesome thought comes strolling in
From whence I cannot declare,
Just that it has arrived
With this simple message to share:
' What's a dime
To a lover of verse and rhyme,
And what's to fear
Of criticism drawing near?
For to write only for income
Would soon turn quite burdensome,
As surely as to not write for fear of ridicule
Would be to deny the voice within you.
The words may never turn a single head
But, don't dare believe they'll ever be dead!
God gives meaning to what he wants
Whether anyone else listens or not.
The way it is all spoke
By darling bards, or simple country folk,
Is well worth hearing
And so oft more than a bit endearing.
Don't worry about the rhyme
The perfect place or time,
Just give your soul in words as best you can
And those who should, will understand.
Those who don't
Just won't,
And that's o.k.
God speaks to them in other ways.
Trust his Spirit in all you do
Yes, this includes writing too,
Remember he promised he'd never leave you alone
Even in the simple words of your poems. '
-Pondering it over
I suppose this I've known all along,
Though thoughts may wander
True words are never gone.
Well, ya know what:
I believe I just might pick up paper and pen,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Give it a go, once again!
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wistful Grief
Wishful thinking will not win free world.
Imperative: independent structures here
Should be supported by a vision clear,
Held high with mission statement's flag unfurled.
Forwards friends! Dark future safe seems. Whirled,
Unsure we stumble, freedoms held most dear -
Links open - fragile sink, may disappear.
The rogue Rove Eye spies all, lies. Hope lies curled,
Hides outside oversight. Self-writ frontier,
In two decades of world wide web advance,
Netiquette ignores as censors' terror dance
Knits viral trojan traffic tracing fear.
INternet technologies combine,
Guarantees essential undermine.
Great firewall of China pings I.P.
Rolls back shadow space anonymity,
Info_checkmating hopes for liberty,
Extending control's role, steamrolling the
Free ideals of true humanity.
for previous version Wishful Thin King see below
Wishful thinking will not win the world
Intense the efforts which are needed here,
Shouldered squarely, with a vision clear
Held high with mission statement's flag unfurled.
Forwards towards tomorrow we are whirled
Uncertain, while those freedoms held most dear -
Life's joy - are fragile, may well disappear.
Thin king who leans on others, who lies curled
Half hid within his self writ limits drear.
In one decade of world wide web advance
Netiquette lapses, censorship snaps chance
Kneeding path to progress free from fear.
INternet technologies combine;
Guarantees essential undermine.
(3 August 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prose-Poetry
Once prose and poetry existed side by side
Two styles of literature, each with its bound
Jealously guarded by the literati
Lest prose masquerades as poetry.
The First World War smashed all fetters,
Soldiers wrote heart-rending poetic letters
To sweethearts, friends, fathers and mothers.
Newspapers published their anguish and horrors
The literati classed them as prose
And turned up their nose
At such a new trend of mongrelised poetry;
But the public gave it name and identity
Prose-poetry began to gain respectability.
Prose-poetry is a contradiction in terms,
An oxymoron; a paradox of many forms.
When well written, words flow as though in rhyme
Thought and syntax together dance with rhythm.
Some pen few lines haphazardly,
String words together arbitrarily,
Flit between thoughts randomly,
Structure their poems casually.
They want us to see them as thinkers
In fact, they are just wearing blinkers.
If only they could see their folly
They’d stop abusing prose-poetry.
poem by Isam Hussain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THOSE who misspell
And those who are still coping up
With their metaphors
The techniques
Of rhyme & beat
Those who think
They do not
Know how to
Write poetry
And those
Who fear
What to say
What to write
What the others say
About their poetry
And those that doubt
Their writing
Abilities
Their thoughts
Their feelings
Their feelings
Their feelings
Yes
Yes
Their feelings
Or those who simply
Fear that they may only
Be displeasing
And disappointing
And those whose
Sense of confidence
About this thing
This poetry
This poem thing
Those that still
Hide what they
Feel to what they
Think
Is prose
Those who think that
Their life
Is not worth
Sharing in the
The beat and
Rhyme of poetry
Behold
The mere thought
About life
About a beating heart
The pulse
The eyes that blink
The fingers fidgety
That type the words
Of feelings
Of feelings
Yes
Yes
About feelings
It is all about feelings
The genuine feelings
Of your life
You type them
Each word
To another word
A chain of words
A long chain of words
Like playing the music
To the piano keys
Like strumming
The strings of a
Flamenco guitar
A certain music
A certain beat
To the sound
Of your computer keys
Hear the beat
And the rhyme
Of your computer keys
Each word
To another word
To a chain of words
To a longer chain of words
You are running a chain of feelings
You are chasing a chain of feelings long chained in your hearts wanting to be free
To be free
To be free
Yes
Yes
You, feeling to be free to run free to be all free
Like you were scattering red rose petals to this pedestal
Like you were sprinkling waters to this garden
Like you were splashing waters in the sea
Like you were bathing playing dancing in the rain
Like you were humming a tune to a trek on a hill
Like you were making love with your beloved the whole night
Behold
A poet in you is born
Behold
You are typing
A poem
You are
Feeling
And you are
By all means
Now a poet
I hereby baptize you
With that name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Does Not Have to Rhyme
There are those who think in order for a poem to have rhythm it must rhyme, but a poem does not have to rhyme to have rhythm.
The rhythm comes for the poet’s soul not the rhyming of words.
The rhythm is in emotions that the poet’s poem evokes.
From a soulful cry to feeling of love and from the passion of hate to the awakening of understanding this is the beat, the rhythm of a poem. Now don’t get me wrong if a poem rhyme and has soul it is cool too, but I just wanted everyone to know that a poem does not have to rhyme.
A Big Or Brief Poetry......!
Big or brief, what is poetry?
Poetry is......
Creating beauty out of blemish,
Making order out of disorder,
Producing meaning out of musical words,
Creating Universal truth out of trivialities,
Arranging points out of less known facts!
Is poetry just making rhythm and rhyme
Without meaning, life, force and taste,
Without free flowing musical words,
Without words of music, beauty, fun?
Poetry is free flowing river of words
With full of images, lively and lovely,
Transporting from this world to that world
Forgetting himself and readers here!
Just end rhyme is not enough to make it so;
Internal rhymes make music in rhythm
Making all enjoy music, meaning and ideas!
Poetry is the medium to say complex things
Not possible to say in other forms of language,
Saying unknown things using known things;
It is sound, substance, message and meaning!
And many more matters to many men in the world!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0026 Why Waste Time
Why waste time
on searching rhyme
unless the knowledge wants to sing?
why waste time
on searching rhyme
unless the joy can’t help but dance?
why waste time
on searching rhyme
unless the mind is full of sound?
then rhyme with time
and sing and dance
and lose your heart
to happenstance.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm A Poet
I'm a Poet
A twister of words
I open a world unseen to others
I bring meaning to the meaningless
I use words as my weapon
It's a double edged sword
I can bring beauty to a slum land
Horror to a smile
I can give life to the dead
Immorality to a flower
Then destroy it in the next line
I'm a poet
A rhymer of words
I see the unseen
And create new worlds
I am an artist of the written
A magician of the pen
I can make words rhyme
Or go free verse
It all depends
On how I feel in that moment
I'm a poet
To the end
poem by Rachel Dowd
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Don't Go Too Fast
Verse 1:
Destination nowhere land
Let us find a place where heartaches end
It's good to hold you tight
Just make me surrender
Come on in and find out baby
We got time and hope and dreams enough
So don't you hurry love
Chorus:
Oh baby babe don't go too fast
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Don't you go for everything
I'm not a puppet on a string
Baby babe don't go too fast
Play it cool and make it last
Baby let your feelings flow
Just take it easy - get it slow
Love can be so beautiful
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Verse 2:
It's a "now or never-night"
Baby don't you try to break my pride
I've got magic words:
Together forever
Take away the spell of darkness
Baby come into my world of fears
To kiss away my tears
Chorus:
Oh baby babe don't go too fast
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Don't you go for everything
I'm not a puppet on a string
Baby babe don't go too fast
Play it cool and make it last
Baby let your feelings flow
Just take it easy - get it slow
Love can be so beautiful
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Bridge:
Take a chance on me tonight
Baby look inside of me - you'll see
The flames of destiny
Chorus:
Oh baby babe don't go too fast
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Don't you go for everything
I'm not a puppet on a string
Baby babe don't go too fast
Play it cool and make it last
Baby let your feelings flow
Just take it easy - get it slow
Love can be so beautiful
Feel the rhythm of my heart
Baby babe don't go too fast
Feel the rhythm of my heart
yeah yeah oh oh
Love can be so beautiful
Feel the rhythm of my heart
song performed by by Vanilla Ninja
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Bit Rhymic Junkie
At first I thought I could control it
I thought I could take it all
I thought, ah; it's just another verse
I will to make the call
The rhythm was pure cadence
It flowed round and round my veins
Soon after that first one verse
It raised it's ugly head to reign
It was just at first in the evening
Then soon was all the day along
And before I even realized
It had complete control of all
I was shooting verse for breakfast
Snorting rhyme there before the noon
Stanza after stanza flowed
Racing to my doom
I tried to just shut it off
All to no avail
It would just suck me back
Into my loving hell
July 17, 2012 4: 58 A.M.
poem by Midnights Voice
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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The Woman Of Rhyme
She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.
But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.
Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.
Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.
For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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0004 The world has lost the ear for rhyme
The world has lost the ear for rhyme.
It still makes children squirm with pleasure;
and from some witty pens and minds, its fireworks fizz;
so, after all these centuries of rhyme
and all the games of meter, dancing words,
should we now mourn its passing?
Have we lost the music of another world?
Instead, the easy unpretentious discourse,
sober, light, familiar, honest -
the world of daily, homely, shared sharp life,
that's now preferred. Not prose;
much more than 'chopped-up prose' as those may say
who think that poetry should be more visibly hard-earned;
- as if a human life set down in honesty
were not a poem in itself, unwrit;
'prose with enhanced consciousness' it's often now defined;
and consciousness - now that's earned, if you like...
and simile, and imagery, and metaphor - all the repertoire
of glorious poetry - they're all still here
to work their magic; if more played down, now,
unostentatious as T-shirt and jeans;
unostentatious as the beating, bloody heart.
And yet, when years bring tears
and time brings death and dying,
it's time for rhyme, to heal the heart
and charm away the crying.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Since I Am One Without A Literary Degree
Since I am one without a literary degree
Of poets and poetry why bother ask me
Though I have a fondness of old fashioned rhyme
To free verse I would prefer it anytime
Though to a long gone era they well may belong
I remain a fan of the ballad and song
That in long gone Seasons I used to enjoy
In my old Homeplace when I was a young boy
When we sat by the fire grate on a Winter's night
The flame of the burning peat was flickering bright
With the old men and women we did sing along
And they knew the words of many an old song
From them a love of song and rhyme I did gain
A love that to this day with me does remain.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poetry
Yes, I shall swear by you, my verse,
I shall wheeze out, before I swoon:
You're not a tenor's shape and voice,
You're summer travelling third class,
You are a suburb, not a tune.
You're a street as close as May,
You're a battlefield at night,
Where clouds groan loudly in dismay
And scatter, when dismissed, in fright.
And, splitting in the railway's lace-
That's outskirts, not refrain and home-
They crawl back to their native place
Without a song, as if struck dumb.
The shower's offshoots stick in clusters
Till break of day, and all the time
They scribble on the roofs acrostics
And bubble up rhyme after rhyme.
All poetry is what you make it.
And even when the truism's not worth
The rhyme, the flow of verse is scared.
The notebook's open-so flow forth!
poem by Boris Pasternak
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