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The Path Evolves by Smith, Darlene
DEADLOCKED by Acquah, Vicki
Morning Prayer by Smith, Darlene
Awakened by Maris, George
A Scarlet End- lust by important, nobody
Crepuscule by Acquah, Vicki
Blood Moon Of Heaven by Becker, Stephen
My dark sky by Shahein, Dalia
A song for you by bhattacharjya, anjanjyoti
Why he held his head high by Folkers, Elizabeth

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The Best Classicism Poems

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Times Advances

Upon my tiptoes, I gaze through a window, the window of my mind. 
I pull back the curtain, peer from a partially drawn blind.

Before me lay this youthful beauty, perfection in every line,
And standing there beside her was the old keeper of all time.

He swiftly knelt beside her, and stroked her heaving chest,
Carefully caressed every curve, and sagged her gentle breast.

He cast his spell upon her, aging her as if fine wine.
Left some thoughtful wrinkles, added character in each and every line.

Bestowed upon her all that wisdom, more than she had ever known before.
Brought her many pleasures, also heartaches, several score.

Held her tightly about the waist, now broader at the beam.
Added some weight here and there, not as much as it might seem.

He gradually drooped her shoulders; shiny hair now turns to gray.
Faded memories of life's passing parade now help to pass her day.

Her youthful pace is throttle now, her feet shuffle slowly across the floor.
Though still a thing of beauty, that beauty is different than before.

Time for her is now slipping away, slowly heading for life’s stage door.
The journey has left her exhausted, no longer willing to fight the fight, but unwilling to beg for more.

Time had been an exciting lover, but she will not love another day.
She lies prone upon the sheet as Time exits the stage. I watch with amazement as the scene just fades away.

Copyright © Donald J Bennett

More great poems below...

Details | Classicism Poem | |

The Tempest

O daughter of thunder,
slayer of dragons (and of men),
why dost thou torment me so?
For which sin must I reside in this
purgatory of despair, this abyss
which allows no light 
nor ray of sun... nor hope?

If I, like a holy one, were to pray for
redemption, wouldst thou forgive?
Or would thy spite remain,
like a fire that burns through
a man's soul and scatters his ashes
to the four winds; 
would all mem'ry of us then cease?

Remember the before time, when
love govern'd the days and nights
and peaceful dwelling places
were ours to delight in.  
I pine for thy touch, thy gentle stroke,
for the words that caress'd my very being;
soft laments that brought this man to his knees, weeping.

This solitude, my love, is worse
than a thousand hells.  
If I were to traverse a thousand miles
and yet, thou were not there to greet me,
of what good would this life to me be?
I call to thee, but thou remains distant,
thy silence; more deaf'ning than the horn of battle.

I beg of thee once more - end this pain!
Return from whence thou came,
sing to me a sweet lullaby,
bring this troubl'd spirit peace. 
O daughter of thunder, 
speak poetic words of comfort,
and I shall return to thee with all mine heart.

Or shall we rather allow this dreadful tempest to claim vict'ry?

Copyright © Tommy Boy

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Count on You

When my world collapses
And I'm feeling blue
When the chips are down
Can I count on you

Will you stand by me
And help ease my pain
Will you walk with me
Through fire and rain

Will you stay with me 
When the world turns away
And hold my hand
Help me find my way

When the dark clouds come
And the sun don't shine
When the rain starts falling
Will you still be mine

If I lose it all
That I can no longer cope
Will you smile at me
And bring me hope

If I find my dreams
Have all turned out wrong
So that I must leave
Will you come along

When the tide arrives
As I stand in harm's way
Will you be my support
That I do not sway

We will walk through this world
With our heads held high
While our hearts reach out
And touch the sky

We will stand as one
With a love sublime
We will love forever
Until the end of time.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Classicism Poem | |


My prayers are not asking you to
save me from my enemy.
My children have turned their backs.
They praise dance with many
When they need be refuking,
protesting and rebuking.
Among-st those who fight against me-
be my offspring.
I fear not the man who
I already know to be the beast
While my eyes follow my historical foe:
Those created in my womb,go
behind my back sign treaties with known
Chiding our valuable place in history. 
They do not want to know how they got here-
They do not care.The nature 

of the beast consumes them.
Eyes full of temptations we 

kept their butts covered,
and gave them what we could never have.
Instead of gratitude they give us latitude  
we cannot reach them.
They love the enemy, like a favorite pet-
Stroking the dog and biting
the hand that feeds them wisdom.
We walked miles with no shoes -
Prayed for our families-
Now our families-prey on us
With every thing handed to
them through the struggle;
Our children render our efforts
useless and in vain.
Vanity be thou sanity 
Consuming life from 

the top shelves in cafe's...
Thinking non -sober thoughts-
Who knows why we now be despise.
Deaf are their ears when they hear our names;
Holding us accountable, For the shame. 
Never ready for the change.
My prayer now is;
God save me from my people:
The joy that settled in my
accomplishments is now
unsettled disappointment,
disturbing !
They want to have 

their cake crumbs
and eat them too.
Save us from the

 disgrace of how they
discount all we've sacrificed - 

We made it through
and we have shown our 

strength against all odds
How now they praise-

dance with the enemy
They drink no more 

from separate fountains
Never sat in the balcony-
never knew the colored section;
Never stood on buses.
Those of us who never found a soft
place to land in the concrete jungles;
 have lined your bottoms with cushion's
from the sacrifices and suffering we
Watching you again discount us as you
leave us to the ridicule of your own judgment.
As you praise dance with those
who aspire to see your detriment.
Never before have so many brave elders
have had to watch their own children rob
them of their glory and dignity.
Even an imbecilic knows when he's better off.
That's the sad difference between an
slow learner and a fool.
A fool never cares nor takes responsibility..
The slow learner finally learns.
And is delighted to be enlightened.
Where the fool continues
to waddle blissfully in his own ignorance -
Resenting all who shed light on the
error of his ways....
Those who have his best interest -
Become his stumbling block.  
Difficult now for them to blame others;
With bright lights shining on stupidity--
We give them proof-
blinded and overwhelmed
by the truth-they are not interested our story
Never realizing that while their
stubborn heads were buried-in the sand.
We still have to stand-- guard
over their protruding azzes 
Until my children have learned  
where they fit in on earth,
and what they are truly worth
they will continue " Praise-
Dancing" with the enemies
They will continue to be as eaglet's
flapping around the yard ,
clucking with the chickens...
never soaring-never getting off the ground
Bewildered by our "diminutive etymology":
The Elders and The Ancestors;
We look dumbfounded,and mutter....
"Where did we go Wrong" ?

Copyright © Vicki Acquah

Details | Classicism Poem | |



When I shall be the old man here,
Forgot by time, uncountable by year,
When I shall wish to pass the living brink,
At You I shall devote my thought and think.

Uselessness I`ll see in all that I achieve,
If I do not have love or can`t forgive
To do with love all that you have so ruled,
Unknown or known as suffering endured.   

Washed I should not be from any of my sins,
If I did never forget or never forgive since
The hour of balance is inclined toward my trap, 
And hardly passes us one thought or any other step.

And if I did not help that stranger foreign man,
A good word for the pain of that wretch sideman,  
If I have never known to help my friend or mat, 
In vain I shall be sorry, cry shouting or fill pat.  

Or maybe all these I have done presuming, 
But without love, alien and with so confiding,
Than I am just a sonorous forefinger copper,
An ugly earth body without climbing upper.

But even so, there is existing one more chance,
The wisdom in the last hour of one slippery Trans,
     To give me power to see what does He want,
As life to give me; not to take and be redundant.  

But sorrows, which born from facts and sin,
As are recognized, even now could be foreseen
That Judge with love in everything he does,
Inquires all and, with affection… forgives us.

Copyright © Florentina Laic

Details | Classicism Poem | |

I Come From

I Come From:

I come from people of great resolve;
With endurance to survive.
Worry not one day for me;
For I am my peoples' child.

I come from a tribe of strength;
Do not underestimate me.
We carry hopes within our hearts;
Because we are Tsalagi.

