"versified" poems
Wondrous whirling worlds of words
Wander away.
Smooth musical tunes from the Muses melt my mind
And make my heart go boom.
Sunny sylvan scenes ****** my soul.
In a simmering silence
Broken only
By birdsong.
It starts with simple wordplay,
Toying with those letters
Until some magic kicks in.
Visions of versified viewscapes
Mess with my head.
Eureka moments marching across the mountains
Of my brain like screaming Banshees.
So thus a poem is born
From seemingly idle play.
Those words are worked again
And posted here
To brighten the reader’s day.
Paul Butters
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
I am depressed.
It happens once in a while.
I can see it coming.
Like dark clouds reaching my piece of the sky.
They roll and thicken and cover the entire sky.
Distant thunders and pale lightnings peep through them.
I suffocate and long for a rain.
Oh how I wish the rain just splash out of it.
And wash away all the anguish with it.
I love that rain!
Rain of my own tears.
And the relief after the rain.
Like meek sunrays slowly spreading in.
Some tell me to fight it off.
Some tell me to pray it off.
Some tell me to work it off.
Some tell me to sleep it off.
Some tell me to write it off.
Oh! but the ecstacy is to cry it off!
For little they all know about my anguish.
I have tried in vain to explain and sealed it in.
Like the drop of rain in the oyster of my heart.
One day it was destined to turn into a pearl.
Behold! My beautiful pearl!
My Anguish!
Finally versified!
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
when Noah told god,
He, was gonna save the world,
from his **** flood
(the sorry storybook, in fact, got it wrong),
god mystified, Noah well versified
how he was agonna do it,
the man with the plan
how to salve the world
two by two,
Noah replied, and that's not lied,
see below, see below,
two poems,
sorta side by side,
but not
read down, across, whichever
One Two
starts two, is multiplication,
one X two equals two
one boy one girl,
or girl whatever,
needs you, one boy
get a room, in an arc.
everybody just get a room
no god, universal remote
one tongue, inside you,
misinformation, miscue negation,
miscommunication, no care about divides,
miscegenation, the house rules,
black asian even, white, red and blue.
got wolves, deer, making hay
got The Eagles, with The Beatles
sleeping with the, gone feral, loving
zebras, the lambs,
bunk mates, making the cutest babies.
everybody's singing, we can work it out
even the cats, the dogs,
lovers of the K-nine, loving them feline sea lions,
and now everybody loves the snakes for their
long tongues, physical abilities and the resulting
****** prowess.
enough of this two by two **** were a bad divinity idea
to begin with. Everybody get a room, learn to fit,
whatever parts you got, just stick 'em in.
The Hunans I had to segregate, cause they be another type.
but whoopee if the white boys can't get enough black love,
the asians explaining the karma sutra and the Eskimos are curling their toes,
yada yada how come when it comes to *** everbody loves the other side.
When all were aboard, Noah got a beer, and said I sure hope there is some football on tv, cause everybody loves football.
If anybody sees a zebra striped pigeon, give me a holla!
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
its four-thirty-a-m and i've thought up some thoughts,
with the inspiring aid of too many shots.
and on what should my facebooking-eye soon alight,
but the dismal reminder that tonight is tonight?
oh, it seems it's your birthday, even while you snore,
and rigidly, it's your birthday, even though i'm poor,
and it remains your birthday (though i wish it wer'n't),
as there's no worse day for a birthday than current.
your birthday falls on a least halcyon of days,
a day like all days and undeserving of praise.
the only thing that july ever did well
was birthing my darling (from the depths of hell).
[and making me a versified cheater/
by ******* around with my lyrical meter]
alack, alas, i'm poor as ****
so i'll hand you these stanzas and that is it,
borne of the gods and holy writ,
my gift to you: my sparkling wit.
[essentially, i just promised an empty box/
but whatevs. you can **** all my figurative---]
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
*He smokes to live
for dying soon
But he never was drawn
the creed on death
How life becomes dark essence
staring at the moonlit night
watching from over the sunshine
He thinks in distortion
walks on delusion
sleeps with the obsession
He lives in anarchy hallucination
He sings for true love
but love could never hold him last
He fights for living peace
but peace never be upon on him
Life becomes enamored death
scribed on nature
versified within soul light
But he never was seen
the death in his dark soul
He thinks in distortion
walks on delusion
He sleeps with the obsession
Doesn't he live in anarchy hallucination?*
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
“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.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
keep going back to cool stuff I once made &
rereading it applying some changes
to certain ones at times; it's frustrating
that, after the latest rhyme piece written
I have created nothing decent
and am kind of wasting time on thI̲s one
where are those several lines
after penning which I, eventually, wi[aɪ]nd
up having devised a barful sheet?
how & what the hell to indite?
go, like an overnight lodge, hO̲[ɑ]stile? ge[ɪ]t
["hostel"]
a mo[ɑ]p & fire lead
at poor lyricists or strike auto[ɑ]cracy
and agents of this kind of po[ɑ]litics
with spite like prior sh#t
of mine? something like the stuff in which
much of bo[ɑ]dy harm's received
by the unrighteous targets picked?
going that way reminds me of the knight of Go[ɑ]tham with
that armored co[ɑ]stume pU̲t on
[the Batman in an armored suit from the "Dawn Of Justice" film]
like that warmonge[—]ring nuisance (it's all the West!)
'cause that kind of stuff's the stro[ɑ]ngest suit &
it's somewhat dark as well
but it's O̲[ʌ]f no help to the psycholo[ɑ]gic health
change the cu[ʌ]rrent bell
[style; the "change one's tune" expression]
on something which has no[ɑ]t a knell-
-like vibe to it? how in the ****** hell?
have to be afflicted by a spell
or something to have the lyric-writing shelf
o[ʌ]f mine supplied with stuff like
that; in fact, there's one which is kind of well
in terms of the least of violence dealt
and having the least of toxic vibe as well
it's that night fun tale
["a night out rhyme tale"]
write something personal?
not like some ****** flick
but that's horrible
'cause I am pro[ɑ]bably go[ʌ]nna wI̲[aɪ]nd up with
something writ as if by a whining b#tch (again)
with all that versified, it seems
it may be better, like a nau[ɑ]ghty chick
with a zoomorphic co[ɑ]stume kink
to opt for a tale of some kind (tail)
something with the littlest o[ʌ]f spite
and sans an in-the-dumps vibe
still, it's easier to just go a[ɑ]dverse
whether I target authO̲r—
—itarianism or chU̲mps who've go[ɑ]t poor
bars, instead of tryna cO̲me up with
sO̲mething else, which is whY̲ it feels
like a comfO̲rt... zone
(a writer's comfort zone)
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 8:47 AM UTC
Title: Caeser at Lucifer's Mission
Theme: The Aesthetic of Poets
A duet by : Prince Jayeola ( Golden Son)
: Fuad Opeyemi (Gemini)
Solid heart like the mountain Everest
Circumflex to the Raven, Bring up the agon
in our midst, Like a dove, we still remain
Challenge come about us
Still, we overcome the hurdles like hills
🙇Golden son 🙇
Kvell Cadres of scrivener,
Harness styluses to tattoo on thin sheets
Poets, goblet of endowment,
Pivoting throe to gladdened symphony
Soothing the ear of grief dwellers
🙇Gemini🙇
Clear out barrel of hate,
Come apart, enmity show less on our ballad
We do not bow down to race
Rather, we propel with grace,
With the sound of humour our poem emit
🙇Golden son 🙇
The pen, like a magicians's wand
Exploited by calibers of Versified bards
With a tip so sharp, running in ink
Cynosure of Prying eyes, like a drop -
Of dew on spinach, poet are Aesthetic
🙇Gemini🙇
We are "they are who? ", certainly!
Armed to the teeth with our pens
Thinking of ill- hearted hearts to heal
As we dance to the dead beat of our bleeding pen
No, tell the man in the street to flow off our den
🙇Golden son 🙇
Rhymester's way is Slim and Narrow,
Like a thoroughfare to Gehenna
For we dine with words, A minstrel
muser are hero, resident of valhalla,
For we are the fighter, that fight with pen
🙇Gemini🙇
We stand in the racket of ranks
And fight to mind our p's and q's,
Hardly do we hit below the belt
To avoid disruption of poets that que
We stand tall and play the game
🙇Golden son 🙇
Poets are Aesthetic, alluring
That travaux over the lava-like ways of poesy
We are all a product of our genre
Yet, living in the facade of exultation
Delusional, caeser at Lucifer's Mission
🙇Gemini🙇
©Pen Of A True Gemini™
The bleeding Hearted Pen
©Prince Jayeola™
The Golden son
All rights reserved
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC