An Emerald Tiara
An emerald tiara
In a wooden box
Wrapped in silvery paper
Alex alone knows how much grief
Stephanie's solemn resolve
Cost her heart
(dedicated to a great poet, Robert Richman)
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Related quotes
Silvery Beauty Vavroovahana Patra
Innocent silvery Beauty allures the poet;
Poet waits a while for a little delight.
Admires the art of creations;
Pervading the mystery of Beauty she frees tension.
Silvery Beauty allures delightfully;
Poet drinks the nectar of Beauty gaily.
The vehicle waits a while on the path;
Poet enchants with mirth.
Beauty is a gift of Almighty;
Lover enjoys with Delight.
Beauty enchants mind, heart miraculously;
Lover functions duty delightfully.
Poet heart reminisces Beauty’s face with gaiety;
He derives peace and delight;
All beautiful things are attracting;
In the lap of Nature are delighting.
Beauty appears with peace and pleasure;
Contents lover’s desire.
Beauty is a Deity;
Lover prays with gaiety.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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I Know This Poor Bloke
I know this poor bloke in the mood for suicide
And he has felt heavy hearted since the day his wife died
Some five years ago his ache of loss from him not gone
And till the day of his death his grief with him will live on.
I do meet him often though not every day
And for words to him I always feel stuck to say
He always talks of his dead wife and the grief that he feel
And for him I feel sorry since his sorrow is real.
On his sense of loss with him I sympathize
And each time I see him he has tears in his eyes
My condolences to him I already did pay
But the grief that he feels it is with him to stay.
The price of true love it can come at a great cost
And he is left to mourn for what he has lost
One in his late sixties his hair silvery gray
And the clock on his life it is ticking away.
A man due to grief in the mood for suicide
Though he is one now I would rather avoid
Since each time I meet him he talks of his dead wife
And I am one who needs laughter in my life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ms.Emily's Song
She n'er laiughed at much
I've heard
While her smile filled the air
Giggling only at the Butterfly and Bird
And for the Bee a heartfelt prayer
She n'er romanced in her life
I've been told
The Amherst moon divulged the news
Her soul wrapped 'round the yellow gold
The Galaxy 'twas her Muse
The 'Northern Lights' they beckoned
Her away from sod and the Bee
And took her heart in tender grasp
And filled it: 'with promise of eternity'
Dedicated to my favorite poet:
Miss Emily Dickinson
Born: Amherst Mass
December 10,1830
Died May 15,1886
Also Dedicated To:
David J. Peretti
Washington State Patrol
My first love
poem by Theodora Onken
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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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Under Wraps
Keep it quiet. (go slow.)
Circulate. need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file ---
Masquerade, but well worth while.
Wrapped in the warmth of you ---
Wrapped up in your smile.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Wear an air --- (keep mum)
Of casual indifference.
Careful how you go
About your usual business.
Wrapped in daydreams of you ---
Wrapped up by your eyes.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Under wraps! Ive got you under wraps.
Tell you when --- (not yet)
Soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.
Wrapped in your summer night ---
Wrapped in your autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the winter of your sleeping.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Under Wraps #2
Keep it quiet. (go slow.)
Circulate. need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file ---
Masquerade, but well worth while.
Wrapped in the warmth of you ---
Wrapped up in your smile.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Wear an air --- (keep mum)
Of casual indifference.
Careful how you go
About your usual business.
Wrapped in daydreams of you ---
Wrapped up by your eyes.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Under wraps! i've got you under wraps.
Tell you when --- (not yet)
Soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.
Wrapped in your summer night ---
Wrapped in your autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the winter of your sleeping.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dedicated
Dedicated to those
Who fought and survived
Dedicated to those
Who fought and died
Dedicated to those
Simple men with
A great dream of peace
Dedicated to those
Families who cried
At their loved ones funeral
Dedicated to those
Who supported our troops
From beginning to end
I dedicate this to you
And hope that you'll continue
With what you do
I dedicate this to you...
poem by Janelle Morehart
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Must I remind you, Clesis,
Must I remind you, Cleis,
that sounds of grief
are unbecmoming in
a poet's household?
and that they are not
suitable in ours?
[Note: "A poet's household" is more litterally one "dedicated to the Muses."]
Must I remind you, Cleis,
Must I remind you, Cleis,
that sounds of grief
are unbecmoming in
a poet's household?
and that they are not
suitable in ours?
[Note: "A poet's household" is more litterally one "dedicated to the Muses."]
Stephanie Knows Who
Whats on your mind
Dear stephanie?
Whats on your mind
Towards me?
Aches and pains
They claw at your thighs
Your glad you did
You said you did
What can I say dear stephanie?
Who shall I kiss before?
