Here is a list of Last Commented Quatrain Poems written by members. Read poetry, post your own poems or comments. Poems on these pages are copyrighted © by the authors who entered them. Click here to post a poem.
Learning poetry II (Quatrain)
Especially this time of the year,
Of all the things I like to hear,
I would love to hear from you,
Of all the things that you do.
Of all the things I like to hear,
I would love to hear from you,
Of all the things that you do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2013
About this poem:
A quatrain is a type ofstanza , or a complete poem,
consisting of four lines
There are twelve
possible rhyme schemes , but
the most traditional and
common are: AAAA , AABB ,
and ABAB .
These Sinful Lips
I shouldn't but I do
Have command of my lovers hands,
Though I don't need their tanned advances
Or their delightfully soft demands.
Flecked with yellow and cinnamon
His lovely warm brown eyes,
Are the charming and most disarming
Keys to my demise.
For I drown in their soft beauty
Regardless of where he reposes ,
So he plies me with Belgian chocolates
Wrapped up in the reddest of roses.
Trapped here within this blackest of sin
That surrounds me when he is gone,
I know,
It's wrong,
His gold ring tells me so,
But when he begs, 'Be my other woman'
Then my lips just won't whisper 'no'.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jul 2013
About this poem:
Was asked to write about the 7 colours of sin and this is what came up.Ladyjewel, that's the head of the mermaid! :-)
Gone Fishing Part 2
He pulled out every trick he had learned from what others had been writing,
but no matter what he tried, the fish just were not biting.
He tried grubs and snails and rare Brazilian skinks; maggots,
salmon eggs, and every bait that stinks.
He finally shook his head and spoke, "That's everything I had
and not a nibble did I get, what say you, grandad?
The fisher looked at him and winked, said "You need to learn some more. Just remember there's a fine line between a fisherman, and an idiot on the shore. I told you once, now this is twice: come back and see me later. And next time don't bring along your voice, you little master baiter."
Third times the charm he thought, as he showed up on the dock
and sat down to wait the fisherman, on his favorite rock.
Two hours passed, and still he hadn't shown
the boy just sat and waited there, on the jetty all alone.
A passerby just shook his and said "Old Jed is gone. Reeled in by the greatest Fisher, been a week since he passed on.
He told me if I saw you, did my old pal Jed,
that he left you all the fishing gear that there was in his shed."
While the boy was trying cope with the fisher being dead,
his unheeding footsteps took him over to the shed.
His hands sought out a bamboo pole and a bobber made of cork,
and baited a worm upon the hook before his mind could work.
His sensibilities came to him with a little splash,
of sinker hitting water and the leaders flash.
He sat there contemplating Jed until the dawning light.
And as he sat there silently, the fish began to bite.
A lesson learned too late is still a lesson learned,
for Jed had taught the boy exactly that for which he yearned.
The fisherman is gone, no more for worldly strife,
but where he used to sit and fish, there's a new one, such is life.
but no matter what he tried, the fish just were not biting.
He tried grubs and snails and rare Brazilian skinks; maggots,
salmon eggs, and every bait that stinks.
He finally shook his head and spoke, "That's everything I had
and not a nibble did I get, what say you, grandad?
The fisher looked at him and winked, said "You need to learn some more. Just remember there's a fine line between a fisherman, and an idiot on the shore. I told you once, now this is twice: come back and see me later. And next time don't bring along your voice, you little master baiter."
Third times the charm he thought, as he showed up on the dock
and sat down to wait the fisherman, on his favorite rock.
Two hours passed, and still he hadn't shown
the boy just sat and waited there, on the jetty all alone.
A passerby just shook his and said "Old Jed is gone. Reeled in by the greatest Fisher, been a week since he passed on.
He told me if I saw you, did my old pal Jed,
that he left you all the fishing gear that there was in his shed."
While the boy was trying cope with the fisher being dead,
his unheeding footsteps took him over to the shed.
His hands sought out a bamboo pole and a bobber made of cork,
and baited a worm upon the hook before his mind could work.
His sensibilities came to him with a little splash,
of sinker hitting water and the leaders flash.
He sat there contemplating Jed until the dawning light.
And as he sat there silently, the fish began to bite.
A lesson learned too late is still a lesson learned,
for Jed had taught the boy exactly that for which he yearned.
The fisherman is gone, no more for worldly strife,
but where he used to sit and fish, there's a new one, such is life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jul 2013
About this poem:
Part 2, since it was too big to post all at once.Gone Fishing Part 1
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.
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.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jul 2013
About this poem:
I wrote this to remind myself that sometimes a little patience is required before you find what you are looking for. :)
Corner Poem
Words succinctly remind us tonight
it is, after all, a no-cost dating site
no more, and certainly, no less
on this defense my argument will rest.
This much, too, I must, dutifully, confess
It is not Forums, nor Blogs to address
nor Videos viewed, nor Games played
not Flowerbox planted nor Photos displayed
nor eCards or Mailbox to receive or to send
or Polls to take or Groups to jump in
No Articles of import inserted to share
nor Online Now to see who is there.
Not one of the Tags, colored, small, large
that shout how different or alike we each are
Nor a post or review of one’s favorite CD
Music categorized for enjoyment by you, by me.
Nor one of the 248 pages of Movies, so far, shared
to see what others watch and get to know who cared.
Nor your favorite Books list complete with fans
where The Secret reigns, so at the top it lands.
But rather Poetry, a corner where poets reside
to share with the reader what lives and dies inside
that pours onto paper from the sweat of the pen
risks being judged “mediocre”, beginning to end
thoughts, hopes, ideas, what appears in vivid dreams
captured in rhyming or un-rhyming verse that streams
byte-by-byte through the internet ether, with hope on wing
to resonate, a tear or smile to each reader might bring.
As words succinctly remind us tonight
we’re connected through this no-cost site
so, by now you can, in good humor, guess,
my “mediocre” poem finds a quiet place to rest.
it is, after all, a no-cost dating site
no more, and certainly, no less
on this defense my argument will rest.
This much, too, I must, dutifully, confess
It is not Forums, nor Blogs to address
nor Videos viewed, nor Games played
not Flowerbox planted nor Photos displayed
nor eCards or Mailbox to receive or to send
or Polls to take or Groups to jump in
No Articles of import inserted to share
nor Online Now to see who is there.
Not one of the Tags, colored, small, large
that shout how different or alike we each are
Nor a post or review of one’s favorite CD
Music categorized for enjoyment by you, by me.
Nor one of the 248 pages of Movies, so far, shared
to see what others watch and get to know who cared.
Nor your favorite Books list complete with fans
where The Secret reigns, so at the top it lands.
But rather Poetry, a corner where poets reside
to share with the reader what lives and dies inside
that pours onto paper from the sweat of the pen
risks being judged “mediocre”, beginning to end
thoughts, hopes, ideas, what appears in vivid dreams
captured in rhyming or un-rhyming verse that streams
byte-by-byte through the internet ether, with hope on wing
to resonate, a tear or smile to each reader might bring.
As words succinctly remind us tonight
we’re connected through this no-cost site
so, by now you can, in good humor, guess,
my “mediocre” poem finds a quiet place to rest.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jun 2013
About this poem:
Inspired by Macduff5's "No Birds Sing"
FACE OF THE WINTER'S MOON
January 17, 2011
I gaze up at the round bright winter’s moon,
watching and drifting in wonder of you.
Have you felt a tug at your heart or sleeve?
Has a voice called out you were sure you knew?
Have you thought on it, over and over,
how souls seek each other, then meet by fate?
I whisper my wish for our paths to cross.
I’m patient, though sometimes I curse the wait.
Your deep soothing voice echoes within me.
I imagine your eyes...a familiar light.
Let my thoughts be the beacon that guides you,
bridging the distance between us this night.
All-knowing face of the bright winter’s moon,
nestled in a sea of ten trillion stars...
guide him to me through a brief pause in time,
and grant us a life of love that is ours.
Have we not waited and searched long enough?