I come from a family of perseverance;
With nomadic tendencies.
My life is quite a journey;
For I get my courage honestly.

I come from a place within myself;
Of balance and harmony.
No matter the path that I am on;
So are the ways of the Cherokee.

Darlene Doll Smith

Copyright © Darlene Smith

Details | Classicism Poem | |

A social climber

life is a ladder
and i am a social
climbing one step
after another
but life is hard
so i have to move
if i want to get
for the rich is
getting richer
and the poor get
even though life is
and things get rough
i believe i will
make it
life will get better
for i come from
and now i am here
this is not my
permanent place
it will not be like
this forever
so far as there is
there is more hope
for the future

Copyright © Matt Ancient

Details | Classicism Poem | |

They Call It Wounded Knee

They Call It Wounded Knee 

I came, I saw, I cried;
To the field where they died.
They call it Wounded Knee;
My peoples' history.

Bodies lying, frozen to the ground;
No mourners to be found.
Children still clinging to their mothers;
Laying dead beside their brothers.

The smell of death in the air;
Pools of blood everywhere.
Babies with their heads bashed in;
To waste an army bullet on them would be a sin.

Soldiers surveying their wicked deeds;
Mugging for pictures with the "savage" breed.
Celebrating the slaughter of the Sioux;
Burial is for Christians, but for Indians a mass grave would do.

Sporting medals upon their chest;
Saying that they conquered the west.
Taking the lives of an entire race;
Feeling no remorse or disgrace.

I came, I saw , I cried;
I asked questions of why.
The people of Wounded Knee;
Could not have life and liberty.

The answer was simply said;
"Kill the animals until they're all dead".
"Let my God sort them out";
Land is what it's all about.

The place where the mighty Sioux fell; 
Is a white man's hell.
Once was a place of pride;
The field where they died.

Darlene Doll Smith

Copyright © Darlene Smith

Details | Classicism Poem | |


Form: Infinite Dot Thirteen Verse Is a rare form of poetry, where by the poem is made up of thirteen lines and within the poem has interspersed dots for emphasis on the spoken word. However the total number of dots must add up to 33, and the additions to arrive at this number should or may have significance. Examples would be 16/17 or 10/10/13 or mystical such as 12/12/9 and you can subdivide the 12 say as 7/5 to equal 12. There are no other punctuations used, to place emphasis on the specific pauses. 

Life in your thirties 
Your getting old in youngsters eyes 
Yet what has happened to the years before 
I was born ...educated ...loved and lost 
Heart ached for the what was and isn't now 
Time passed thoughts remain 
Where are the friends I made along the way 
They dropped stones ..... 
Did conversation die 
Or fade 
Yes many...when I think of you. 


Details | Classicism Poem | |

I Go To Pray

I go to pray

I go upon the hill 
to talk to Creator 
I need no building made by man
To pay respects to he who created all

I sing his praises
to the wind
I need no choirs to echo
My sacred song of gratitude

I walk gently upon the Earth 
holding a prayer stick in my hands
I need no collection plate
For Grandfather to hear my prayer

I carry in my heart
All ancestors who came before
I need no alter for a candle
For their light shines in my spirit

I raise my hands to the sky
Allowing my spirit to soar above
I need not bow my head
For I am not ashamed

Darlene Doll Smith - Cherokee

Copyright © Darlene Smith

Details | Classicism Poem | |

The Ring Master

I am the juggler
One with many gifts
Talented in many ways of manipulating all rifts
No evil or good I stand in between
One must do what they must or so it does seem

Scales that tip one way I tip to the other
I must control all beneath for I am their mother
Dark at times so must I shall be
Lightness shines upon all now beneath me

Cheat or cross the lives which we share
I shall come with a vengeance this I swear
To set you straight
To keep you on your path
Do not turn away
Or suffer my wrath

Copyright © Marylen Ayash-Borgen

Details | Classicism Poem | |


Karma was my best friend...
Until I fell for her deceitfulness...
She always had my back when others would try to harm me...
I would laugh at her and the way she would play with others emotions...
Not knowing that I would fall as one of her victims...
See Karma is mysterious...
I guess that's why she is perfered as a female dog...
She has no feelings...
That's why she always wins her battles...
Me and her never see eye to eye now...
I guess we're to much alike...
I also have no feelings...
Some may say that's impossible, being a human with no feelings...
See,  My mother is Sorrow...
My girlfriend is Pain...
My enemy is Fear, I have none...
I came in the world naked...
So Karma can't take anything from me that is rightfully mine...
So when I leave this Earthly Hell...
I will leave, knowing that I have won the battle that no one else has ever 

Copyright © Lamar Johnson

Details | Classicism Poem | |

New Year Changes

New Years Day
Is a time for change
People change for the better
Some don't change at all
Most don't follow through
My New Years resolution
Is to not fall
Into the endless pit
Of abandonment
And follow through
With my New Years resolution

Copyright © Lizzie Maestas

Details | Classicism Poem | |

The Dance

I thought of you when you first held my hand
With secret pressure that could only be real
Your youthful heart began slowly to expand
And it’s first lovers pulse had beat for me
Then I lived in thee

I thought of you when you caught my eye
In deepest silence yours fixed upon mine
Poured a melting flood full of sympathy
And mingled in my soul with halted time
Then I lived in thee

I thought of you, when at first your arms
Around my waiting form were flung
When at my bosom heaved your charms
While on our lips our elated spirits hung
Then I lived in thee

When health was strong, youth was wild
When rivals envied and the ladies smiled
When through the dances, bounding light
When holding tight as the time was right
Then I lived in thee  

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Classicism Poem | |

A Primrose Hill

A mount of spring with a long gentle swell
Adorned in morning freshness is upon thee
On this green heath verdant primrose spread
The early blooms of heaven slumber in mist
A slight gale drives the white vapors away
Revealing sudden gleaming opening vista’s
Of blossomed hedges, now seen, now lost

They seem as moving pictures passing by
Silence abounds except on top of the swell
Stirring by passing gusts gnarled aged trees
There rustling tops utter voices not known
Like spirits in a dream on the hill of spring
Loved in their loneliness by all that do love
Flowers dressed, colored glories to behold 

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Lost Love

Clear, please clear that brow of gloom
Grieve stains beauty to ruin a shrine
Joy alone should shine and illume
With eyes so sparkling bright as thine
Leave me you're plaintive sighs
As for me no roses will never shine
Even as summer blazes in the sky's
But it will be winter always in mine

So keep; oh keep that pensive smile
So faint, so sweet, for me so brief
Though it beams, we doubt, the while
If it be joy, it beams not for me
Keep it, for an others feelings only
From me it was gently stole
In chastened heavenly tone
Let his moonlight be your soul  

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Karen O'Leary—My Poetry Soup Pal!

She should have been Hera, goddess queen of heaven, the sister-wife of 
Zeus, king of the gods; she would have caught him one Friday night tipping 
Out while she sleeps to visit one of his plumy wives and over 100 relations. 
She would have said, “Sit down Zeus; let me inform you about the laws of 
Property settlement and child support in heaven with a concrete poem.”

She would have straightened up Aphrodite, goddess of love and lust.
Especially when Aphrodite was caught red-handed making love to
Her son, Ares, the God of war, she probably would have said, “Now look 
Here woman, quit messing with my son and creating all this rumblings in
Heaven with the gods.” I could see some Lanturne poems floating

She would have acted as the sister of Demeter, goddess of fertility,
Agriculture, and harvest, a sister of Zeus. Because she would have 
Blessed women with children who need them, and also farmers
With great harvest and crops to feed their families and sustain the 
People across the land, by waving a haiku poem in her healing hands

She would have screamed as the sister of Hermes, the crooked cattle-rustling
God; son of Zeus and Maia, who stole his brother, Apollo’s cows, then
Lied, and swore before Zeus, their father, “That even if I knew who stole 
Apollo’s cattle, I would not even accept a reward for finding the thief.” 
She would have gave her crooked brother, and son of Zeus, a flying senryu

She would have been with Athena, the virgin goddess of wisdom, reason, and 
Heroic endeavors; the daughter of Zeus, and Titan goddess of wise counsel 
Métis, especially when Athena appeared onto Swift-footed demigod,
Achilles, and told him, “Sheathe your sword and defeat Agamemnon, the 
Greek king with words of wisdom.”  I could see some wise epigram poems 

She was probably counseled by Apollo, her brother, god of music, healing, and 
Poetry; the son of Zeus and the Titan goddess Leto. Because she has cared 
For the sick in hospital emergency rooms, and has also stimulated us for years 
With her poetic muse. She has counseled many along the way and has calmed
Many storms with loving charm. “Hail my sister in Christ—Karen O’Leary!”

Happy birthday angel and wishing you many more for years to come!

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Mega Death

All my friends have..... gone
Underground ....... they rest at my bare feet
Leaves blowing sequestered on this barren earth
Grey skies melodies of wistful sad notes
Lovers too... have died on me
.....underground they lie
The heart is a terrible cavern of loss
Alone, I amble to and fro
Knowing full well
I too have died
Infinite is
My judgment soon to arrive ............underground

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | Classicism Poem | |

The Melody Of Love

Love plays different melodies.. 
Music to which lovers respond..
Instrumental, is the harp, 
the flute, and the drum.
Listen with your ears, for
your heart may skip a beat
Listen with your eyes,eyes will 
always see.

Hear with your whole being, 
the melody of love.
The Drum will beat out 

As the harp beckons 
to you,.."come"!!
The flute will calm a 
distressed soul... 

But only the melody of unity 
can strike that blessed chord.
Unity and passion can 
fulfill the empty soul.

While the melody of love 
unheard, is sad.

Opened ears will make songs glad.... 
When we move our feet together, 

our hearts will dance in unison 
If we hear love’s melody

with unguarded hearts - 
To the love we shall sub-come.

We contemplate the music 
of loves sweet refrain.
Together we make music 
of melodious adoration,

As our creator's love 
has no limitations.

You whistle the same 
bars and measures.
As I lay and calmly hum.
We be tuned as one- 

We become 
as a symphony, 

to which our 
heartstrings strum.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah

Details | Classicism Poem | |


The Naughty Pen

She loves my naughty pen
Little wonder why her bunk shook 
The last night I visited
Between the boards of her heart my verses are vast
Written with unspoken words 
Littered with love language 
Only her heart can decode 
The naughty pen’s code

She loves my naughty pen 
Because of its beautiful rhymes
The reverie of having my pen made her snore
As we snore 
I swim through her imaginations
Exploring and emancipating her innermost 
Conquering her doubts
Surpassing her body
Plowing the unknown
Building fences around her garden

She loves my naughty pen
And my pen love her I swear
But I hope she won’t stone my pen to death 
For its naughtiness
Even if she does
My pen shall resurrect on the third day
Because no stone can kill true love 

She kissed my naughty pen 
Like a mother whose child needs lullaby
Caressing my innocent lips with her wet lips
As a baby pen, I cuddled between her two tender layers 
Standing between her chest
The baby pen sucks her milk
Thus making her sobbed, saying; ‘crazy baby’
 The sand hill stood straight, pleasure mixed with imagery 
Dragging the night into an endless quest of possibilities…
Possibilities encoded with lyrics

I gave her my naughty pen the last night we met
Now, she is accusing the lyrics of my pen of being naughty
And yet, she is smiling all the way, asking for naughtier pen
Is it a crime to express my innermost feeling?
Is it a crime to build true imagery and fantasy?
Is it a crime that the mental state of my pen’s imagination is naughty?
Is it a crime that my pen loves her; and she loves my pen much more?
Much more because the frequencies of her heart beat is stronger than Rhythm FM

To my bosom friend
My naughty pen loves you
Stop acting shyness
Shyness is for the weak at heart
My pen is ready to go hungry for a century to proof this;
Ready to surmount Mount Everest for you;
Ready to blow you kisses when the night is dark and fear arises;
Ready to stand by you when the arrows of life rail at you;
Ready to cover you when the night is cold and cruel
Ready to make you feel like a woman
Ready to forgive and forgive, and forgive…
I love you….the naughty pen

Dedicated to Adeola Adenekan
Written by Awoh Kingsley
October 19th, 2012.

Copyright © awoh kingsley awoh

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Spanish Harlem

The mood the breeze the night you had to make your moves just right now that is groovy baby The sounds the barriers the grip to tap of a foot to the Snap of a figure things where in rhyme Oh how it feel to be living for the day Of the game was to be played the player was the day Was up daddy o smooth Smooth down to suit & tie down to crease of the hymn of pants Down to cold jet black shoes now that my friends is style They was groom cut down trim just one more reason To step in the name of love You talking about Harlem Nights You talking about a lot people founding there wives I’m not here to tell you about history you can read all about it But Poets was established Actors was established And some case is Cookes was established So I ask what is the difference between freedom and opportunity? The information is there you just got to read all about it If I had a choice how of what to be called I choice to be called black folks Cause black people know how show you a good time Harlem Nights be easy A poet and still running

Copyright © Louis Borgo

Details | Classicism Poem | |

The Vultures

The vultures are waiting for the night.... Waiting for the sun to die...
They will find me in my darkest hour and pick my bones dry...
I rock in my painted corner, humming a little song...
I dwell on my disease, the one I've dwelled on for too long...
My castle has grown smaller as I lie awake in wait...
My dreams have become fewer, as ever closer comes my fate...
Now's the time for prayer, as the tears fall from my eyes...
They look at me and squawk, as they plummet from the skies... 

Copyright © Darrell Hoover

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Christmas Wishes

I wish I could have a beautiful wife.
With a cheerful smile.
A wonderful heart.
Ready to start a brand new life.
I wish I could have a brand new house.
Which has a cat, a dog, or even a mouse.
I wish our house could have a Christmas Tree.
With lots of pretty lights, and bulbs to see.
I wish I could have a brand new car.
A car I could drive.Very near or very far.
I wish I could have a brand new TV.
Big and wide, with a very large screen.
Full of color and DVD.
I wish I could have a Teddy Bear.
Cozy and cuddly.A bear like me..
I wish I could have a Grandfather Clock.
Ticking by day, and ticking by night.
Only ticking when the time is right.
And I wish there could be a Santa Claus.
Who can deliver my wishes by tomorrow night.

Because Christmas wishes should be for all.
Even myself, standing ten feet tall..

Christmas Wishes Poetry-By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2004,2014..ALL rights reserved..

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards

Details | Classicism Poem | |


The midnight hour approaches
as I wait for thee.
This table, beset with pretty things,
beckons thee, my love.
Crescent moon o'er head
lined with silvery cloud illuminates
the nightsky, dimly.

Our respite is this nightgarden.
In the days of yore; 
a place for secret liaisons,
where dreams and visions were shar'd 
of past and future times.
I await thine entrance through these steely gates.
Come quickly, O maiden of the night, mine lover!

One minute 'til the chimes begin,
please love - tarry not!
These withr'd mem'ries torment me,
like raging storms upon a silent sea.
New things to cherish - I beg of thee!
Days of future's past now before mine eyes;
these sorrow me, O fair one.

An ill wind blows, crescent moon obscur'd,
tether'd to the blackness
which surrounds it.
The clock chimes twelve; O Octavia come forth!
Fear not the wind nor the black of night;
love survives this dismal season,
the flowers sway gently in the breeze.

Tonight, as in years past, I sit alone,
without thine presence.
Threescore and a year have pass'd since we last lov'd.
An evil tide did taketh thee away, the tempest - victor!
Yet patiently I await thine return.
Next year, next year, my love,
to this nightgarden shall I return, and once more pray for thine homecoming.

Copyright © Tommy Boy

Details | Classicism Poem | |

Cursed be the Night

Cursed be the night... O' bloody night...
Thy face is cold and dead...
Thy eyes are of blackness, and thy cape wicked....
And the world is thy bed...
Thou sleepest during the day and cause death 
in the dark...
The fire that consumed her was caused by thy breath...
Within it, a single spark...
So I curse thee, o' dreadful night... 
I curse thee til the mornings' sweet light...

Copyright © Darrell Hoover