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The world does not know
who the poet is
until they are told
so listen here, listen well
I am the poet
now you can tell
dare you not believe me
I will show you again
with every page revealing
the poet I am
Please forgive my brush with egotism .... this write was motivated by a critic who told me (before I joined HelloPoetry), that I was not writing poems, because the words didn't rhyme. So I wanted to show him I could write a poem that rhymed.
So, I wrote a book, a novel so long,
One hundred and sixty K words.
My heroine’s fierce, immortal, and strong,
Hates humans so much that it hurts.

5000 years old, and Aria's done!
Wants to kick the bucket - just die!
Living forever has long lost its fun,
She’s worn of the ancient lie.

With stress piled up, she goes to a shrink,
And rants for an hour straight.
She paces his office, sour, on the brink,
Mood split between rage and hate.

But Jacob (the shrink) believes her somehow,
A miracle, strange and new!
So off they journey together now
To an oracle - their only clue.

The oracle whispers the cure is found
Within "The Book Of Life,"
They learn it’s kept on sacred ground,
Guarded by a nun with a knife.

The book reveals there’s a curse to reverse,
And relics they’ll need to find.
But things keep sliding from odd to worse,
And Jacob unsettles her mind...

The pile of artifacts grows quite insane,
New travelers join the group.
They share the laughter and the pain;
All over dried noodle soup.

Jacob falls first, and he falls hard,
Knowing there’s no real chance:
Aria’s immortal, he is scarred,
And his shyness blocks the romance.

Will she fall as well, or keep up the wall?
And will she go through with the curse?
Will she go on and end it all?
Would it be better or worse?

If this teaser worked and you’re on the hook,
It would mean a lot to me,
If you’d take a look at my snarling book:
Named "How to End Eternity."

The book brings romance that sneaks up slow,
Adventure in every scene,
People from a long time ago,
And more for the in-between:

Action ignites, with relics and quests,
The secrets of archaeology.
No **** - the scenes in locked up chests,
But humor - I guarantee!

And best of all: it’s free to read,
No cost, no, nothing to pay.
Just send a DM, I’ll take the lead,
And send the link your way.
HA!
Yes, I wrote a poem about a book I also wrote.
Shameless self-promo!

Okay, a tad bit of shame, but hey - I'm honestly proud of that book!
B 3d
I know I break promises
like dishes at your feet
I make promises
I know that I can't keep
and you are the bleeding one
bandaged pinky swearing
saying you'll stay another week.
Jasper 5d
The deep dark hue of the ocean blue
Is not as blue–
as I without you.
The lively lush green of a summer scene
Can’t match my sheen,
When you’re with me.
The harsh cold of arctic winter weather
Sullens my soul,
when we aren’t together.
I’ve got a pen
With miles of ink
More than I have
Things to think

Long distance, operator calls
I’m holding the line
Pen in hand
Writing rhyme to rhyme

You don’t know me
The cynic I am
Rolling all wide open
I don’t give a ****

Here it is, the truth beholds
You’re no different than me
Looking for all those things
Only a heart can see

9/12/25
Apoet's lament about love.
It doesn’t matter If I play the wrong song
Moments fade, memories last too long
That’s the wrong beat, so I can’t dance
It’s just too fast for good romance

Slow it down, let it beat like a heart
A one and a two, accent on the start
Wham two three, wham two three
Your heart beats the best of me

Love is the rhythm in a heartbeat
It drives the soul, there’s no retreat
Primal and deep, down to the core
Everlasting, ever yearning, pounding for more

9/12/25
One of my latest love poems. I'm a hopeful romantic.
when the waves of the sea sang of summer,
wan midnights and flowers beguiled

by a love strong and tender in slumber,
awakening tumultuous and wild;

oh, love, sweetest love, won’t you listen
to the song that the fierce sea sang,

while the desolate waves seemed to glisten
and silver bells rang.


oh, my love, oh, my love, hear the fire
of the love that has blossomed for you,

a song full of want and desire,
and all of its dreams about you,

the wind fires up through the mountains,
the clouds fill the desolate sky,

the waters of earth fill the fountains
and all the seas sigh.


and i never felt love for another
as strong or as passionate as for you,

and my legs longed for yours like a lover,
and forever they’d stay ever true,

up high in the night sky the birds fly
and plunder the sorceress moon,

and love in her waves gives a sweet sigh
and falls in a swoon.


the solitary sea starts to whisper,
with a love that n’er knows of a god,

and the mist on the sea-wall grows crisper
as it dampens the ghosts of the sod,

and love cries out loudly at sunrise
toes dipped in the trembling dew,

forgetting the murmurs of moonrise
besotted and blue.


the wind now no longer seeks shelter,
curves the clouds who now run and then run,

sings of tides full of moonlight who welter
with tears (though no gift of the sun,)

and these tears for my love i now carry
stripped away like the sun and the rain,

our love both soulful and arbitrary,
flowing true in the vein.


the flowers of midnight are calling
like lilies with petals outspread,

on an ocean that dreams as it’s falling,
and falls like an anchor of lead,

the streams lift up high as if dreaming,
the wings of the wind’s edges bleed,

and all of their wonderful streaming
begins to recede.


the sun sung out once to the morning,
unshackled the wings of the seas

who flew as the light started dawning,
as the sea water started to unfreeze,

day more of the morning soon conjured
of magics both dreadful and free

of tenderness’s sweetly outnumbered
like your love for me.


the brightening bird grows to an ocean,
its brilliant wings full of day,

and our hearts sing out loud with emotion,
the clouds float along in their greys,

the light in the sky starts to shiver,
no longer of evening and night,

sings songs of the moon’s lonely river
her lamps set alight.
originally published in seventh quarry magazine. new to hellopoetry inspired by swinburne's "by the north sea".
If I could move past the point of *******— my bull horns
are beaten down by life’s whip. Feeling ready to blow
my brain, an itchy finger on the trigger, searching for
life's plus centre: a positive man stuck in the middle; senses
sharp, but it sounds insensitive to an eager mind; all
of our dreams have been suffocated by the placenta.

I think I can be honest about the work of others, but
speaking that truth loudly — for some— sounds like
we don’t really love each other. Chained only by deeper
ambition; passion weighs heavy when it isn’t complete.
Here’s a writer’s petition: loving poetry— an appeal to
careless ambitions over being Christian.

Pride mirrors itself— words reflecting the world’s
weakness, ugly earnestness to be outstanding; going
out to make something of yourself as an artist surely
disappoints a family. Gain success through your own
struggle, heavy prayers; "I guess we’ll all be wealthy."

It all depends upon: the task of multitasking most
of your dreams— to exactitude; the power of words,
poetic charge, poetic energy. But know this—the
lightbulb to your dreams is what will turn them on.

All those wanting pieces of your spark—
you’ll lose track of where they all came from.
No one can hear me
I use soft lead
It’s not what I wrote
But what you have read

Get past the lines, into the spaces
Truth and love, my pen always chases
How about this, what if I were to say
All of the things that make me feel this way

Any verse, now they’re all the same
What is up with that, what’s in a name
No one left but my pen and I
Ink smears when I start to cry

9/12/25
Another poet's lament.
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