All writing

The poet as an introvert:
can such a thing be true?
Can sharpened pencils be diverted,
thoughts kept out of view?

Can colors, vivid in their hues,
be filtered into grey?
Can the guitarist mute his blues,
the notes be kept at bay?

I know you fear the written word:
you feel you can't translate
the freedom of a flying bird;
can't capture love or hate

Indeed you must, it's up to you.
Sit down, and try to write
Each poet thought just as you do
You've just begun to fight.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802602-Fyodor-Tyutchev-poem-prompt

crow as black as night
prone to prognostication
Edgar Allan Poe

I take my poetry anywhere I feel like.

Even on a plane.

Recently I was typing a poem up,
and the lady sitting next to me
grabbed me by the you know what
and whispered:

"are you really going to do that,
while I do this?"

The lady was my wife.

But you get the point.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802554-WE-write-poetry--but-where-are-you-going-wi

President Biden
On his bike, riding
If Kamala calls
Don't tell her he falls

As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is ritual I struggle to forget.

Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I've been born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.

It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind.

There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your life, as it turns turns out, is a pretense.

The universe may seek observant souls
but it's wholly indifferent to our fate.
No playwright to assign us to our roles;
no checklist to confirm against some slate.

The simplest explanation, and it fits:
all that there's ever been, shall ever be:
a quanta forced to choose between two slits
one day it chooses you; another, me.

The bottom of the barrel: oh my god!
A sonnet? How'd you get here? How, old boy?
You promised me no more... or did you not?
Must be some new and unexpected ploy.

I thought we said just lim'ricks and haiku?
The goal has been accessibility.
And yet we're here again, because of you!
Iambic, "yes I am" ability.

Must you respond to every such request?
Can you not spare us roses that are red?
Desist, your wit is an unwelcome guest
and everything you've thought of has been said.

Oh well. Give thanks, at least it's not free verse,
the bane of modern poets, and their curse.

The giant stuck his salad fork
right on the intersection,
and promised: back right after work,
I hope there's no objection.

Come back he did, but not too soon,
his job did keep him late.
The good news, though, he kept his spoon
for lunch. That's how he ate.

Implored, and more than once, to show, not tell,
I've nonetheless avoided ASCII art;
though in response -- no tougher clientele --
agreed to split my paragraphs apart.

I struggle, still, with this unbidden rule.
Though pictures may be worth their weight in gold,
the alphabet remains a useful tool,
and stories, without telling, can't be told.

Is there some tongue in cheek to my response?
Hope I've not bitten more than I can chew,
and this -- though no Petrarchan Renaissance --
is where the couplet bids to say adieu.

A poem need not be a picture show,
and adjectives alone don't make it so.

As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is relic, ritual I can't forget

Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I was born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.

It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind

There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your way of life, turns out, is a pretense.

some like their coffee laced with milk
and some do like it sweet
some use baristas -- know their ilk
no coffee is complete,
unless prepared to order -- you do know 'em.
And me?  I take it black, and drink it with a poem

Author notes: image from hearmefolks.com

Living large is my goal
had I only the means
as befitting my role
I have all the vaccines

There's an obstacle, though
to my quotable goal
I don't make enough dough
and so have to live small

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802125-Two-Ls

The bow: a scepter, nay, a wizard's wand.
Each minor note a key into your heart.
Devoid of an accompanying grand,
the strumming violin plays every part.

Concerto for your soul; soon, heaven's gates
swing open, and the angel, hands on chin,
is seemingly oblivious as fates,
both innocent and guilty as all sin,

stream into paradise. Hosannas pause,
the host stunned into silence... notes play on.
A figure, shadowy, appears.  His paws
still smoldering; the evening has been won.

"You miss me yet?" A question, and a vow.
No hint of modesty, he takes a bow.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802073-Devils-Violinist