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Best People Poems

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Details | People Poem | |

Love Poem - 29

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.

I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.

The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....

....I fell in love with him too.

I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.

If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with the woman 
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.

I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.


And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....

....well, I love them too.





April 6th, 2012

Details | People Poem | |

The Joy Killing Poet

**Back smile/smile Back **

With your heads way up your :]ssa[: 
You will never accomplish the win
I got shots that will protect me from your rabid ways
After you fell into a non-stop falling disease, 
Your movements weakened
Straight from a dried up well, 
Every day you frolic in a disorder that causes more brain damage 
With progressive mental retardation 
You continue to lick the top of your cleft lips

He is the saddest sadist human that ever lived!
So sad he has to live with himself every night
Kissing his young ones Goodnight 
In ways I can't even breathe to tell
The way he follows rabbits down the bunny hole
Killing each laughing hare
Wiping smiles, leaning in, 
The madness in Alice's Wonderland 
Madder and Madder The Hatter
Revealing
Your boldness is nothing more than baldness
A man in a monkey suit
Molesting the minds of his idiotic circle, 
Trying to kill the joy, not knowing
We don't care about his false Harvard WAY
I rather stay here dropping out, than pretending
Following his made-up perception, a cropped out waste
His taste, my best copypaste, he jacked on
A stench, they left behind when open mouths laugh
He educates by attacking women better than his own
Silently to the top of his knife, he stalks nakedly
Removing a few poems he plagiarized
His Poorness, brought many to donate to the salvation of his army
Sadness Delivered by the Joy Killing Poet and his little pigs

Cross My heart and hope to die!!!

~SKAT~

Details | People Poem | |

Recording/Re-playing/Recording/Re-playing

The farm
     and the porch light hums 
the sound of another 
orange dawn.

Burnt up – crisp
      aching new reaches 
of the imagination turn 
from corn
      to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.

Sweeping ‘cross in whispers 
two thousand years
      and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble 
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
     and forth - 
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm 
     being heard 
by another set of ears,
in some other when –

     some other marble.

When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth

can grip.

Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
      and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
      where no ears hear.

The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true 
      to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment, 
      lived.

The girl turns to face 
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon 
      the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps 
on the skin
that God gave her; 
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
 
      breathing in the dawn 
as it breaks.

The farm notes this coming.

The sky knows;

The wind knows.

The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
      exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,

breathing through this land; 
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
      and through into another’s
open mouth.




© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09

Details | People Poem | |

Money-God

Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.

Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.

People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.

Godless? 
With or without the words, 
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God, 
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.

The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.

If I had been given the chance, 
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.

When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....

....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.

If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within, 
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.

Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling 
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.

Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.

If I had been given the chance -- past tense....

....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,

until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.







December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S:  28 - 2 = 26




January 7th, 2013




.

Details | People Poem | |

Color Me

Color me white, or color me black. Color
me brown, or color me red. Color me 
yellow, but color me to be just me.

Color me anyway you want. You are the 
artist, you know what to do, just capture 
my beauty and let it show through.

My beauty is not on the outside for everyone 
to see. My beauty comes from within and 
few people have seen.

Color me with the colors that you so much
love to use and when people see this painting,
they will see themselves in me.

The people will ask you - why did you put so
many colors on me and you will tell them - because
the beauty I did see.

The painting is now finished, the artist has done 
his job. A painting of many colors, that he is very 
proud of.

The colors bring beauty to the painting on the 
wall, but if we were all colored blind - we wouldn't
see any colors at all...

Copyright: written by
Lucilla M. Carrillo

Comments:

I wrote this poem because through out life 
I have seen a lot of injustice done, because
of who we are , or where we came from. We
did not choose to be who we are, or where
we came from. God chose that for us. I don't
think God made a mistake when He made us.
He had His reasons. We are who we are, that
can never be changed. We live in this world.
We are God's Race...

Details | People Poem | |

What Only Angles Hear

Daddy never did understand.
That violence doesnt bring comfort.
A lost soul seeking acceptance from a unwelcome hand.

She was silent no one ever knew.
The secrets behind her bruised eyes.
A shocking victem none but all had a clue.

She cried to empty walls never speaking aloud from fear.
A confession of pain and shattred trust.
this is only what angles hear.

Scars selfinflicted  are better than that 
dirty feeling.
As she lays a broken shell gazing  at the celling.

She questions if others know what will they say.
Doing whatever it takes to stay numb.
Innocence lost a parent should never betray.

The guilt was placed apon the wrong head.
Void of all emotion.
No child should yern to be dead.

At times it gets to uncomfortable so in 
another direction we  steer.
For at times it's just to painful to stomach.
What only angles  hear.

Details | People Poem | |

Brush Stroke to Uniqueness

If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red? 
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration, 
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green, 
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
on absorption.
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
"Mind's Eye"
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.


Details | People Poem | |

THE WHEEL HAS COME FULL CIRCLE

What goes up must come down. 
No colors can define who you are. 
You may own a cart or limousine. 
We'll still reach the end when it is near. 
I may be poor today and eat from trash. 
Tomorrow, you can't tell. I'll earn some cash. 
The bed where you lie is soft and wide. 
I sleep at a sidewalk and the stars are my lamp. 
You wake up each morn' with a feast on your table 
While we are scavenging to fill stomachs when we're able. 
Our destiny isn't written in the stars. 
We work for a living to thrive in this life. 
Be thankful every morning you witness the sun 
And pray tonight that no one lives same as I. 
Wheels come in full circle,rolling round and round. 
Today you'll be on top, 
I am watching from the ground. 
Let us bear in our minds that we are better than birds. 
Our loving Father ensures each mouth is fed. 
Not even the smallest details can pass by His eyes. 
So plant a seed of kindness and reap a better life. 



sponsor:FRANK H.

name of 
contest: SHAKESPEARE

*5th Place winner









Details | People Poem | |

On the outside, looking in

"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."

This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.

Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution

I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.

Testament verses
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning

There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders

I was surrounded by shovels
Ransacked
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench

While I
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics

Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…

…

…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath 
Simply
Searching
For B-rated serendipity

Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.

Turning away from windowed afflictions
Ready
To step towards gratitude’s breath

Outside,
No longer looking in

How good it feels.

Yet, I still miss my friends.

©Drake J. Eszes 

Details | People Poem | |

Person of Colour

Person of colour is coherently germane,
He is never insane.

Some things about this person of colour may seem strange,
He is simple and he is yet to engage.

This person of colour loves the critics,
It is from them, he ticks.

This person of colour is natural,
And so, he is not a trial.

This person of colour loves to exchange
Ideas beyond his range.

This person of colour loves keyboard,
Tis with this he comes on board.

This person of colour is a charcoal- a black beauty.
This person of colour is me.

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