"format" poems
A best friend is someone you tell secrets to, right?
But what if it were the same person to hold you at night?
As the sun goes down and the stars appear,
It's that someone whom you tell your biggest fear.
Your dearly beloved, whether a guy or a girl
Suddenly becomes your whole world,
And you laugh and you sing and you dance all around,
As your best friend twirls you round and round
And in the truth of the morning, everything is okay
You see that your beloved is here to stay.
Holding you tightly and never letting go
All during the disappearance of the moonlight glow.
And it is them you want to spend the rest of your life
Alongside them, your dear husband or wife.
And 70 years after you said "I do"
You manage to say one last "I love you"
Then you'll drift away to a heavenly sleep
With the one who you love so deep.
And eternal time you will spend together
With your dearly beloved, always and forever.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
9.8k
Intro:
Start with a hook sharp enough to catch many fish.
Move into a broad outline of topic.
Add some examples to peek the interest.
End with a sentence that captures your thoughts.
(Start the way you feel it should be).
Body:
Flavorful topic sentence to open paragraph one.
State in detail specific examples and definitions.
Follow with a reference or two,
This keeps suspicion off you.
Keep same format for paragraph two and three.
(Continue on the feel that increases how you started).
(Or retrograde and start a new direction).
Conclusion:
Wake the reader back up with thesaurus found words.
State again the reason for your thoughts.
Honing specifically on what you want to say,
Without of course bringing in new info.
End with a memorable sign off.
(End with completing your thoughts).
(Or start a new idea entirely),
(Not leaving enough room for explanation).
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
She ran into the forest.
They detested her,
even if she just did her best.
She found a spot, under a tree.
Dots of silver teased her,
"Come, see me."
With sweaty hands,
she picked with a swift gesture.
She held, it collapsed,
"What could I've done wrong?"
She took another, this time with caveat.
Still, it fell apart, in a usual format.
"Am I that destructive?"
She asked herself.
"No. Look."
The steady beads of pearls were, dancing?
Piles of rubble lifted to the sky,
like stars in the early morning.
The wind lingered, blew them quite gently
Magnificence is painted around the vivid scene she's seeing.
She inhaled every beauty.
Then, exhaled every shattered dream.
"You're right, whoever you are,
There's still beauty in breaking."
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
Rules:
1.You have to write a poem on the given prompt for each day [in the given order] and then share it with fellow challenge takers (optional but recommended) by posting what you wrote in your blog or on Facebook or wherever. To make sharing and tracking easier, you can use this hashtag: #eleven11poetrychallenge
2. The poem can be of any length and the prompt can be interpreted anyway you want. Poems can be written in English or Nepali.
3. The whole idea is to write, share, grow and have fun! So if you are cool with it, check this space for daily prompt.
Prompts:
Day one: A poem from the perspective of an inanimate object
Day two: A poem in the format of a conversation
Day three: Write a poem that tells a story (with a beginning, middle, end..but not necessarily in that order), which is completely imaginary or is not based on a reality that YOU know of.
Day four: A wishlist, with 11 of your wishes.
Day five: Write a Haiku. Or two.
Day six: Let's talk about *** baby! [Write a poem about *** (not *** and gender, 'sex' if we are unclear.]
Day seven: Only sixteen--a poem about the person you were when you were sixteen [or about the person you want to be, if you are not yet 16]
Day eight: A poem describing a photograph or painting.
Day nine: Write a letter to your murderer.
Day ten: A poem about your worst nightmare.
Day Eleven: Write a poem about yourself, in Nepali. IF you already write in Nepali, that is great. If you don't, then this prompt s your chance
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
DISCLAIMER
I wrote this a very long time ago and it wasn't originally a poem! I just separated it into sections so it was in a more poem-like format. I felt like it had emotion behind it, so I decided to post it. Here's the "poem" -
It really hurts.
It hurts like hell.
It's hurts more than a thousand needles piercing my skin.
It's a sinking feeling.
A sinking feeling in my stomach, in my heart.
I don't know what to believe anymore. My mind tells me one thing and my heart tells another.
I'm at war with myself, and I'm completely losing. I've lost myself. Utterly, and almost completely.
I can smile, I can laugh. But that's only when I forget. And as soon as I remember, I'm knocked right back down again. And no one seems to care. No one cares enough to ask.
Because, who cares about ME? None of my friends, none of my family. It's hell on Earth, because I know it's not their job to notice! It's my job to tell them!
But I'm petrified. I'm scared I'll disappoint them. Make them run away. Make them think I'm weird. Make them feel like I've gone crazy.
Maybe that's it.
Maybe I've gone completely crazy!
But who cares anymore?
Definitely not myself.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
If I comment
Three hearts beneath your poem
It means that
I love love love your work
Sometimes I have too much to say
Or nothing to say at all
But I love to appreciate beautiful words
Because beautiful words should be appreciated
I love when my words mean something
To you reading
And a lot of your words mean something to me too
So I put it all into these
Three little hearts
❤❤❤
Whether your poetry is from a dark place
Or from a light heart
Whether something bad happened
Or something good started
If you shared it
And I saw it
And appreciate it
You'll find three little hearts
Beside my name
Beneath your work
In a format like this -
Rahama Abdulkadri ❤❤❤.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions
translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw
crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression
drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille
depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols
making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe
relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?
increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation
lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”
~~~
when they ask,
I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?
to the persisters, I mutter fine
which is 100% correct...
been fined for the accumulated
made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,
the weight invisible but the
body sags, nonetheless...
you know they know,
you know their thoughts,
why doesn't he snap out of it,
after all he is a man,
he has always been
what we needed,
why can't he
just go back to the person prior...
this code, is not law,
ten times worse,
genetic and culture passed,
double ******
code so real, like the headaches,
the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...
not true,
we don't expect that of you,
thankful for all you have done,
but eyes betray,
a simpatico misunderstanding,
the instillers, can't take back
what they celebrated previous...
the signals everywhere, few ascertain,
cause the rule is never complain,
don't go near windows,
lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,
but escape temptation ever on offer...
forgive yourself, someone intones,
but what infects my bones,
is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,
which does not come in pill format
ask me for directions,
I will talk/walk you to your destination,
but when I'm lost,
I'm just a lost man,
who needs to do better,
forgetting is not in my DNA,
but lost is...choking on expectations
of being everyone's savior,
with no one to save you from yourself...
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
A rich man's son inherits want
with no desire to work hands bare
Gives the job to another man
to look out from his easy chair
A poor man's son inherits grace
born of toil and sweat of his brow
He adjudged of hard earned merit
pushes on what body will allow
The rich man's son inherits greed
with what malice it may entail
Thinking others beneath his station
for lack of character he does ail
The poor man's son inherits kindness
which with all others level stands
Then asks the outcast bless his door
to share the fruit of his two hands
Heir to what is the rich man's son
tender flesh that fears the cold
To the poor never gives his time
nor dare he wear a garment old
Inheriting, it seems to me
what no good man would wish to be
Heir to what is the poor man's son
strong muscles and pounding heart
Chipped of a marble character
beloved by all he touched in part
Inheriting, it seems to me
what all good men would wish to be
Tate
This is one of three poems I have converted to a new all video format well worth the look at what I feel is the future of our art.
Original all video version
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1355765/
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Dear friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that one of my favourite Hollywood actor Richard Gere had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen, I composed in a simple format about the same. Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practised in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an Elusive
After-Life’!
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolising Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, when, or how? ',
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Red is the colour of my blood
Red is the colour of my heart
Red is the colour of love.
My love is the spirit of my heart
My heart is the sanctuary of my soul
My soul is the sacred chalice of my spirit.
My heart is a bouquet of red roses
Red roses, the ambrosia of my spirit
My spirit is the immaculate dove
The dove bearing the olive branch from above.
My spirit descends in the feast of the Eucharist
The Eucharist is the sacred sacrament of Christ
Christ is the eternal spirit of the love of God
For our sins, He bled and shed His innocent blood
And by His blood we have been redeemed.
The blood of His covenant
The covenant of His new testament..
~ By Orikinla Osinachi, Saturday November 8, 2014.
© Orikinla Osinachi. 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this content can be duplicated or reproduced in any format of media and anywhere without the authorization and permission of the author and publisher.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Same old drudgery,
Papers fresh for grading;
Topics, seldom new,
If honestly presented,
At least encourage worth
In form, in format, in tradition.
Plagiarism creeps up,
Always shocking,
The unauthorized changing
Of voice, of tone, of diction,
Not unlike the sting of a ruthless needle,
The drip of a hollowed, poisoned fang,
The bite of frost, burning a tender cheek...
Sadly familiar, this strident pang.
All hope is lost.
Anger sets in,
Trust wilts,
Hope fades gray.
In plagiarism, the fool's truth lies;
To belie one's honor is to watch it die.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC
Sometimes I stare into the night sky and I realize how small we are.
I look into infinity and
It doesn’t look back because
I am a spec amongst bigger things and smaller things
And life and death are everywhere
And what am I to a universe that
We, humans, the smartest life we know to exist,
Cannot even wrap our brains around?
And then I think about homework.
But how am I supposed to even think about homework
When the sky is always present above our heads
Filled with limitless possibilities that I can get lost in for decades.
I could waste perfect days lying in the grass day dreaming up anything,
But you want me to memorize math equations?
During the day all seems so hopeful and bright.
I think of the way your hair would move in the breeze and
I imagine your big eyes filled with wonder and curiosity
As you stare into the clouds.
Clouds made of the ideas people dream up during class
While their teacher tells them how to cite sources in MLA format.
And at night my fascination with the sky becomes
Less excited and more scared.
I think not of the way your hair would move in the breeze,
But of how your hair would move
While someone else tucked it behind your ear.
And the noise you’d make as they kissed your neck
Crimson lips, swollen with lust.
Somehow the stars don’t give me dreams,
They give me nightmares.
Of you behind my back,
On your back with other women,
Or worse men.
But you’re always there to calm my fears of betrayal
And kiss me back to reality.
This life is one that,
As far as I know, we only live once.
And we can’t waste it getting caught up in the what ifs of the past,
But we can waste it getting caught up in the wonder of what else lies outside of our grasp.
And we should ponder the unanswered questions of the universe
Because when we can’t sleep at night and
We can’t focus in class and
When we are drowning in the stress that comes with the human life,
We can look up at the sky, and remember
That we are all small.
Specs to the universe and
If the ocean can rise and fall with the moon in perfect harmony
And the birds can fly thousands of miles to warmth
And our dogs can always know when it’s time to eat
Without the ability to read clocks,
Then we can always find our way out of these messes we inevitably fall in to.
I never know any of the answers,
But this life is one worth living,
And I’ll spend it trying to figure it all out.
And I’ll never do my homework.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Which face will I wear today
The face I wear at work
Cheerful member of the staff
Underpaid - unappreciated
Tiny office with no window
Paperwork nobody looks at
Rules just for the sake of rules
Which face will I wear today
The face I wear at home
Always tired, depressed, besieged
by a thousand minor ailments
All the things I'd like to do
crowded out by other things
I have to do that are no fun.
Which face will I wear today
The face that sports a poet's cap
Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand
Trying every format I can learn
Gleaning from the published experts
Writing happy after years of sad
Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in
Which face will I wear today
The face above the helping hands
that reach for places to be used
That garner joy from mucking in
to smooth the path for others
Seldom thanked - often refused
Bucket goal - to save a life.
Which face will I wear today
The face that looks back from the mirror
Mapping all the tracks of age
Searching for the sparkle in the eyes
that joined hands with my youthful looks
and did a conga-line away
Which face will I wear today
Picasso portrait of them all
Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad
When seen together in the mirror
it's a face I do not know
and someone I don't care to meet
So check the clock and choose a face
Paste it on and smooth it out
Comb hair over all the edges
**** the light and close the door
And take this face out for a walk
See if anybody says hello
ljm
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
uoy ot gnis I
seuh derettahs fo yballul a
htrow dna ytilaudividni fo snoitcarfer
kni gniyrc neeb ev'uoy
em revo lla deraems
ynnuf s'ti, das os gnikool
I sing to you
a lullaby of shattered hues
refractions of individuality and worth
you've been crying ink
smeared all over me
looking so sad, it's funny
'sit scriptor aspiret invicem'
Should we?
we already are.
Each other we paint;
"blood from thee."
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 8:28 AM UTC
As you search twice
For meanings
Cleverly stood
Hid in abstract
Paradoxical format
Ingeniously pushed
Between lines
Of landscape analogies
Fictitiously portrayed
In anonymous
contagious ideologies
I'm sorry
For your losses
Of time and duress
Yet my incomplete thoughts
Can riddle even the best
Into a landscape
Of wild weeds and laughter
I waste away
In time torn pasture
Where timeless turns
To dusty grey
I push save poem
And slip away...
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Look at him and go out on a limb,
Or am I suppose to use a three by five?
Slop on the mascara,
Know the difference between "por" and "para".
Go to this school, so they can feel secure;
Be clean, be pure.
Starve- you can't be fat.
Fail because you didn't follow format.
"I don't care how well you draw,
Just go to Harvard and study law."
They'll lay out your life step-by-step,
And yes, you will be every teachers' pet.
I don't care what you do;
Be cut-throat, be cruel,
Anything to be:
This cookie cutter you made for me.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
During discussion with key-board
through internet messenger,
Love sleeps on the bench like a pet
beside the purple-green footpath.
Sharing violet feelings via e-mail,
million megabytes of stamina downloads
And converts instantly smiling-heart
into jpg format to attach with the mail.
Cyber love navigates on cool wave
as a kite walking slowly
On the bluish velvet sky
above a land of beckoning jade-dreams.
Poem 07
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
i'm sorry.
i'm sorry that i fell for you,
and you fell for me.
i'm sorry i try to be
someone i'm
not,
just so you won't
worry.
i'm sorry i don't
fit into your cookie cutter
format, even though
i'm dying to.
i'm sorry i don't see
myself the way you
say you do and
i'm sorry that i
will never love
myself
the way you say you
love me i'm sorry.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
she wrote a sonnet but she got it wrong
proper syllable count her lines ne'er had
twas a most shocking sight really quite bad
her shabby work had a distinct kind of pong
she put it out there for all to peruse
the skilled sonnet writers had a look
her display they rated as verily crook
the format of it did of her confuse
she had not a spruce quill like the bard Bill
her specimen would have disgusted him
particular was he about his form
she produced a sonnet which didn't thrill
its appearance was so exceedingly grim
her syllable patterns were not uniform
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
well, wasn't it so oh so beautiful
once upon a time:
a naked man holding a fruit -
fast-forward....
a monkey holding a rat:
hmm...
enter Elvis: ahum ahum hum:
shimmies aways...
if genesis was to be rewritten again
it would be a monkey holding a rat
thinking about a tailor and a barber
with a schizoid format of interpretation
of an octopus!
said whaaaaaaaa-t?
said that.
maze needs no rat,
rat needs no maze,
man needs both rat and maze -
but man doesn't need
rat, when he's already
acquired a need for a maze...
and there's the: a need
to acquire a maze and disavow
a rat...
the human "concept"
of a soul: or animation force -
has become degenerate from
monkey through to rat...
if the ancient Adam was
naked holding a bitten-into apple;
modern "man" is
but a monkey holding a rat.
i'm far from casting the logic of
counting or spelling...
even though i can do both...
that man needs a maze
but not the rat...
in reality: the rat is not welcome...
but to conduct a proof /
pirson of meaning there is a rat:
in a maze...
so Tetris is debunked...
and?
the monkey has evolved
and thus devolved to a rat status!
no... wrong...
technology supports
the antithesis...
the rat is the proof
that a monkey is in a cage, and can peel
a banana!
**** wrong answer:
the rat can bite off its own snout!
¡ay, caramba!
wrong again?
can anyone be right using
this ******* spreschen?!
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
Darling, when I try
and write to you, all format
flies from my grasp. Haiku and ten
always too little, and prose
I would have to fill with beauty-
words I do not have to describe us
anymore. You see, unlike the family tradition, I was
never a good Scrabble player. Always
only 100 tiles and short, obscure
words never enough to tell a
story that should be rich, not sparsely
populated with only 1 Z, or
2 Ys or 2 Cs. With you I feel
I am playing scrabble with my words. As always,
my darling, (with) you I am losing.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
Hello all. I have been pretty busy with projects I've been working on.
I have been putting my poems up in PDF format and all of the new poems are available for download here:
http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere
This website works best on a desktop. I tried accessing the website on my phone but some of the titles are buried within the other titles so I think it is best if you just access the website using a desktop. All you have to do is click the title that you want to read and it should automatically bring you directly to the PDF format of the works. You may also download them for free if you wish.
I am converting these works into PDF format with the intention to turn them into zines and chapbooks in the near future, given the right price and resource people to help me come up with the projects. Feel free and read away, all of the works are free and downloadable.
The website currently has 19 titles for you to read and download (if you want to, that is). Let me know if I could help you with anything!
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC