Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I've written so many,
Some  grandiose, some terse,
And published them here,
To express and converse.
But the most pretentious of all
You've read or passed over,
Is  The Invisible Poem,
Subtitled, Blank Verse.
Some gave it their blessings,
Some cried foul, and some cursed.
Isn't brevity the soul of wit; (Shakespeare)
Writing is 1% inspiration, 99% elimination; (Louise Brooks)
To write good poems is the secret of brevity; (Dejan Stojanovic)
So,
Be sincere. Be brief. Be seated. (FDR)
Take it as is,
For better or worse.
I'm still having fun with this one.
 Jan 2018 betterdays
Ben Jones
I’m a poet and a writer, every day I sit and write
But my girlfriend often calls to me
Or asks me for a cup of tea
And do I have a moment free?
You know what she saw on TV?
I’m a boyfriend and a writer and poet through the night

I’m a boyfriend and a writer and a poet on the side
Though my kids need constant oversight
And a writer cannot hope to write
Besieged by things that kick and bite
That need reminding not to fight
I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a writer if I hide

I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a writer by the night
But my dog has differing ideas
Nudging elbows, tickling ears
Scratching doors as bedtime nears
Reducing me to tired tears
I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a dog owner who writes…
Sometimes

**
The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.
"Undone:" Get it. :)
And still morphing. Who knows but that poetry might morph into a blank page with lines.
On a journey now, am I hurriedly,
to the center within myself,
where I haven't ever tried to enter,
but has a yen to reach effortlessly
at an hour earliest, I can.
I can see how curious you are,
all dressed up and ready to go,
but strange, not going anywhere!

Will you show me the way
as you are dispassionate and calm;
I gather our partnership surely should work!
Next page