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Name Introspection Poems | Introspection Poems About Name

These Name Introspection poems are examples of Introspection poems about Name. These are the best examples of Name Introspection poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

These ribbons I tie as you leave

Blue – 
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.

Red – 
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
evaporating 
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.


Orange – 
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
Iridium. 
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone. 

Green – 
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs 
like dandelion seeds blown from 
My wistful lips when I was 
eleven 
waiting for them to bring back my wish.

Black – 
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from 
your father’s funeral.  

It was the only time I watched you cry.

There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through 
their watery colored reflections.


Pink – 
for the way your skin repels from my 
Touch, quivers as though my finger- 
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.

Purple – 
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss. 

You left her waitng..always.

I have been special to you,
she replies to your
overtures.

Her letters 
Who blush
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.

White – 
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.

They spit 
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.

My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.

We will divide our booty

Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold 
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.

Grey- 
for the morning 
now knocking on my window.

I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
in
the tangle of these vacant sheets. 




Details | Rhyme |

Written In Stone Among The Flowers



I see your name there written in stone
Beside so many others to me faces unknown
Do you see me or am I alone
In this place where last respects are shown

Are you walking here among the flowers
Where we laid your earthly body to rest
Where souls are set free to join higher powers
Is this, the final journey of our life-quest?

I see the dates there written in stone
Your day of birth and of your last breath
Are we merely made of flesh and bone
Or does time continue for us after death

I see the words of endearment there written in stone
Do you Beloved Husband my voice hear
Are my words like dust in the four winds forever blown
Or can the words chiseled here comfort you my dear

When my name is there beside yours written in stone
All these answers to me will be finally known
I pray you and I walk here among the flowers
Our souls joined forever among higher powers

©Donna Jones


Details | Couplet |

MAXIMUS

    

    There is a spirit that watches over you
    In the daylight hours, and nightime too.

    You may not think that they are there
     But there is a way to make you aware.

     I learned the name of my angel a long time ago
     Because I was interested and I wanted to know.

     His name is "Maximus" and is with me here
     To learn of his presence once made me fear.

     Because what you do is watched all the day
     The angel keeps tabs, God finds out that way.

     I guess you think I'm being naive
     Trust your faith, if you believe.

     If you want to know your angel's name
     There is a way to find out which is no game.

     Say a prayer for three days in a row
     And after each time ask him to reveal his name to you.

     If you believe in him he will tell you true
     If not, he may be silent to you.

     I know of others who have tried this I can say
     Some, have learned the names of their angels this way.

     When you pray for their name do not think it absurd
     Some, I know, will hear that singular word.

     It won't come as a shout from heaven on high
     But rather as a whisper, when your angel is nigh.

     These spiritual beings are here for us all
     Sometimes they wait just to here us call.

     And when you do wouldn't if be grand
     If you knew the spirit's name...who behind you stands!

     Try it and see if you think I'm fooling around
     Be honest with yourself with both feet on the ground.

     As someday that spiritual angel you will greet
     Wouldn't it be nice to be on a "first name" basis when you meet?

     And if you try but do not hear their name
     Keep on trying because your conviction was lame.

     I know many will think I'm crazy with this
     But knowing my angel's name has brought comfort and bliss.

     So try it yourself and see if in kind
     If your angel will speak to you...they really don't mind.

     Because then a dialogue with them you can share,
     Even if they never speak again,  you'll know...they're there.


Details | Free verse |

If you had a name (An ode to loss and water)

If the lovely breeze had a name
we could drift together as two dandelion wishes
floating wanton on foamy winds.
If the river were rolling, gently
we could slide in and swim
for hours, without rushing
and love is like that.
Love is like still water
standing so deep in a vessel
 yet so easily broken upon the smallest of stones;
scattered, and yet-
from this another river begins
(as you begin)
How lovely if you had a name
I would call out to you
and I would hear your reply as
the wind blowing, the water rushing
and not your echoes
 as you trickled across so many small, jagged stones


Details | Free verse |

Poa-tetry Soup (The Name Inspired)

Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.

You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.

My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.


Details | Senryu |

About the girl in my math class whose name I'm not brave enough to ask - Love

I see no numbers
hers is the only figure
she's my addition


Details | Haiku |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Procrastination!


Details | Villanelle |

What was His Name

Pondering past loves in the dim light of age,
the memories float upward, smiles engage sounds.
Ah, what was his name that handsome man from the stage?

Blindfolded, he lifted me and reality disengaged.
The sound of the harmonica swept all around.
Pondering past loves in the dim light of age.

A serenade planned, the empty ice-rink re-staged,
I was placed in the sweet spot, I drowned in the sound.  
Ah, what was his name that handsome man from the stage?

Once unmasked, I tumbled to his arms, my eyes glazed  
like Ophelia sinking on love's waves to drown.
Pondering past loves in the dim light of age.

Oh, the places he took me, my senses ablaze
in sunlight, in moonlight, in starlight, un-gowned. 
Pondering past loves in the dim light of age.
Ah, what was his name that handsome man from the stage?

 


Details | I do not know? |

WHO AM I BY NAME ALONE

written 10th Aug 2013



I am God's child, first and forever
I am known by many different titles, a daughter
I am a wife
I am a mother
I am a grandmother
I am a poet
I am by several ways, known as a sister
I am an acquaintance
I am a loyal friend
I am a stranger
I am a cousin
I am an Auntie
I am a niece
But who is this person, they all call "Denise?"

She is a child to God
She is a niece
She is a cousin
She is a stranger
She is a loyal friend
She is an acquaintance
She is known to many, a sister
She is a poet
She is a grandmother
She is a mother
She is a wife
She is known as a daughter to many
She is everything, she'd ever dreamed her life to be....
She is happier than she ever imagined possible
SHE IS "DENISE"


Details | Bio |

I Am Poetry

I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation 
                     of words cascading from a nebulous eye 
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto 
                     a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,

and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly 
                     sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades 
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry 
                     fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,

Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion 
                     itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so 
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever 
                     careering from caustic career path to another new low,

Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s 
                    counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the 
                    fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp 

Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent 
                    with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering 
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond 
                    farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering 

Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and 
                    gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the 
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed 
                    existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a

Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding 
                    gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of 
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels 
                    in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love. 


Praise no other; I am poetry.


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