Listen to poem:
Rhyme: AABB
Rhythm: Trochaic tetrameter. i.e.,
Each line as: BAH-bah BAH-bah BAH-bah BAH-bah
1 “Hi, Corona, thy name means crown.
But all thy deeds in pain us drown.
Many losing jobs, homes and hope,
Are not sure how they now will cope.
2 For months schools and colleges closed,
For us many problems have posed.
Online class is not fun, my friend.
Good if soon it comes to an end.
3 Deaths one million by September.
Scary number to remember!
Why hast thou become a killer?
Please, leave us, mad graveyard filler!”
4 “I am only a messenger.
Neither killer, nor avenger.
Many see me as an evil.
But the wise will see my goodwill.
5 God, your great and loving Father,
Sees you drifting from Him farther.
Fun and entertainment centered,
You are now much conscience blunted.
6 Money you chase; but not wisdom,
Depth in spirit, or God’s Kingdom.
With your science and tech power,
You think you're a mighty tower.
7 God sent me to help you to see
Powerless how you are. Hence flee
From all your sins. Follow God’s way.
Then I'll fly away, as you say.”
Posted: 20 October 2020
Updated: 22 November 2020
Copyright © Michael Ponnambalam | Year Posted 2020
A Dylan Thomas State of Mind
It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.
I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
Thinking about...wondering...pondering
The end of my existence.
I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
NO!
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
too much...
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.
I AM talking about these things:
Where do we go when we die?
Do I have a soul?
Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
That I am drawing my very last breath?
Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?
Death.
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...
Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
“Is there a Hell?”
“Will I go there if I take my own life?”
“What does ‘eternity’ mean?”
Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:
Please...Please...Please...
God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
Make my neglected hated scorned body
Healthy and whole.
So I may live
today...
tomorrow...
next month...
next year...
Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
I RAGE NOW!
....against the dying of the light.
Barbara Dickenson
19 October 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
A flower in paradise
There’s a lack of nostalgic golden bell,
Garden flowers in Carlsbad*, and
Even cherry blossoms in Descanso**.
In a neighbor's mini-garden
Resting is an unknown flower.
It seldom dates bees and butterflies.
The stem bows respectably.
The petals wrinkle gracefully.
Full of comfort and peace,
Filled with beauty of recollection,
Bare flower mutters to itself,
Solely embraces the glorious sunrise,
Rolls the shadow at dusk,
Then, she falls asleep in the moonlight
Out of the vicissitude of life
Modest is the flower in paradise.
*Carlsbad: a coastal city, San Diego County, California
** Descanso: botanical garden in La Cañada Flintridge, Los Angeles County,
Copyright © Robert Chung | Year Posted 2021
My share of mistakes I have made,
Detours I’ve taken, dues I’ve paid.
In dubious company I’ve found friends,
Indecision followed the best-laid plans.
Loneliness has rushed me into love,
Courting heartbreaks and a cold rebuff.
By my errant mind I was ill prepared,
For Fortune’s intentions undeclared.
Ample time has been idled away,
For pleasures that indulged no delay.
The crowd’s folly too quick to chide,
Long have I stayed on the outside.
For triumphs by discipline not groomed,
To small victories by apathy doomed.
Half-hearted dreams were left to rust,
In random luck I’ve placed my trust.
A few hardships I have gamely braved,
Too little done for the freedom craved.
All these I confess to you, my son,
My past a gift to my dearest one.
Not one of the mistakes I’ll regret,
If by my lessons you’re better led.
As you embark on life’s great race,
I hope my steps you won’t retrace.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2017
The highway bridges
Remnants of conversation
Clothed in ethereal blue.
Variform clouds
Stark white or gray
Bandage my heart.
Brother’s litany
Of thanksgiving
Floats above my head.
Mom and dad were
Good parents.
They worked hard.
Cemetery gates swallow us
Sleek and black
Like a raven
Plucking its prey.
Attendees’ musings are
Wetness on the
Road’s cheeks
Tactile as a
Cat’s tongue
Freshening the spirit
Words of gratitude
Misty as memory’s yesterday
Rich worked hard
He did very well for himself.
Puzzle pieces fit tightly
Brothers’ faces, Sister’s words
Cathartic like a cloak’s
Feathery embraces.
Drops of rain
Shower blessings
Prayers of thanksgiving
From another time
Diane is a beautiful girl.
Bill is smart.
How is Maureen?
Is he still here?
Yes.
How do I know?
Sunshine branching
Apple twigs glimmering
Meanwhile traffic
Normal as a busy
Day’s waking and sleeping
The wrought iron gates open
Spilling family out
Like white markers with
Blank dates
Copyright © Kathleen Kroll | Year Posted 2016
there is no-thing...
it is vacuum
and foundation
of reality...
we
are the perpetual
want
that holds it together
in some recognizable fashion
that is communicable...
with reserves depleted
and endlessly challenged
we stumble on blindly
perceiving and questioning
a braille reality...
but with symbols and words
we make use of our turds
and through recycling
build this...
something is missing
from winning
for losing
as to how to brake
this...
recycle of poetry
...
Copyright © Sand Blown | Year Posted 2018
A Villanelle on Fate
Why do I weep at acts of fate
And gnash, and claw and cry
She weeps not for me, nor can relate
Though I ache and long to consummate
She feels no need to amplify
Why do I weep for acts of fate
There are those who seek to animate
The coldness she would fortify
She weeps not for me, nor can relate
Wildy I seek to dominate
My will dries up and is left dry
Why do I weep at acts of fate
At death do I seek to elevate
Although she sees no need to qualify
She weeps not for me, nor can relate
And though I thought myself a fair candidate
To prophesy, purify, even horrify
Why do I weep at acts of fate
She weeps not for me, nor can relate
Copyright © John Cabascango | Year Posted 2022
We wish you would bury christmas
We wish you would bury christmas
We wish you would bury christmas
Then go have a beer.
Go choke on your figgy pudding
Go choke on your figgy pudding
Go choke on your figgy pudding
Stuff it up your rear.
Tidal waves we bring
To you and your kin
We wish you would bury christmas
under a dust bin.
Now bring me some tea and breakfast
Just bring me some tea and breakfast
You bring me some tea and breakfast
Then get out of here.
Copyright © Jessica Amanda Salmonson | Year Posted 2017
Listen to poem:
All my days
I want to praise You, I want to glorify You
I want to bless You, I want to honor You, my God
In countless ways
In hymns of worship, in psalms, in sweet melodies
In rhapsodies, in harmonies, in songs of awe
My life in joyful homage to You
A willing offering in spirit and truth
And though I fail, You still love me anyway
I’m not the same, not who I used to be
Because the Holy Spirit dwells inside of me
And He renews me and empowers me again
Prayers for strength
To be a witness, to be a messenger of,
To be a vessel, to be a channel for Your love
And by Your grace
I will be able, I will be bold enough too
I will be mindful, I will be willing to, O God
My life in joyful service to You
For all You’ve done for me it’s the least I can do
But I still fail, Yet You love me anyway
I’m not the same, not who I used to be
Because the Holy Spirit dwells inside of me
And He fills me and enables me again
I’m not the same, not who I used to be
Because the Holy Spirit dwells inside of me
And He convicts me and washes me again
My life in humble deference to You
What the Creator says this creation will do
No questions asked…You are God
I’m not the same, not who I used to be
Because the Holy Spirit dwells inside of me
And He transforms me and quickens me again
You still love me though I fail
Copyright © Andrew Baffi | Year Posted 2020
Into our lives, God manifests in various ways.
He protects us from every stupid deed.
In the era of Esther – the biblical days,
This lovely woman was made Persia’s queen.
Today vice president holds great significance.
And Kamala Harris can emulate Esther’s glory--
A powerful place in the political landscape
And a chance to be the heroine of the story.
With shootings and corruption brewing a funk,
What will be done to save our people from harm?
Will the Lord empower her to wield His influence,
Before the silent majority raises a monstrous storm?
Copyright © Albert Price | Year Posted 2024
Beauty cries in love's demise, when you make your alibis.
All my sadness fills my eyes, when you make your alibis.
Caring thoughts your voice implies, but the words are only lies
still you sing sweet lullabies, when you make your alibis.
Broken hearts will soon arise, different song but same reprise,
though your stories you'll revise, when you make your alibis.
Warm emotions, no goodbyes, loving feelings life denies,
hate within beguiling guise, when you make your alibis.
In your soul your heart implies, tenderness, I realize,
willingly you still chastise, when you make your alibis.
With grim desire R.J. sighs, as hope is lost, still he tries,
Within his heart each dream dies, when you make your alibis.
03/12/16
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2016
give thanks for the day
bask in the warmth of our sun
adapt well and thrive
illuminated
by the light of fulsome moon
great horned owl takes flight
caught in the throes of
ever changing existence
so hard to keep pace
through willing ether
messages and data fly
a connected life
all the past slumbers
silently within the depths
of eternity
life is much too short
to spend one's days worrying
about life’s shortness
most of us start out
dealing with bad conditions
we did not create
Copyright © Ng Rippel | Year Posted 2021
Listen to poem:
And when you look at me once more
a little smile, a passing glance,
I look at you and cross the floor,
to beg if I might have this dance.
You shyly dance, and look aside,
and when you look at me once more,
with fairy face and eyes so wide,
I want to dance forevermore.
A tender kiss our lips explore,
with pounding heart and soul in flight,
and when you look at me once more,
I pray I've found my love tonight.
A passion that I can't disguise,
this kiss that touched my very core,
and then I see it in your eyes,
and when you look at me once more.
January 24, 2016
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2016
And now indulge me, if you please,
I’m at my best when at my ease
and I can be a little naughty –
for the sake of art and levity.
Bach wrote his great B Minor Mass
sitting on his Lutheran bottom.
(Yes, I know “bottom” doesn’t fit –
it doesn’t rhyme with “Mass” above it.)
But let’s be honest this one time,
instinctively you supplied the rhyme
though not seeing it in print
and, please, don’t deny you didn’t!
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2023
"Black Diamond Night"
an eerie essence embraces a haunting mist
on a black diamond night as illusions unfold
deep ebony sky infiltrates lovers kiss
excitement permeates viewing an orb of moongold
a sequined box reveals
an onyx stone conceals
carats tempting eyes
engagement ring surprise.
the mystic dazzle beckons shards of dusk twilight
the tender moment magnifies the fever of lovers glow
immersed in ecstasy at chiming of midnight
the diamond dust ensconces dreams of radiant fond flow
blackness transcends to white
dark night is sheer delight
proposal beneath sequined passionry
black diamond dances on in finger fashionry.
*For Nathan's Contest.
*Written by: Linda-Marie The "Sweetheart" of P.S.
*August 15, 2012
Copyright © Linda-Marie Sweetheart | Year Posted 2012
With my words I love to play
rhyming everything I say
inside my head words squawk and rage
'til they're released upon the page.
It fills my heart with pure delight
to watch them growing as I write.
Oh how I love to make words rhyme
arranging them in metered time
until I have a perfect line
it sends chills up and down my spine
and I am blessed with endless joy
to use this gift that I employ.
Some of the things I write about
I know must leave some minds in doubt.
"Not good enough" some must claim
but that's ok I feel no shame.
I'll still write the way I do
and to my heart I will be true.
My knowledge of great works is small
in fact I don't know much at all
and I would never dare profess
to be a gifted poetess
'cause when it comes to poetry
I write just what comes naturally.
Born to rhyme, that is my game
and that is all you'll hear me claim.
To me this game is so much fun
it is my picnic in the sun.
It may sound lame or even sappy
but that's all right it makes me happy!
Copyright © Robin L. Gass | Year Posted 2009