"prosody" poems
‘LOVE’ – What mystique power it wields
In what myriad guise it wraps!
At times a sweet ache so coy to reveal
Or a sudden urge, hard to unveil
Sometimes a deep sensation
A strong surge of emotion
Permeating every atom
Pervading from top to bottom
It heightens the pulse
And makes every nerve convulse
It has left kingdoms fall asunder
And many a mighty man - surrender
Often, like dew drops falling from above
Or the warbling notes flowing out from the grove
It leaves the heart go upbeat in prosody
Changing every sensation into rhapsody
As beams of silver cast by the moon
Or the cold touch of spray in the horrid heat of noon
It soothes, embalms and thrills the heart
Filling the void and leaving no dearth
Love sublime, sure like a candle lit
Consumes itself, and never dwindles a bit
It dispels the gloom and dissipates the fright
Invigorating the soul and healing every hurt
As brilliance to stars, fragrance to flowers
Music to flute or shade to bowers
Love is to Man, freeing him from all sores
Bestowing him the strength to meet all throes
Love can neither be beguiled nor disguised
Nor be stifled or be construed
Love puts all other things into place
And hems life with a lovely lace
Love is all we seek and too scarce to find
A magic thread by which hearts are bound
Hark! It is love that makes the world spin around
And cures all the ills that surround
Oh! Love thou virtues I will defend
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Some may consider you a pagan god
But you are the most handsome lord
You are blue in colour
And are invincible in valour
You reared the cattle
But led a pierce battle
You are the darling of shepherd women
And you are undoubtedly supra human
You play the flute with divine melody
No poet can extol your musical prosody
You are a thief of butter
No one can describe you better
Like Jesus you were born in a cattle shed
Your divine word the whole world spread
You are most romantic and highly philosophic
You are beyond the purview of any religious critic
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
The movement of speech,
speaking swiftly with eloquence
alliterative, quixic, elloqution,
enunciation, pitch, tone, intensity,
sensivity, proper, and evident,
prosody, and brilliant speaker,
followed by a brilliant speech,
we all would love to listen to
a great idea. Or write down
the secrets to success, to pay
bills and not get hit on by voodoo.
I heard them lye, lie, and then lie.
Lye like ***** hands needing soap.
Lie like there are no stars ever in the sky.
Lie like in bed with a ghost,
and then a ******* mindful of racists
with a passing grade for the bar exam
treated the 3 above outstanding resources
to the trinity to tell us to work with an Oath.
The availability to be independant is a solvency
to a cross examination, and the property of freedom
is a handsome reward if you can pry open the
jar of Trinity. We wanted a badass to be the President
and I know, that we just might get what we ask for.
Remember to study your own favorite poets
a dedication to a life in the fast lane of the
most Amazing manner of all time.
We may just be the newest monastery in the world.
So when we all say something, like all 7 billion of us.
We GET it.
DO NOT F&%^$^$ TOUCH ME, EVER! Lol.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt two fingers twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
Sibylline is my palimpsest,
Immured in prosody,
I am a lascivious raconteur,
Bedizened with fecundity.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
HELLO POETRY is the best poetic site in the world
It allows the poets to disseminate their magical word
Which flies like an ever flying and everlasting bird
Whose beautiful and delightful wings does it spread
Camille Frick is a linguistic wonder
Chris is a literary and poetical wonder
Yelena M is a musical rhythmic beauty
Reading which is my professional duty
Rue is somewhat naughty
But in her hearts of hearts she is a sweety
Neva Flores is a poetic muse
Whose poetry I involuntarily choose
I am happy to be a member of this prosody club
Our creativity revolves round this magnetic hub
We are indebted to this wonderful web
Writing poetry is a kind of hubbub
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 4:28 AM UTC
There are days where the world makes me draw a blank, where nothing fits and all I do is think all ropes struck split-ended and torn no paths cross no links and certainly no endings. A trail begins and the hill drops down steeply low below my groans and moans of pain and distraught - I'm forced to appeal, to let them go. Jump! Jump! And I draw a blank.
Sometimes nothingness stares back at me; looming over me and my thoughts - overbearingly present consuming my mind until there's nothing left but this stark stinging sound scratching in my ear
I’m forced to itch an itch I can’t reach; unfulfilled and tense I’m annoyed and aggravated, in agony and anguish.
These days, which seem to last weeks, cut deep into the abyss of my memories;
who I was supposed to be. A dull glow of an image I traced in my mind steadily peering over my hollow body haunting all the squeaks and creaks of my joints.
I'm spooked by my naked brain bubbling pointless noise.
I lay lazily through my creepy trance as vines that held me tight debunk from my nerves. Painfully they un-tie my paralysis and I let my lungs pound the roof of my mouth with ghastly chokes of cursed air. Hours of mindless screeching.
I'm free!
My breath eases up
and my soul finally gets to explore
the deep universe I see
when closing my eyes.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 1:10 AM UTC
Counting down the years brings me affliction. Your name, voice and remembrance ain't dwindling. Your memories are stirred in my soul like a principal necessity that builds up a body. The difference is I am perhaps not growing but just adhere to past, to you, in your silhouette. Everyday I try your number with a hope of 'Hello' which is a hallucination in a mirage. But it never dies. It never kills my fingers to run back to you, even though it is mere starless. Letting others know about you led me to this point in life that I regret trusting the idiom 'blessing in disguise ' into human personification. I have enveloped you anonymously in my words that the world will never know till it ends. And that you are so much safe now. But very, very sadly rescued after losing you. Alive in prosody.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC
There’s a sick, sad little space
between tea spoons and midnight
where the teeth on your fingertips chatter
and the ink in your forearm prattles on
about which bone you’re going to pull out this time
and how your chapped lips taste like poetry
but your dry eyes can’t bend around the prosody
and it’s in that space that my clothes turned into feathers
and flew away with the *****
the one that pipes out those same four chords
and tempered breath made into rotting elephants on sale
but the bazaar called for more than just pennies
and I don’t think my cough medicine blinks enough
to make this dance hall stop spinning
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
There is a change to the
rhythm of the light
Is it something about the leaves?
Changing from green to golden red
Or a pencil line of black
edging the flowers petals.
The untimely change of an end
In the summer weather
chilling winds
Frosted air bringing lace curtain
Crystals to the kitchen windows.
You had been as cold
As this to me of late.
I have craved your warmth
to the point
of leaving you like the summer
was leaving us now....
But I walked into the kitchen
And you smiled at me at last.
Lifting me up your arms
Light as the laced frost.
Holding onto me as tight as the
tangled clematis in our garden.
And the prosody of emotions
Colored my heart
like a kaleidoscope.
At last I thought
Poetry that I can understand.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC
Many words, so many words, are passing through this place.
Broken latin, mesonic virtues, old english lymricks,
ancient jewish pronuciation fliting phenomenal prosody.
Life as all the proper words begin to shape this grandly
generous thought of commendation. Roots, roods, rudentary
lauded buy more spies. The plura, fauna, Jane Does and Rae Me's,
fosil laute... prose.
En angle', in english, Angles and Jutes, as the rapier, pugio gladius,
a bloodless synopsis, a canon, feathered conical lye.
Sui-hsing chide us naught for German and German's is to Chinese is Tzun Zoo Choo Yen see. Their angels roll away stones, here men open doors, women pointe out stars to fight the bold, Oui Ye.
Write two poems at once, or lie. Write three poems at once, or lie.
Oh, yea we write three...
poethree. Oui Ye, Oye yea, O thee poets... we right thee.
Austerity, Whiterby, Bastoniwa,... Red Socks and resident bee.
Add comments, if Any.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game
Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse
I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee
Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink
Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best
But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend
For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
Do you see me?
I’ve been devouring poetry,
by the line,
by the page,
by the book.
No poem has been overlooked.
I’ve been feasting
on free verse,
blank verse,
perverse
cascades
of stanzas and rhymes,
a banquet of words
on which to dine.
I’ve been swallowing ad nauseam,
scarfing down similes,
masticating metaphors,
gormandizing poems aplenty.
Rhyming couplets,
I’ve contained them.
Sonnets and epics,
ingested.
Lyrical odes,
digested.
A thousand lines
to make you swoon.
I’ve tasted them all—
the potent and
the picayune.
Villanelles, check.
Sestinas too.
I even hiccupped
my own haiku:
Icicles melt on glazed gutters.
Water drips, prolific, bits of sunlit seeds
promising lilacs below the eaves.
Do you see me?
I hate to ask, but I’m afraid
something poetic has happened.
my head is a tureen
brimming with stars
my arms are utensils
in a darkened drawer
my chest, a room of last resort
my feet are stressed, in short
Such prosody is blinding.
Can you tell me why
my eyes are bleak?
Or why I no longer
blink?
I sense the sear of fluent tears
composing on my cheek:
endless drops, black beads,
consumptive stains of ink.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
planned schizoid prosody perchance
post-haste a Pastoral providence
psychotic pathos that infects please,
the permanence of the promise
praise the Prometheus stealing
the flame
against the will of Zeus feeding
the fire of man:
proffer in the remaining pursuit
of posting in a poetical
perchance.Pursue!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
I left for a few minuta
detail
wrote poetry all the way
to essex, my belle the enigma landing
and lost all of the words that proved
i was commiting treason.
and again I left for a minute
had no ideas what to write
i am the worlds first poet.
Like great with a lower
case G.
Any word, 7 or more languages
forward or backward.
prodigy, prosody, prodisy or is it odeseyus
he fell down flat on his back
wanting to know who c. reeves tucked in
before the C4 explosion.
and I Cobak can tell you that
WE are here, in the Star Wars book
bith bounty hunting earthworms for fish hooks.
i write all day seas less lee.
as praetorian Helmet.
wehttam
I love our web page. Just keep writing. We will never read all of the poets.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Finding seed in fibers needed for the humming bird robe.
Thread twisted so,
fine fine fine,
sof-ein
my point in the twisting tale
The book my culture arose from
knowing any rose is a rose.
thank you, Gert,
this book, the book, our culture- global
post
the elec'ric link to steam and steel
and cotton picking
through
assembly line guns, before automobiles, by Ford.
Yes, as an aside, who saw
- pause the prosody, break the lines
- goto .7 speed
- or bullet speed if you know the idea
As handspinners, we indulge our senses with each new yarn that is spun.
From <https://spinoffmagazine.com/a-practical-guide-to-ginning-cotton-by-hand/>
As handspinners,
we indulge our senses
with each new yarn that is spun.
We are entranced and soothed
as our eyes watch the twist travel through the fiber.
We fluff, stretch,
and tug it into every possible yarn configuration
and enjoy that therapeutic zen
that comes with it.
Ginning your own cotton by hand
adds another layer
of bliss
to the spinning experience.
At a glance,
we just pluck seeds
from a nest
of fiber.
You’ll want
to work methodically
in order
to save time and leave your fiber
as lofty
as possible after ginning.
Understanding how the seeds are organized
within a cotton boll and using the best technique
for the variety
of cotton that you have makes the handginning process go much easier.
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 2:22 PM UTC
Let scarlet feathers go
as love does exiled too
One hundred leagues
One hundred Roman feet
One hundred prosody
For Augustus' dreams
condemns me treacherously
and I cannot breathe
Each gasp for life is death
Each death a new stanza
Let scarlet feathers go
as love does in exile, too
across white cloudy fields
beneath the asphalt sea
Let scarlet feathers go free
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 7:08 PM UTC
Shadows of agonies
blunt and frozen
in icy-memories
Espousal’s the dusk
not to bewail of sunflowers falling
rather a celebration of blooming of water lilies
upon the dawn of moon
to kiss infinite stars on the sky.
You may write it down in the history
as some bohemian’s rhapsody.
Oh oh! Thy fellow being
It’s not just, just prosody
It’s the Buddha Poornima
Day of emancipation from all illusions
Beacon of enlightenment
Under the Bodhi tree
When the young Siddhartha
Was deeply moved
After seeing the four passing sights
It’s the concept of acquiescence
to unfold the truth, to unwrap life
of living a moment fully.
Letting go is the divine flow
Of the rivulet called life
For go ego, jealousy, hatred and all sufferings
Nurture and nourish the saplings and seeds
Of love, peace and joy.
Letting go means to be chivalry
With time, nature and with all beings
to flow with the flow simply
like a serene brook in its own rhythm.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
He is **** writer
She is scarcely clad inciter
Writer stumbles along
scanning her song
For words to add to his poem
Songstress pretends not to notice
adjectives he steals
thieving glance at his heals
All marauding spinning wheels
Prosody ‘o orthography blow him
plethora a plush collusion
exile of garment illusion
each sit across room
She ties ribbon to bloom
this ribbon runs through typewriter
Who will be inciter?
presume it is not Jeroboam
****** be this poem
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
_Handcuffed politely to the bedpost of his inspiration,
he is optimistic that this time the limits
of self-imposed constraint will be breached, if not brutalised entirely.
~
‘Don Quixote’ - a whimper of metaphor;
‘DoN QuiXoTE’ - a rush of chiming vowels;
’DON QUIXOTE’ - a panic of ecstatic prosody.
~
Ignoring his aching wrists
and with imagination unfettered,
he reaches for paper and pen, and begins._
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
My mind is locked I've writers block
My song won't come, it can't be done
There's no recipe for my melody
Nothing resonates or motivates
Theres no cohesion
no rhyme and no reason
No reason in my rhyme
So I visit that great dreaming place
It infiltrates and illuminates
The sleeping, brings me meaning
Its where I belong, I find my song
It's a remedy for my melody
But its a parody
no rhyme and no reason
No reason in my rhyme
Ideas abound, but their not profound
My point of view is a little askew
But my prosody has some clarity
If I just redefine my paradigm
Words are freedom
no rhyme and no reason
No reason in my rhyme
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker
~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~
my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically
unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt,
spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key,
worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too?
He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated,
helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated,
woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha,
poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average
everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices
howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time”
alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll
go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock
the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too
to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems
everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that!
harrumph!
BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
might I better feel in prosody
defined by iambic pentameters
or weight of a dactyl or spondee
stress patterns or
a sequence of feet
or is my line enough
a pattern qualifying through
or is emphasis
too often stressed as following
the pattern
of the compulsory
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
(warm)th, (gold)en
skin, a canvas for parody
warm(th), gold(en)
temperate air of melody
twists the tidal antibody
towards bowing phrase of prosody
(war)mth, gol(den)
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 7:34 PM UTC
Expression of all the
man ick. Too much
to seem rancid.
The plan, you seem
humble. Horses
at gate, are anxious
to the free.
Tie to me, the ties.
To much poetry
means prosody.
Speechless in every
picture, find a sweet
bowl of a cereal. A muse
so benovlent, find
at least a numbered
of meek. When then
are we to subdude, by
loving reason
to true. Talking much
due to treason, longing
such for Summer's season.
And fire flies, to my eyes
due lye, the colour
of sea foam
green. Here or there
misanthrope do these
same beings
at a glance
ask for shooting stars
to prance across
my movie screen
The Milky Way.
Do or dame
and esta' blush,
this bill of rights.
So they say,
He that hateth
my father
hateth me
also. So dude,
let us make
clowns of us all
and teach
the proper way to
throw a star across
the galaxy.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC