Poems & Metrical Rhymed Verse
Poems are the heart's confessions of love, joy, fear, longing, regret, and hope...
WISHES and DREAMS…
Everyone has them.
What are Yours?
Don’t let them fade, see them through.
Do what you must to make them come true!
IT IS what you think IT IS
Some folks think math is hard … hard to follow, hard to understand. Similarly, many consider poetry to be hard … hard to understand, hard to write well. The truth is, math speaks to some, while poetry speaks to others. It’s all in the connection and what each of us is taught – or has learned – to expect from certain encounters.
Connections aside, there are certain foundational expectations for poetry, established to ascertain what is or isn’t a poem, and whether said poem is constructed well and performs its purpose satisfactorily. But who’s to judge what is “bad,” “good,” or “great” poetry, or what its purpose should even be? In the era of “free verse,” meter was considered pedantic, rhyming cringe – as if rules are made specifically to be challenged to the point they become irrelevant. And perhaps they should be. Who’s to say?
And what of purpose? Who gets to decide a poem’s meaning, what it’s supposed to do, how it’s supposed to be consumed, enjoyed, or treated in the larger world of literature? Sometimes a poem is just a statement of feeling in the moment, akin to journaling. Other times it’s an author’s attempt to hide a personal message in within the rhyme and rhythm, meant perhaps to reach out to a lost love or cleverly humiliate a scorned frenemy. Then again there’s the ballad that’s meant to tell a story for entertainment or maybe for moral reinforcement. Some poetry remains classic – either because readers are informed that it is, or because it stands the test of time to convey a sense of emotion or meaning that resonates with those who partake. But regardless of an author’s purpose in composing a lyrical missive, the fact remains that when a poem is shared, it becomes open to interpretation by the reader and may take on a new meaning important only to the reader – if indeed a reader even manages to experience a personal connection with the author’s words. Ultimately, once a poem is written and shared, it must stand on its own and prove its own worth.
With all these considerations in mind, we humbly offer for random perusal the following…
TABLE of CONTENTS
Click on a title to read, or scroll down to explore randomly...
Alice’s Tea Party (There and Here) – Fantasy poem based on characters from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”
All About the Horse – Childhood Obsession
Forgetting – Haiku of lost knowledge
If I Were a Model – Poetic response to a common fantasy
Ode to Alley Oop – A Memorial Ballad
Never Give Up – Creative obstacles from within
Rain – The fleeting security of civilized comforts
Siren’s Song – Fantasy poem inspired by MERMAY
The Blank Wall – Creative obstacles from within
The Girl with Lavender Hair – Fantasy poem wondering what might have been
While You Are Sleeping – Life passes you by when you fail to participate
Whitewashed Trees – Recollection of a time long past
Without Windows – Office worker’s lament
Poems & Metrical Rhymed Verse
Fantasy poem derived from characters in “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”
Originally included in a 2023 blog post on the DOLL-WORLD website … format and content slightly modified below.
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Imagine dear Alice has stayed in Wonderland for so long, she’s become accustomed to its strange workings and has endeared herself to nearly all its weird residents, gradually displacing the hated and feared Red Queen as a benevolent ruler of the realm. One thing Alice loves to do is have parties – specifically tea parties.
These exclusive lavish affairs are held deep in the woods, by invitation only. Attendance is highly anticipated, but invitations are elusively secretive and desperately sought after. With posh expectations, those lucky enough to be included on the guest list dress in their finest fineries – whatever that may entail for each individual.
However, for someone new to these festivities, preparing to attend can prove to be quite a daunting task, as is the case for a particular young lady who also happens to be a close acquaintance of the White Hare…
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Alice's Tea Party
~There and Here~
“Tea time’s at three,” announced the White Hare, giving his watch a serious stare. “Why aren’t you ready, girl? Go prepare! Look at you! My! Not a moment to spare!”
Taken aback by Hare’s haughty glare, in my defense, I rushed to declare, “I’ve not been invited, that I’m aware! No card or letter or whisper – I swear!”
“A summons for you? Admittedly rare. Don’t you recall the parrot’s corsair? The green bird addressed you, so debonair. A vigilant person might show more care.”
“Oh yes, that pirate did give me a scare – approaching so boldly at my front stair! The parrot made mention of tea – that’s fair.” Object any further, I did not dare.
“Alice’s soirées are quite the affair. People of import will all be there. Even the Red Queen an invite did snare. And Hatter’s promised new gossip to share!”
“The queen? Oh, my goodness!” I gasped for air. “With all of that pomp and finery fare, I’ve nothing remotely proper to wear! The pressure’s too much! I can’t compare!”
Hare vested his watch and stood by my chair, assessing the state of my wardrobe’s lair. “That pile of ribbon and lace – au contraire! You’ve dresses aplenty – the problem’s your hair.”
I touched my head softly. “I lack the right flare. It takes too much work and seems so unfair. Not even the best shoes will make things square. And I’ve never been there – I don’t know where!”
“No worries, my dear, do not despair. Nothing couture skill cannot repair. A princess you’ll be, with no flaw or tear. You’ll outshine them all – and with your feet bare!
“As to location – it’s secret. Beware! Find and follow the black horse, Nightmare. In the dark woods, seek two trees – a matched pair. Eat of the fruit – it will taste like a pear.
“Follow your shadow, and laughter you’ll hear. When you get close, the path will be clear. Alice’s tea parties are not to fear. Good fun, good friends, and always good cheer.
“Get yourself ready, my fretful dear. The time to party is very near. As your close friend, when you need me, I’m here … although, I admit, I do tend to sneer.”
I nodded, chagrined. “You can be austere. Once in a while, you do domineer, much like a pocket watch time brigadier – but never mistaken as insincere.”
The Hare’s vexation was painfully sheer. Said he, unrelenting to my slight smear, “To fashion only, never adhere. Clothing alone cannot make you premier.
“A dress only changes how you appear. And shoes point the way but can never steer. Be who you are – don’t let looks interfere. To shine with the best, you must persevere.”
I saw anew my unlikely peer – one with impressive ears I revere. Even when pointing out faults seemed severe, Hare’s sage advice was the best of the year.
Emerging from my own little sphere, much bolder, happier – I volunteer! No more will I shy away like a deer, but set the social scene on its ear!
I rushed to my wardrobe fashion frontier, vowing to try something more cavalier. Eyes at the party, my dress will sear. In life, like a cake, I’ll be top tier!
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Fantasy poem inspired by MERMAY
A creature of the sea is trapped by magic in human form, kept from the home she loves by the selfish man who captured her.
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Siren's Song
You crave the sweet sorrow of my song.
I sing of the sea – for it I long.
Helplessness leaves me feeling forlorn, disguised and trapped in this human form.
For years you’ve bound me to this place, sealing my fate, to my disgrace.
A magic shell with its damning curse, hidden away in a velvet purse.
If I escape to the sea, my home, the water’s touch will turn me to foam.
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The sea, it calls me. Night dulls my fear. Slipping outside, I draw my fate near.
Under the moon shining high above, the sparkling sea is my only love.
To my source and strength, I will be true. I know in my heart what I must do.
Scaling the highest rock to its ledge, plummeting down past the water’s edge…
I choose to be seafoam kissing sand, free from the curse of you on land.
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Creative Lamentation
Pondering artistic fears, regrets, and lost opportunities…
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Never Give Up
All the ideas I’ve had and then lost, not acted upon – but at what cost?
Not the right space or not enough room … not well thought out, or it’s just too soon.
Needing supplies or lacking the skill … to bring to fruition what I will.
Courage halted with self-removal, fearing imagined disapproval.
Each snuffed out thought, another crushed dream. My soul feels beaten – I want to scream!
No one else gives a damn – it’s just me. Helpless, I watch initiative flee.
Years that I’ve wasted second-guessing, while squandering a hidden blessing.
The time has passed, it feels much too late. Is that an artist’s eternal fate?
A heavy sigh … a pensive chuckle. I forge on, refusing to buckle.
“It’s never too late,” so I’ve been told. But I am feeling ever so old.
“Never give up!” says Galaxy Quest. I guess that advice is really best.
As long as the sun will rise each day, I’ll work with whatever comes my way.
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Office worker’s poem
A view of life from the perspective of a clerical worker.
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Without Windows
I work all day in Windows, thanks to Mr. Gates. The value of my efforts, “clerical” negates.
The music plays to soothe me, but only makes me sigh. The unseen sunlight calls me. I feel it fading nigh.
I think of dreams unfinished, the time already spent … and wonder how it happened, where all my vigor went.
Clothes, food and house, they comfort – addictions for the soul. Wanting just a little more, I toil like a mole.
Grubbing for each dollar, within this sunless cell. Moving paper here and there, in bureaucratic hell.
I’d need three more of these “real” jobs to satisfy life’s debt. For thirty years I’ve worked like this, and haven’t paid it yet.
Obediently silent, I wile away the day, dreaming of an income scheme much better than this pay.
Thinking if things had gone right, how free I’d be – who knows? My only consolation is … this office without windows.
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Memorial Ballad
In remembrance of a colorful local figure from the past, who roamed the streets of a small Midwestern town, dispensing a special kind of wisdom.
“Alley Oop” was the nickname bestowed upon this town “celebrity” – referring to a not-so-bright caveman comic strip character appearing in a syndicated comic from 1947 to 1949, and later in a 1978 Saturday cartoon lineup by Filmation, that intermittently featured other comic strip favorites from the era, like The Captain and the Kids, Broom-Hilda, Emmy Lou, Tumbleweeds, and Nancy. ~Wikipedia
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Ode to Alley Oop
Like comic caveman in fur rags – this homeless star shows cactus legs … in combat boots and poodle skirts, bare-chested or in rummage shirts.
With fast-food bucket thorny crown, he struts king-like around the town … pacing mile after mile, waving with a gap-tooth smile.
He takes the hoots and calls in stride, never lets them hurt his pride. He is his own man, that’s for sure. For him the good life is no lure.
Sometimes on bike and sometimes not, he works odd jobs, can’t save a lot. Spends all his dough on thrift-store clothes, or food and what else – no one knows.
Rumor says he’s got the means, ain’t quite as poorly as he seems. Others think he was neglected … rats gnawed him … his brain’s infected.
Some folks claim that he’s just too fresh. With their fine taste his stunts don’t mesh. His selfless moods some do admire, while others let him raise their ire.
Taking on an untamed stature, eliciting our own dark nature, Alley Oop is crass, uncouth – a perfect teller of the truth.
The Ham-of-Effing bussed him south. Miami sent him right back out. Hey, everyone, he’s here to stay. Get used to his uncomely way.
A sad day came when we all learned that winter took him out unmourned. What thoughts he had, we’ll never know. Perhaps he dreamt ’twas time to go.
His days were spent in idle cheer, conversing with unseen folks near. His kin, if there might be some left, should surely suffer, souls bereft.
I think about him, true of heart; my memory won’t let him part. The simple-minded and the brave … the fashion poet and the knave.
By living life in his own way, never was he led astray. From self-delusion he did save us … kind and gentle Granville Davis.
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Creative Lamentation
Pondering artistic fears, regrets, and lost opportunities…
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The Blank Wall
My new couch has yellow, and yellow I hate. But not anymore – I think it’s just great.
Above it is space for a picture that’s grand – so fair and so fine, and by my own hand.
A space such as this, I’ve wished for and hoped. Now that I’ve got it, my brushes are roped.
Pastoral scenery, geometric shapes? How about flowers, or abstract landscapes?
The visions – so perfect – fade in my head, while I paint garbage unpleasing instead.
The couch isn’t new now – I’ve had it a year. It begs completion while I cringe in fear.
The emptiness taunts me, my one chance to shine. I buckle in shame, reduced to a whine.
I say, when they ask me, “I just need more time. Yes, the wall’s bare, but that isn’t a crime!”
I know I could do it, but other chores call.
Why do I grieve so? It’s just a blank wall.
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Poem about the tenuous stability of a modern lifestyle
The comfort and convenience of “civilized” life are no match for the whims of mother nature.
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Rain
The power’s gone out, and my hair’s all wet. But I haven’t missed my appointment yet!
I hop in the car with dryer and spray, hunting a restroom with plug-ins, I pray.
The rain pours in sheets at gas station five. Will the doc wait if I can survive?
All drenched and unkempt, my search is now done. At last – a plug-in! I feel like pond scum.
With hair somewhat coiffed, I charge out of there, and make it on time with minutes to spare.
The sun soon comes out to shine with a glare, mocking my efforts to rush everywhere.
Society’s extras are not held dear – but suddenly prized when no longer here.
Defeat in my rear view, and troubles aside, I brave the outdoors and swallow my pride.
There’s no truth in feeling secure and smug – after all that fuss in search of a plug.
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Poetic reminiscing of a time long past
The 60’s were a time of upheaval, strife and trouble. But none of that seemed relevant to two children playing in the schoolyard.
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Whitewashed Trees
Another girl as big as me, the only one of color. Smarter than I’d ever be … I looked at her as “other.”
Her dark skin dry, she had gray knees. I marveled at the sight, and thought about those big old trees, that got their trunks washed white.
Sometimes we’d play, the two of us – our own fun world alone – until she’d leave aboard the bus, and then I’d walk on home.
Pam Reynolds had a smiling face … a black girl sweet as pie. But then she up and moved away, and never said goodbye.
Remembering the whitewashed trees, I wonder where Pam went. A girl so kind and quick to please, I wish her life well spent.
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Childhood Obsession
Nearly every kid in the 60’s, went through a “horse-crazy” spell.
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All About the Horse
When I was young and watched TV, t’was Western fare for me.
I wasn’t there for Dale or Roy. It was the horse – oh boy!
The golden mount with flowing mane – yes, Trigger was his name.
Instead of Dale’s red lips, big hair – t’was Buttermilk so fair.
Dreaming of Nabisco Pony – sure as heck no phony.
And Hopalong’s white Topper steed – Arabian pure-breed.
Lone Ranger’s Silver rearing high and reaching for the sky.
One can’t forget friend Tonto’s mount – a pinto they called Scout.
Outstanding Fury was a sight – a stallion black as night.
And friendly clever reddish mare – yes, Flicka, she was there.
If there were others, I’m not sure. But memories endure.
I sat transfixed, amazed, of course. T’was all about the horse.
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Poetic response to a common fantasy
Every guy secretly dreams of fantasy arm candy, but here’s the reality…
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If I Were a Model
If I were a model … my hair would be gold, I’d never look old – my body would break the mold.
If I were a model … my eyes would be blue, I’d be so untrue – and wouldn’t look twice at you.
If I were a model … I’d dare to be bold, a sight to behold – and you’d do what you were told.
If I were a model … small lies I’d not rue, more lovers I’d woo – and always scope somebody new.
If I were a model … I’d be filthy rich, I’d scratch my own itch – and I’d be a rampaging b*tch!
If I were a model … with money to fold, my blood would run cold – and you’d be on permanent hold.
If I were a model … my heart would be black, you’d take up the slack – and I’d leave without looking back.
If I were a model … be glad that I’m not! We’ve been through a lot, and your fantasy’s not all that hot!
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Haiku
The haiku is a Japanese poetic form that consists of three lines, with five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third. The haiku developed from the hokku, the opening three lines of a longer poem known as a tanka. ~Britannica
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Haiku of lost knowledge
The child, born with the infinite knowledge of being, suffers that monumental moment of loss when what was once known is suddenly gone.
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Forgetting
five is much too young,
crying at the snowbound sun,
memories undone…
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Fantasy poem about a magical encounter of old.
A man out hunting game awakens to find himself in an unexpected confrontation with a possible foe.
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The Girl With Lavender Hair
I stirred to a melody fair, the scent of the cool forest air. My eyes fluttered open to stare … at the girl with lavender hair…
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
Her hands rested soft on my chest, with heat like the sun in the west. As pain billowed, I tried my best, but couldn’t remember the rest…
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
I awoke to quite a surprise. From the fireside she did rise, revealing the gold of her eyes, and Elven ears pointedly sized.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
Fear in my chest not subsiding, she drew near me, almost gliding. Hip-length hair softly sliding, she halted as if deciding.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
An arrow she plucked from the ground. “From deep in your chest this was found.” I looked at the shaft and then frowned. “You’d be dead if I’d not come round.”
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
My manly entrenched attitude silenced any voiced gratitude. “Who’d stop me from hunting for food? T’was only a deer I pursued.”
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
She pondered, then offered a smile. “Your healing was somewhat a trial. You’ve slept for a very long while.” My hand flew up in denial.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
With Humans and Elves at dire odds, to them we were two-legged frauds, belittling magic and gods, like ignorant simpleton clods.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
“We’re not so different, my friend. I found you and helped you to mend. The same care a stranger you’d lend.” With self doubt, my head I did bend.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
Eying the shafts in her quiver, I saw they did indeed differ. “You brought me here from the river?” I felt then I should forgive her.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
“Let’s drink now and call it a truce.” A wineskin she then did produce. And without the smallest excuse, we shared many swigs of the juice.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
Her eyes twinkled bright in the fire, her hair shining with my desire. I dared do no more than admire, regret made me so much shyer.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
She spoke in her soft lilting tones of magic and scholarly tomes. The thought of her kin’s ancient homes stirred odd feelings deep in my bones.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
At some point my eyelids did close, as thoughts of my Elven friend rose above animosity’s nose, until it was kinship I chose.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
I slept sound until the sunrise, awakened by morning bird cries. That she’d gone was not a surprise. To her I was surely no prize.
The girl with lavender hair ,,, the girl with lavender hair.
If I could return to that night I’d spent with that beautiful sight, I’d get over bias and fright and let myself hold her so tight.
The girl with lavender hair … the girl with lavender hair.
A poem about the triple disconnects of sleep disruption, online rabbit-holing, and hoarding
Like people who work the night shift, folks who can’t regulate their sleep to be awake when the majority of other people are (during daylight hours), tend to suffer a social disconnect that escalates over time, until a sad sense of isolation sets in.
Compound that with a bad case of screen addiction, shopaholism, and hoarding, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster – a person who can barely function, sleeping through the important moments of life and trying to compensate with the fleeting endorphin rush of buying online.
(Read to the tune of the Beatles’ “Nowhere Man.”)
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While You Are Sleeping
You’re a cyberspace cadet, surfing on the internet, sipping stale tea till the morning light.
When you go to rest your head, others are just out of bed. Rarely do you see folks in daylight.
Even when you are awake, you must do a double-take, just to try and seem like you’re alright.
Earbuds in and scrolling through, snubbing those who visit you … seldom do you ever seem contrite.
Rather than enjoy outside, you’ll pile crap high by your side, turning it into an awful sight.
Always losing your cool stuff, pile’s never big enough, buying more from China every night.
Doesn’t matter what you get, you’re not gonna use it yet. No one knows just how much junk you’ve squirreled.
People try to talk to you, never seeming to get through. You’re too busy off in your own world.
I come by and you’re asleep. Wasted moments make me weep. Memories we’ll never get to make.
Something always holds us back, something else that we still lack, never the right time for a fun break.
Sometimes just an hour’s fine to talk or just to sit and dine, but you gotta be there to partake.
Wasting all your time away, yet another squandered day, you’ll look back and see your big mistake.
When you manage to connect, half the time you do neglect, leaving others on the hook to wait.
Promises you fail to keep, your commitments are too steep, showing up an hour or more late.
Spending your whole life alone, never picking up your phone, leaving little time for folks who care.
They will get the message sent, and you’ll wonder where they went, when you wake up finding no one there.
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