Tom Zart• Show poems

• Last seen on Feb 2 11:26 AM. Member since January 6, 2007.
• I am a 62 year old man from Kansas (United States)
• When I'm not writing, I'm the most published poet on the web by divine intervention.
• Visit my homepage at www.poetrygalore.com,walking dreams =Tom Zart
• I have 2 comments

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• POETS ARE THE BELL RINGERS of THE SOUL at allpoetry
  Poets are the bell ringers of the soul
  As they depict the past, the present and beyond.
  
• Martin Luther King Jr. at allpoetry
  Risking everything for man’s freedom and equality.
  From his legacy of self-sacrifice we must refuse to part.
  
• Heaven’S Heroes at allpoetry
  Winning souls tend to change everything,
  Including who and what we are.
  

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• on Shakespeare by Matthew Arnold, on March 27, 2007

  EDGAR ALLAN POE

  
  
  
  One of America's most famous writers
  Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
  Both his parents were failing actors
  And his father was drunk most the time.
  
  In 1810 Edgar's dad disappeared
  His mother died soon after.
  A childless couple took him in
  Raising him with love and laughter.
  
  Edgar had a Negro nurse
  Who brought him to her quarters.
  There he listened to ghost stories
  Far beyond earthly borders.
  
  The strange tales he later wrote
  May have come from her inspiration.
  The words she used to describe death
  Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
  
  The Allans moved to England
  Where Poe attended boarding schools.
  There's no doubt his time spent there
  Sharpened his skills as tools.
  
  Returning to Richman and back in school
  He began to compose new verse.
  Heavy debts forced him to leave college
  As his life took a turn for the worse.
  
  Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
  Where he was unable to find employment.
  A young printer agreed to publish his poems
  Giving him hope and enjoyment.
  
  Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
  And was accepted to West Point in 29.
  Poe couldn't stand not being a writer
  Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
  
  Afterward he became an editor and critic
  And married his cousin who was thirteen.
  Six years latter he discovered she was dying
  Suffering once more the unforeseen.
  
  He went through periods of insanity
  Caused by grieving and functional fall.
  He smoked opium and drank too much
  Till at his doorstep death would call.
  
  Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
  Still lives in our hearts today
  Famous for The Raven and other great works
  May his soul rest in peace we pray.
  
  
  MY FAVORITE POET
  
  
  
  My favorite poet is God above
  Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme.
  Not pied pipers of misguided souls
  Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.
  
  Poetry is nature serenading in song
  The peaceful roar of the oceans waves.
  The wind through the trees and over the hills
  And the flowers in the fields by the graves.
  
  The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty
  The songs of children at play in the park.
  The far off rumble of trains or thunder
  As they pass through the night in the dark.
  
  The joy of our babies first words and steps
  The passion of life with its heroes and clowns.
  The on going struggle to survive our sins
  As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.
  
  My favorite poet is our father of love
  Who was first to know us before birth.
  His poetry prolongs every thing we love
  As his deliverance gives life its worth.
  
  
  MASTERS OF VERSE
  
  
  Poetry is one of Earth’s oldest arts
  Practiced long before words of print.
  Every race had its masters of verse
  In caves, huts cabins, or tent.
  
  Stories in verse were handed down
  From one generation to another.
  The first told of love, war and more
  And how to survive each other.
  
  As man became more civilized
  He could not help but wonder within.
  Verse then took on a deeper meaning
  With stories of faith, superstition, and sin.
  
  The act of reciting became in demand
  As verse began to advance
  Every tribe, city, town and village
  Had someone who gave words romance.
  
  Today&'s poets are on the World Wide Web
  Though many seem spiritually ill.
  Thank heaven for all who still have God’s gift
  To compose, teach, comfort, and fulfill.
  
  
  THE POWER OF POETRY
  
  
  
  Poetry is the lighthouse of life
  Guiding the lost from a stormy sea.
  Without it’s presence darkness prevails
  Keeping us from all we can be.
  
  Poems are used to convey passion
  By poets of both good and evil mood.
  Some are hateful others loving
  Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.
  
  Verse can lead us to glory or doom
  As we partake with others within.
  Depicting our past, present and future
  With words of man’s grace or sin.
  
  People write poetry because they have no choice
  Answering to the call of their gift.
  Where some tend to pull their readers down
  Others compose to give them a lift.
  
  Always remember the power of poetry
  Is used by both heaven and hell.
  It’s up to us to choose our pleasure
  As poetry remains alive and well.
  
  
  DIVINE INTERVENTION
  
  
  I never write a poem
  That doesn’t write itself.
  I catch a buzz and come alive
  Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
  
  Hearing many voices,
  Whose words are never mine.
  My pen becomes a painter’s brush
  Forming visions on a line.
  
  I seem to be a better person,
  When it’s time to sit down and write.
  A higher power guides my hand,
  Sharing wisdom by day and night.
  
  People born to create,
  Have no choice but to perform.
  It’s the rush of sharing their gift,
  That elevates them from the norm.
  
  What would our world become,
  Without intervention from above?
  Angry beings in a revolving cage,
  With no sense of passion or love.
  
  
  
  POETRY
  
  
  God has always had his poets,
  Who he watches with love from space.
  But Satan has his poets too,
  Who try to lead us from our grace.
  
  King Solomon was a poet,
  Who spoke of love, life, death, and war.
  That lips were like threads of scarlet,
  And that breasts were roses and more.
  
  The wild birds sing and flowers bloom,
  As clouds form figures in the sky.
  But only humans will write poems,
  That shall last long after they die.
  
  The eldest sister of all arts,
  Which some have called the devils wine.
  Poetry is but pure passion,
  To stimulate the heart and mind.
  
  
  A GOOD POEM
  
  
  A good poem paints a picture
  For both your heart and brain.
  It doesn't need a second chance
  To make its meaning plain.
  
  A good poem is like the flower,
  The lily or the rose.
  God plants it in a poet's brain
  And there its beauty grows.
  
  A good poem like a cardinal
  Is pregnant with song;
  You can’t help but hear its message
  As it sings what's right or wrong.
  
  A good poem helps us remember
  What the joys of life are for,
  It makes us want to love someone
  'Till death comes knocking at our door.
  
  
  
  GOD’S POETS
  
  
  The prize jewels of any nation
  Are the philosophers of the heart.
  How they think is universal,
  For it’s God who makes them so smart.
  
  Most poets tell the truth of life,
  Though they may wrap it in beauty.
  It's their passion, not their purpose;
  To compose is but their duty.
  
  Poets have no reason to lie
  When the truth is always so clear.
  All that others say and do
  Is but food for the poet's ear.
  
  One merit of a poet's work,
  Which most people cannot deny,
  They say more and in fewer words
  To illuminate you and I.
  
  God sent his poets down to earth
  With words of wisdom and of worth,
  That they might touch the souls of men
  And bring them back to Him again.
  
  
  
  By Tom Zart
  Most Published Poet
  On The Web
  Soldier For The Lord
  
  
  
  
  
  
• on Shakespeare by Matthew Arnold, on March 27, 2007

  SHAKESPEARE

  
  Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest writer in history,
  In his day was known as a master of good plays.
  The theater gave him the freedom to create
  And in turn he put hearts and souls a blaze.
  
  Far from the world of the stage
  Shakespeare was born in April of 1564.
  In the little English town called Stratford
  With several sisters and brothers after and before.
  
  All the boys went to the same grammar school
  As soon as they could read and write.
  Where the only subject taught was Latin
  Which was of little use to those born bright.
  
  At 18 he married a woman named Anne Hathaway
  Who was 8 years older than he.
  The daughter of a neighboring farmer
  Who bore his children, with twins, made three.
  
  In 7 years he was a successful actor
  After starting his career at 21.
  Only the best actors found work in London
  And by the grace a God Shakespeare was one.
  
  Many actors of the period were playwrights
  And Shakespeare was one of the best.
  His greatest success was Henry VI,
  Which placed him above the rest.
  
  Shakespeare turned to another kind of writing
  When because of a plague London theaters had to close.
  He wrote two narrative poems greatly admired by the critics
  Though to be famous as a poet, he never wanted or chose.
  
  He in stead, turned back to the life of the stage
  As soon as the theaters reopened again.
  He joined an acting company until he retired
  Writing plays for the Chamberlain’s Men.
  
  Shakespeare died in 1616
  And was buried in his local church back home.
  Where he had been baptized 52 years before
  He lies in his grave silent and alone.
  
  
  

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