Beside the Raging River Rhyme
Beside the raging river rhyme
poetry florets flower with prose.
Scripted sweet petals grow and entwine
English gardens of fragrant rose.
Immortalized in pantomime,
the sonnet's nuance smell,
intertwines with ivy vines
and comely cockleshell.
Flowing water of endless words
gather and come hither.
Make known your message meaningful
before the blossoms wither.
poem by Christine K. Trease
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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Rose Petals
Rose petals are so soft to touch,
rose petalsfragrance is so divine to smell,
rose petals are like lovely lips which smile,
rose petals are given to lady love,
rose petals are spread on bed of newly bride,
rose petals are life of butterflies,
rose petals are used for beauty baths,
rpse petals are offered on the lotus feet of god,
rose petals are placed on grave of dear ones,
rose petals are offered in river ganga for departed soul,
rose petals are showered on newly weds,
rose petals are decorated on festive days,
roses are given as a promise for everlasting love.
poem by renu Vig sharma sharma
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A Coronal
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Prose to a Rose
Such A flower is the rose
Its colour bursting red
Such a flower if the rose
The flower of passion the poets often said
I could gaze upon its beauty
And not lift thine eyes
And when it closes its petals to go to sleep
A tear of sadness rises in my eyes
Such a flower is the rose
For it reminds me of you my dear
When ever I gaze upon a rose
It makes me wish you were here
Its petals are soft as thy skin
The colour like your lips
Its fragrance is sweet and pure
Like the flavor of your kiss
Such a flower is the rose it beauty
Has been endless through out time
And when ever I see a rose be reassured my love
You are for ever on my mind
poem by John A. Hancock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Flower in the Rain
My dear, you are so sweet,
For you grow in a field,
Like a flower with
Beautiful petals,
And a rose that has
Many red spirals
And petals that
Make you all the more unique.
But, my dear, I know
Not whether I will always
See you, for many men
Try to chase you,
And you feel so cold,
As if you were a flower in the rain,
And that the meadow was not large
Enough for you to keep you
Warm and safe.
But, I promise,
That I will be there for you,
No matter the circumstances,
For you are my flower,
And you are my flower in the rain,
For you will grow with every drink you take.
poem by James Roberts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Preference
Modern proponents of free form.
Do not accept that poetry
has certain rules and must conform.
Or it becomes mere anarchy.
Anything goes just will not do.
It’s either poetry or prose.
One must give credit where it’s due
They both have merit I suppose.
Prose poetry cannot exist.
An oxymoron obviously
but modern writers will insist
that what they write is poetry.
They aren’t content to call it prose
well written and quite beautiful.
Care taken with the words they chose
describing something wonderful.
Although so many writers try.
There’s very few achieve their aim.
They do not stop to wonder why
But simply write more of the same.
Make no attempt to learn the rules
Meter and rhyme a mystery
they lack the simple basic tools
You need for writing poetry.
A poem is a message to
transmit your ideas and your thoughts.
So other folks can share them too.
If you can write them as you ought.
Simplicity and clarity
are prerequisites for our art.
The finest kinds of poetry
are written from the poets heart.
Mere strings of words in random lines
are neither prose nor poetry.
Each of us knows what he defines
as being his idea of poesy.
I rest my case I make no plea
I merely state my preference.
Applicable only to me
I do not wish to cause offence.
6-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nature's Rose
As the vast nature
blinds the eye by its beauty
the trees grow taller
the grasses grow greener
The animals grow more peaceful in their natural habitat
But none grow as beautiful as the red rose
As the red rose grows day by day
I walk by it desiring to pick it
Sitting and waiting for the petals to grow more mature
To grow and show off the beauty of the rose
Years go by and the rose is almost grown
This special rose is different from the rest.
Others grow, beautify, and die
While this one grows year after year
The blood of the rose is pure
as it flows up and through the beautiful flower
But the rose has not completed its growth
I run my hand down the body of the beautiful flower
Shedding my blood from the sharp thorns
I grasp the flower and thrust it from the ground
As my blood drips, the blood of the flowers does so too
The red of both mix and mature and fall to the ground dropp after drop
The smell of the flower overtakes the pain
This is Nature's Rose
Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
ma rriage
marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet
sonnet
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Exquisite Garden
Each word is a petal of rose
I smell when you compose
Words gently flow
I see the rose grow
Delightful word assemblage
Like a river flowing under the bridge
Thrilling stories flourish
Inspiring a new wish
This new bouquet I love to care
Smell and treasure its perfume rare!
poem by Maria C. Costa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Flower
Each day I watch you as you grow
Your petals smile of different shades
Your charm penetrates me nice and slow
Your beauty itself is forever unlikely to fade
You are my flower
I am your water
You are the beautiful gem
That makes this a perfect poem
You sparkle with rainbow colourful showers
You stand with a unique pose of beauty power
Your smell is a fragrance beyond compare
It fills me with joy to inhale you in the atmosphere
You are my flower
I am your water
Living a life of amorous fantasy
Captured and captivated in your ecstasy
Your fragrance blossoms
Your nectar sweet enough to fill a room
I stare at you with awesome desire
As your sight alone lights my fire
You are my flower
I am your water
You are the answer
To my internal will-power
Copyright 2007 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Totally Biased
I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.
31-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What A Red Rose Can Do?
What a flower, what a surprise,
When before our eyes, a rose may arise!
What is the feeling, what it is,
That make us want, someone to kiss!
Is that the atmosphere, is that the smell,
That catches our senses so well ?
Poems have expressed, so much to a Rose,
By many words and rhymes, in their course,
That lovers from everywhere,
Had made the Rose, their Romantic Care!
And now, we both, give each one a Rose,
And express our love, in Poems and Prose!
poem by Yoseph Lupu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Dress Me Like Poetry
Dress me like poetry in silk stanza stockings,
in pearls of metered verse on a syllabic strand.
Brush rhythm through my hair and rhyme on my lashes,
and paint me in tones of syntax and sonnet sand.
Dangle diction diamonds to adorn my face,
like cascading charms of sweet metaphoric prose.
Give me blue ballad bonnet alliteration
and assonant slippers with repetitious bows.
With sestina skirt and connotation corset,
I am the allusion and the symbol of love.
I am the onomatopoeia twilight song,
the euphonious moonlight that shimmers above.
So dress me like poetry, in pleasant pantoum
or in the cacophony of a villanelle,
in the ode of hyperbole or anapest,
in romantic Terza Rima or Terzanelle.
Dress me like poetry with the breath of your kiss,
and let your precious flower blossom in the night.
Then, move mountains for this moment and disrobe me.
My petals stroked by the gentle hands of moonlight.
poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anguish Thoughts
I saw a flower
Not so fresh, enchanting
It has no sweet smell as roses have.
But it has the thorns of roses.
If I touch a flower
I can tell its soft or rough
But all flowers are soft
Soft petals with sweet fragrance
Make a flower beloved.
But I can’t touch this flower
For it is dangerous.
But worms found its bed
And going to destroy my little flower.
Can this secret love
Destroy her crimson petals?
poem by Abdul Hakeem Parannur
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ode to the worthy, earthy and free versey
Of what would Spring be
Of what pleasures to see
Were it not for the words
Of a poetic potpourri
A bouquet composed Of fresh
and e'er changing compositions
Of prose composed of flesh,
The heart, and earthy renditions
It's the blossoms of Raskin
Whom to me is a rose
In the pleasure in the reading
As is the scent to the nose
It's the petals Of JewelPhoenix
Which she scatters about
Wonders of her writing
Would be hard to be without
It's Iroconnell, s earthy scent
Of musk and of nectar
That's prosed forth and then spent
To delight those around her
Spring brings also weeds
Like myself and many others
Like thorny Raggindragon, Daddyotom
And many other of my brothers
But today this poem of Spring
Is given to poetesses
Who escape from the trite,
Mundane everyday excesses
Deign to be different
Who, like seedy, Mother Nature
Cast their blossoming thoughts
To the winds of poetic nomenclature
We all write poetry and
By and large we all do it well
But just a few…a favored few
Can gift us the taste, the feel, and the smell
Of not just free verse, nor even of rhyme
Nor so flowery, or convoluted, as often are mine
Just Simple, pure… unadorned…
sweet, honest and sublime
And always poetic, as is Mother Nature
(at least most of the time!)
poem by David Whalen
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It may be that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' but I should be loath to see a rose on a maiden's breast substituted by a flower, however beautiful and fragrant it might be, that is went by the name of the skunk lily.
quote by Alexander Henry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0007: 2007 - Year Of Revolting Poets
2007, he said, was a memorable year for poetry.
A world conference of poets held
somewhere NewMex way, came to the view
that the rhyming dictionary put altogether too
great a stricture on the structure
of verse, and worse;
it was time, for rhyme
(which came back into fashion
that year with a passion)
to be more relevant,
less of a white elephant;
so
all poets who
wrote in English
(including Strine)
were asked to define
what words should be allowed appropriately to rhyme.
It took a little time;
since they couldn’t agree about basic words
(some felt that ‘ words’ shouldn’t even rhyme with ‘turds’,
they thought that any such ditty
would be shitty;
some thought that such a possibility of rhyme was crap,
and would lead to poetic mishap)
So, first things first, what would be appropriate
to rhyme with love?
(which of course some pronounced luv,
others, lurve) :
some felt that rhyming it with ‘above’
had just a smidgen
of politically inappropriate reference to religion…
* * *
The whole idea was well meant
but you can see just how it went –
it took until 3006
even just to fix
after long debate upon it,
fourteen rhyming words to cover one suitable sonnet
by which time
those celebrated poets who did or didn’t rhyme,
while English tended to vanish,
were writing in Spanish
or Chinese;
bringing American-language poetry to its knees.
then vowelless txt
became the nxt
style
for a while
(which left poetry weakened,
bcs t cdnt b spknd) …
* * *
But I’ll have to cease this sorry tale;
I’ve a Hallmark card I need to mail.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nature's Gift
Being the only flower bearing yellow petals
Growing tall in the center of nature’s garden
Reflecting the sunlight and dancing in
The gentle early springtime breeze-
My stem would bend perhaps and
Perhaps touch the thorns of pink and red roses-
Though only for the moment-
Roses being the most popular blossoms,
People would come and cut them down,
Place them in a vase where they would
Fragrantly and aesthetically decorate their home-
For just a few days before they wither and die-
Being a wildflower, no one cares to cut me down-
Today all of the other flowers have seemingly disappeared,
Either removed by residents of nearby homes or
Their petals blown away by an occasional gust of wind-
I remain alone amongst grasses and forever growing weeds.
Being the only flower amongst grasses, weeds, shrubs and trees,
I am content to be present – enchanted when the rain falls and
Having the space for my petals to spread and open-
So different from the roses, though beautiful to see-
Shall be robbed of their glory, cut and a few days later
They shall perish and be thrown away.
Being beautiful and loved by people has always been
Nearly everybody’s greatest dream, but for me-
Perhaps not as fragrant and lovely to look at-
Being none but an ordinary wild flower, though
I am delighted to be part of nature’s bounty- and
I believe that a longer life,
Being here to experience continued growth, and
Basking in the sunlight day by day and then
Sometimes feeling refreshed by the moisture of the rain-
Is more meaningful and is more rewarding than
Beauty, popularity and fragrance that often
Terminates even before we see the season end..
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At the River
Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide for ever flowing
by the throne of God?
Gather at the river!
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Yes well gather at the river
that flows by the throne of God.
Shall we gather? Shall we gather at the river?
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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