Have we not paid every debt that we owe?
I long for the feel of him in my arms...
my love, my heart, he, the soul of my soul.
I gaze up at the round bright winter’s moon,
watching and drifting in wonder of you.
Have you felt a tug at your heart or sleeve?
Has a voice called out you were sure you knew?
Have you thought on it, over and over,
how souls seek each other, then meet by fate?
I whisper my wish for our paths to cross.
I’m patient, though sometimes I curse the wait.
Your deep soothing voice echoes within me.
I imagine your eyes...a familiar light.
Let my thoughts be the beacon that guides you,
bridging the distance between us this night.
All-knowing face of the bright winter’s moon,
nestled in a sea of ten trillion stars...
guide him to me through a brief pause in time,
and grant us a life of love that is ours.
Have we not waited and searched long enough?
Have we not paid every debt that we owe?
I long for the feel of him in my arms...
my love, my heart, he, the soul of my soul.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2011
About this poem:
This poem speaks for itself. I am sending my intentions for the one I seek, out to the Universe and I await it's positive reply. Blessed be. May this poem find its way to the eyes and heart of he who will know that my calling is for him alone.Snap Back
People say, Pop back like a rubber band.
Do you understand what’s meant by this demand?
With too much stretch, rubber bands disintegrate;
as do I, with too much piled upon my plate.
One needs something that can take the heat
from baking life’s oft’ challenging “treats”
to deal with its long-term-storage stuff
and does not break when things get too rough.
More than these magic bands that come dyed
colors, can be frozen or deep-fried
is friendship and love the heart can glean
from the hand that extends, felt, not seen.
Do you understand what’s meant by this demand?
With too much stretch, rubber bands disintegrate;
as do I, with too much piled upon my plate.
One needs something that can take the heat
from baking life’s oft’ challenging “treats”
to deal with its long-term-storage stuff
and does not break when things get too rough.
More than these magic bands that come dyed
colors, can be frozen or deep-fried
is friendship and love the heart can glean
from the hand that extends, felt, not seen.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Aug 2012
About this poem:
written as thank you for b'day gifts (including pkg of silicone bands)
Dreadful Morning
Even as I write this, I know I'll be criticized
But I don't really care because this is what I feel inside
I just wish I could erase these thoughts in my head
Waking up to another dreadful morning, wishing I was dead
I use to be full of hope and love, now I'm angry and sour
I feel like a rat in a cage full of snakes, waiting to be devoured
And it's not like i haven't thought of suicide, hell a couple of times I tried
Once with a shotgun in my mouth, that jammed, and the other with a dulling kitchen knife
It just feels like I have a thousand demons digging through my brain
Feasting on every memory of happiness until nothing else remains
And my mother, God bless her soul, tells me to turn all my problems over to the Lord
But with every passing second, it seems I question Him more and more
Damnit, I can't take it, my heart no longer feels and my soul is torn
And asking me to go to church would be like asking a nun to do porn
It just won't happen because my faith has been replaced with doubt
And I won't go just to be seen because that's not what it should be about
There's too many hypocrits in this world and I've never been part of the "in crowd"
So I'll just keep hoping that one day God will hear me before my misery causes me to drown
But I don't really care because this is what I feel inside
I just wish I could erase these thoughts in my head
Waking up to another dreadful morning, wishing I was dead
I use to be full of hope and love, now I'm angry and sour
I feel like a rat in a cage full of snakes, waiting to be devoured
And it's not like i haven't thought of suicide, hell a couple of times I tried
Once with a shotgun in my mouth, that jammed, and the other with a dulling kitchen knife
It just feels like I have a thousand demons digging through my brain
Feasting on every memory of happiness until nothing else remains
And my mother, God bless her soul, tells me to turn all my problems over to the Lord
But with every passing second, it seems I question Him more and more
Damnit, I can't take it, my heart no longer feels and my soul is torn
And asking me to go to church would be like asking a nun to do porn
It just won't happen because my faith has been replaced with doubt
And I won't go just to be seen because that's not what it should be about
There's too many hypocrits in this world and I've never been part of the "in crowd"
So I'll just keep hoping that one day God will hear me before my misery causes me to drown
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2011
About this poem:
I admit, not a poem for everyone, but hey, this is me...brutally honestSymbiotic
Tigress and Piglet both in critical need
third-party interest in doing good deed.
