Random Quatrain Poems (302)

For again the night is moving slow
and many a poet is cursed to know
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo

In tenement buildings and boarding rooms
lie men who dreamt of being grooms
Have known evenings, mornings, afternoons,
measured out their lives with coffee spoons

But onwards as we surely try
to flower and bloom before we die
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky

stop a mambo step..
a harsh salsa..
pale in regae ...

J.D.S.

I am a reckless recluse
But I have an excuse
Society is un-sanctimonious
When I only want to hear the harmonious

I am hiding away
Awaiting a day
When people pledge peace
And nationalism will finally cease

I won’t let people find me
Not even if they’re behind me
Because I’d rather live alone
Than to live in a world I bemoan

Don’t look or search for me anywhere
Please beg do I not ever to dare
From your society I care to be exempt
Because I am a recluses content with contempt
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~

I am a fearless Kiskadee
Sitting on a branch of this tree
Singing my theme song happily
With a Kis Ka Dee Kis Ka Dee

I sing my song very sweetly
Seeking to make others happy
Filling them with ecstasy
With its rhythm and melody

My message is not to worry
Despite how things in life may be
Don't let them make you feel crazy
At all times, strive to be happy

One can state things that are likely
But no one knows what things will be
So keep your chin up cheerfully
And sing Kis Ka Dee Kis Ka Dee.

Take off your red hat
shake off those shoes
we both know that
there's nothing left to lose

If I should tell you
while we swing and sway
I feel forever new
my blues just gone away

Meet me by the river
in the evening sun
there'll be time to quiver
before the day is done

And before its midnight
you'll promise not to go
and I'll know its just right
when we tie that bow

Take off your red hat
shake off those shoes
we both know that
there's nothing left to lose

Force in unfortunate, a recourse of last resort,
For indiscriminate is The Angel of Death;
At war's conception, show no pity, shout: "Abort! Abort!"
And rescue the life of our Mother instead.

A young man once asked a fisherman can you teach me how to fish?
Said the man, "Why, yes I can, if that is what you wish."
He set the boy to digging, after every storm
and told him "Come back and see me, when you've found the perfect worm.

After weeks of shoveling, and blisters on his hand
he still had not found one cause he didn't understand.
He wasn't searching for a worm, or some other piscine dish, but learning to be patient; you need that when you fish.

He came back to the jetty with a full bait pail,
and set it down at the mans feet as he began to wail.
The fisher glanced down at his feet and said "I guess this will do. Get yourself a rod from the shed, and bring one for me too."

The man waited patiently to see the ones he chose and asked him quite intensely, "What made you pick out those?"
The young man answered testily, "I want to catch big fish, so I got the largest ones I found, to help me with my wish."

"It's not about the size of pole, or quantity of bait,
it's about your patience and how long you sit and wait.
You see son, fishings much like dating, it can be done all wrong. Sometimes you just have to wait before the right one comes along.

Unless you have a great big boat from which you can go trolling, just drop your line into the brine, and continue with your lolling.
That's the end of the lesson, at least until much later. Come back and see me sometime, when you're a better sit-and-waiter."

For weeks the young man searched about for the perfect bait, thinking the whole entire time "I REFUSE to wait!"
Grubs and worms were gathered in, and anything else he found. In his over-frenzied search he turned a lot of ground.

He dove into reading about every kind of fishing
And practised with a rod and reel, and kept a fly a-swishing
One day he finished learning and stood up from his rock, to go looking for the fisherman out on his favorite dock.

Sure enough there he was with his familiar pole
the boy went stalking out to usurp his teaching role
As he walked up to the man he started to rehearse, everything he had read chapter, page and verse.
As he went on about the fishes and their favourite diet, the fisherman just sat and fished and wished that he'd be quiet.

When the boy was finally done and he had ceased to speak, the fisher turned himself around and gave his nose a tweak.
"So you think you've learned everything about worms and fish and bugs?
Pull up a stool and have a try."
The boy complies and shrugs.

Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose

A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent

Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about

Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose

What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever

Vultures on the wing high up in the sky
Careen in flight as they go sailing by
Tracing out patterns of vanishing lines
As they create most exquisite designs

Other birds like eagles, gulls and falcons
Also engage in such exhibitions
Viewing them gives a feeling of freedom
That transcends daily life's din and humdrum

With wings outstretched they effortlessly ride
Rising air currents that support their glide
With angled wings they dip down and then rise
Navigating their way up in the skies

In total mastery of flight they appear
Cavorting and floating up in the air
With the gracefulness of their flight on high
They are true avian sailors in the sky





vulture





eagle





seagull





falcon

they say we'll come to our end one day
they say we just won't matter
they say we'll become our own prey
with thoughts as mad as a hatter

they say we'll run out of water
they say we'll run out of food
they say we'll kill or be slaughtered
they say we'll come to no good

they say civility's near an end
they say there's no use in tryin'
they say our actions only portend
civilization's weakness's underlyin'

they say we don't know what we're doin'
and perhaps it's true, we don't
seems like the whole world we're screwin'
but maybe the prediction's overblown

maybe there's another bend to turn
maybe there is another angle
maybe 'stead of like before, we'll learn
to sort our emotions to better unscramble

maybe love can actually conquer fear
maybe there's a brighter dawn to come
today's weathered is tomorrow's all clear
maybe empathy is our new rule-of-thumb

© agoodguy2have 2011-08-08