A Poet
There once lived in sunny Tweed Heads
a great poet who had many pets
from a crow who could talk
to a wombat who'd walk
over all of the poet's made beds.
And on weekends he welcomed a man
who brought with him a stainless steel can
it was full of the stuff
that is made for the tough
in the morning he didn't need bran.
Mr Fittock comes every week
and without him it would be so bleak
and on special free Mondays
he can dwell on his fun days
says the bible, hooray to the meek.
And when MY friend called Gentleman Jack
pays a visit to counterattack
it is Scotch or that Bourbon
which is slightly disturbing
I am sure we will throw a few back.
So this shorty was writ for AS
who has seen the pathetic big mess
on the site for true poets
but he wouldn't quite show it
like the monster of Scotland's Lochness.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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PH, To Me
When I joined the ranks of poets
At PH a few months hence
I found a group of people
Whom I now consider friends
Though, as a poet, I suspect,
I’ll ne'er be thought renowned
Still I love to show my work
Where it’s seen the world around
This site has been a boon to me,
Writing more than I used to,
And I think, by reading other bards
My own work’s been improved
I see this site as a privilege
And, one not to be abused
When angry tensions oft arise
It leaves me quite confused
Each item I submit in verse
Though meaningful to me
I suspect that, not, to all who read
Twill be their cup of tea
At times, much better poets
Than I, their work, submit
And even though, I know it’s great
I just can’t “get into” it
But if, alas, I take offense
At values, different than my own
I, simply, note the poet’s name
Click the mouse and move along
If a rude and contentious poet
Should offend enough, on site
Their work, no longer, would be read
Which would be their ultimate price
Copyright C R Clark-4/28/2008
poem by C.R. Clark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Very Special Love
She said, "I spent eight years in California
That's the reason why I talk the way I do
But I've heard how Southern men respect the ladies
And I'd like to meet a gentleman like you"
Well, I spent most of my life in Alabama
That's the reason why I talk the way I do
And I've always had this thing for sun-tanned ladies
And I'd really like to spend some time with you
And we walked on the beach till early morning
And we watched as the sun came up again
And somehow we both shared the feelin'
That we'd just made a very special friend
Tomorrow I'll go back to Alabama
And you'll fly from Atlanta to L.A.
And I'll get back to takin' care of bus'ness,
And you'll go back to starrin' on the stage
But we'll think of the beach come Monday morning
When both of us get back to push and shove
And somehow we will always remember
The night we shared a very special love
I spent most of my life in Alabama
That's the reason why I talk the way I do
I know we shared a very special friendship
The night we made a very special love
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bangkok
Gotcha!
Hey sucker let me outa here!
Hey, man!
Bangkok on a sunny day
The rain has washed the blood away
Thousand of veins left in the streets
But I cant wash away the red points
On the sheets of the hotels
And the cheap rooms
Of the cheap whores
Under palm trees
Under palm trees
My brain is running in circles now
I gotta cure the pain somehow
Theres a coloured cloud in front of sun
And a face is trying to cheat me
And to take away the fun
And the killer troups of the dea
Have just brought my friend away
In the stuff that dreams are made of
In the stuff that dreams are made of
Stuff that dreams are made of
Hey, hey, hey!
Stuff that dreams are made of
Stuff that dreams are made of
Hey, hey, hey!
Stuff
Stuff that dreams
Are made of...
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Laurie Ate
Laurie was my dog
And he loved to bite
He wasn't very clever
And not at all bright.
He didn't like my friend
A mad poet called Fred
One day Laurie bit him
On the back of his head.
Fred wasn't at all pleased
And bit my dog back
So Laurie retaliated
And went on the attack.
They wrestled on the floor
And Fred got bit a lot
So to get my dog off him
I hit the mutt with a flowerpot.
But Laurie was very tough
And the pot bounced off his head
Then poor old Fred stopped moving
In fact he was now Dead.
I didn't know what to do
The poet didn't deserve to die
Looking down at Laurie
I asked this crazy dog Why?
But he just didn't care
And kept chewing at Fred
This loony dog was eating him
The he swallowed dead Fred's head.
Poor Fred was now all gone
But this must have been his fate
To lose his life to a psycho dog
The poet Laurie ate.
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Very Special Love
Words and music by teddy gentry, randy owen, and jeff cook
She said, I spent eight years in california.
Thats the reason why I talk the way I do.
But Ive hear how southern men respect the ladies, and Id like to meet a
Gentleman like you.
Well, I spent most of my life in alabama.
Thats the reason why I talk the way I do.
And Ive always had this thing for sun-tanned ladies, and Id really like to
Spend some time with you.
And we walked on the beach till early morning.
And we watched as the sun came up again.
And somehow we both shared the feelin that wed just made a very special
Friend.
Tomorrow Ill go back to alabama, and youll fly from atlanta to l.a.and ill
Get back to takin care of busness, and youll go back to starrin on the
Stage.
But well think of the beach come monday morning, when both of us get back to
Push and shove.
And somehow we will always remember the night we shared a very special love.
I spent most of my life in alabama.
Thats the reason why I talk the way I do.
I know we shared a very special friendship the night we made a very special
Love.
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Give and Free It Up On The Rough Stuff
When I was hard,
It wasn't enough.
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to give with no hint of the tough stuff.
I was the one who supplied the tenderness,
With touches.
Supplied I did the sweet kisses too!
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to be with no hint of the tough stuff.
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I was the one who supplied the tenderness,
With touches.
Supplied I did sweet kisses too!
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
Supplied I did the sweet kisses too!
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
When I was hard,
It wasn't enough.
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to give with no hint of the tough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
Free it up until it's nuthin'...
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Want A Monster To Be My Friend
Some kids just love
To play with dolls
Or put on funny hats
And some make pets
Of birds and fish
And dogs and
Alley cats
That's not the way
I like to play
I'm tired of all these
I need a very
Special friend
Won't you
Help me please?
I want a monster
To be my playmate
I want a monster
To be my friend
I want to get
For my own pet
A real live monster
Who's not pretend
Oh, I want a monster
To be my playmate
We'd soon become
Good friends because
Although they're hairy
And sometimes scary
They have such soft
And furry paws
If I make friends with
A friendly monster
I'd be the best that a
friend could be
I'd let him do
Whatever he wants to
And he'd always
Belong to me
So, if you know a
Nice old monster
If you've a monster
To recommend
Ooh, golly gee
Please send him to me
I just can't wait
Until then!
I want a monster
A real live monster
I want a monster
Send me my monster
I want a monster
A real live monster
I want a monster
Send my monster
I want a monster
A real live monster
I want a monster
To be my friend!
Oh please
Send my monster
Does anybody have
A monster out there
I'll take a
Secondhand monster
He doesn't have
To be new
song performed by by En Vogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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New Poetess Laureate for UK
This is a formal announcement today:
we have a new Poet Laureate.. hip hip hooray..
‘But who is he? Oh.. it’s a she-poet Laureate…?
so (because I don’t read poetry, of course..)
is that something I should shout hooray at?
or have committees once again, backed the wrong horse? ’
Well, she says she’s not ‘going to write
for Edward and Sophie’…
she’s Sapphic and butch, and called
Carol Ann Duffy
and you can guess, from what she says
that there’ll be no Royal seal in wax
on her democratic classless ways…
(Right now, Supplement sub-editors are trawling her stuff
to find something printable
that’s ‘poetic’ enough…)
The story is, ‘she’d have got it on the last occasion’
except for the aforementioned Sapphic persuasion…
But aren’t poets supposed to be beyond such trivial pursuits? …
and just write poetry and truth; in high heels or in boots?
(And there’s always the hope, with or without Royal permission,
she might say something new about the female condition…)
so, Edward and Sophie with your middle-class morals –
watch out! We could be in for some hard-hitting quarrels
re ‘The Nature of Poetry’ … and about time too:
since poetry’s subject is the deepest me and you…
so the Forum poets here (in this empty music-hall)
hope you stir us up, and have a prancing, dancing Artists’ Ball;
as with controversial old Ted Crow, Poet Laureate and toughie,
we shan’t expect respect – coz you ain’t no fluffy Duffy…
Now chaps - gold watch and thanks to Andrew’s poetic potion:
you could call it - for what words are worth - as
‘tranquillity, recollected in emotion’…
…But sadly, already, in these economic downturn times –
Blackwells offer ‘3 for 2’ on CarolAnn Duffy’s rhymes…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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86 TV's
Feel so straight, and look so slow
But just you wait 'til I get you home
I saw you laughing on a TV show
Didn't think you'd know, all colours lead to black
Say you cant let go, and then you're never coming back.
Watch yourself when you talk to me
Cuz I've got you and 86 TV's
And all those words that they made up for me
And what I thought they'd be
The radio's are red
They made a mess of me
So now I'm walking home instead.
Sweet like apples, I pulled you
Reminds me of the things we said we'd do
Now all those words that they made up for you
Could never pull you through
The greed and all the gain
They made a mess of you
And now you'll never be the same
I'd love to say I'd like to thank you all
But I have not the gaul, the wisdom or the guile
You walked into that ball
And then you disappeared in style.
On 86 TV's, On 86 TV's, On 86 TV's, On 86 TV's,
Watch yourself when you talk to me.
song performed by by I Am Kloot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonny
Sunny
Yesterday my life was filled with rain
Sunny
You smiled at me and really eased the pain
Oh the dark days are gone and the bright days are here
My sunny one is shines sincere
Sunny, one so true
I love you
Sunny
Thank you the sunshine bouquet
Woah, sunny, thank you love that you brought my way
Oh now you gave to me your all and all
And now i feel like im ten feet tall
Sunny, one so true
I love you
( ...Sunny
Thank you for the truth that you made me see
Sunny
Thank you for the facts, from A to Z
My life was torn like a wind-blown sand
And then a rock was formed when we held hands
Now sunny, one so true
I love you ...)
Sunny
Thank you for the smile thats upon your face
Sunny
Thank you for that gleam that flows with grace
Your my spark of natures fire
Your my sweet, complete desire
Sunny, one so true
I love you
song performed by by Jamiroquai
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Poetry Critics
Our poetry critics ageing males on saturday evenings from six to nine
Meet at the literary room of the Lions Club to do what suits them fine
To talk of poetry and poets each to their point of view
Though they agree on one thing that good poets only few.
Well educated gents of course and they could not be rude
But contemporary rhyme poets only poetasters and them they exclude
From their talk of poets and poetry and in their literary knowledge they take pride
And who is or who is not a poet seems their right to decide.
They never talk about bush poets such verse they see as slipshod
And they see them as the children of the lesser poetry god
And for their years in Uni they have their degrees to show
And of poets and of poetry so much they think they know.
To them a poem is not a poem unless it reads like prose
And a ballad different from true verse as a weed is from a rose
And true poets only write for the privileged few that's what they do imply
And never for the ordinary, people like you and I.
Our poetry critics at the Lions they meet on saturday
And who is a good poet and what is a good poem each like to have their say
And if you wish to become a member of their club you must have your Uni Degrees
For if not to them you are not qualified for to talk about poetry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The story of my life in a poem
Poem of Meg's life,
Meg was brought up as she later found out,
Adopted by parents, but unsure how it came about;
She didn't sit up till 2 years of age, this is true,
And didn't start to talk till 5, so no how do you do.
She went to a special school from 7 yrs of age,
But had many problems walking, at that stage;
Went in a taxi, every Monday to Friday,
Had many a party there to celebrate her birthday.
Her mother brought up 3girls, with a disability too,
1 arm because of cancer, but she coped thru' and thru;
She took us girls to Sunday school each and every week,
And taught us to love God, to pray, and his truth to seek.
We lived in Dandenong, till I was 12 years of age,
But my sister wasn't there, she was nowhere at that stage;
We shifted to Gladstone in Queensland you know,
It's where Meg was baptized by immersion that is so.
At 16 She started teaching,2 - 6 years in Sunday school,
At 17 we shifted back, but then dad started to be cruel;
I celebrated my 21st, birthday, with a wonderful musical night,
It made friends and family happy, things were happy and bright.
My mum passed on to the Lord, and I shifted away from home,
For 4 yrs I lived in Glenroy, in a flat and on my own;
I was in THE Salvation Army, serving the Lord, each week,
Playing the organ and harp, teaching the youth, the Lord to seek.
I then shifted to ascot vale, then over to st albans to live,
Married a man with problems, and troubles to me he did give;
But 12 yrs of problems I'm free of it now, so thankyou,
To the Lord for release and strength, and that He's brought me thru'.
And then I started at Sunshine, in the band where I did play,
And sang and read the Word, helping in many a way;
THE Lord showed me time to learn more, so off to college I go,
To learn how to be a minister for Christ, and His way to show.
So now I'm 58 years of age, seeking to do right with the Lord,
It's great to preach and learn, but to understand His Word;
And I want to thankyou for coming to celebrate my special day,
Please enjoy yourselves and enjoy the meal, on this my 58th birthday.
Written 4th/6th/2012.
poem by Margaret Haig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The literary life
We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.
Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.
We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.
We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.
Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.
At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.
Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mondays
Mondays always seem longer
than any other day.
Time seems to drag its heels
always on a Monday.
A weekends disappears
almost without notice,
but Mondays, oh Mondays
just to seem to drag on and on.
We’d probably say the same
at any day that begins a working week.
However, it is Monday
that always seems so long.
26 April 2010
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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