In celebration of National Poetry Day 2013, Poetic Bloomings hereby offers its very first contest!
To enter the contest, simply write a poem about:
1. an already-existing poem
2. composing a poem
3. a poet
I’ve created my own definition of poem, below. If you like, you may redefine poem, and use your new definition to write your contest poem.
po·em
(pōəm, pōim, pōm)
noun
- a composition in verse, utilizing sound and cadence to kindle image and emotion
- a part of one’s soul that cannot exist apart from one’s soul
verb
- to compose in verse, utilizing sound and cadence to kindle image and emotion
- to impart one’s soul, verse by verse
(As an aside, I predict poem will be officially recognized as a verb in our lifetime. 😉 )
Please share your poem(s) (as many as you wish) in the comments section of this post, as per usual. At the close of the contest, I will post a poll where you may vote for your favorite. The winner will receive an autographed copy of Robert Lee Brewer’s Solving the World’s Problems.
This contest opens immediately, and ends midnight (eastern time zone) October 31. Enjoy!!
~~~~~~~~
Click here if you are looking for this week’s In-Form Poet with RJ Clarken
Click here if you are looking for William Preston’s prompt for this week (Prompt #122)
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Rhyme Break
For quite some time
I wrote in rhyme
I thought it necessary
And then one day
Someone said, “Hey,
Don’t be so ordinary.
It’s like romance
Just take a chance
And write straight from the heart.”
It was my time
To break from rhyme
Get off the sound-alike cart
So I broke the rhyming curse
For better or for worse
I took the leap of faith
And escaped the rhyming race
Now I’m free
To be me
I can be what I want to be
I can rhyme if I wish
Or not
Thanks for starting us out, Earl! Great start out of the gate!
the dilemma that faces us all:
to rhyme or not to rhyme
that is the question.
Metrical or free,
too hard for me
to decide.
Tour last four lines
give the answer.
Your!
Yes!!
   Earl,
you have freed us at the start!
    Thanks!
THE SALIENT REASON TO WRITE A POEM
A poem
lives
to be re-lived.
copyright 2013, William Preston
NB: This is not a contest entry; just an off-the-top-of-my-head reaction that I wanted to share.
So much lives in these few lines. Bravo!
Thanks, Marie. I don’t know if the “piku” form was around when Adelaide Crapsey was alive, but if it was, I expect she’d’ve played with it and liked it. I’ve always liked her work. Part of that probably is my identification with her as a Rochesterian, but mainly it lies in the bow-and-arrow effect that I feel in her cinquain form. So with that in mind I came up with this:
RECALLING ADELAIDE
In life,
though it was short,
she lived to be alive
and, in flashes of light, brought words
to life.
copyright 2013, William Preston
The aim of us all – beautifully summed up.
I love the simplicity in this.
Flash poetry… love it! Somehow, larger than the six words that it is.
Well said!
Oh! Beautiful!!
Going wrong.
On the days words flow like water
And soak into existence
I gaze in wonder at the
Oasis of calm
Pooling on the desert page
Filled with wonder-where-that-came-from
And inner reflections.
Today is not such a day
The words are there
The words are here.
See them. Jumbled, awkward, useless.
I so much need
To make my words speak.
Now. For you as the tears
Clog your throat
And nothing flows
Because everything
Has frozen
Into dust
And blocked
Blocked
Blocked
Blocked
Blocked…
M. Brenton 3rd October 2013
Oh, Michele … tender, moving, painful beauty…
Such truth here. For me, this speaks to the times when words will not do.
A very poetic and vivid “blocked”.
It is awful to want to find words to help and they just won’t come. Sometimes all one can do is hug tight.
You did find the right words for this poem though.
…yes… just being there…
I like this! That second stanza gave me an image of a crossword puzzle.
very nice work, Banana
Zen of Creation (a glosa)
By: Meena Rose
May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.
~ John O’Donohue – “For the Artist at the Start of Day”
“Where is my muse?”, a common refrain;
Blank paper, blank screen – focus shattered;
Have you not heard what Osho said?
Don’t seek, don’t search, don’t ask,
Don’t knock, don’t demand – just relax.
Just chill! Smile and end your plight;
Surround yourself with serenity – a date
With nature or a bubble bath perhaps;
Safe dream time travel, enjoy your flight;
May morning be astir with the harvest of night.
A new light, a new day – a bounty of opportunity;
A tiny little voice speaks up and asks you –
“Seen your muse lately?”
Benign in intent, destructive in consequence;
Self-doubt sets in, unleashing frustration,
Incubating sabotage – the worst transgression;
May I offer an alternative?
Pull out your dream-catcher and pluck out a gem;
How’s that for a suggestion?
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question.
What did you find? What did you see?
Pink elephants on Venus and blue ones on Mars?
Perhaps a singing dolphin wooing a bat?
Or, maybe, a ballerina lost to her dance?
Or simply a stolen kiss on a secluded pier?
How about kids envying the playfulness of chimps?
I could go on and on as you can see
There are always gems that tug and pull – forever
Inspiring muses and writerly imps;
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse.
You are there, you see, in your place of zen;
Chuckling at the playful antics of your muse,
Who thought she could win at a game of hide
And go seek – you showed her that in the end
It all must lead back to you – only you;
You steadily shine light on thought without remorse;
A fact you seem to forget from time to time.
So chill and relax – all roads lead to you;
Remember that you have eyes, of course,
That cut right through the surface to a source.
I think this is utterly masterful and playful; some of the rhymes (imps, chimps, glimpse) are musical and amusing, the gift, maybe, of an inspired Muse, but I think are the work of a superb poet.
Thank you so much. I am truly humbled.
Yep, I think you are right William. I’ll give no muse the credit for that piece of art… it is all Meena.
Awww, thank you SO SO much. I am blushing over here!
Excellent. This could be enjoyed by both adults and children, I believe.
“May morning be astir with the harvest of night” – love this!
It was a fun piece to write. How could one go wrong with such powerful seed lines?
You are truly a poetry ninja.
Benjamin: you are making this girl blush. Humbled. 🙂
Such good advice. I especially love that line about plucking a gem from a dream-catcher. That image really sticks with me. Beautiful poem!
Thank you very much, Linda 🙂
“Surround yourself with serenity…” Lovely poem!!
Thank you very much, Henrietta.
Beautifully crafted, Meena. I love this.
Thank you, Andrew!
Oh, Meena. This is absolutely one of your best. I love it.
Thank you so much, Linda 😀
A Musing Athlete
By: Meena Rose
The Ides of March.
I was called upon to
Awaken a slumbering
Comatose muse.
Pleading and grumbling,
Protesting and wrestling,
Fighting and finally dragging
Her to the launching PAD.
April Fools.
Resignation and chagrin,
Self doubt rising within,
A fool wondering where to begin.
Pleading and reasoning,
Cajoling and placating,
Raging and finally breaking;
Her tenacity winning this bout.
Tax Day.
Spirits flying high,
Three other challenges
Taken on with pride.
Creating and musing,
Liking and commenting,
Blogging and finally sleeping;
Her hopes soaring to new heights.
May Day.
A soft sigh and a goodbye,
A last lingering look
At the finish line.
Reliving and reflecting,
Remember and contemplating,
Releasing and finally crying;
Her smile too big to contain.
PS. This was written on the last day of the first PAD that I had participated in. (Poetic Asides)
I remember your first dance well, my Meena Rose! 🙂 Warm smiles to you!
“Meena, come on… write some poetry. Just give it a try.” I remember those words all too well.
❤ And I'm so glad you did. And you know what? I'm far from the only one who is so glad you did. 😉
Amen to that!
Absolutely!!! So much talent, Meena!!
Wonderful, Meena!
It is an official Kleenex moment. Thank you all for the support!
Poems
Braid words
to reach across
expanse of experiences
Pull together strands
of pain, joy
sadness, hope,
wisdom, love
bit by bit, strand by strand
Form strength
tighter, stronger, thicker
criss cross
hand over hand
fingers nimble
fast, slow
Pull together
thick cords
ropes of strength
Oh how I envy you your skill with metaphor!
Thank you for such kind words.
As do I. Well done, alvaradofrazier. And welcome to Poetic Bloomings. ~ Marie Elena
ropes of strength – what a nice image that is. Well done.
Love it! “Braid word” awesome. I love that image.
Yes, I agree!
For me, this recalls that “line” is the nautical term for “rope,” and lines are the elements that pull poems together. Wonderful writing. I also envy your use of metaphor; can’t make hide nor hair of it, myself.
All of your comments warm me. Thank you for your welcoming words.
Very nice poem! My favorite part:
“hand over hand
fingers nimble
fast, slow”
I love the images.
[…] National Poetry Day – Poetry Contest (poeticbloomings.com) […]
Emily
Emily, will you be my friend?
May I occupy one small corner
of your life and watch you write?
I’d like to see the pencil resting
on your lip, you sucking the tip as
ideas wrinkle across your brow
thinking of death and carriages,
burdocks, angleworms and flies
on window panes. I’d be ever so quiet
and try to help unobtrusively…
I’d gather your words as they fall
across the paper, pushed aside, finished.
I’d devour each jot and tittle with my eyes
and soul and sigh that I know such loveliness
as this. Then take the bounty of your harvest,
bind them with needle and thread
hide them away until the day they’re read
by hordes… hordes of people, Emily.
I wish I could be your friend
and tell you how your words
will thrill kindred souls.
Bravo, Debi. Bravo!
Thanks, Marie
I love this. It should be framed and posted in Amherst.
: )
Gorgeous!!
I smiled the whole read through. Lovely!
Oh, wow! I love the phrase, “as ideas wrinkle across your brow.”
Debi, this poem is wonderful, and I think your words will one day be loved by hordes of people.
Linda, thank you. Thank you so much.
That is impressive! I came here thinking to vote for a friend but it looks like you’ll get mine.
Oh, thank you so much. I am so honored.
I LOVE this Debi!! Beautifully expressed!
My Napowrimo Day 3 poem seems to fulfil your criteria! It is here:
Love it, Viv! I hope everyone clicks your link and checks it out.
I did, and I love it too.
Oh… so much, I Loved this too!!
TURNED OFF / TURNED ON
“I never met a poem I liked
and that’s the truth, so help me.
I read a lot, you’d think I’d find
at least a few to please me,
but all they did was make me snooze.
I hope that you believe me.”
–– Turned off to Verse
“Sir, you mustn’t be so hasty.
Consider how a poem is made,
the ingredients so tasty.
A poet’s words are meant to fill
the coffers of the lonely,
each line a rope to save the lost.”
–– Turned on to Poetry
“But can poems change this world, my friend,
that’s mired deep in bloody wars?
What can a rhyme or rhythm send
to those who lack the hope for peace?
There’s nothing that a poem can mend.
Find a better use for your pen.”
–– Turned off to Verse
“True peace begins within one’s self
before it touches all the world.
A poet’s ink pours forth a wealth
of heart and mind and soul,
a treasure hidden, a new-found health,
a cadence sparking song and dance.”
–– Turned on to Poetry
“Perhaps you’re right. I can be wrong.
If reading poems can change the world,
then surely I will tag along
and do my part to find some peace
by reading verse. I will grow strong.
Poet friend, have you a poem to recommend?”
–– Also Turned on to Verse
#
This is stupendous. It gives us a reason to keep on trying to save the world with words.
I’d recommend any by that poet Salvatore Buttaci : )
Pleased to echo Viv’s word – stupendous. Wow…
I love the dialogue approach here; it accords with the real-world tension between the necessity and superfluousness of poetry, as various people see it.
Last stanza, especially Beautiful!!
I like how you’ve made this into a dialogue and, of course, love the way it ends.
And here’s one I prepared earlier:
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF MEANING – a quasi sonnet
I try to find the meaning of a poem.
They tell me that it’s more than just the words.
I find that nothing’s really as it seems.
The clarity of language is divorced
from reality, perverted to create
poetical effect with metaphor,
confusing images, strange punctuation.
Consonance and assonance work well,
within a frame of rhythm, rhyme and metre
to weave a magic cloth of sensual beauty,
So who am I to question this tradition?
The meaning, should it be the raison d’être?
the be all and the end all of a poem?
or is it something I don’t need to know?
Oh, wow. Your final question was totally unexpected. NICE!
Yes!
This makes me think of the amphigouri exercise, elsewhere on this blog, where meaning is deliberately meaningless. For me, anyway, poems don’t always have to mean something; they can please with sounds and beats as well. That’s why i love this offering.
Viv, my comment ended up under Sheryl’s poem –
Clichéd
Every page I turn to shows off whispering
willows, snoring mandolins, deflated
orbs, or stories of a father having a war
with himself. Then there is the laughing
lotus and lilting caribou that my daisy and deer stand
naked next to. And I didn’t realize that cellos
could drip honey or echo like the flutter
of hummingbird wings encroaching down
into the depths of flowers with bird names.
Every page I turn to awakens the sleeping
mime inside me, the one that whispers
Keep going, then bares all
of its “tic-tac teeth,” laughing at me.
Every page I turn to holds faces of hollowed
cheeks, flint-black eyelashes framing
pools of aqua eyes. And when I turn to these
every pages, my fig tree dancing in the moonlight
becomes still again, having dropped
every last fruit, naked in the moonlight, the dance no
one can appreciate, but the one performing it
for me. And every page I turn to becomes
blank again.
Linda, I cannot think of words to do your poem justice. I’m completely blown away by the beauty and meaning … and the ending. Oh, to write like this…
Aww . . . shucks. What a sweet comment. I’m having a “my poetry sucks” mood lately. Thanks for making me feel better. 🙂
(I’m re-posting this comment. It may have gone into SPAM the first time?)
Aww . . . shucks. What a sweet comment. I’m having a “my poetry sucks” mood lately. Thanks for making me feel better. 🙂
Marie’s right; trying to praise this in words is futile. It is too delicious for that.
Delicious? You just made my day!
Yes… it is so very beautiful…
Thank you so much, Henrietta. 🙂
OMG, this is awesome.
Good luck!
Ah! Magnificent!!
Because I cannot format my poem in Poetic Bloomings and formatting is an important part of this poem, I will submit the poem “Word Tag” by means ot the link below.
LOVE IT!
I know it. Isn’t it great? One of my faves of Sheryl’s!
Yes, and oh so true!!
Such fun to look at.
Fun poem! (I commented on your blog, but it did not appear.)
🙂
Your “like” appeared, though. Maybe the comment is waiting for me to approve it. I’ll need to recheck. Thanks, Linda.
A poem is more than just its parts and I think maybe you are right, we don’t need to know just enjoy. Thoughtful poem, Viv
How did this wind up here? I guess it is the thing William is always complaining about…. sorry Viv and Sheryl.
Gotcha, eh?
: }
[…] of National Poetry Day and NPMonth, I retitled it to post on a blog I happened to stumble upon, Poetic Bloomings. The task was to write a poem about composing a poem. The prize is a book of poetry (and you know […]
Poetry a River (part 2)
Poetry a bold-faced river
ever flows rampant with imagination.
Knowing no boundary,
barrier, limit or stagnation.
Poetry a river ever flows free
words with wings migrate from you to me
How rich and far reaching
Benjamin, I’m THRILLED to see you! Love this piece. But is there a “part 1” that I am missing?
Yes, this is part 1. A poem I wrote a while ago. I modified it a bit.
POETRY IS A RIVER (part 1)
Poetry is a river unabated
a violent current running wild
incessantly collecting heart minerals
yet still flowing, adeptly, uniquely styled
Its a brook, a stream, a tugboat blowing steam
toot-toot-toot Look! passing by towing life full of dreams
channeled through apt faculties
acute angles of mind, emotion, will
sweet watercourse of words in motion
like a time released pill
a daily muse to sooth one’s senses
penetrating well beyond our inner fences
of boundary, barriers well surmounted
Yes, poetry is that river unabated
unhindered, still flowing free unfrustrated
Beautiful. So how would you like to enter it in the contest? As one full, 2-part poem? Or as 2 separate poems?
Sure. I suppose I could enter it as two parts to a full poem.
I don’t want to talk you into anything. Go ahead and post it however you wish, and let me know what (if anything) to delete. When it comes to polling time, I want to make it as easy on myself as possible so I don’t double up, leave anything out, or make any other mistakes. 😉
Beautiful capture!!
All Poetry is possible
The potential
energy exists
deep within you.
It becomes kinetic
ravenous,
as you move your pen.
“Ravenous, as you move your pen” is absolute perfection. Don’t you wish it was always that way?
Something deep is going on here, because the feeling of energy is indeed different with pen in hand that with a keyboard under the fingers. Especially if you can’t type.
I waste so much paper (not to mention erasers) when I write by hand…I nearly always use WORD.
yes, pen in hand…
yes! you’ve said it all in less than 20 words. Ravenous as you move your pen… perfect.
POETRY DEFINED
A nut is hard to crack.
But once it’s shell is broken
And the kernel revealed,
You can most certainly trace the source
back to a heart once sealed.
Oh, wow. Excellent thought and analogy. This is an absolute gem.
Yes.
Yes!
very nice
Hearts in sync expressed
Across different medium.
Display the beauty of their words
even though they may differ, their spectrum is still the same.
Sharing a wavelength
understood and perceived only by the poet.
Their words carrying energy
electrifying and magnetic.
Most stimulating and enlivening
transfer secret messages.
Encoded, interpreted
by a secret society.
Yes … well penned!
“Hearts in sync… ” 🙂 !!
EXPLOSION MUSE
The bomb
has been
dropped…
Exploded
across
the nation.
Millions
have been
affected with
an immense
radiation of
muse.
Story at
11:00.
😀
*grin*
SOWING POETRY
First a seed then a sapling
twingling roots
wiggling frantically
reaching through
particles of soil
it’s greeny leaves shyly unfurl
displaying lively design
little stem thickens
yet still humble and hardy
growth emerges upward
steadily until the full blossom
and the poem is set forth
hopelessly selling it’s fragrance
Wonderful imagery, and accurate, too.
Beautiful!
Love, love, LOVE your ending.
LET HER FLY (MUSE)
Let the bird fly
Let her wings spread wide,
expanding across a yawning sky
dancing in the anxious winds that carry her
far and near
LET HER FLY (MUSE) edit
Let the bird fly.
Let her wings spread wide,
expand across a yawning sky;
and see her dance in the anxious winds that carry her
far and near.
Superb!
I can see her…
Lovely!
Eulogy (To Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
What words that come from earthly lips and hearts
Are strong enough, or full enough of love
And praise for you, O poet of my heart,
O voice divine, O blessed by God above?
I can’t describe the wonder that I feel,
The beauty of the words that you have penned;
I can’t explain, I can’t even conceal,
My pleasure in the lovely paths you wend;
Your work was not reserved for just one age,
As Johnson once declared of Shakespeare’s verse;
While yet your words remain on tongue or page,
In your enchantments will I all immerse;
And in your praise I’ll ever take a part,
Though I have only earthly lips and heart.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
Beautiful Erin.
Yes… especially Loved: “…In your enchantments will I all immerse;…”
There’s more than a half a league of praise here, and well done, too.
Wow. Amazing, amazing tribute.
lovely poem, Erin
[…] National Poetry Day – Poetry Contest (poeticbloomings.com) […]
Poems are Prisms
Poems are lines that travel lives,
Poems de-stress like deep massage,
Words buoyant, steeped in spaces,
spicy, sweet as milky tea.
Poems are prisms, splayed emotion,
Poems are prisons of the unrequited,
Reflective solitude, search for reason,
Reflection on the nature of seasons.
Poems have wings; they fly when read.
Poems are tactile; they touch, caress.
They rush to hearts, to sooth, to rest,
To poems our souls are moved.
Poems are lines that travel lives.
© M. Braendeholm October 2013
I think these allusions are spot on, my favorite being “poems have wings.” The identical opening and closing lines, paradoxically, perhaps, give me the feeling that the poem is incomplete, and that more is to come.
… oh yes…
“Poems are lines that travel lives” is a fascinating thought that only a poet could pen. The entire poem is thoughtful and brilliantly expressed.
great work, Misky
Thanks, Linda. 😀
[…] Written and submitted for National Poetry Day Contest […]
I’ve been reading and enjoying all the great poems posted here (and at Poetic Asides) over the past week or so. I haven’t been around lately because I recently learned that my brother passed away. We were never particularly close – in truth, we never really liked each other – so I’m filled with a mixture of guilt, regret and sadness. Usually, I can turn my emotional confusion into poetry but, at the moment, it seems my inner poet has failed me. I think it’s a credit to each of you talented people that, if only briefly, I’ve been able to walk away from myself and into the wonderful world of your poetry. And I thank you for that!
Hugs and prayers to you, dear.
My heart goes out to you, Susan. Hugs and prayers from me! ❤
Oh Susan … I’m so sad for you.
Siblings don’t choose one another. It’s cliche, but some siblings would never have chosen to be friends outside of family. Different personalities are part of life. I believe we are called to love one another, but love is not necessarily automatically accompanied by “like.” I pray your guilt and regret will be released, and sadness eased.
Wishing I could give you a hug…
Marie Elena
wishing you peace, Susan
My heart is with you in this trying time…I hope that peace will be yours very soon. ♥
[…] NATIONAL POETRY DAY – POETRY CONTEST […]
I Had an Inkling Lurking There….
~
I didn’t realize there residing
was a unique-creature
and before I had become aware
it had burrowed a poem shaped hole into my heart
and it would not be fulfilled
till a pen found my hand.
And I didn’t know
that it had a plan all ready for me,
it had a design in mind
to make gray matters transform
become plaid with creative-madness.
~
This poem
this piece of me-
it’s pebble-sized.
It resembles the smell of fresh air,
it holds the color of a cloudless-blues-sky.
It is small
but it is wide,
it is vast inside;
this plink of a poem…
it pretends to be busy
but it’s always listening,
it’s always watching
taking simple-scribbled-notes,
(post-it-sized),
stuck to the center-binding of my being.
~
This poem follows me everywhere
just behind my heels,
like a good dog does
and it’s always
just a breath away from noticing
the way a great friend will
the next amazing-ordinary detail of my life.
It pokes me saying
poet …quiet…
sink into the pool,
still yourself sufficiently-
hold me long enough-to let me go.
~
This poem pines to be released from its dwelling,
swelling inside.
Soon, like a pond-tossed-stone
it spirals slowly into a watery well-
begins a timeless journey
descending and also ascending
it whispers-
expels-emotes-expresses-
exudes the essence of spirit spill-spirit fill.
~
A poem in motion’s always beholding,
waiting word-fully
for the next best creative-clamber to the edge-
it takes the plunge only to bungee back
ready again for the next jump.
It’s a blue-bird-poised nest-side
prepared for free-falling-flight;
verse by swooping-verse
each word’s a wing-beat,
a glide-soar closer
toward understanding the real me
just a little pebble-a poem inkling more.
~
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013
Oh, Hannah………………….
Beautiful…just Beautiful!!!
Hen!! My dear friend, thank you for your thoughts!! ♥
Fascinating, and nary a word about words till the final stanza, and then only on the sly. Wonderful.
I’m so glad you enjoyed this, Bill!! Thanks for your kind words!
Such a lovely mind you have, my friend!
Marie!! ♥ Thank you!
Hannah, just beautiful….’this poem pines to be released from its dwelling, swelling inside…” Every poet knows it. Beautiful.
Thank you, Damon!! What a wonderful comment!! Yes, every poet does. 🙂
Lovely, Hannah. I just love those last four lines.
Thank you so much!!
The back and forth in this is engrossing…
Nice!! I’m glad that you found it so, Seb…thank you!!
Hannah, you have done it again! The effervescence of poetry!
Thank you so much Edith! I’m so glad you enjoyed my poem! ♥
Ramblin’s
By David De Jong
I’m writin’ these words; don’t know what else to do.
They just run through my brain, simmerin’ like stew.
Seems lonely times of workin’ they come at me the most,
They generally
Will accompany
Some scattered thoughts; of the Father, Son, an’ Holy Ghost.
So I’m wonderin’
What it is,
They might be tryin’
To get me to say.
It gets a little crazy,
Every thought
Comin’ in
An’ rhymin’ that way.
Maybe the Good Lord’s helpin’ me, deal with the things of life.
For instance; right now I be missin’ my beautiful wife.
Or possibly it keeps my anger from runnin’ wild.
When all your thoughts is rhymin’, purty hard to get riled.
I’ve learned to take awhile an’ jot em down,
Some crack a smile, others just draw a frown.
Seems to be a message though, hidden in the words,
Fer some it’s all nonsense, mainly just fer the birds.
I don’t mind that none, they can have their way,
Long’s they give it a read an’ I’ve said what I have to say.
I know there be folks that like such ramblin’s,
Protect em, in a leather bound purse.
Some nights I’ve been kept till sun-up chasin’,
Words in my head, rhymin’ bein’ a curse.
All-n-all, hope my wayward thoughts, treat your heart an’ soul well,
Thank ya; fer sittin’ quiet an’ ponderin’ this a spell.
Just remember, come night-fall,
When the work is done
No words left to tell.
Say a prayer;
Thank the Father
Fer sendin’ His Son
To save us from hell.
Love the way you think and present your faith. “When all your thoughts is rhymin’, purty hard to get riled” makes me smile.
David, the genuine voice in this is treasure…I love the plain ‘all-n-all’ honest, bare -hearted conclusion.
Thanks! Its been good to see you out and about again.
I’m glad I have written several poems about the poems or the process of poetry. Recently I have been so busy at little things at home and have had little time to compose anything new.
On November 18, 2012 Robert Brewer gave an example of a palindrome poem. I have been playing the word game Lexulous on FaceBook, so I could not resist thinking of this as a word game. I wrote this poem on November 21, 2012. It is on my blog on March 14, 2013.
Word Rotator
Poems as puzzles—
Work brain.
New reflections
and words in order
become
order in words and
reflections—
new brain work,
puzzles as poems.
You worked this form well, and it worked well FOR you.
These always give me a heap of trouble, but are fun. It looks to me as you aced the form.
This poem was writen years ago before I had ever heard of poetry prompts.
Word Vacuum
I thought that poems
were word vacuums,
not the other way around.
Could I make a poem
from the word “swish”,
or would an idea
suck in a needed word
like a vacuum picking up
dust,
thread,
cat hairs,
or unidentified squiggly things?
Perhaps it works both ways.
It helps to proofread old poems before posting them. There should be no comma after “the other way around.” An em dash works better. Also, the comma in line five should be between “swish” and the quotation mark. The quotation mark should not be first.
Nonetheless, I like this very much. The “vacuum” imagery is wonderful.
A totally entertaining read!
The vacuum image is, like William said, perfect. Thanks for ’emptying the cannister’ here for us…I like squiggly things like words.
Although formatting is not that significant for this poem, the formatting of the original is a bit different from this.
Here is my entry: This is a poem about a Poet known as Shakespeare with reference to his play, “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”
“Love is Blind on Such a Summer Night”
T’was on a summer solstice such as this
when drunk with idleness, old Bottom napped.
Awakened then, his new reflection kissed
two donkey ears, a toothy grin; a sap!
“Hee haw!”: a screeching noise that made him frown.
But through the eyes of love, Titania sees
our Bottom; hero, in the place of crown!
So, love is tilted as the summer breeze
with lofty dreams and sprightly attitude.
Old Oberon’s pretensions might be blamed
for all the fairy pleasures that are brewed.
Beware! a maze of errors may inflame.
For love is blind and surely ecstasy;
Old Shakespeare knew of love…and you and me.{/center}{/c}
Reference: Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Smart, complete, and beautifully penned!
I know little of Shakespeare, but love this.
#nbsp#nbsp#nbsp Earl,
You have freed us up at the start! Thanks.
“A Quiet Space”
Where prayer so muted
as the humming-bird
whose pause is heard
among her hurried ohm.
Her wings seem stilled
tipped over open bud
yet hover; huddle home.
Silent is her poem.
*sigh* Just lovely.
Amen to that.
Poetry is Creation –
No Hadron Colliders were injured
To unravel the mystery of Origin.
~ Meena Rose
Have to admit I had to google this. 😉 Good one, Meena.
Thanks Marie….
Oh, wonderful! Who would’ve thunk of particle accelerators in the context of poetry? Love it.
I interact daily with a bunch of PhD Physicists… I had to give them something they could relate to 😉
[…] for Poetic Blooming’s First Ever Poetry […]
Here’s mine: http://writingonthesun.wordpress.com/2013/10/08/due-to-the-government-shutdown/
[…] National Poetry Day – Poetry Contest (poeticbloomings.com) […]
Sisters Reading The Highwayman
They tiptoed back to the closet and grasped the red book where
They searched for page 123 and sat on the floor right there.
They pointed to Alfred’s Highwayman a poem they could not ignore,
And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.
They soaked in vibrant details, the velvet and the lace.
They closed their eyes and imagined sneers on the ostler’s face.
They sighed for the dark-haired daughter and the man whom she adored,
And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.
When soldiers bound the daughter, the sisters held their breath,
Spellbound they sat motionless when she warned her love by death.
And tears formed within their eyes when he died on the lonely moor,
And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.
They pictured his ghost in the darkness whistling his tune.
And she’d step out to meet him in the light of the silvery moon.
They shivered with sad delight and read the poem once more,
And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.
They often heard friends’ voices, “Can they come out to play?”
“They’re back there reading poetry.” They heard their mother say.
Their silly friends sniffed and hollered, “Poetry! What a bore!”
And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.
From The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
Connie,
I was on my laptop reading–reading–reading this and thinking how wonderful it is.
Good luck!
Fishing on the Allegheny
Like Billy Collins, I’ve never been fishing
on the Susquehanna, but I have been
fishing on the nearby Allegheny.
My parents transformed a bus into a camper
and parked it on a plot of land just a short drive
from the river. We vacationed there often.
Dad in his hip waders would be the one
fishing, and we five girls would be more likely
sloshing in the river trying not to let Mum’s
warnings of us slipping in and winding up
dead in the ocean drown our fun.
I can almost smell the fishy clay aroma.
But splashing around in the Allegheny makes
Collins’ quiet room, a portrait of a woman,
and a bowl of tangerines frightfully dull.
And to think the closest he got to fishing on
the Susquehanna was viewing a museum painting
makes me feel sorry for him, great poet or not.
(From Fishing on the Susquehanna in July by Billy Collins)
This is terrific, Connie!
To Write a Poem
To write a poem I need a mind
Filled with thoughts mean or kind
Emotions deep or mild
Appealing to adult or child
Hard to tell what I’ll find
Through brain’s labyrinths I wind
Feeling deaf, dumb, and blind
Searching where thoughts are filed
To write a poem
And together, these thoughts I bind
To whatever form I’m inclined
Random, organized and wild
Surprising in how they’re styled
Tapping keys, I unwind
To write a poem
Poet Speak
P oets paint pictures with words and use “poem” as a verb.
O ften count syllables. Determine sound and
E motional value of words. Perturbed when an editor
T hrows off meter. Like to capture life’s fragments.
S ee everything as a metaphor. Enjoy symbolism.
P assionate about free verse or forms.
E namored with details. Hunt this-es, thats,
A nd passive verbs like hunters after wild game. Poets
K now there’s plenty in a name.
Rhyme Time
Oh my, how can I find the time
to put my words into a rhyme?
And why should I use up my brain
and dump my efforts down the drain?
Will poetry become my bane—
to rhyme so much I’ll go insane?
Oh, can I stand the stress and strain?
Is all my hard work done in vain?
Has this become my sin and crime
or will it be my joy, sublime?
These are all Great Connie – Would be tough to pick a favorite just from these!
BRAIN DRAIN EXERCISE
There’s nothing quiet in my head,
It’s led about by its nose, fed
Vowels and chewy words that drip
From my #2 lead, and once
A day I sit with my muse, so he
Or she or it can empty
The babble from my head.
A Poet’s Day
We write in time’s tiniest cracks.
In words, a poet power- packs.
A lot in a few, poets say.
Painting pictures with words’ pallet.
Coming from the urge to tell it.
A poet’s feelings lead the way.
Wrapping up life in tiny gifts.
Giving the reader spirit lifts
Makes a devoted poet’s day.
Subtle Poet
By David De Jong
Does your penmanship, ever tire?
Does your workmanship, end in fire?
Can your words, conjugate tears?
Can your chords, stimulate fears?
Do your hopes, contemplate peace?
Do your dreams, emulate fleece?
Does that syllable, count its turn?
Does that mandible, make you squirm?
Can your eyes, be dotted in cinders?
Can your teas, be crossed with ‘spinders?
Do your translations, show their age?
Do your creations, grow their page?
Does your asterisk, creep from behind?
Does your ‘rythmatic, count as refined?
Can your punctuation, stop the time?
Can your situation, still make rhyme?
Do your worries, wisp up a chimney?
Do your stories, stir up a memory?
For if they do;
It might be true,
That subtly,
Some poetry,
Resides in you.
“Transcendence”
Long hidden in my hallway, there’s a stair;
where steps do fall to seek my attic songs.
A wish to go beyond my daily cares
so, climb the ladder’s rung before too long.
Pried open there a cedar chest of more
old verse; a space where youth once had its ways.
It’s then I sit upon the oaken floor.
Reach back to thoughts of other sunlit days.
This book is worn and bent but thoughts so free.
I read, again the courage of her_ bold!
The words, a treasure trove of Emily
where warmth gives joy to yet another soul.
I rise and take her volume in my arms;
descend my stair with laughing, schoolgirl charm.
To The Beat
He listened to the music playing only in his head.
He whispered to a world he knew was not already dead.
There was a different drummer drumming than the one that they all heard.
Still he marched on to the beat which flowed into each rhyming word.
He’d stride determined to succeed. (It’s easier to run.)
It wasn’t very pretty and it wasn’t that much fun.
He slogged along the bottom gazing straight up at the top
wanting so to reach nirvana that he knew he’d never stop
penning salient observations with a clever little rhyme
in meter and with metaphor… while killing lots of time.
He trampled down the flowers growing there along the walk,
scratched his nails upon the blackboard that was only meant for chalk,
banged his head against the wall that was built from reclaimed bricks,
until he broke the ceiling with his magic bag of tricks.
Sometimes it all seems natural. Sometimes it comes and goes.
Is it the eyes, the smile or hand that ultimately shows?
So he made thirteen copies of a handprint cast with feet.
Singing only to himself as he marched on to the beat.
Every now and then he’ll choose to share the written word
so maybe someone else will hear the music that he heard.
By Michael Grove
Copyright 10/29/2013
[…] you click this link it will bring you to the voting page where they have this link that brings you to the original poem site where contestants have posted their poems. My poem is […]