humor
Lunch Date with Poetry Buddies at Noon
We got together on the ninth of June. Just one day after our rhyming day and it wasn't too soon. It was great, first rate, and what a date. We talked, we wrote and we talked again. We wrote a bit about relationships, some good, some not so. I thought I might first share June 8th to begin.
By Denise E Lindquist5 months ago in Poets
Discipline Wears a Quiet Suit
Start writing...There is a particular kind of elegance attached to disciplined people. Not the polished elegance sold in magazines or displayed beneath expensive chandeliers, but something quieter. Something far more difficult to imitate. You notice it in the way they carry themselves. Measured. Calm. Unhurried. While the world races to announce every ambition, every small victory, every temporary emotion, they remain composed — like old money hidden behind plain walls. Because truly disciplined people understand something modern society has forgotten: Noise and progress are not the same thing. The loudest people in the room are rarely the strongest. The busiest schedules often produce the emptiest lives. And the people constantly demanding attention usually have very little substance beneath the performance. Discipline has never needed an audience. It wakes before sunrise without posting about it. It studies when nobody is watching. It continues long after motivation disappears. Most people misunderstand discipline because they think it is built from intensity. It is not. Intensity burns quickly. Discipline burns slowly.
By Keli Chris5 months ago in Poets
Twenty-Eight to Three
Do you recall that night in Houston’s dome, When all of Georgia dared to taste the ring? The Falcons had it, then they gave it home. Up twenty-eight to three, they owned the throne, Confetti crews were set to let it fling — Do you recall that night in Houston’s dome? Then Brady woke. The pressure turned to chrome, Edelman’s catch: a ball that wouldn’t cling. The Falcons had it, then they gave it home. Run the damn ball. But no, they chose to roam, Sacks and flags, a field goal’s distant sting. Do you recall that night in Houston’s dome? Overtime came quick, a funeral poem, White cut inside, and silence took the King. The Falcons had it, then they gave it home. So raise a glass to leads that fly and roam, To 28–3, the ghost that still can sing. Do you recall that night in Houston’s dome? The Falcons had it, then they gave it home.
By Clyde E. Dawkins5 months ago in Poets
On the issue of a poetry prize and who deserves the laurels...
Note: I have been working on quite a few other things besides my Vocal work, including a lot of entries for different contests related to prose and poetry. Now recently, we have had some controversy over the Griffin Poetry Prize, one of the most prestigious awards for poetry in the world. It has been won by quite a few writers outside of the orbit of my home country (Canada), and many of the poetasters feel that this is wrong. The most recent winner, Kevin Young, is from Nebraska, and I know that this controversy will continue.
By Kendall Defoe 5 months ago in Poets
