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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Gidgette May 2017
String pickers,
violinists
Poets
Bad Boys
The lot of you
We fall in Love
with you
a thousand times a day
We listen to your songs
poems
Voices,
over and over
Common thread in crystals
cloud bursts of feeling
that you each sharpen
daily
You
Bad Boys Of Poetry
You
cut we
black butterflies
and
dark diamond
poetesses
daily,
hourly
We butterfly bats
dance,
sing
write!
Yet,
you
Bad Boys Of Poetry
Still
Lie, there in
to your ownselves,
and say
"No one loves me,
I'm alone
Forgotten"
Well,
No.
We each see
as we wish
Pluck your strings!
Sing your songs!
But know,
you're LOVED
A thousand times a day
By black butterflies
and dark diamonds

Poetesses
~only a poetess
A
I can't begin to list you all. But Sir wca(Joshua), Fixative(My pan) Frais de(my sunny) Pagan Paul, Light House(my trey), Temperal Fugue(my Sidd), Natieve Son, Wordvango, Traveler(my Tim).
My bad boys of poetry, you are loved and adored. Thank you. I'd give you all a heart if the new format allowed it;)
Jayantee Khare Jan 2018
Lost in the city
United by poetry

Online friends
Things which trends

Few find their soulmate
Others find a friend great

Here found one with like mind
Maybe past lives were entwined

Great to have a tea with her
Heartfelt talks heartful together

A grand date with a poetic soul
Who is assigned the divine role

We will catch up again surely
Another meet to be planned shortly!
Met Sarita Aditya Verma today....thnx hp for letting us find each other......
~
April 2023
HP Poet: Sarita Aditya Verma
Age: 47
Country: India

Question 1: We are so happy you could be a part of this, Sarita. Tell us how long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Sarita Aditya Verma: "I have been writing for the last six years (19th October 2016), that was the first time ever I wrote to express myself. I have been a member and have posting here at Hello Poetry since December 2016. This is the only place where I share my words, sometimes a copy of the same with friends who are willing to read. Hello Poetry has been my sacred space, I feel blessed to be here."


Question 2: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Sarita Aditya Verma: "Nature has inspired me forever, be it rain, sunshine, trees or the blooming flowers. The length and breadth of vivid times and emotions. I usually write about the experiences in life, as I lightly observe around. Sometimes it could be a photograph, a painting or even my morning walk. In general, the geometry of life and the rainbow that shines. That’s how poetry happens to me."


Question 3: What does poetry mean to you?

Sarita Aditya Verma: "Poetry is one of the best experiences in my life. It has given me a sense of belonging, a space which is totally mine, brought in a lot of clarity, and words have set me free. 'Sometimes poetry, mostly life, unwritten quotes destiny shall write'- is what I believe in."


Question 4: Who are your favorite poets?

Sarita Aditya Verma: "I have been a science student, and haven’t had much exposure to literature/poetry in my graduation years. So it would be unfair to quote any of the greats here! Robert Frost and Mark Twain are the ones whose works I have enjoyed reading in school. The rest, most of my reading and learning experience, has been at Hello Poetry - from the many great poets and poetesses who share their wonderful work here, and I am grateful for that."


Question 5: What other interests do you have?

Sarita Aditya Verma: "One of my other interests is photography, I love the geometry of the subject- it’s all about angles and curves, and right moments to capture. I am drawn to nature and street photography. I am still into the process of exploring and acquiring the skills. I also enjoy listening to upbeat music :)"


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much, Sarita! We are really excited to add you to this spotlight series.”

Sarita Aditya Verma: "Thank you so much Carlo, for interviewing me here. I truly enjoyed the questions and am eager to know about and read from other contributors at Hello Poetry :)"



Again thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Sarita a little bit better.
– Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #3 in May!
~
Below are Sarita's favorite poems of hers and links to each one:

Bonding Free:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2943925/bonding-free/

The Words:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2704113/the-words/

Boundless Love:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2367490/boundless-love/

MastMaula:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2442476/mastmaula/

My Dear Poetry:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2331828/my-dear-poetry/

Recycle:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2028389/recycle/

Sharing the links to some of my older poems, hope you like them :)

Thanks and regards,
Sarita 🙏
Edward Sep 2019
Poets life without you all would be depressing.
Life without your beautiful works of art here.
Would be even more depressing and sad too.
For you always brighten my day very much.
You always touch a place in my heart deeply.
I would really miss you very much Poets too.
The same for you Poetesses , your words.
Run deeply and heal my aching heart here.
Your words become an huge band-aid too.
You all have touch my heart Poets and Poetesses.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
every time i hear a poetess cite this subject i never think of Sappho, but i ought to, these are poetesses that really want the hetero realm to remain intact - it's heart-breaking to hear a woman say these words - you end up being the third party transformed into the second party and she the Echo to your momentarily engaged with Narcissus - the third party makes the frank gesture to compensate the open heart of the poetess... o.k., let's funk the **** like mimes touching invisible doors... an overly stimulated society in terms of *** when there are apparently too many people, or the evolutionary zenith fro category mammal to category insect is backfiring on us individually - and as science fiction predicted, we are telepathically ******* each other senseless, just like the aliens we've become on this planet, momentarily sober when an earthquake, a tsunami... a terrorist attack... otherwise there's been no attempt to for the military to become active dispersing a tsunami with bombs (Better Bombing Syria), or harnessing lightning (some sort of incubator magnet) - well, i have seen a girl get spat on in the face... you think i considered my mother being diagnosed as o.c.d. with help of specialists? i just get the feel for the place - not out of spite... the cats haven't had their nails clipped for a month... they're not petrified by the vacuum cleaner every day... they've become sort of abstract animate art... when the male castrato sings an opera before bedtime i become a nervous wreck... the beauty of the silence during the day, pretends to be a dog barking at night left out in the garden... even though he's inside on the windowsill in the toilet, and i'm on my windowsill in the bedroom smoking a cigarette.*

this poem just makes me think one thing:
so what's the problem
with female genital mutilation if
*** is nothing more than a conversation
between a mantis and her mate
rather than Zeus and Hera?
that's what it sounds like - ****'s sake -
i'm not that into Robert Frost
and Simon & Garfunkel to match-up
a counter argument for a need to talk in bed -
my grandparents slept like French kings -
each to his own separate beds -
one went to the other for the jelly-bean babies -
and when did the unrestrained
Oedipus complex become a debate on
mortgages with that famous: still living with
his mum - economics - not psychology -
the popularity of some theory always ends up
some macabre populist interpretation
by the better off, marginalisation of realism -
oh, here comes Sartre - you should ask him...
still living with my father -
and because of this i've made kangaroo jumps -
the atmosphere in the house is... serene...
the only female presence is a cat -
(she's away tending to her mother, another month
to glee in bliss) -
the house is cleaned only once a week, the food is made,
i just learned she could very well be diagnosed
with o.c.d. - does this look like Norman Bates
scenario to you? let me tell you, a woman with
o.c.d. can be worse than a woman with
h.i.v. - obviously i'm exaggerating -
i allow my father conversation about Irish fascists
on construction sites (foremen) - Irish fascists...
Irish fascists... leprechaun fascists... LEPRECHAUN FASCISTS!
she just tells him to keep it on the building site -
i'm more supportive of my end as homeless in a forest
than in a cosy home with a woman.
Graff1980 May 2015
I like to love her from a distance
My dear daylight poet
The sunspot
So **** hot
Tan skin
And spectacles
Smirky smile
Deep intelligence
With a certain spiritual resonance
Pulls me from the pit of despair
With her deep thoughts and kind airs
Twisting language to wondrous purposes

I like to love her from a distance
Letting her dark words wash over me
Inspire the higher functions of my creative brain
Unshackling me from the dullness of society
Inducing, immersing, and freeing me to see the beauty
In the horror of our descriptive language
Pale skin dark hair piercing eyes of creative Fury
A cold fire that inspires desire and respect

Two angels of a sort
Ying and yang light and dark
Sitting on my shoulder
Even when I say
That they are tucked away
From a safe distance
So I can love them
From within
From their words first
Watch their beauty burst
Like bloated rainbows
Breaking beams
Shooting mercilessly
Piercing me
To set me free
Not lustily
But as fellow poetic human beings
Whom I will never meet in person
When my poems trend
How do they trend
Liked and loved
Lovely comments

Oh the perceptions
And my replies
Love them all

I post ,
Poets and poetesses
Friends
Do the reposts
Oh wow ,
I love the
Merry go Round

And then
The poem shines
On the front page

Alas !!!!
Graded yes Graded
Don't like that at all
A Big Sigh

As it's Snakes and ladders
All the time
And then comes
The great slide
Wow !!!
what a smooth ride
down the ramp
Zoom ....... it slips down

By the time I check
It's like Humpty Dumpty
Had a great fall
And ................,,,,
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty
Lol Lol Lol .........

Oh I did love the
Merry go Round
Yet the slide ride down
Wasn't bad  at all
ShamusDeyo Feb 2015
Silken Tongue Poets eschew the Pedantic
Masters of Imagination Create Fantastic
Poets of Masterly Craft and Imagery
Like Don Bouchard, Joe Cole and Me
Wolf spirit aka quinfinn also added in
These poets and More, will Proclaim
That Mastery of Imagination Can Reign
Tales will be told, of times of Old
Poets will take you to Magical Places
Among the treasures you will find Gold
Poetesses will spin tales of Love and Woe
And you might even meet a UFO
Poets will Stumble From Irish Pubs
For Deeds of Valantry Knights be Dubbed
Or Stars May Fall from the Universe
The Craft and Mastery will be diverse
So this is your invitation to our World of Creation
By Artisans of the Craft and the Masters of Imagination,

A  Collection for the Masters of Imagination,
The True Craftsmen of the Arts.
Come see where Imagination Shines...Shamus
SilkenTongue Poets........ A Treasure Chest of Talent

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Dear poets and poetesses

Easy way out.
~~
To have an evangelist
Girl friend boy friend
Is the best thing that
ever happened to many.
of us
Because men and women
often cheat undercover
they find each other out.
They pray confess cry yell and
even faint backwards.
In church and at home,
making up forgiving
each other
And there blame it all
to Satan the devil.
Diligently so,
they invite others
door to door asking
for donations
to get others to do the same, in the name of Jesus
So there we have it religion.
~~~
Mr and Mrs Andrews
And Karijinbba.
https://youtube.com/shorts/af-FXMK6VEs?si=0HRJaC-ulxIJUcRq
Karijinbba May 2021
Cold twisted and icy
meandering slides.
are my enemies alone
on their down and out,
this my poetesses domain.
Enjoy your own slippery
slimy ***** cliff ride down.

Lately a very confused entity
paid to keep me busy writing
back while being intimately
intrusive has failed.
A snake in my old flame's
paradise or my kid's world.
Arranged to distract me again
from my true love's path
agreed upon eons prior.

I can intuit a fools intentions
and did cut that naga off soon.
I love on free will alone.
not fooled to play games
In the name of love.
I don't care for pimps lures.
~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights reserved 1954-2021-
present.
I return to you all
your arrows ball of fire
you sent me with undying
unending deadly force.
Give you back only
your eye for an eye
as company
for your new boom trips
Karijinbba Aug 2020
love is not killed
in good byes
It yields freedom
to a loved one
unable to communicate
with one on one chat,
since no matter
how great the ink
writ' may be
that makes a script
holy good
the face to face
spoken voice
is key heart clue to win
a loved one back

Have the courage to yield
set the loved one free
If loved one returns
for Go** sakes
speak up ask for help
feel worthy
grab your treasure

Above all know
when NOT to yield
write of love pain
sacrifice your truth
spill your heart
to your loved one
timely don't wait
tomorrow
might be too late.

Fight for lost
and love found
chance returns
For ink may last longer
as truth to scripts
in poetry
their poet poetesses
may long be gone
~~~~~~~~
By;Karijinbba
Copy Rights revised 08-2020
to love is better than to hste
Tryst Jan 2015
HP maidens, poetesses,
Scribes refined in frocks and dresses,
Silver words and golden tresses
Fall upon your page.
With your slender painted fingers,
Tell the tales your hearts would bring us,
Let the marching bands and singers
Take you to the stage.
Have no fear of failing,
With your words regaling,
All the seeds of mighty deeds
And heady heights you're scaling;
With your thirst for love and sharing,
Let your trumpet sound it's blaring,
Tell it bold and tell it daring,
You are all revered!
Joe Cole "write about a friend" challenge.
Written to the tune of "Men of Harlech".
I couldn't write about just one HP poetess, so I wrote about them all.
Mairie Rosina Dec 2014
“Whose heart was breaking for a little love”*
L.E.L
  
Poetesses of old
How I wish that I could fold
You all in my arms –
You who suffered for your art,
Were never recognised or prized,
But who spun lyrics of
Ardour, wit and truth,
Anguish, love and ruth.
It brings tears to my eyes
To think of your lonesome demises;
But your legacy lives on –
Through your pain you made us strong,
Soothed us and moved us
As we perused your
Versified versions of life;
So I thank you
Christina Rossetti,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Letitia Elizabeth Landon –
For when you were told to do nought
You must have sat down and thought
You were worth more than
Motherhood and chores and
So you wrote and you rhymed;
In short, I am inspired.
John F McCullagh Dec 2013
I just want to wish a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow poets and poetesses  here on Hello Poetry.  this site has given me a forum that I appreciate, surrounded by so much talent and such good people.
Ramana Tandra Jan 2019
Ye
Poets and poetesses
Ye
mothers
.
If not
How could I be in your family
.
How fortunate I am!
You put me in your laps
As I am your kid
.
I am fed with your words
Sothat I can make my heart glow
.
You taught me
How to swim
Sothat I reach the shore
Of the ocean of poetry
.
I am proud of
Being a drop among you
.
And you tolerated
My infantile poems
How commiserate you are!
.
To console my pain
I look forward
To see where you are
To see what you are
.
Ye
Poets and Poetesses
Don't ignore me
I am your kid
Jor For Aug 2016
Billy Shakes: poetry! Tis nothing but the product of vile fantasy, a pox on art and the cogitation of righteous men.

Billy Wordsy: And though with poetesses I often lie, my hate of the poem I cannot descry

Em Dicksdaughter: i had no time for,--
Poetry as once I thought--
Words puzzling leads to nought--

Langs Huwed: when you see words on a pa-
Ge I will kindly ask misters and misses that they remember MY work. My so-
Ng. That the workers may not write ... to the weary sax toon of fanatic reds.

Sylvie Path:a shock of light Pierces an empty **** coach corpse
Flowers shudder at the thought of the hateful word: Poetry

DD Goings: a poet slapped my(****** whole )face once and i(neverlikingpoetry) strapped him with dynamite.
Just a writing exercise to try and shake the dust and rust
Jamie L Cantore May 2018
is the title of my latest book. It is a compilation of strictly English poets dating back to the 1800's. My favorite writer William Shakespeare is not included because I wanted a theme of writers living around the same time as one another. It includes the works of brilliant English writers such as William Wordsworth, his dear friend Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge,  Alfred Lord Tennyson, and John Keats. It is written in the original true English fashion, back when the word proved rhymed with loved and wasn't just a sight ryhme. I plan on compiling another book of strictly my favorite poetesses such as Emily Dickinson, Plath, and the like. The Kindle edition is priced at $7, but like my other books I'll probably run it for free for a few days for promotional purposes. The paperback is priced at $6.25 and is not eligible for free promotional offers.
Tommy Jackson Jan 2016
Happy new year poet fantasizers
Happy new year poet writers!
Happy new years to those who know no years.
Never get old, throw away the old mirrors!
Happy new years,
Poet's and poetesses.
Let your writes be rocking invites
For hugs and poetic kisses.
nivek Aug 2015
challenged all the way to the grave
to love over hate
contribute to peace over hostility
this the responsibility of all
yes, even you, poet and poetesses
every word from a heart of silence
speaking a language contrary
to the latest snaking news reels
fragile and lonesome as that may seem

It was a lovely morning and the day,
Special, my son’s 16th birthday
Happy and busy with the preparations
But there was something amiss
Couldn’t put my hand or heart on
The day was fine, but by evening there were signs, sickness crept up its way

An out of this world experience
My jumpy heart raced between its place and fist, and the pulse on my wrist
Devoid of any feeling, my fingers numb

The lungs screamed
To be left alone, in silence  
With the painless calm
And the pain, unseen

The chaos outside was too much to bear
My heart weakened by the deafening noise
Wanted this break, from some, I prayed
Believe it or not, god listened to my prayer

Fear disillusioned
Too many places, invited
Never the one to travel
At loss, amidst the chaos

I felt a deep pull
In the eyes of my husband and children
They wanted me to be fit and fine
The other side allured me, twice
In my mind, I swayed on both the sides

I remembered the words and faces of my ageing parents
I knew they would be worried
Parents, never fail you
Wise and old, they have great advice

To stay safe from, I tried, but couldn’t
The virus and I took head on
Single combat, the family safe
No more on the battleground
Self isolation done

Home isolation worked well for me
Locked in my room, with the windows facing the road, my days, alone, duly spent
The room lights on during the nights
Been longing for a break since March
Albeit, in a beach resort

Music has the power to heal
Takes you to places, language free
Pre booking, no requisites
My quarantine sojourn complete

Physically I could be weak
But mentally I am strong
With infinite hope and love of the family
Yes from the clutches of the virus
Came back alive, I survived

If words could speak for themselves
Then they are best, written
Spoken, they are sinusoidal
Unless, the wavelengths match

Thank you so much, my dear friends at Hp
My family of poets and poetesses
For reading my words and sharing yours
It’s always home here, I reckon


🌿🌿
It tend to bare my heart here, thanks for bearing with me on HP :)
Was sick since August 26th, now quite fine

My symptoms were moderate
The medication, rest and writing,  together worked as a therapy :) 🙏

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