The love and poetry that you bring
Your eyes your hair your everything
What am I now dear stephanie?
Am I you in disguise?
The words they come so naturally
I say them all for stephanie
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soprano of Sonnets
Have you ever been a figure skater on paper?
A musician of flowing ink?
Have you ever been a conductor of words?
Or a Picasso of rhyming?
Have you ever captured the beauty of a syllable?
Ever used words to paint meaning?
Have you ever made a verse dance off the paper?
A couplet sing to me?
Has your poem ever really hit someone?
Ever stopped their heart for a moment?
Or took their breath away?
If so, you are a great poet.
poem by Caroline Bulleck
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Crocodile hunter
(A Terzanelle for Steve Irwin)
You walked into my heart
a man dedicated to humans and animals alike
and of it I felt part
of every trip, every hike
as if you came out of Africa, but you fitted in anywhere
a man dedicated to humans and animals alike
and you antics with crocodiles and wild beasts was broadcasted everywhere,
the image of the man in kaki shorts stays with me
as if you came out of Africa, but you fitted in anywhere
making your Australia great, your spirit remains free
and you paid the cost of this destiny driven life
the image of the man in kaki shorts stays with me
and like your beloved dog, child and wife
I am smitten down by your death
and you paid the cost of this destiny driven life
and with every breath
you walked into my heart
I am smitten down by your death
and of it I felt part.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I May Not Have Been A Great Poet
I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN A GREAT POET
I may not have been a great poet
Or even a good poet
Or even the poet I wanted to be.
But I am the poet I could be
The poet I am.
And may God have mercy on my soul,
And on all those I love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Upon His Sister-in-law, Mistress Elizabethherrick
First, for effusions due unto the dead,
My solemn vows have here accomplished;
Next, how I love thee, that my grief must tell,
Wherein thou liv'st for ever.--Dear, farewell!
poem by Robert Herrick
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Aphrodite Metropolis
Harry loves Myrtle--He has strong arms, from the warehouse,
And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say:
"What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?"
No,
On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper:
GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER
They spread it around on the grass
BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW
And then they sit down on it, nice.
Harry doesn't say "Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh,
Cures thousands of men and women of motes, warts, red veins,
flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases,
Not expensive, and fully guaranteed."
No,
Harry says nothing at all,
He smiles,
And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.
poem by Kenneth Fearing
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A Poets Era
They whispered as thunder clapped
and the rain fell
the bird hid as they songs
were awfully silent
nothing was said as the
television remained silent
the creatures stayed and stared
as the all stayed mouth open
pen to paper he wrote
the night were cold
and day brutal
sleep cometh not to these
eyes as my hand shake
retired from it all
fell sick as i stand tall
had to come back
said it was my last
but the mind of a poet
just refuse to quit
inspiration ran through
my veins as my body ache
the books took dust
but they story they tell
now pen to paper i see
when i write people listen
and through that peace evolves
so pen to paper its glad to say
In the dawn of my day
and the silence of the night
a poet time is never ended
cause in death our tale still tells
so my time is an era to be told
so here i go
poem by Robert Roberts
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The Handmade Poem
Because I am no poet
this ode shall be sculpted
with handmade paper and malachite
and when the papyrus will fossilize
its lyrics shall be chiseled in 3D.
The drummed hammering
shall be its melody
with the notes cleaved
and for the rustling sound
use the flow of myriad marble dust.
And if the stanzas won’t hum right
they’ll be shattered chipped off
scraped instead of crumpled.
Well, all this visual
and aural circumlocution
is only in my mind because
there’s no more than a soft tap
when the apex of my finger
glides on the keyboard of the PC.
Sigh!
But maybe,
just maybe,
instead of sculpting
I should paint this poem
on handmade paper
in the way of Hiroshige or Mi Fei
who thinned down black ink
suiting it to necessary transparency
distinguishing
the astigmatic background
from the myopic forefront.
And for good measure
I shall sculpt this poem
in French and intersperse it
with a bit of Slav
like here and there
a da and a couple of niet
since most readers would know
those crucial words.
Then I shall sit in a lotus stanza
sigh…
and dedicate this poem
to water lilies
so when the paper
it is written on
is discovered
it will have completely
dissolved
with only stripped letters
floating down the stream
reforming fluid stanzas
worthy of the river’s
amorous curves.
I think it’ll be
a sculpture
gratifying the erotica
between water and clay.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Aug©2008
AD Something
poem by Alex Nodopaka
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Remembrance of Collins
Composed upon the Thames near Richmond
Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought!--Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such as did once the Poet bless,
Who murmuring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.
Now let us, as we float along,
For 'him' suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
--The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest Powers attended.
poem by William Wordsworth
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