Into this mixture stir acceptance, to taste
smoothing the bitterness that differences make.
Mother’s milk drying up, spirits sinking down
after triplets succumb to death-call’s sound
is a story that pulls the heart strings, anew
but, alas, a fabrication – just not true.
Sriracha Tiger Zoo is the 2004-photo place
where animals mix without notice of race
Saimai nursing piglets, herself, nursed by a sow
Shows us peace is possible in the here-and-now.
Sow Benjamaj divides her nursing time
between tiger cubs and her own baby swine.
Who would think she could hold all so dear?
For this, she’s awarded mother-of-the-year.
The photos taken, real, doubtlessly prove
when giving love, there is little to lose.
Visual entertainment for visitors to see
serves as inspiration for you and for me.
Benjamaj and Saimai to us do not preach
through their actions, rather, do they lovingly teach
all things are possible when we look at each other
not with predator eyes but with those of a mother.
Saimai & Piglets
third-party interest in doing good deed.
Into this mixture stir acceptance, to taste
smoothing the bitterness that differences make.
Mother’s milk drying up, spirits sinking down
after triplets succumb to death-call’s sound
is a story that pulls the heart strings, anew
but, alas, a fabrication – just not true.
Sriracha Tiger Zoo is the 2004-photo place
where animals mix without notice of race
Saimai nursing piglets, herself, nursed by a sow
Shows us peace is possible in the here-and-now.
Sow Benjamaj divides her nursing time
between tiger cubs and her own baby swine.
Who would think she could hold all so dear?
For this, she’s awarded mother-of-the-year.
The photos taken, real, doubtlessly prove
when giving love, there is little to lose.
Visual entertainment for visitors to see
serves as inspiration for you and for me.
Benjamaj and Saimai to us do not preach
through their actions, rather, do they lovingly teach
all things are possible when we look at each other
not with predator eyes but with those of a mother.
Saimai & Piglets
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2012
About this poem:
A friend sent photos with accompanying story about mother tiger in CA loosing her triplet cubs. Although the story was fabricated, the photos were real - with their own story to tell.
Ekphrastic afternoon
while sitting at a local literary Louvre
with artists and some other radicals
waiting for return of grammatical groove
that had left me on today's sabbatical
I stumbled for some heartfelt words
to share with you of artistic notions
of whether art is abstract or more absurd
can it cure our ills with colourful potions
and quietly the souls walked the walls
of painted lands and many female forms
to search their own inspiration's calls
outside their box of artistic norms
macroed with micro muted brush lines
of sultry legs and strong countenance
whatever treasure is sought we will find
with some ingrained artful provenance
like Samuel Morse as student of masters
copied Da Vinci from the Parisian museum
hued new light on Mona Lisa to recast her
and express his own artistic freedom
we give out hope of showing of ourselves
that bit of soul our heart holds close
down new pathways that we delve
our hands stretch toward divine, almost
© Goode Guy 2011-09-17
with artists and some other radicals
waiting for return of grammatical groove
that had left me on today's sabbatical
I stumbled for some heartfelt words
to share with you of artistic notions
of whether art is abstract or more absurd
can it cure our ills with colourful potions
and quietly the souls walked the walls
of painted lands and many female forms
to search their own inspiration's calls
outside their box of artistic norms
macroed with micro muted brush lines
of sultry legs and strong countenance
whatever treasure is sought we will find
with some ingrained artful provenance
like Samuel Morse as student of masters
copied Da Vinci from the Parisian museum
hued new light on Mona Lisa to recast her
and express his own artistic freedom
we give out hope of showing of ourselves
that bit of soul our heart holds close
down new pathways that we delve
our hands stretch toward divine, almost
© Goode Guy 2011-09-17
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sep 2011
About this poem:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ekphrasishttp://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5918
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