A Poem.
A poem, to me:
A statement, speech, a view.
Onomatopoeic metaphor
About me and you.
Plotted and planned,
Or just a thing I do.
From instress to inscape,
Hopkins-like,
So very, very true.
A riotous myriad of colours,
Scented roses,
Touches new.
In verses and stanzas,
Pocket pictures you see;
Iambic rhythms and pulses,
Traditional verses,
Or free.
Time for tea.
PB Or Skryboss (C) Yorkshire Dales Saturday 19th September 2009 at 11.30.
poem by Paul Butters
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Related quotes
Fourteen Verses
My passion is to write modern sonnets
Yes indeed modern not traditional.
Iambic pentameter I regret
Is too restrictive and conditional.
I had observed that many years ago.
Expression of thought is more important
Than any well-placed iamb, apropos.
These little songs* are not songs at all; shan’t
Pretend when they're not. Mine are messages
That I compose within fourteen verses:
Some assurances, other presages.
They are my work for better or for worse.
If I fail to convey in fourteen lines
I'd nothing to say and wasted your time.
* Sonnet means little song.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Poem about Poetry - Poetry sites
if you wish to
have an afternoon
of fun, what about
reading throgh
the amateur poem
writing sites
the work here reeks
of things raw -
some even confessed
they wrote their work
while cutting their wrists
of things great -
some poets actually
are already carrying stars
- but think they need
to be on the ground
- stay in touch with
their best readers
of things romantic
- teenage lovers
who day in and day out
shower sweet love verses
like they would roses on
their new founded flame
of things sleazy -
some verses actually
came right off the hands
that had a minute ago
been exploring the powerkeg
of the sensous world
they should be censored
but then these considerate perverts
even took the trouble to write the
'bewarned' line
and of course
the greatest fun
are the young poets
who afford a glimpse
of their little world
the folksy rhythm
and heavenly rhyme
the greatest laugh
would be when
we stumble upon
the inexperienced
ones who think poetry
is throwing words at you,
all the words that not many
of us could actually pronounce
so that the whole piece would
sound erudite... only if you
could go beyond those words
the whole poem makes you feel
like you walk into a house
to see the bed upside down
in the kitchen, the cooking pot
on the edge of the bedroom table
the fridge at the attic
the washing machine on a flower bed
and the toilet right in the middle
of the living room
then there are those
who are queens of words
their verses run like pistils,
filamens, petals, colours
of orchids..classic, regal,
exquisitei
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Neater meter for Mr Earley
Neater meter?
I have to write a sonnet in free verse.
I must stick to Iambic pentameter.
A meter that I do not often use.
Pentameter is my more usual style.
A Sapphic meter would be so much worse.
I am more comfortable with the latter.
I find that some odd metres can confuse
a simple rhymester like me for a while.
I’m quite convinced that pentameter
makes my presentations appear neater.
It may be that you think I am obtuse
and that my simple verses make you smile.
You are entitled to your point of view.
Naturally I won’t agree with you!
11-Apr-08
Free verse sonnet
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Poem Is A Metaphor
THE POEM IS A METAPHOR
The Poem is a Metaphor
It means ‘the world’
It means ‘all that there is’
It means ‘the soul’
It means ‘our deepest feeling’.
The Poem is a Metaphor
It is more than what it just appears to be
It takes on a life of its own
It says more than it can define itself as
The Poem is a Metaphor
And it itself does not understand
Where it began and how it will end
And whether or not
It should always be rewritten.
The Poem is a Metaphor
And we too are metaphors
That will vanish one day
When all the real Poems
Pretend to still be here.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem In My Pocket!
I have a poem in my pocket for this very day,
a poem in my packet you might even say,
i have a poem in my pocket for all of you to hear,
this is the poem in my pocket,
the one you've just heard me peirs,
so a poem in my pocket is to my heart
but i have to say sorry it's time for us to part!
poem by Raven Fulford
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Doe Not Then Inscribe
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic,
for duels on stone red wet ground are paired,
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Verses reflect no loves in souls, poetic,
Doe not then inscribe your sentiments aired,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic.
We shall attend a time corybantic
the duel unchains enslaved wrath where'd
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Pentameter exports par'syllabic,
Capital thy right is, thorny and flared,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic.
Sponde of tears onward a wind frantic,
Happiness and sadness deceived or spared,
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Flags tear in gusts of winter gigantic,
an emblem bronzed toasting my mirth, declared,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic;
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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A Recitation
My love you are a poem with its own description:
The assonance of your whispers,
The rhyme in scripted in your voice,
The themes that outline your body,
The repetition that characterizes the blink of your eyes,
The tonation of your laughter,
The persona Created in your characteristic smile,
The onomatopoeic rush of your feet,
The alliteration of your speech,
The imagery buried within your face,
The metaphor in the brightness of your eyes that likens to the stars,
And the personification of your words that fills them with reality.
poem by Peter Gumbo
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And He Decided To Join Us
Sometimes things happen
and they surprise everyone.
As I held my Sunday service
in the main street of our western town,
we had a quite a few visitors
who had come along.
Some of them had dogs
and one had a beautiful Husky.
As we began to sing our first hymn,
All Things Bright and Beautiful
the Husky decided to join us in the choruses.
It was the first time I’ve had
one of the creatures great and small
join us in our service.
He sang or howled his heart out
along with us all.
He didn’t sing in the verses
they were left to us,
only the choruses were his treat.
He thoroughly enjoyed himself
and his presence was an uplifting treat.
He became an instant celebrity
and when the service was over,
he was dry from all the singing he had done.
His reward for his efforts was
a large bowl of refreshing cool water.
28 September 2009
Author’s note:
This story is true and happened on Sunday 27 September 2009 at my end of season service. The Husky stole the service, he seemed to like the choruses as it was not the only hymn he joined in.
poem by David Harris
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27 For 27th
Riddles and parables are like the sayings of a muse,
But how i hope to be there for this marriage;
Like the appitude of a beauty with the brightness of love.
27 for 27th when one is about to be married!
Of a joyful heart i do write this poem;
Like the writer's pen with you at times.
The date of an occasion,
Of riddles and parables to respect the muse;
But beauty baths you when the rhythms of the blues are all over you.
Love is like the roses that blooms,
And this is your day in the garden of love;
With the rhythms and the blues to debrief you like a teacher.
This is for your eyes only,
And try to live your life on this day to shine like a star!
Of the hint and the excitments that will swing you with love.
Elevated with the mix of the pleasure to crown 27 for 27th,
Like to say something very witty on that day;
So dance to your muse and,
You will be very pleased to hear the cloud of your extintions!
Like a sweet life on the horizon.
Of a breakdance on a victory lane,
On the muse of this marriage to crown the day;
27 for 27th is the date you will always remember.
Love verses marriage,
Life verses beauty,
A breakdance on a victory lane when two hearts meet;
How i hope to be there for you.
27 for 27th,
Absolute released in the eyes of the people;
And, the adventure is undeniable!
Like the riddles and the parables of life.
The love story about you two,
With the set up of things to this date;
Like a great scene of a marriage which will be in the history books!
Soon to be united as husband and wife.
'Is he smiling? '
'Is she smiling? '
Like the sayings of a muse that unites you two into one today;
This is all about 27 for 27th.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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If My Verses Had The Wings
Songs as sweet as summer brings,
To your flowery lawn should fly
If my verses had the wings—
Wings of birds that haunt the sky.
Like the spark that upward springs,
They would seek your smiling hearth,
If my verses had the wings—
Wings such as a spirth hath.
Near you, close as ivy clings,
They would dwell by night and day
If my verses had the wings—
Wings like love to speed the way.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Poem Versus Prose
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Enough with your predicates
And your subjects
In this poem you will find
No commas and semicolons
This poem
Is armed with rhythms
Stanzas and shifts
This poem has no end
There are no colons
In this poem
Your prose is replete with nuances
This poem echoes
The plight of the oppressed
And dispossessed
In your prose I find parentheses
This poem speaks of life
Your prose can be edited
Cut this poem and it bleeds
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Prose has pauses and hyphens
Prose comes to a stop
This poem plugs images
Even in your head
Prose deals with fiction
And nonfiction
This poem can be heard
It can be felt
It speaks of hunger
Of hopelessness
Homelessness
It speaks of a bitter reality
You do not like this poem
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Jewels
A pen that has been dipped in mud
Writes poems that loses meaning
Its message falls into a thud
A sad demise to the art of writing.
Like jewels that are badly stained
Smutty words abort its value,
Whatever beauty has been gained
Dissolves in verses that fall through.
A poem need not have verbal dirt
To catch a few hollow attention
Revealing true poetic worth
Gives it that genuine valuation.
A writer's poems are life jewels
Precious gems in verses of gold,
Of great value when written well-
Such a blessing to behold.
.......... ................................................. ......................
'Every man's work is always a portrait of himself.'
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Are There Believers?
We professed divine mandate
We speak for the Most High
God's mind is our minds
We are adept in memorising verses
Recitation of holy sciptures is our pride
We qoute verses upon verses
Our appearance is sanctimonious
We are authorities in piety
Our views are Godly
Our tongues eloquently preaches virtue
We are truly the angels of God
That seats with the cherubims
Eating spiritual foods with seraphims.
Behold! What we are outside
Is different from our inside.
What our lips professed
Varies with what are confessed.
We say peace where none exists.
We annihilate each others
In the name of our faiths.
We are intolerant of each other.
Greed, selfishness and avariciousness
Are our three square meals.
We kill in the name of God
As if God is unable to fight.
We seat on the judgemental throne
Adjucating on God's behalf.
We are just fake believers
Maquerading as true believers.
Where are then are true believers?
poem by Babatunde Aremu
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Roses
I used to pick you
bunches of roses
of twenty at a time
from the gardens
at the university.
Sometimes on my way
to Anne Fisher house
I could smell the sweet perfume
of the flowers
and it did something to my heart.
At times I snipped some off
with a pair of scissors
in colours of red, white, yellow
orange, pink and even purple.
We were really in love then
and you appreciated everything
(even the verses
that I wrote)
and it had to be obvious
to the whole university
from where I was getting
all those bunches of flowers,
but somehow they didn’t care
while I dared and dared
time and time again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Therapy
Poetry is a Therapy,
It makes me use my Brain,
During periods of inactivity,
I’d otherwise go insane.
When lack of work overwhelms me,
And I have nought to do,
Rhymes, scans, lines and verses,
Overcome Depression too.
Wisely I use this Therapy,
Constantly I think and write,
Hourly I write in verses,
Whilst I do so, I’ll be alright.
Depression is now a “No-no”
Before it was often there,
The future has all to live for,
As G-D has me constantly in HIS care.
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 30 September 2005
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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Cold Roses
The mirrors in the room go black and blue
On a Sunday morning in her Saturday shoes
We don't choose who we love
We don't choose
The lights over the Midway melt on the street
In a Sunday shoes, with her Saturday feet
She don't love who he choose
She don't need what she use
Daylight comes and exposes
Saturday's bruises and cold roses
Cold roses
Nothing but the sunlight will help you grow
From underneath your bed you can't see the window
We don't choose what we see
We don't choose
Fortunate and angry just like a child
All that money buys you medicine but can't buy you time
We don't choose what we love
And she don't need what she got
Daylight comes and exposes
Saturday's bruises and cold roses
Cold roses
Cold roses
Cold roses
Cold roses
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Art
Life Art
I want to write you a poem.
One that contains no verses
no words
how long it will be
I cannot tell.
It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun
a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword
I want it to be something
that you carry through your day
every day
I don’t know if I can write that poem
Or if indeed that poem can be written at all
So instead I am with you
Of you
And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem
Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook
But in the café
and in the street
At a table
In our bed
Every day we add another line
another image
another verse
and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem
That has ever been written.
poem by Andy Houlihan
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Writer's gift
The flow of ink in the writer’s pen
The flow of thoughts in the writer’s mind
A golden thread joining the sweet words
An enduring garland fresh with thoughts
A precious gem, worthier than gold
An epic in itself, the writer’s gift
No word is spoken, yet the tale is told
His mind speaks, his heart speaks
He blows life in each of his creation
The verses breath, the verses speak
The writer dies, yet the verses live
poem by Kavitha Krishnamurthy
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Roses Are Red (Jessica)
Roses are red Violets are blue,
Honey is so sweet and so are you darling!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
You've made my dreams come true!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I have my brown eyes glued on YOU!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I feel like i have known you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
You are so FINE that you give me the BLUES!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
Lord knows that im falling for you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I just want to Rock with you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
These lips can't wait to be kissing you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I do anything to claim you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I bow down to you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I've never met anyone as HOT as you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
never knew i would meet you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I'm going to bed would you like to come too!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I rather spend my precious time with you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
You are beautiful as sparkling DIAMOND!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
You have me speechless everytime i talk to you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
May i have this dance with you (JESSICA)
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I have mentioned your name so many time i have lost count!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I dont want no-one if i cant have you. #PERIOD
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I want to give you everlasting Joy, Happiness, and especially LOVE!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
I'm the one who will make your dreams come true
Roses are red Violets are blue,
Chilli is hot and so are you!
Roses are red Violets are blue,
JESSICA ITA JAMES WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Roses are red Violets are blue,
THIS POEM WAS MADE FOR YOU.......
poem by Obi Onyenwe
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Poem
Pen poems enthusiastically;
Write the Eternal Truth gaily.
Poem is the internal mental feelings of Poet;
Penning verses derive delight.
Poem tranquilises the wearied brain, provides peace;
Pen a good poem with Divine Bliss.
Through poems advise the society;
People of all religions would live with gaiety.
Poem is heart’s Ganga flows peacefully;
Poets derive peace delightfully.
Poem takes people on right path;
It is ‘ Gyana Ganda’ a brook of mirth.
Poet tries to rectify society’s monsterous activities;
Through truth, peace, non-violence provides delight.
Through delightful verses attracts the society;
In God’s lap lives with gaiety.
Poet depicts good and evil deeds of society;
Desires a peaceful society with gaiety.
Is a reformer of society;
Penetrates rays of gaiety.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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