Random poems
Creativity Continued
The first line of the poetry came visiting one day
And hit me with alacrity and wouldn't go away.
It stayed with me the whole day long, repeating in my mind
And finally, I'm not that strong, I let the verse unwind.
I made some coffee, then returned and read the poem through,
Regretting what I once had spurned and thought of what to do.
How could I make this poem great, transform it, make it shine?
What precious thoughts could I create? I needed help divine.
I bowed my head and simply prayed, for love to lead me well,
Forgiveness for each time I strayed, delayed what I should tell.
The prophet as the psalmist knows the duties I forgot,
The poet must receive his prose, strike while the iron's hot.
Revitalised, with hope renewed, by faith, I wrote once more,
The second verse improved my mood and thrilled me to the core.
Then suddenly, I thought of her, my dream girl long ago
And of true love that once could stir this heart to overflow.
But life goes on, we parted friends, I miss her now and then,
That's how it is when true love ends, but that was way back when.
The third verse shared the love we had, the sweethearts' tenderness,
The magic moments we were glad and thought God chose to bless.
[...] Read more
poem by Denis Martindale
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Histrionics
Histrionics...
Considered theatrical and deliberate.
May seem that way,
To those unaccustomed to emotions shown...
By those depicted overacting with flare.
Although a reality spoken is dismissed,
Yet declared...
Too real for some to deal with.
And too much for them to hear.
Especially when it has been made clear,
They have no idea of the connection!
Or if there is an expectation for them to feel,
And give feedback.
Should they applaud?
Or clap in approval?
Or what is it one should do...
Beside stare wide eyed?
Inspired By:
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Drunken Sailor
He stood there shouting at the night
At trees and all around
He stood there swaying side to side
A madness man yet proud.
He never lost his footing once
He danced a dance wild mad
I stood there watching for a while
And wondered what thing had
Made him the drunken sailor
Had made him curse the earth
Had made him babble endlessly
How long had he been berthed?
Three years sailing, sailing hard
He had been away
He was just back
Two days ashore
Had made him act this way.
[...] Read more
poem by David Keig
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Obama or McCain
Why should I care who is the next U S President Obama or McCain
Since from who wins or loses I won't stand to gain
I do live far distant of the U S of A
Many thousands of miles that does seem far away.
'Tis all about success and ego and about self esteem
And 'tis all about power little else it does seem
But the poor of the U S as poor will remain
And it should not matter to them who wins Obama or McCain.
This is all about money and all about power
Though many never know of a good meal or of a warm shower
So many live rough on the poor side of town
Whilst McCain and Obama compete for renown.
In the refugee camps of the World millions of refugees
Who live hungry where there is squalor and disease
McCain or Obama will not help them in any way
Do you think this is not a fair thing to say?
[...] Read more
poem by Francis Duggan
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Surroundings-26
Nesting Crow
Pecks, picks, builds nest on new tree
Caws, cries, sounds best to show spree
Sticks, strips, twigs set up on tree
Flaps, jirks, chirps just new rent free
poem by Indira Renganathan
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On Lac Sainte Ireneé
ON Lac Sainte Ireneé the morn
Lay rimmed with pine and roped with mist.
The old moon hid her silver horn
In shadow that the sun had kissed.
One went by like a wandering soul,
And followed ever,
By reed and river,
The silent canoe of the lake patrol.
On Lac Sainte Ireneé the noon
Lay wolf-like waiting by her hills.
No voice was heard but the sad loon
And the wild-throated whip-poor-wills.
But one went by on the bitter flaw,
And followed ever,
By rapid and river,
The swift canoe of the white man's law.
On Lac Sainte Ireneé the moose
Broke from his balsams, breathing hot.
[...] Read more
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Lullaby
It is a summer evening.
The yellow moths sag
against the locked screens
and the faded curtains
suck over the window sills
and from another building
a goat calls in his dreams.
This is the TV parlor
in the best ward at Bedlam.
The night nurse is passing
out the evening pills.
She walks on two erasers,
padding by us one by one.
My sleeping pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl;
it floats me out of myself,
my stung skin as alien
as a loose bolt of cloth.
I will ignore the bed.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Sexton
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The Devils Past
Fading faces
of the devils past
You almost forget
they was ever there
Until they reappear
casting their spell
with their cheating
and lies
Then as quick as they came
they are gone
Just waiting to reappear
once again
poem by Dave Alan Walker
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To Know Something About It
When in Rome,
It may be to one's advantage...
To make attempts to do what the Romans do.
With a following of their rules and customs.
But when one decides to visit Poland,
Trying to impress the Polish,
With the speaking of Italian...
Or the French with the speaking of Spanish,
May not achieve the welcoming one expects.
It is suggested to receive,
What one believes is respect...
Is to know something about it.
To ensure it is recognized by others,
When it is projected and reflects.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Dead Soldier
Where the sword has opened the way the man will follow
'Look! they came, the triumphant army!
Over yon hill see their weapons peeping!'
Still I spoke not but my wheel sent turning,
I closed my eyes for my heart was weeping,
My heart was weeping for a dead soldier.
Who is he who looks towards me?
''Tis no man but a gay flag flying.'
Red was his mouth and his white brow thoughtful,
Blue his eyes—how my soul is crying,
My soul is crying for a dead soldier.
'Kneel ye down, lest your eyes should dare them,
Kneel ye down and your beads be saying.'
'Lord, on their heads Thy wrath deliver,'
This is the prayer that my lips are praying,
My heart is praying for a dead soldier.
'Best cheer the path of the men victorious,
For he is dead and his blade lies broken,
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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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