Here are a few of my meager offerings from this wonderful site.
Could anything be more sublime or sweeter to the soul
Than tailored thoughts in metered rhyme, which heal, soothe or console?
Could any treasures be so rare or mean as much to me,
As words from heart to mind I share? No! None which I foresee.
The length or breadth is matter, small, when tapestries we weave.
For none who write from poet's call would dare to preconceive.
The journey, 'fore a step we take, or have an end in sight,
Is just a phrase we can not shake, a beacon in the night.
Each word is cobblestone, well laid; each sentence, just a stride
Down unknown path, 'cross field, or glade; perhaps on oceans plied.
One thing is known and only one, as words hold us in thrall,
The "Longest Poem", once begun, will have no end at all!
My search began with tales I'd heard
About a poem of epic size
Where authors weighed each written word
Hearts bared without prosaic guise.
So I did trek o'er ennui's plain
Each footstep snared by free verse vines
Perhaps my quest was all in vain
For rhythmic words in metered lines.
But 'lo, upon horizon's rim
There grows a shape, sweet to the eye
And 'round it's trunk or 'neath each limb
Were poem seekers such as I.
From every land and every clime
Came soul-mates, sharing thoughts in rhyme.
The stage is set. Where are now all the players
Who conjure up the script, and where's the action?
We have no lines! Ad-libbers all; rhyme-sayers
Speak out your hearts, you are the main attraction.
Addressed to none, your metered words and meaning
Have given birth to tales, unheard by others.
They add their thoughts with careful mental gleaning
A whispered bed-time song from loving mothers
Could ne'er be sweeter than a lilting sonnet
Which speaks of love or loss, emotions written
Nor rose withhold its scent with nose upon it
Or one's first kiss of passion, ardor-smitten.
Walks slowly o'er life's stage, pen moving, steady
Leave words, like seed. This poem's soil is ready.
Two-o'clock, eyes red and bleary, trying to add something cheery
When I heard a noise, eerie; sounds I'd never heard before
As I wondered what would happen, what protection could I wrap in
In the window there came flappin', three or four feet off the floor.
'Twas the ghost of Poe, a-screeching, begging, pleading and beseeching
For us all to "Please stop reaching". Reaching for his meter, yore
Pleading that, and nothing more.
Emulation, I contended, was for flattery intended
"Didn't think you'd be offended, for offense was not our chore."
But the ghost of Poe, with fury; being both the judge and jury,
Said he really wasn't sure he understood what was in store.
So I told him, from beginning, of the poem we were spinning
Many poets, writing, penning, fighting prose we all abhor
Doing what we all adore.
We must rhyme on without falter, and there seems to be no halter
Which will stop us besting Walter. Writer? Yes. But, poet? Poor.
Down Poe's ghostly face, came spilling, ghostly tears of laughter, chilling,
Bouncing off the walls and ceiling; windows rattled with his roar.
"Now I see what you're all doing." Chuckles barely kept from spewing
"I'll leave now and stop my stewing;
Leave and let your poem soar.
From starlit night heavens a voice of pure light
Fair shouted each word which was brighter than bright
Beamed down on the few who still used metered verse
Explaining to all, the age-old poet's curse.
"Your reason for writing lies deep in the soul.
'Tis not done for money. That isn't your goal.
You write to release pent up feelings inside
And share them with others whose hearts are denied
The gift you are given. "Expression of Thought";
Is gift from Apollo, which can not be bought.
Mere fame, which is fleeting, you all should despise
For fortune's allure is a palace of lies.
Rewards are forthcoming. Ask anyone here.
The words you are writing caress every ear.
Robert and Elizabeth love to rehearse
Your lyrical phrases with which you converse
And Edgar, so honored; his meter, purloined
Recites all the lines that you "unknowns" have coined.
Sweet Emily's laughter, like bells made of gold,
Rings out, filled with glee as the new thoughts unfold.
Alfred and young Percy think no one here knows;
Place wagers on when you will break into prose.
But William smiles quietly as each new rhyme
Is etched in a book, which shall last for all time.
The riches you gather are not of the Earth
The torch, which you carry to grave from your birth
Shall burn without quenching, each ember and flame
Eternally lighting a path to "Your Name"."
Could it be we're on a mission or 'tis merely Boyd's vision of a poem with such precision that the world will soon take note?
I would hope the vision's valid and this multi-verse tossed salad will make other missives pallid, when compared with what we wrote.
How can one be not inspired by all the rhyming words one will try as this long poetic war cry rocks and sinks the free-verse boat.
May the bards of yore be merry when this poem's length is very long. You know it is quite scary but we'll all just grin and gloat.
Caring not a whit or mote
That we really got their goat
Or perhaps it was a stoat
It undulates throughout the age
With pretty metric lines, sans page
Which all poetic hearts assuage
But sends the prose-sters in a rage.
An oceanic word display
In cup so deep it will allay
Our pain and steel us for the fray
Because we know while we're away
Another name and face unknown
Will shape a verse like sculptured stone
And skillfully use Occam's hone
To share our quest. We're not alone.
Watch how delightfully it grows
The arms, the legs, fingers and toes.
I am quite sure that no one knows (nose)
Which way this poet-tree now goes.
Each word, a leaf or bud in bloom
Shall intertwine as weavers loom
And add another quiet room
To our tree house, o'er Shakespeare's tomb.
'Tis April's day of joke and fool
When I logged on to check my mail.
What did I find, the usual
Garbage and trash, for I can tell
False promises of easy fame
And multi-level marketing.
All say they're new but they're the same.
Delete! Delete! Wait, what's this thing
About a poem of epic length
In metered verse; iambic form?
Read on, read on, have I the strength
To dole out words above the norm?
Was invitation just a whim
For hits upon a lonely site?
Was "Mary" just a pseudonym?
Or was I sent this note for spite?
I'll play along, investigate.
My misconceptions preconceived.
It's All Fool's Day. I'll take the bait.
"Ha-ha, another fool believed!"
But no, 'twas nothing of that type
Just couplets, quatrains on parade
Placed there by those of bardic stripe
With rhythmic step, 'cross mind they played
Swept up, my thoughts ran rampantly.
What could I offer to expand
This work. You know, I could not see
What I would write to make it grand.
We, like "The Bard", poetic wax
With lilting word and florid phrase.
Make quaint abodes from falling shacks,
And rose sunsets from caustic haze
So let us offer "This" to those
Begrudging souls without the gift
Who write free verse and maybe, prose
"Tween us and them is canyon's rift
The gauntlet off and challenge laid
Before we poets heart and soul
Let all look back on what we've made.
Fill up this universal bowl
With lyric beat and rhyming song
Of love from life's eclectic realm.
This journey, taken, can't be wrong.
You're in control and at the helm.
Tell out your heart. Whisper your dream.
Take quill from well or pen in hand
In script or calligraphic scheme
Pour out those thoughts in Boyd's land.
It is impressive, what is wrought
By these confluences of thought
From all the poets who are caught
Tho' none are paid, retained or bought.
As wordsmiths gather from each land
To ascertain if work, unplanned
Be not a task beyond demand.
Then, taking up their pen in hand
Begin to add, upon a whim
Another contribution limb.
With smiles on lips, they prune and trim
Until their words sing like a hymn
To peers who've rhymed this path before.
They're gone through Death's wide-open door
But share with us, both rich and poor
A treasury we all adore.
We emulate, as best we may
Their rhyme, their meter and wordplay
How shall we fare? No one can say.
But then, we only have this day
To help create with words which rhyme
A work remembered for all time.
A panoply of words, sublime;
A thought... A branch... A tree to climb.
Quiet Earp was a lawman of talents
He made sure justice scales stayed in balance
But a fact rarely known
He did not work alone
When abating nefarious dalliance.
It's a tale, which should not be repeated
For some witnesses swear he defeated
The outlaws in his town
With a dog of renown
I'll reveal ere the story's completed
The dog was a nice alien being
Who dropped in for a little sightseeing
You're all shaking your head
But bear with me instead
And soon, all of you will be agreeing
Near the town of Quiet Earp's his ship landed
By a barn where purloined cows were branded
Gave the outlaws a fright
They fled into the night
But Q. Earp caught the rustlers red-handed
As the rustlers were jailed, they sat quaking
Not from fear of their fate for law breaking
A voice, heard in their head,
"Burn one more beast, you're dead!"
A dog spoke this without a sound making
Quiet went to the barn for his saddle
He had planned to return all the cattle
But the dog, R'yn T'n T'n
Said they'd already been
As he closed the barn door with a rattle
R'yn explained, without speaking, to Quiet
Earth vacations were fun, just a riot
But he'd heard the beast's yell
And thought he would compel
The bad men to desist ere they fry it.
Quiet Earp informed R'yn of his mission
And for good help, he always was wishin'
R'yn T'n T'n said he would
Help Quiet Earp if he could
Asked if badges came with the position
When R'yn left for home, Earp said he'd miss it
They had cleaned the West of acts, illicit
Those who upheld the laws
Were called T'n Stars because
Of an alien's sightseeing visit