Treasure Island

Paul Moosberg

(6-25-82 / Texas)

A BeAPoeIt Poem


I say I'm not a poet, For like of which I know it,
Rhymes absurd in metered word,
Describing not a poet

Edgar Allen knew it, The flying raven flew it,
The poems grow for Poe to know,
And Nevermore he drew it

Maya made to wing it, The caging bird to bring it,
With Angelou a freedom flow,
In Stilling bird to sing it

Robert's ride to sigh it, The road with just one by it,
Frost travels one concealing sun,
But Traveling to try it

I'll never be a poet, Descriptions rip to sew it,
Moving here and there with wear,
Encoding how I show it

Submitted: Friday, June 16, 2006
Edited: Saturday, December 03, 2011

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (A BeAPoeIt Poem by Paul Moosberg )

Enter the verification code :

  • Mary Nagy (9/7/2006 9:09:00 AM)

    Well, hate to tell you..........you're definitely a poet! And a very good one too. I'm a big fan of rhyme even though I've been trying to write both free verse as well as rhyme lately. I love the rhythm here, that only a true poet could do! Sincerely, Mary (Report) Reply

  • Will Barber (8/1/2006 10:52:00 PM)

    You make connections between many thoughts which are original and profound. Your tributes to other poets bespeak a wide range of knowlege. (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. A Dream Within A Dream
    Edgar Allan Poe

PoemHunter.com Updates

Poem of the Day

poet Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]