"novice" poems
0 followers?
Dear New Poet:
Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule
the honor you
bequeath me
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,
it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
this instance,
this birth,
a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—
let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years
so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken
give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
all that mind and
breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both
I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who needs a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted
my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn,
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises
Blessed
are You Lord our God,
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life,
sustained us until now,
***allowing, allying, and
alloying***
the treader of treacherous waters,
reader, writer, swimmer,
to reach, meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together,
as one
in one, of one,
one
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.
now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.
and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?
if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.
let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.
22.6k
A newborn to a novice Mom, such a burden all at once, so much to do, the day is gone too soon – a crying bundle makes the night so long
But it is such a joy!
The changes in life are so unreal, schedules can never be the same, but soon a balance will appear, life will be normal once again, Almost!
As years fly by, the bundle grows, the diapers gone now, outgrown clothes, tonsils out, braces in, “why can’t I go” a familiar sound!
And all too soon that little bundle of joy is ready to face the world.
We hope that we have done a good job, and we try not to hold them too tight to us, we must let go!
The time has come to let them fly, that tiny hand that clung to you has grown and holds another now.
Don’t cry Mom, don’t be sad, it’s all been worth it, and maybe soon, another small bundle will enter your life, and ah, who is the novice now??
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
downtown is
a much newer scene than even
i thought it’d be - i was
prepared to be
a novice. i was prepared to be
out of place. and this was
nothing, i could handle these
old odd eyes, i just
wasn’t ready to feel so
dropped in.
but i’d drawn a diagram
of this situation,
a different specific
(god ****
i can’t hear myself think)
why am i surprised to feel
so dropped in
when i’ve drawn it?
drawn upon it?
why am i surprised
that a new brand new
situation feels
just the same as the new situations
of before, when i’ve
had so many
that i can picture the the sensation
of my brain?
i’ve made a series of green lines
on a yellow, lined piece
of paper.
i’ve meant to take it
to my shrink for months.
once,
i had it in my purse and
my guts, when i entered,
decided to shrink.
i said
i was fine, and the same,
and i started to drop
the pills that stole my sleep
onto the streets.
it’s helped,
and i’m surprised. and my brain
feels more awake than
any other time
in the past
three
years…
so.
to which part of town
do i go to
from here?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack
A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx
Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles
Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins
Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto
Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
Friends, there are many(I think, I hope). So, to be fair, I will respond with this.
"Stricly an Opinion"
October 20, 2014 8:40a.m.
On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did. Why?
Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!
But that is the core of the HP Family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, with the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.
One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.
We will keep trying.
Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Novice, heed my diction—
The learned, the schooled, the politic,
Are but fools with conviction.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
I was chosen by chance
The moment fate took a bite
The start of my story
Was the end of his life
I felt unworthy and confused
Running farther from the fight
I wasn't scared of the dark
I was more scared of the light
That focused on my failures
Weighed by greater expectations
I was ****** into the web
Of my own frustration
I want to run and hide
Just to escape it all
Forget what fate has given me
All of my fears and all of my falls
This mask that holds a legacy
Wasn't able to mask a novice
Because this suit held a hero
And I wasn't suited for this promise
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
Beware if you don't want to get checked
I am a knightmare
A pawn when you step
My bishops are a big scare
Bishops are unsaintly
Slaying enemies daily
They sacrifice themselves for a higher cause
I'm playing out this game even though I get no applause
You're a novice when you play
I'm Sun Tzu at his best
That means my strategy can withstand the test
can subdue your mind
and in time you'll find
My thinking's not black or white
It's ornery
Never tip my king
Even if you corner me
The rooke is my home,
defense from those who prey on me
My queen is always loyal
Til the end she stays with me
Til the end she lays with me
My mate til mate
Your hand's reaching for the clock
but it's far too late
And so to end this rhyme let me slow the pace
And drop a heavy message in this empty space
Chess club is coming soon
You can learn to play
Room 285
Monday through Thursday
9th period!
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
You stop to point at the moon in the sky,
but the finger's blind unless the moon is shining.
One moon, one careless finger pointing --
are these two things or one?
The question is a pointer guiding
a novice from ignorance thick as fog.
Look deeper. The mystery calls and calls:
No moon, no finger -- nothing there at all.
6.1k
emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you
here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
That night, I stared at the night sky,
Soaked up the stars
Enough to form constellations of my own
And named them after you.
That is the thing about stars,
The more you look
The more you find.
Scars, alike.
Though, I am a novice
In the realm of
Pain and suffering,
I have already understood
The difference between
Papercuts and broken hearts
Chaining souls and holding hands
Flying paper airplanes and shooting darts
Abandonment and negligence.
And for once,
I want to believe in afterlives,
Wishing on shooting stars that are
Confused with fireflies,
If only it was as simple as
The art behind tracing your lips,
Falling asleep to the rhythm of your breath,
Your glinting eyes floating in pools of bliss.
But, we are more than music.
A noise
That beats in our ears;
A scream
That burns our throats.
Of Shattered vintage vases,
Wrecked ships
And sinking boats.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Studying the 'Base', 'Hypotenuse', and 'Height'
of a triangle,
My mind recalls what I witnessed in
that sensual night,
You were like an unconceived mathematical notion,
I a novice in geometry trying to draw a straight line
Of kisses on your shivering body,
How fragile those attempts were,
How lovely to see them fail,
Lying idle on the bed like a base of a building
I lured you to stood high above me,
And your hands pressing my chest as a ladder,
We're affixed like a right-angled triangle
Dizzy, and drunk exploring our area of love.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 1:50 PM UTC
“but if you have to move your best friend’s body…
…you’re on your own.”
Your best friend dies
Before your eyes
Somehow stays alive
Then what?
***** salt-licked hair
Brittle and frayed by medicine
World’s unfathomable weight
Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree
Her whole being crumples (arrugar)
But her life-force remains intact
Body bone
Running on spirit reserves
Why is that?
She stands and cries
Staring into ether
I sit
Wringing my hands
Her tears strike the ground
In tree-gecko unison
'''
Pacific parasite super-strains
Blood coated throat
The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts
for decades
Attempted assaults, ****
Dengue
Giant Centipede venom to the skull
But worst of all
Rootlessness and fear
the monkey on her back
had a monkey on its back
and was smoking a cigarette
'''
Have you ever seen someone
Completely broken?
Corpsic shell of a woman
Gaunt, wan in the tropics
“Don’t put your trust in walls…
…walls will only crush you when they fall”
Brick-bludgeoned body
The shrapnel lay like
Sun scorched
Novice-woven baskets
At her feet
But now she can see
And breath
Real breath
'''
Genocide’s a ***** yes.
Africans seem fatalistic to Americans
Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield
“They’re your babies”
Short-lived, yes
But now they have peace
Witnesses still weave the jungle
What do you do with a friend who’s
Seen real atrocity? Evil?
'''
I’m learning.
Prayer is power
Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.)
She serves realness only
Her seeking hands unweave the sacred
Time is of no luxury right now
Serve people through love
and Grace awaits discovery
'''
I’ve never carried a bleeding body.
I needn’t “fear the terror by night,
Nor the arrow by day”
But I saw someone perish
And resurrect
What a gift
What a gift
Gubaadagem, Tinmad.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
*Her prized first bike
came out of a breakfast cereal competition.
Then sped her around London
from lecture to final examination.
Twenty years on it was replaced
by gleaming white and black carbon.
Bought, lacking in memories
faster, lighter with a baby seat for Bethan.
Fitness, a priority this year
swimming in the pool, open water and the sea.
Clare selected a running coach
cycling home at an ever higher cadence for tea.
Happy, with her performance
in her very first event as a triathlon novice.
A second, saw Clare pedaling faster
to race past fellow competitors with ease.
In her last competition she was pictured lithe
on posters promoting reactive sports glasses.
Winning a new Felt racing bike, seats in the VIP stand
for the Tour de France finish and her fit lasses-ass*.
My congratulations dear hero...
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
Of woman's strength
Feminine emotion
Novice poet of rhyme
Wandering traveler in time
A skilled hunter
I am an outlaw
Choosing not to embrace conformity
Or integrate into the system
Societies matrix
The definition of normal
Existing uneasily on the fringe
Confederate born
Southern bred
I fly my flag with pride overhead
Not out of hate
To represent the heritage of my birth
A scholar
Obscurity is my chosen environment
Connoisseur of the written word
The yellowed paper soon obsolete
These are my many attributions
I will not dispute it
Indeed I am a maze of confusion
In the conscious world
I am a strange combination
All Rights Reserved@ Tammy M Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base Sept. 2013
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
I contemplate these crossings illuminated by clouds
between a shape of thought and its veils
we didn't invent a screen-reality
it was already there, in the scriptorium of mind
I contemplate this geography known only by fingertips
unworded broken lines in tense bodies
I wonder about the lineage of tears, of hopes
how we grow old in this ardour, in the burning of bridges
I nod, I frown at the glaze of time
I move to the center of seeing like a novice
I gaze at the poliphony of being
at our Janus faced trade with flames
I say to myself it's good to decenter the "I" in this poem
however, there is no purity of words
height after height and depth after depth
we betray a simple evidence: we belong to the same air
will we regret our rush towards the malaise of thought,
will we be rowing over the theft of light?
an invisible will is building up, an antifragile declamation,
the soul's defamation
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 3:11 PM UTC
Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.
It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.
The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.
Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.
Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.
Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.
Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.
Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
Don't be fooled.
I don't woo with words.
I don't woo with actions,
Either.
No, I am too much of a novice.
My intention,
Intended,
To release these tensions
Intensified by the cloud
Of tense living.
In tensions with no spa,
No relief,
No massage,
No pedicure,
No manicure
To calm them.
Ever wondered
Who masseurs
The masseuse?
I don't wonder.
I know.
No one.
Intending
To untensify
The tender
Tendencies of
Tenacious living,
The tenders of
Untended flesh
Relieve your tensions
With no intentions
of receiving intended returns.
They take your tensions
With only intentions
To leave you intense
In the freedom of life.
Meanwhile fragile tensions
Tend to rend them,
Causing trouble and strife.
Feel relieved.
They are in tension,
Don't worry about
Giving attention.
You weren't going to anyway.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
A novice
in poetry,
he can color
a young tree,
a sky in the summer,
an ocean,
or even a dancing
emotion.
But pleading
with the daimon
to come sing
to the sparkling
thunder
that would tear
the rusty dome
asunder,
is a different story
altogether.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
One day soon
The choice will come
That this life of mine
Will soon be gone
Doc's tell me
Get things in novice
But we know not
The day, nor hour
Or, of which order
No longer can I keep
The fight going on
With Sarcoidosis
Abusing my lungs
Now my heart
Slowly beats
The body is tired
To take more
Match's to defeat
But my mind
Is not weak
It's clear as day
Hope you get
What I'm trying to say
Not saying I'm giving up
But this spell of Voodoo
Of the disease, that kills
Is taking over
Shorter breathes in between
When I walk or speak
Calling all my Angels
Watching over me
Just let me have
A little more time
With the family
To fight like soldiers
In a desert field
Build me up to bloom
Like a flower
On a Spring mourning hill
What come
What may
Everlasting prayer's
In a whisper
Without fear
I'll take that bow
Just not today
A little bit later
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
I really wish I could better understand myself,
Like be able to reach in, instead of reaching out for help.
I wish my thoughts wouldn't compress on my brain,
Begging to get out, begging to keep me sane.
And I've reluctantly come to notice,
When it comes to life, I'm actually just a novice.
I could pretend to know something about everything,
But in reality, I'm still endeavouring.
To succeed, to achieve,
To figure out what I need.
I struggle in my sea of confusion,
My arms tire as I swim to keep from losing.
How do you know when it’s all done?
When the final fights, fought and the war’s either lost or won.
And you sit there and think of all the things you could've done differently.
“Maybe I could've said something else, or only to a different degree.
The simplest things could change a lot,”
These thoughts always manage to get me distraught.
The mistakes I've made catch me at night,
Where I'm looking for myself, in a room with no light.
It’s hard to say, what I think I'm looking for,
It’s easier to say that I really just don’t know anymore.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
it is done differently - more is not necessary - more of this -
is too much;
the kissing is an exploration - to a polar destination of
virtual whiteness -
to discover more than this. the kissing is not an end in and of itself - but a fjord unexplored leading to what? yes there are many different kinds of kisses - adaptations to a changing terrain - but the face, the face, the face (not just the lips),
the head entire -
is the first battle in a world war where the
opponents strengths and weakness are
literally uncovered and shape the nature of the war of the worlds
yet to come.
more than kissing, it is a speech and an interrogation;
an ********** revelation
of fine lines and small scars, a writing of a history, a history that existed unbeknownst to the explorer and thus interesting and dangerous - a history composed in a different time and place and almost in a vacuum - for kissing is impactful - outlines of footsteps on never before trodden lanes - but who prepared these paths in advance of my arrival, and was my arrival forecast or just imagined?
first time kissing oft portrayed as excited glee - but this is a grievous error - a wild display of wasted resources - it is not to meant to be pesky single shots of damp I was here where next? it is a drawing, nay, a sculpting of map to be reproduced in limited quantity for only the map rooms of the greatest museums.
each individual kiss is more than an act, but a marker
connecting the previous
to the future next -
exactly a map drawn by an explorer - meant to be shared with others who love history, discovery and women creatures.
be wary of unmarked crevasses and pools where
no one has measured the depth -
novice sailors without proper charts upon unfamiliar faces -
too oft drown or are somehow sail as lost forever.
but the notion of being the first, even if you are not the first,
is so intoxicating
for the brainstorming it provokes - the envisioning of
more than kissing but of unlocking
a new nature, creating a creation born in the intersection of two waters - where fresh waters joint the brine of the ocean -
and there are untold different kinds of waters and no two terrains though similar - are ever exactly the same.
here does my entry in my log - my journal - end - though the notation of than
is comparative and therefore unending.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC