PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Could you write "A Painted Pony", could you coin a lucid phrase?

Would your words be true, or misconscrewed, like reading through a maze?

When you enter conversation, does it start with Thee and Thou?

Do you shovel it so deeply, they wear boots and use a plow?

Sometimes it's good to throw in words like,"the" and "that" and "and",

"Easily not, may words come forth" when written in the sand!

Many things were written, "twisted verse" back in the day,

But the way they wrote was understood, cause' they even talked that way.

Now, this isn't the 1500's with a "Brooke or Painter" delight...

(Where Shakesphere "borrowed" most of his words)..To become a famous playwright!

So, choose your words for all to read, let your conscience be your guide...

"May all who attempt your assemblage of text, decipher far and wide!"

I seldom part my lips, people say.
I want to make it count when I do.
My pen bleeds words I don’t speak.
If I am anything
I am a writer.

Language Quest

           by Odin Roark

To be at one with the words we write and read

Is to appreciate more than mere definition.

For does not a lexical feast banter the intellect

Akin to the salivary nature of hunger

When morsels of perceived gastric comfort

Trigger stomach sounds of flirtatious want?

Where is it stated communication is unequivocal?

What prevents the mind’s eye to free associate,

To carve tributaries of free-flow additions,

To make the valleys of verbal tundra inviting

For the reward of a peak’s thin-air high?

Oh to be open for fresh discovery,

To welcome the twists and turns

Every trail to learning’s higher reaches provides,

To look hopefully around the soft curve of every syllable,

The rock-like nature of strident consonants,

And the ever welcome foreshadowing of revelation,

Dedicated to reward aches and pains of tenacity’s patience.

Transparent thoughts

veiled in mystery,

flow

like vaporous silks

running between my fingers.

They glide along

effortlessly-

delicate chiffon,

touching my heart

with gentle airy caresses.

Soft, breathless breezes

billow aside curtains

that cover the windows of my soul,

admitting the passage

of fabricated light to circulate freely.

Diaphanous,

white laced dreams

course through the eye of the needle,

pinpointing where lives are sewn together,

binding the seams.

Delicate swatches

of see-through tulle,

bound with gossamer ribbons,

fasten frayed and worn edges,

with sturdy borders.

A crafting of a hand-woven

tapestry of my life,

embellished with my thoughts and dreams,

fragile and lucid

upon translucent parchment.

THE WEIGH OF WORDS
                   Edward Iacona

 From the dawn of the written word
It soon became the norm
For writers in almost every tongue
Including ancient Cuneiform.

To describe the essence of love
And in literary ways to drape them.
So lover's may borrow a clever phrase
When their own words escape them.

Elizabeth Barret Browning
On one of her romantic days,
Decided to enumerate her love
As she counted all her ways.

It's in "Sonnets Of The Portuguese"
But I will tell you before you begin it
There is not a word about Portugal
That is anywhere within it.

She walks in beauty like the night
And at Lord Byron I do not scoff.
As I have heard love's often easier
When the lights are off.

Even Poe who is never cheery
Carried on about his lost dearie
Going on about his lost Lenore
While some poor Raven squawked, "Nevermore".

Burns compared his love to a red red rose
A most popular match by far.
That thorny flower is a common choice
But that is just the way things are.

Shakespeare's Romeo to his Juliet would tell
That a Rose called by any other name
Would have a similar sweet smell
And, with such words was fanned the flame.

Then it was Gertrude Stein who wrote
A Rose is a Rose is a Rose.
What she exactly meant by that.
I can only guess, "Who knows?"

And, one need not be Russian
To spread a little loving joy
By quoting some romantic Pushkin
To a darling ptenchik moi

From the face that launched one thousand ships
To the face on the barroom floor..
Alas, for the woman that I truly LOVE
There is no adequate metaphor..

The Journey-Lost In Time

I look downward at the pavement below me and watch as my feet shuffle onward.
Where they are going i don't know, they move without direction, and i wonder if we are going to the same place, or if they have chosen a different path. and if so will we meet there someday? will we ever cross paths? Maybe our journeys are the same. we will both go somewhere great, but take the long way there. will they get lost? or have i already lost myself? if i ever get there will they be waiting for me? as the days go on another nightfall has come and gone, and i have grown weary. i don't think i will ever get to where my feet have gone, and stuck in time is where i remain.

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

》》》

He left two marks on me.

Stains...

 They hurt when they broke the skin.

I tried to wash them off,

And they wouldn't come off,

I figure they are meant to be,

A label.

A scarlet letter,

Written in indelible ink,

Never to be erased

By any man, woman,

Or force of nature.

An insignia

Of how I came to be 

What I am.

I have searched and searched

For their meaning,

Their purpose...

And at one time,

I was even going to sue.

There was no sense to it,

They are here to stay.

I am a tainted woman,

How will I go on?

I beg for some kind of redemption,

Some significance,

Even settle for a tiny morsel 

To quench the aching loss 

Of my dignity.

The disfigurement is disturbing.

But all I know of him

Is what was written on his woody shaft....

I will never forget it.

It said...

  ..."#2".

》》》》

.....

100 Days ago I made a decision to throw caution to the wind

A choice I hoped in the long run would not leave me chagrined.

I thought I would write a daily rhyme, (OK nothing crazy about that yet!)

But in my infinite wisdom I thought I’d post them on the net.

Why I did this is a mystery I still have yet to solve.

When I think back I have to wonder if alcohol was involved?

Whatever! I thought Facebook was the perfect place to let these rhymes run free

After all, everyone on Facebook I have friended...or they have friended me.

It was the perfect place I assumed among people I have known

To try something this scary and leave my comfort zone.

What better place to post the great pieces of literature my mind begat

Than a place that offers recipes, funny e-cards and videos of crazy cats?

Ever since I can remember if there was a special time

My family and friends knew they’d be receiving a copy of my rhyme.

They usually seemed delighted, like my poem gave them a lift.

Little did they know, till now, it was much cheaper than a gift.

They said I should write for other people, they said it’d be a snap.

I’m sure they thought they shouldn’t be the only ones who get to read this crap!

So buoyed by their urging and my own naivete

I decided it might be fun to write a poem a day.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make...to write this daily rhyme

But I somehow found the courage to hit POST the very first time.

It’s now been 100 days and these daily rhymes have not abated

I’m sure my family and friends didn’t expect the monster they created!

I imagine you might like one poem while another you think is a flop

It matters not because, since I started, there’s no way that I can stop.

It has now become an obsession...I think your help I should enlist...

Is there a doctor out there who specializes...perhaps a poetry therapist?

On second thought don’t feel bad for me for everyday I feel blessed

That my poems have been around the world and met with some success.

In truth I have one follower in Germany which really has no glamour

Because the only reason she reads my poems is to correct me on my grammar.

Be that as it may...100 poems, it’s a number that does amaze.

And I’m sure you can’t wait to read what’s coming in the next 100 days.

Will they be happy, thoughtful, heart wrenching, or perhaps a little fun

You be the judge for the poem you’re reading is now one hundred and one.