"wordsmiths" poems
Byron wants me to invite all my friends on HP to a pig roast. Rest assured, when Byron has a pig roast fun is surely to be expected. Here's his invitation.
You're invited to my pig roast.
I told him he'd have to do better, that he's talking to a collection of rhymers, wordsmiths, and gesticulating anthropomorphics. He had no idea what the **** I just said, but he did do an edit.
Here's his edit.
You're Invited to My Pig Roast
Your toad on the road
Only squats, never stands,
Or sits 'til he splits
Between the treads of your van.
Your mouse in the house,
If it isn't found out,
Drops pellets in pots,
'Til snap, then it stops.
Your bird on the wire
Sweetly sings then lets fire;
And a cat in a hat
Is cute, but that's that.
Your horse from the stable
Won't be served from your table;
And the deer by the brook,
Well, too much the Bambi to cook.
Yes a bear in the wood
Indeed craps where it should;
He's best left alone
While your meat's on your bone.
Then there is the PIG.
A ruddy pink porker,
Intelligent and clean,
An innocuous oinker.
It does nothing that's heinous,
And yes, it should shame us,
As it lies silently smiling
With a spit up its ****
Please bring your own lawnchair, ***** and women.
The pig's on me.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
my torment is one of clouds and flowers
freckles upon sun-kissed oranges
like roses through honey
& vivid eyes like the abstraction of Renaissance pieces
oh butterfly how you make my heart melt
chocolate brownie wonders with giggles on top
your effervescence brighter than a summer's day
entrapping my purity within your oppressive interior
our silences are filled with images of my creation
a cornucopia of passion for even the loneliest of wordsmiths
I leap into our pool of nostalgia for old time's sake
only to find your words transform into serpents.
whirlwinds of emotion now whispered into the ears of another
burning adorations into scarred remains
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
there are no limits
on speed,
no bumps to impede
that singular rush of inspiration,
that surging wave we ride
to euphoric highs
defying doubt and disbelief
within and throughout
these paths least-travelled
where rhythmic beats
of compulsion
thrill the air
way beyond the mean,
and we glide
over ambiguous bell
curves
dispelling conspicuous myths
and null hypotheses
with relative ease
where iambic warriors
and wordsmiths,
high on lyrical amphetamines,
wage epic battles
of verse and rhyme
and the blood of creativity
is spilled onto
finite scrolls and screens
where the thoughts and dreams
of poets, peasants and pimps
reign
eternal
~ P ( Pablo)
(8/2/2013)
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
If someone writes a novel,
You don't assume that it's a snapshot of their entire emotional self,
So why do people assume that of a poet's work?
I am not my most recent poem,
Or any of the others.
We are wordsmiths, weaving a linguistic labyrinth
And inside are hidden codes and meanings, layers upon layers.
We invite others to explore, without judgement or condemnation,
Though we welcome comment and interpretation.
And yes, sometimes we write exactly what we feel,
And sometimes we make that clear,
But if we don't, please don't assume.
Poems are not novels, but they can be fiction.
Words are never just words,
And all writing contains something of the writer,
But even for the ultimate narcissist, there are other sources of inspiration
And other subjects, than ourselves.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get O.J.T.?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all that mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
Wake up with a jump and a start.
This isn't just prose,
this is an art.
To weave your stories, through and
through, with
broken pen and missing shoe.
With mixed conviction,
perfect diction,
convicts swoon at your traditions.
As long as you believe
the lines make sense, they'll breathe
your soul and lack pretense.
Self-defense from knives to words and songs to birds,
soaring
o'er the roar and o'er the dives,
through the skyscraper's windows, break a floor and seek to strive.
Words are not just words,
I've heard many a stern voice
attacking a sturdy herd of
wavering wordsmiths who have
forgetten that they have a choice.
Alliteration counts as craftful creation
and the tale of poets shows it: these
sentences are paintings of a nation.
Decorating time and space
and all its stations of making a
stand.
You're a poet,
perfectly pathological,
hurting through rose- colored
opticals and bleeding for something
beautifuly better, just getting lost calls
but keep searching for the right letters; don't let the sands of time make you hate your written desert.
It's worth your weary hands.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
Beautiful
Is a colorless flower
If I am to use it
Describing you
The wordsmiths
Must work well
Into the night
Smithing away
Until morning light
To find a word
Suiting your definition
Unearthing
Is a waterless brook
If used to convey the look
Radiating from your enchanting eyes
The same that left my heart wounded today
When you used them to drill to the core of me
No doubt making a profound discovery
Love
Is overused and clichéd to ruin
Much too pedestrian to capture what you found
When drilling deep into my underground
Without a sound it happened
That word we can’t use
Due to its short and burnt up fuse
Turned on its light this afternoon
And in a magic moment we both knew
That beautiful, unearthing, love
Built a bridge between us
Founded in truth
Always open and fireproof
Today around 2 o’clock
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Gone the quill that wrote the line
Lost the wordsmiths softened rhyme,
Lost to us in evening light
The feeling felt in words wrote right,
The feeling felt as friends depart
In hollowness of hollow heart.
Bon voyage Brother
On the recent passing of a colourful Australian poet,
Paddy Martin.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
Funny how some people love to think
No, they don't even bother to think actually
They are simply making assumptions
after reading your convincing poems
of sad good bye and half way to heaven
The said its true. All of it? YES ... so very true.. true...
eye brows raised, delicious stories of love affairs...
poor poet being misjudged
ahh all are true then from poem 1 to poem 100
she married them all,
100 flower bouquets exchanged each year
she still keep one hundred diamond rings...
she is planning to have an exhibition too
the theme is WEDDINGS AND BREAK UPS
wordsmiths job is to write
about anything... happiness, sadness, love, romance
and a thousand other things from their creative
minds and hearts
just you readers be intelligent and mature
to read between the lines
and understand the underlying messages
in a piece of write
to judge a poet is unwise
how many times could a poet fall in love?
to write about love?
how many breakups should she suffer
to write a heartbreaking poem?
Silly... how some people think...
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Words can be weapons, and
words can be woes,
Words like soft grass
beneath your tender toes.
Words are sacred, and
carry a blade, say what you
will, we cannot forbade.
Words will try and get
the best of you, and
bring out the worst
As wordsmiths, we feel
and foster their curse.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:34 AM UTC
"Word is bond." I never did understand what those vocabulary-slinging, Rhyme-linking, Rhythm-carrying, Boast-blasting And world-observing wordsmiths spoke of when they said: "Word is bond." I did not know those words, just like all the times I did not know what The Octagon, The Staple-Lands, Or even such a word as "Paris" meant in their fascinating lingo. I tried again and again to decode them, To recognize them, To comprehend them, In hopes of seeing deep wisdom within them. "Word is bond"? What can words tie together, Being nothing but blac
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth
luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters
sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue
ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations
organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies
my affair
accomplishes much
for little
it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.
a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.
lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.
all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
At the round table I will feast upon the scraps of humble beginnings while the king flings suffering from his trusty silver spoon encrusted with family jewels at the bumbling fools babbling satirically about the absurdity of his rules.
The royal court's still serving sentences to the remnants of the members of the Pent-up Armageddon Club getting their writing fingers bent up as penance, thus rendering them useless as wordsmiths so now the quill permanently sticks to the well all dried and crusty with no sense of purpose.
I fumble with the remote for control of this vice that tightens around my larynx, suppressing my sense of choice. I'm sorry, that's ad-vice suppressing my voice. No, I'm not mad, that's just my voice. You're really in no place to talk to anyone about respect, boys.
The movie is cringe-worthy, but the one playing out in the room is even harder to watch. It's like an episode of Friends written by a monkey drinking scotch. Look at this! Look at me! Digest all of these empty calories! Check this post! It's super funny! Watch this video! I can stream it to the T.V! Look at the screen! Look at the screen! Look at the screen! My life is a meme!
It's taking every ounce of strength I have in me not to ******* scream.
Your plot is spoiled and your scheme is boiling over.
She said what he said that she said that he said that she's dead in his bed and I just can't pretend that it's okay to breathe
When you excuse your actions with pop-culture morality and plausible deniability.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
for it was never my intention
to be a puppet with a frown
perhaps you won't believe it
sitting under a liars crown
I've cut myself for long enough
that blood is my middle name
basking naked upon a concrete slab
I've oft been fed back my own shame
so take all these letters, mix them up
juggle them gaily to become verbose
for they have fallen, at feet
that have stopped walking
just litter, ash, carrion at most
So kiss me on lips
coated in poison
and wish me well
For I am off to a more acrid clime
where secrets will often tell
that hiding behind a wordsmiths spine
will see me burn in hell
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
someone I heard
from the other side of the World
liked late night conversations
Poets being wordsmiths
and words being their currency
I thought I would put her
out of her silent misery
A poetess for sure from what I read
of her work
She can sit back now in her retirement
knowing we will talk about her poetry
and forever try to unpack her thought process
while drinking cocktails and eating sausages
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
In dark tempestuous night
One that held acquaintance with the stars
And the waxing gibbuos moon
Alone with good angels
On the wide landscape
But to scribble poetry
Beneath the wide heaven
And mend my rhyme
Upon the surface of the universal earth
In the deep wide seed of misery
As in that trance of wonderous thought I lay,
Will it come with a blessing or a curse?
After so many deaths I live and write
Till that divine idea takes a shrine
Go! write your lovely sketches
From dull oblivion
The restlessness of pain,
Eighteen lines! A statement of life-
Hush! Fail I alone in words and deeds
What does it all mean poet?
The verses, the ciphers and twiddlings
Thou art tired; best be still
Ah! the sacred silence of a blank untarnished page
And the requiem of the wordsmiths pen.
Am I but a sad name?
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
This shall be a love triangle fought with pens, paper, pencils and keyboards. A war of wordsmiths and poets, of lead and ink, of writings comparing everything besides the kitchen sink. These words will be our own, and may reside unknown, but we will all fight with our hearts at length, and we will show each other our true strength.
This is passion.
This is love.
This is precisely what I am capable of.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
**i stood on a star
and put the (uni)verse on notice..
in love for the first time;
never prior to hearing her speak
could i've known any emotion
as forthright
or that it had a voice
a podium
and an audience
to give its whole mouth to...
taught me
how to pronounce
the same scattered thoughts
that
once upon a self-conscious moment
would dissolve
on the base of my tongue
like potent hallucinogens...
the same sentiments
i couldn't enunciate to save my life
i've become an abstract illustration
of what it is to be moved
and a slave to vacant canvases
bad ***** that she is...
beauty to my beast
and as feel good as a four letter word
her poems are as fine as the source
or a frozen red rose
in an empty wineglass
and hard to find vintage vinyl albums
my drops
are laced with the blood of wordsmiths
we're hip-hop
thick skinned
an all-black cathedral choir
a solar eclipse
big things
her poems
are the bones of what's left of me
or candy yams on sunday
or a ***** dollar bill
stuck to the bottom of my shoe
good luck like that
and her own personal soapbox
our sessions are privileged
my crystallized thoughts
are off key
all the rage...
we work unsuspecting platforms
like subway performance artists
her poems are intimate touches
in chantilly lace
or a pair of oatmeal tim's
refined
and love me, love me nots
penned in tear drop blue
we're so cultural
religious
and impartial to love
while our political joints
march with their fists raised in protest
of voter suppression
baby girl's, frances to my zeke
once upon a time in the projects
and one way or another
she's happy people
dope like cannabis
sweet like cane sugar
and as beloved
as ms. ida brown's tattered bible
#myword
dear shorty,
i want my poetry and write it too
all ink smeared roads lead back to you**
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
greetings to all my wonderful friends
wordsmiths romantic, eclectic and bold
you touch my heart and make me smile
much love to you all both new and old
i promise to bring the love and laughter
some strangeness and a bit of sorrow too
thank you for sharing your words with me
and for kindly letting me share with you
life my dear friends is a game of love
beauty and blessings too many to name
you lose every time that you don’t play
yet each time you love you win the game
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
Awake
Solitude stands with me this night
Uncanny the silence has noise
A white noise only punctuated by my breath
You ever listen to your breathing?
You become conscious of its shortness
Breath deeper and deeper
A car passes, the silence broken
You become frustrated, sleep in not here
Pick up the phone, log on, read others work
Smile knowing their awake miles away
Tapping away, giving their all
Like, comment, enjoy. Mae on top form
A simple yet beautiful verse.
Then Samantha Wells "Wanting"
A new kid on the block who tonight readers gave it all!
She can't see how good, others will, many
The Phantom calls another great piece but now
Now I have to try again to sleep
Goodnight wordsmiths don't hold back
Miss Askew, Dieingemembers you keep me enthralled
1796 we could chat for hours, Victoria watches my spelling of course
So thankyou so much for the pleasure you bring
The sandman is calling so now I must leave
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide
Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you
The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide
The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
plenty stiff competition
Example: How
How to Write a Poem
To write a poem, a single word select,
your fingers will do the rest.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
the sacred Isle ruled the waves
then plundered and looted from Benin to China
from Egypt to Greece they took and even Rayleigh craved
Men, women, artifacts, gold silver, diamonds
all come back to our motherland to stay
nothing wrong with that, its all our birthright
A union was agreed between nations around
in opaques agreement lets pool everything and share
we move as one and live in peace and prosperity together
years down the line with all working well
the Isle said we want out we are not getting enough
we can go our own way and get a lot more without sharing
let us not be so selfish says some thinkers
we want out says the people cause we don't like sharing
lets go our way and take and sell to the whole wide world
they say I am greedy because some old man wore a coral crown
and owned the marshes he had lived from 1845 with his brood
no one went to sea to rob another or took taxes from people
the coral crown family all worked day and night
doctors, lawyers, surveyors, civil servants even nurses serving others
never took or asked from State to survive or wore any coral crown
came the wordsmiths and experts in Acquisition international
who wrote the book on Greed and taking from every known place
either by war, treats, bribery or just plain **** chicanery
yes, yes, this renowned Magpies hollered, you are greedy
it will cost you arms and legs, it will cost you all you hold dear
we say you are greedy and that's all, we hear no protest, no mercy
in simple minds logic and reasoning is not to be found
my coral crown old man did not fight to take land or wealth
did not sit in chambers gilded demanding taxes from no one
they moved from the hinterlands in droves led by him
to the coastal areas ****** land, where the marshes were wild
they cultivated and settled after years of exodus, perils and trials
he toiled hard and managed, created communities living in peace
ruled with wisdom and grace and looked after his people
killed no one for gain nor took land or property from any one
Ignore the difference between old man Coral and your own crowns
ignore the truths that shows there's no comparisons whatsoever
listen to the Experts on Greed. they have declared I am greedy
historically and now this Experts must be right, they invented Greed and Rights.........
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:25 AM UTC
Your snores are like a poem, your silence - writer’s block
Your tears a bleeding pen, your ****
A double-entendre for a sock
Please stop writing about writing
No one cares if you haven’t scribbled a haiku
In two days. Or if angelic Whitmans sing to you
Like bearded cherubs, baby-boo
Please stop writing about writing
And no one cares about its state
Or what it does or doesn't, or its fate
Or what it takes to be first rate
Please stop writing about writing
It's a literati twerk
Watch your fellow wordsmiths go to work
At the meta-circle ****
Please stop writing about writing
Yes, you’re spitting rhymes and flow
Basking in the muse's glow
Dropping learnéd metaphors , we know
Just please stop writing about writing
Like so
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
We are assembled here
this May evening of 2006
to celebrate our own
Leading Lady of
American Letters.
The tall, slender author,
her classic looks
so reminiscent of
ladies in an elegant
Victorian era salon,
reads one of her
earlier short stories
at the Free Library
of Philadelphia.
She speaks with such
feeling and precision,
we close our eyes
and envision her
youthful heroine's
anxiety and naivete
in that familiar setting
of an upstate
New York town.
Later, in another room
of the library,
I will meet her
too briefly at a
book signing.
She stands to greet me,
smiling so pleasantly
and asks, "What do you do?"
in the friendliest way.
I reply "I'm a
proofreader," somewhat
embarrassed at my
flimsy Dickensian
credential.
This was my own
personal brush
with greatness
and I find myself
tongue-tied with
hero worship.
She is gracious
and fragile, exquisitely
feminine and warm and
I would learn I was
not the only groupie
in the library throng
that evening -
a multitude of fans
lined up to meet
the literary icon.
Joyce Carol Oates,
as her critics
rightly rhapsodize,
is a force of nature,
a uniquely powerful
writer whose brilliance
rests not just in the
singularly American
landscapes she paints,
not just in the
idiosyncratic
characters who people
her storytelling,
but in the creation
of rich personal
moments of intimacy,
of revelation and insight;
she makes us witnesses,
eavesdroppers, to her
characters' deepest
thoughts, longings,
her voice reaches out
to us from the pages,
a voice as poignant
as a mother's in the
gloom of night,
reading to her children
just before prayers
are murmured and
sleep tiptoes in.
The path of
literary greatness
leads us to her heroes...
James Joyce, Emily Bronte,
Thoreau, Faulkner,
Flaubert, Hemingway;
like each one of these
celebrated wordsmiths,
she is an iconoclast,
an original...
unique,
incomparable,
our own
quintessential
national treasure.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Objects of lore,
To be
Sculpted on the Rock
Of Immortality,
Or not,
Like every dead president...
Pace the creative confines
Of painters, poets and priests
Where sermons are born,
Rembrandts unveiled,
And shackled verses released...
Have you seen
The sketches of a blind painter?
Have you read
The anthologies of an autistic child?
Have you felt
The sermon of a prodigal preacher?
Walls and words
Infused with melody, turquoise,
dogma and rhyme;
A sublime synergy of shade and song...
Choreographed for the exalted stage
Of the imagination...
where sculptors rare
And unsung wordsmiths dare
To dance....
~ P
(#SoaBP)
3/10/14
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC