https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/usage/commonly-confused-words

She pored the tea out and I said I had enlarged pours on my face.But we drank the tea and thought it was good enough
I shan’t except the prize
Exempt the old and ill from army service,thank you.I except what you think about it/
She excepted his marriage proposal so he was over the top with fright

Such a sad and lonely face you show
I wonder if you ever sought relief.
Unconsoled sadness  seems to grow.
Such a sad and lonely face you  show
I’ve not seen you long enough to know
If  your pain is caused by misbelief
Such a sad and lonely face you show
I wonder if you ‘ll ever  find relief.

Without your permit ,I shall  charge  the free.
I ‘ve got  melodies that can’t be  heard
I  hear the sound of driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now free?
Are there any  people left to stir?
Without you here ,I ‘m just hungry for that sea

I was just about to  kill a thousand fleas
This  spider sprang  from out of her  dark lair
I feel  the sounds  of    driftwood   on  the sea

That cup of tea was never, then,  quite free
She  spooked you off as if it were a Fair
Without you here ,I feel nothing can be.

She put you into rehab rather pre..
She brought death  to us with her  in her hair
I feel  just like I’m   drifting out  of me

They made you sow some seeds  and could not see
That you were  almost lying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m as long as me.

Quite soon  your vital  poems  had disappeared
You   were beaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside  so black  with misery

Recognization  aching was    the   cue
I cannot I know the mind  in  such  affairs
I doubt a presence  now can salvage me.

Enchanting you by   webs  hung between her thighs
The  demon took your  hand ,I see it clear.
I feel inside.  I’d kill her to be me.

You left as fast as  smiling   can now be
Happy to escape  the  devil’s  glare
Without your  vision ,I am never me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on  the tide, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside there is a mystery

Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I ‘ve got  memories that can’t be shared
I feel tlike   some old driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now be?
Are there any  people left to care?
Without you here ,I am fno longer me.

I was just about to give you  that hot tea
This  woman sprang our of her  dark lair
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

That cup of tea was never, then, to be
She took you off as if it were a dare
Without you here ,I feel no longer me.

She put you into rehab misery.
She brought death inside with her like a prayer
I feel  just like I’m   drifting,   all at   sea

They made you go to gym and could not see
That you were  almost dying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m no longer me.

Quite soon  your vital signs  had disappeared
You   had not eaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside like  driftwood ;I’m  at sea

Resuscitation  was  to be the  key
I cannot see  the wisdom  of  such fare
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.

Enchanting you by   stars  hung from her tree
The  angel took your  hand ,as it was bare.
I feel inside like  driftwood , all at   sea

You left so fast but  gave a smile to me.
Happy to escape  the  carer’s  glare
Without your  being here ,I am not me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on a raft, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

Philip K. Dick, from The Selected Letters of Philip K. Dick 1972-1973:

A person’s authentic nature is a series of shifting, variegated planes that establish themselves as he relates to different people; it is created by and appears within the framework of his interpersonal relationships.

He  grabbed my love and did not  it return
Labelled me insensitive.unkind.
He  struck my heart without   care or tconcern
I learned that in his soul he ‘s deaf and  blind

He labeled me   insensitive.unkind.
Not the perfect mother of his dreams
In his  deepest soul, he is  still blind
Makes connections mainly for his schemes

I was not the perfect mother of his dreams
His need was for a breast  to like upon
He  wants   women mainly for his schemes
Which failed with me and so he is long gone,

His need was for a breast  to like upon
In ease and comfort like a new born  child
He  failed with me, and so he is long gone,
For I prefer my company more wild.

In ease and comfort,  he lay  like a  child
He  never thought to ask  what I’d  prefer
For I prefer my company more wild.
Only to the lion of God defer

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.

A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written. The pantoum form is as follows:^[1]

Stanza 1
A
B
C
D

Stanza 2
B
E
D
F

Stanza 3
E
G
F
H

Stanza 4
G
I (or A or C)
H
J (or A or C)

Verse forms[edit]

The pantoum is derived from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains. An English translation of such a pantun berkait appeared in William Marsden‘s A Dictionary and Grammar of the Malayan Language in 1812. Victor Hugo published an unrhymed French version by Ernest Fouinet of this poem in the notes to Les Orientales(1829) and subsequent French poets began to make their own attempts at composing original “pantoums”.^[2]Leconte de Lisle published five pantoums in his Poèmes tragiques (1884).

There is also the imperfect pantoum, in which the final stanza differs from the form stated above, and the second and fourth lines may be different from any preceding lines.

Baudelaire‘s famous poem “Harmonie du soir”^[3] is usually cited as an example of the form, but it is irregular. The stanzas rhyme abba rather than the expected abab, and the last line, which is supposed to be the same as the first, is original.

• A catechism  for liars
  The Jerusalem rivals.
  She reduced them to idols.
  A catechism for tryers
  A cataclysm of tyres.
  A catachumen  of  squires
• Bare crones were all they had
  Barely alone in bed
  Rare phones  on my iPad keep calling me mother
•  He was bare-faced   and  hairless
  She found him on the bypass
• Barge Inn .No canoes allowed.No canoodling by order.
• Parking  is sad when alone.Rent a companion tonight.
• Parking up the wrong  tree again?
• A worn  miner deified her.Queen of the Coke
• Heroine of  briefs.Always worn out.
  Heroism is  wreathed
  Heroin is   the  theif
• Casket Vase: keep your loved on on the sideboard
• Brass  passwords are next.Pass.
•  He sat on   her eyelid all night.
  She batted his  sighs back
  Drat, the  diarrhea’s underground
• Baited to death
  Waiting for breath.
  Say it,he’s left

I have  filled my mind   with  dreams   and thoughts
I have drawn conclusions  that seem real
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

As Ted Hughes said,  his fishing was the sport
Which brought both meditation and a meal.
I have   studied minds   and  dreams   and thoughts

You see ,like that,   new images are caught.
In silence and in noticing  the feel
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

What we find may not be what we sought
At  first ,it may not show its wise appeal
I have  found a  mind  by  dreams   and thoughts

In the night the images  take flight.
God’s lioness  destroys what  is  congealed
What’s of  value’s not by effort wrought.

Like a butterfly, a flowering dart
Of love and beauty  which was once concealed
I have  found my mind  by  dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

I am trying to write a pantoum.The cursor keep jumping so if I disappear I shall be with that…

Another winter, come  so soon has shown
That I survive despite  the sharpest pain
Such solitude as this I’ve rarely known
And yet I’m here and so I shall remain

That I survive  accompanied by  pain
By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
And yet I’m here and here I shall remain
This flickering candle’s light will not  blow out

By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
I suffer in the company of beasts
The flickering candle’s light survives  my doubt
Late after Nazareth, came the Holy Feast.

Life is only known  when  we  can live
In solitude as  that I ’ve grown to love
As  tranquil consolations, it shall  give
Despite fierce  winter,comes the holy dove
Despite fierce winters, we   believe ,we  love.

http://www.writing-world.com/poetry/villanelle.shtml

When shame has fallen on me like a curse

And scarlet cheeks now decorate my face;

Coats on the hall stand

Smelling of you

https://philosophynow.org/issues/58/The_Death_of_Postmodernism_And_Beyond

Secondly, whereas postmodernism favoured the ironic, the knowing and the playful, with their allusions to knowledge, history and ambivalence, pseudo-modernism’s typical intellectual states are ignorance, fanaticism and anxiety: Bush, Blair, Bin Laden, Le Pen and their like on one side, and the more numerous but less powerful masses on the other. Pseudo-modernism belongs to a world pervaded by the encounter between a religiously fanatical segment of the United States, a largely secular but definitionally hyper-religious Israel, and a fanatical sub-section of Muslims scattered across the planet: pseudo-modernism was not born on 11 September 2001, but postmodernism was interred in its rubble. In this context pseudo-modernism lashes fantastically sophisticated technology to the pursuit of medieval barbarism – as in the uploading of videos of beheadings onto the internet, or the use of mobile phones to film torture in prisons. Beyond this, the destiny of everyone else is to suffer the anxiety of getting hit in the cross-fire. But this fatalistic anxiety extends far beyond geopolitics, into every aspect of contemporary life; from a general fear of social breakdown and identity loss, to a deep unease about diet and health; from anguish about the destructiveness of climate change, to the effects of a new personal ineptitude and helplessness, which yield TV programmes about how to clean your house, bring up your children or remain solvent. This technologised cluelessness is utterly contemporary: the pseudo-modernist communicates constantly with the other side of the planet, yet needs to be told to eat vegetables to be healthy, a fact self-evident in the Bronze Age. He or she can direct the course of national television programmes, but does not know how to make him or herself something to eat – a characteristic fusion of the childish and the advanced, the powerful and the helpless. For varying reasons, these are people incapable of the “disbelief of Grand Narratives” which Lyotard argued typified postmodernists.

This pseudo-modern world, so frightening and seemingly uncontrollable, inevitably feeds a desire to return to the infantile playing with toys which also characterises the pseudo-modern cultural world. Here, the typical emotional state, radically superseding the hyper-consciousness of irony, is the trance – the state of being swallowed up by your activity. In place of the neurosis of modernism and the narcissism of postmodernism, pseudo-modernism takes the world away, by creating a new weightless nowhere of silent autism. You click, you punch the keys, you are ‘involved’, engulfed, deciding. You are the text, there is no-one else, no ‘author’; there is nowhere else, no other time or place. You are free: you are the text: the text is superseded.

© Dr Alan Kirby 2006

http://www.webexhibits.org/poetry/explore_famous_free_background.html

“Modern interpretations.

The promise of irregular cadence continued to beckon unconventional and narrative poets, and began appearing as vers libre in the 19th century French poetry of Jules Laforgue and Gustave Kant. Germany’s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe also experimented with free verse. By the latter half of the century, Walt Whitman had mastered the form, and bards such as Christina Rosetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Baudelaire, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and W.E. Henley were writing free verse. Still, it wasn’t until Richard Aldington used the term “free verse” in a 1915 anthology introduction that the form took an English name.

Yet, as T.S. Eliot warned, “No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job.” While free verse is irregular, lyrical, and unmeasured by line counts and stanzas, metrical and rhythmic precision remain just as vital as in other poetic forms.”

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/what-to-read/david-hockneys-guide-to-keeping-your-eyes-fresh-in-an-instagram/

When we have strangled virtue at her birth
When evil thoughts are all that we can find
And  we  cannot take a draught of cheerful mirth;
Escape from this black prison  of ithe mind.

http://writersrelief.com/blog/2009/11/un-think-your-poetry-how-to-write-better-poems/

Quote:

Finally, after you’ve taken the time you need to get a little perspective on your own writing, go back to your poem with your “editing hat” on. Because the creative act is generative and the act of editing is critical, it can help to break those two processes apart and tackle them one at a time. Edit carefully and without judging your own creativity. When critiquing your own writing, always strive to be the generous and sensitive editor that you would be for someone else.

Sometimes writing better poems isn’t a matter of learning more technique or doing more thinking. It’s a matter of NOT thinking. Dig deep to let your subconscious do some writing, and your poetry will grow.