Tag Archives: poetry

Papo’s Toy Figurine Fantasy

Once upon a twilit soliloquy
I pondered thoughts between pounds of ocean tides
Tchaikovsky overture in Phillip Glass hues
sandpiper played notes with patter feet strides

I ride upon the Asian Unicorn
in saola herds of Laos and Vietnam
through wild forests of Khoun Xe Nongma
just me alone a solitary man

Seminole Injuns in Everglade grass
in solitude a wild panther roar
his pineland growls aside suburban sprawl
some countryside vittles, trolly cart tours

All the world’s parklands a menagerie
of plastic toy animal figurines
appear to move with fur, to chirp and bark
two giraffes with long necks chew leaves and glean

The purple aura moon in silhouette
upon the mountain trail unicorn
it’s yesterday’s glass dew now morning haze
the last is bones and flesh like Capricorn

Twisting brown paths of dust dissolved tombs
of tigers, lions, purple elephants
one dreams of Kwanzan pink cherry blossoms
soft chaise longue grass, sun-soaked relevance

Regard the floating plastic figurines
in ribbons aurora borealis
sky dragons in paper lantern auras
like Injun smoke clouds of the realist

I am awake in vistas castle moors
relieved, yet drenched in pools of darkly sweat
all puffs of Cerberus breath vaporous dreams
my knightly rounds along the parapet

Something About the Massanutten mountains

By Lewis Jackson aka Papo– Poet of Ksanakai

The starry nebulae in mountain sky
a spotted fawn beside her mother’s side
stands motionless in golden morning sun
till indigo buntings set hooves to stride

Melodies whistle top the early morn’
atop the dew wet roof top sings the song
of fidgeting wings and dream’s desire
to run midst shady trees ‘pon ribbons long

I harken to the bluejay ‘pon the roof,
which casts its eyes along the mountain ridge
the anxious groundhog scurries ‘neath the house
shivers slightly yet narley moves a smidge

Tis not a snake this long black ribbon road
still whispers to my feet this darkened path,
which undulates as waves upon the sea,
“lick licorice, but heed the aftermath.”

And swallow down the taste for marigold
in farmer’s fields, purple spiderwort
as berceuses to soothe the bleary mind
a respite from this journey’s battle fought

The road ascends and seems to dissipate
at crest, a vacuous blank horizon
portends the road has drifted into space
yet closer, a butterfly arisin

Erasing doubts like powder on its wings
it seems to trace a path to follow home,
a patch of sweet blackberries on the vine
sublime as honey makes my buds to foam

My spirit roams, like Roman architects
these mountain mists in bluish clouds
echoes, Massanutten Indian tribes
smoke signals, silhouettes of ancient shrouds

Which tribes beneath the forest canopy?
what stories hide in fallen tree debris?
the black road blankets Indian trailsโ€ฆ
just whispers linger as bird songs in breeze

The doleful gaze of gentle pasture cows
cavernous marble eyes, entwined in whole
I’m sullen by the thought of their demise
with ear tags marked unlike the blissful foal

I wish to emulate the waterfalls
that shimmer through prisms, glassy brilliance
an ageless hourglass, flowing chandelier
sunlit pearls of formless resilience

My feet roll under me in oiled joy
wheels, frictionless, mechanical calm
in thumping pulses, waterfalls of sweat,
like smooth ball bearings, timeless sultry balm

Love’s Waterwheel Dancing Orchard Fields

A rocky mountain moved by faithful rains
which trickle underneath in rivulets
without such love could flow the smallest grain

Sew charity of golden amulets

as leaflets fall from trees my palms in want
my body laid to waste upon a stage
in failing love a quil with fading font
papyrus reeds like shadows on the page

The hands of love loom steady in the storm
as gentle as a dove in plumage clothed
embracing crumbs despite a tepid warm
a modest sheep amongst the flock betrothed

Thus fleeced in wool as pearly as the snow
a wooden nickel ever bends the bow

It’s hooves upon the hearth and fireplace
to scrape a singe of orange crackling flame
as blind before a shearer gives its face
yet never holds a mirror up to blame

Love’s feet skip light in meadows minted sage
in crystal glass of purple dappled hues
its blossoms cleanse and never seem to age
another sunset, another morning dew

Despite the wintry weather and the chills
a seedling threads the weeds to brush the sky
from palate to the canvas daffodils
the buttercup attracts the butterfly

With just a drop the waterwheel flows
and through the soil dancing orchards grow

Post your poem

Thank you for visiting Papopoetry.com Post your poem in the comments or “Leave a reply” below. Looking forward to reading ๐Ÿ“š your poem and I hope you get a lot of constructive feedback.

Sincerely yours in poetry,

Papo- Poet of Ksanakai

PS: Please post only poems in good taste. I reserve the right to delete inappropriate posts such as overtly sexual themes; promotion of hate, vulgarity, et al.

What makes this a good poem. Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

This poem only scored a 3 on allpoetry.com auto-rank. So what makes it a good poem?

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other soundโ€™s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

What makes this a good poem? Sylvia Plathe

This famous poem ranks only a 4 on AllPoetry.com auto-rank. So what makes it a good poem?

By Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful โ€š
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

What is poetry?

I think it’s best to start out with what it is not…. it is definitely not an article like in a newspaper; it can tell a story, but it’s not formatted in paragraphs or sentences like a story– you can write in prose, which uses the tools of a poet like metaphor, alliteration, and personification.

But prose isn’t strictly poetry, or more exactly a poem, because it departs from the poetic structure, which is the use of “the line” or a set of lines in a stanza. Prose is more like poetry in sentences. Your stanza is the so-called “paragraph” or section of a poem made up of lines. A good line will stand alone, affect the reader somehow usually through its imagery, and becomes more significant when combined with other lines in the stanza.

To me a poem is a special way of conveying an experience, an event, a feeling, from my perspective. I don’t just want to tell you what I experienced, I want you to experience from my persona. That’s a tall order, ๐Ÿ˜ณ living someone else’s experience as they experience it. So a poet’s task is to transport you somehow into their virtual reality realm.

I’m gonna use bad words, which some poets like myself will deny, but okay… seduce, sell, manipulate using the tricks of the trade, rhyme, metaphors, simile, meter, rhythms/ patterns of sound, alliteration, personification, allusions to color, time, place, objects; in other words, anything to make that quantum shift of consciousness to perceive and experience there unique perspective.

You might think of it like taking a mind altering hallucinagin without popping pills ๐Ÿ’Š. [Don’t do drugs BTW. There’s a safer way to experience escapism and it’s called poetry]