Is He Fine?
he must be fine today
with his poems in array
each end rhyming
to nature's chiming
he shows his big grin
like a big pumpkin
he struts on the street
on a loud drumbeat
he eats his breakfast
like he's on a feast
he writes his journal
as the banal of bengal
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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People And Pet Poems
People and Pet poems I do write,
in the day or the night.
Rhyming here and rhyming there,
about people and pets
that I valued and value so dear.
Some people were just passing by,
some people made me mad, laugh, and cry.
I also write phunny poems now,
To make people laugh, laugh out loud.
So buy my collection of poems from me,
I will through an autograph for free.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on September 23,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Purple Poems
Purple poems I do write,
in the day or the night.
Rhyming here and rhyming there,
About people and pets
that I valued and value so dear.
Some people were just passing by,
some people made me mad, laugh, and cry.
I also write phunny poems now,
To make people laugh, laugh out loud.
So buy my collection of poems from me,
I will through an autograph for free.
Written by Christina Sunrise on August 23,2011
www.christinasunrise.com www.purplepoems.com
www.suzae.com www.puppitlady.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Poem Everyday I Write
Purple poems I do write,
in the day or the night.
Rhyming here and rhyming there,
About people and pets
that I valued and value so dear.
Some people were just passing by,
some people made me mad, laugh, and cry.
I also write phunny poems now,
To make people laugh, laugh out loud.
So buy my collection of poems from me,
I will through an autograph for free.
Written by Christina Sunrise on August 23,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com
www.puppitlady.com www.razelpuppet.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Emptiness That Eats Poems, And Yet Still Hungry
(my) emptiness is greedy
it eats as breakfast
five to six poems in a day
it will require more for
lunch and
an unspecified number for
dinner
when midnight comes
it complains
it is still hungry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Deceased Poets Of Nature
Such beautiful poems to Nature they did write
The poetry we love for to read and recite
May they rest in peace now where-ever they lay
The deceased poets of Nature their poems live today
They glorified Nature and her praises they sung
And though they may be long dead their poems remain young
the poets of the land and the poets of the sea
In their beautiful poetry their greatness we do see
Their poems and their songs I loved as a boy
And their poems and their songs I will always enjoy
The beauty of Nature they did celebrate
And beauty in their words they loved to create.
Great insights of Nature from them we did gain
The beauty of their words with us does remain
We loved them for their poems in decades long gone
The deceased poets of Nature their poems living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Valentine’s day
Valentine’s Day of nineteen ninety nine;
‘Twas the forty-second birthday of mine!
A day, I cannot forget in my life!
My first book of poems published ’midst strife.
Eight months’ poetic work came to lime-light!
My Pen’s struggle got covered with delight;
It started like India’s Pokhran Blast!
And ended with a fine finish at last.
I have joined the band of Poets today!
A proud Indian Poet, I should say;
Stunning array of poems, I display;
My heart pounds with music and is gay.
Just a sample of my poetic skill,
Like a bolt from the Firmament, it fell;
To my airy lute, loud tolls the Church bell;
Every literary heart is full of thrill.
A turning point in my career, perhaps;
Stimulating my right Brain’s many gaps;
This God-given Talent, I better use;
In me, the world will see a mighty Muse!
The happiest day in my life, I feel;
My yester-years’ woes are put under seal;
My Poesy had got off to a fine start;
I’ve got to toil hard for my poet’s art.
poem by John Celes
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An Old Man Sits and Writes Poems
An old man sits and writes poems
And each poem is a cry from his soul
An old man sits and writes poems
And who is he what does he know?
An old man writes poems
And they are his soul
Poems and poems and poems alone-
His soul.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Death Toll 5,000,001
whew
if you as the modern poet
writes
ten poems a day,
this man writes
30 poems
a day......
giga...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Creative Stroke
In a new form
In a new style
I am giving
Creative stroke
On my canvas
On my society
And I know
All are waiting
For my words
All are waiting
For my poems
And I know
My nature inspired
Poems are a feast
For eyes
And I know
My poems are
Lover's paradise
In new form
In new style.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Halloween In April{for The Kids Of The Hall}
in a window, sat a pumpkin of light
to thrill the kids with fear and fright
to gaurd the candy, of halloweens eve
and prove that halloween, is no make believe
his grin was toothy, off and large
and you could see him from way, out in the yard
kids would walk by
but they wouldnt stop
there were safer places, to candy shop
but no matter where you were
in this new neighborhood
you could see that pumpkin
really good
framed by darkness of the shrill october night
his white hot candle, was the only night
but one brave kid, walking by
got too close
and could see the pumpkins eyes
and to this day
that one kid does swear
that pumpkin screamed
its halloween all year! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
there you go kids of the hall.be chill and eat burger king for lunch for me, less you live on amelia island, where our burger king is torn down, then eat mcdonalds.
poem by Chris Bowen
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I Like The Rhymes
I like the rhymes of the old fashioned rhymers the men and women of ballad and song
One can sense the rhythm and music in their verses to the bardic tradition they belong
Though in the twenty first century seen by many as out of fashion reading the rhyming stuff I still enjoy
Easy to understand not esoteric I've loved them since I was a school going boy
I cannot claim to be a judge of poetry since I'm not one with literary degrees
I just like rhyming stuff with lots of rhythm perhaps I am an easy one to please
The stuff quite popular in the nineteen fifties now seen as doggerel since the death of rhyme
What's fashionable now in ten years may seem outdated suppose that everything does have it's time
I loved the rhyming poems of my schooldays though that was years ago and far away
Perhaps I'm behind the times in my thinking since I enjoy reading old rhymes today
But then 'tis our different ways that makes us more interesting if we all thought the same how boring we would be
For it surely would be the death of discussion if everyone on all things did agree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Royal Bengal Tiger
Royal bengal tiger!
When swim to pass across river
Target is determined.
Just straight forward move on
To reach that place has set out.
Ever if waves move little
Back to the beginning point.
Straight a must
No left no right
Upright - just.
Royal bengal do not know,
jostle and joggle
He knows-
Hazardous jolt,
Frightening thunderbolt!
Eyes are radiant with glory
Trustworthy.
Richer colour for
Amazing stripes
Created ancient myth and folklore
Royal bengal tiger never agree with
Mischievous counsel of jackals.
(The national animal of Bangladesh is Royal Bengal Tiger)
2/2/2008
poem by Sarwar Chowdhury
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Where is He - Is He Dead?
Where is he -
Is he dead?
Where is the poet
Whose poems I just read?
I hope he still writes
It's a pity if he's gone
He may have lost the fight
But his poems will live on.
We are like miners of gold
These poems are the treasure
Though all poets will grow old
We had the best of pleasure!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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I assert that every man is a partialist; that nature secures him as an instrument by self-conceit, preventing the tendencies to religion and science; and now further assert, that, each man's genius being nearly and affectionately explored, he is justified in his individuality, as his nature is found to be immense; and now I add that every man is a universalist also, and, as our earth, whilst it spins on its own axis, spins all the time around the sun through the celestial spaces, so the least of its rational children, the most dedicated to his private affair, works out, though as it were under a disguise, the universal problem. We fancy men are individuals; so are pumpkins; but every pumpkin in the field, goes through every point of pumpkin history.
quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Old Man Waits For a Poem To Come
AN OLD MAN WAITS FOR A POEM TO COME
An old man waits for a poem to come
How many poems will come
Before he’s done?
An old man writes and writes and writes
He will write
To the end of his life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Sister's, Sister
She has a new sister who writes poetry
A poet I will never be
I am writing this poem as a plea
That maybe she will contact me
I know she doesn't like poems that rhyme
So I doubt very much that she'll like mine
I hope this shows how much I miss her
Oh but to be my sister's sister
poem by Wendys Works
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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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Dottie Writes and Cries
Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.
Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.
She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.
She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she sucks the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.
She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.
She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.
She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal's page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.
A bird song, she cocks an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.
She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.
She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.
Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.
She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.
poem by Terry Collett
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Rhyming Poems
my friends hate rhyming poems
they think it makes it fake
but if they don't shut up
i'll stab them with a rake
haha no need to freak
that last line was a joke
though if one friend reads this
then one ill have to choke
don't be worried silly
that was just dark humor
nothing's really wrong
it's not like you have a tumor
now i see what my friends hate
when my mind begins to roam
but i still think its dead funny
to write a rhyming poem
poem by Aaron Fullbright
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