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Best Poetry Poems

Below are the all-time best Poetry poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of poetry poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Poetry Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Poetry poems are below this new poems list.

SHADOW AND SHADE by Guyler, Ian
God is great by Sathasivam, Ravi
KISSING MASSIVE LIPS by Thajudeen, Muhammad Safa
EASTER STYLE AND WEARS by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
TO THE WORLD HAPPY EASTER by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
BLACK MAN RUN RUN by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
LOVE YOUR EYES AND SMILE by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
WE AS A RACE by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
CAN'T KILL A DREAM by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
I LOVE HOW YOU PLEASE ME by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka

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The Best Poetry Poems

Details | Poetry Poem | |

How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry - when asked where it began, I’d say it started beautifully before the dawn of man! It glistened on the oceans before man came to be. It blossomed on the grassy cliffs that met the first great sea. It glittered in the moon and stars and beamed on earth below in meadows where bright flowers danced and on the pristine snow. It sparkled on the lakes and streams, and when man came along, he took sweet words that flowed to him and turned them into song. This was how it always was before we knew of time. The poet who begot us all made it to be sublime. Poetry has now evolved, and as with many things, there are many kinds. . . but I still like it when it sings! Inspired by the contest of Justin Bordner and some of the beautiful poems I've been seeing in this contest Now for PD's Best Poem of 2014 - Poetry Contest

More great poems below...


Details | Poetry Poem | |

Of Ink

   Partial Paper
 -A poet in heat-

Ink carries its own tale,
When moonshine intoxicates your pen
Bottles of ink fill your mind
Composing symphonies on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails

This part of you 
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The tough skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking  words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger plus anger "GIVE ME MORE!"

You have a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions 
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet:  "Ink Never Lies."

Pretty pink acrostic ink when she's nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sung under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Ode's of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propagandas
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth

by;)

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Whisky Moment

~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!


   And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down 
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying  gigolos 
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub

I am drunk-- in his eye, 
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness 
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness 

Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne 
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade 
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name 

Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood 
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note 
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not  jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo 
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say

"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"

by: PD

Details | Poetry Poem | |

FORGOTTEN TREASURE-

FORGOTTEN TREASURE

I found the fountain of youth
When I stumbled across the forbidden garden
Right smack in the middle,
Was what I thought to be a wishing well
I tossed in a quarter!
Looking down with a puzzled face
I peeked to see where it fell
I leaned over and that's when I saw my vanity
It was always there waiting for me
The reflection in the water was my face
In wonder I asked what this vision could be?
With one drop on my taste buds
I knew I found the one true key
The most beautiful thing that can set one free
I reached in to touch the poetry inside me

      ~SKAT~

re-post- first poem on the soup

Details | Poetry Poem | |

SIMPLY TOO GOOD TO BE YOU

I guess we can all struggle when we sit to write But use your own words - to plagiarise isn’t right When I read a poem that’s simply too good to be true I then begin to question, was it really written by ‘you’ Googling a few lines will give me the answer You’ve been caught out – you were a chancer I just want to read poems that I’ve never read before If I find copied poems I won’t read ‘yours’ any more Why claim words from another writer, for it is a crime You’ll never find it happen in any poem of mine 7th February 2015

More great poems below...


Details | Poetry Poem | |

God's Kind Of Poetry

I see God in nature, surrounded in the beauty of our earth.
As God may speak with his spark of life dwelling in me,
Expressed though HIS thoughts in my poetic word’s birth. 

“Now all of my children born and reborn in this world,
I will be your parent, grand teacher, and protector.
Know you are part of me as your earthly body is unfurled.

Fragrant flowers should be known as your sister and brother.
Breathe in deeply of the varied glorious tree’s blessed breath;
A gift from me, your omnipotent father and mother.

Each season praises that divine dominion of poetry.
With each season new life emerges with the beginning of spring
Into the warmth of summer across verdant fields and forestry.

Do not fear as I cause autumn season’s winds to blow
In seeming wrath, set upon colorful trees, leaves are freed
To invite winter and the blessings of new fallen snow.

Receive my blessing of light that opens a direct path to me.
Let it shine bright in your life, in all that you say and do.
Share your delight of this blessing through inspired poetry.

Be aware of your words for they embrace the real you.
Others may be hurt by careless words spoken.
Remember, words mean as much as your actions do.

Any kindness you display by reaching out to those in need
Is always a welcome gift and returned to you in kind,
Only in much more abundance to help YOU succeed.

As you question the heavenly stars in their distant galaxies
The answers lie within yourself, if you will be still and meditate.
You may seek the truth in your own mind for life’s realities.

I am near you always, within and without, have no doubt.
I only wish you love and happiness, even though I know
You must experience difficult times to learn what life’s about.

For you are my child and I rejoice in lessons you’ve learned of.
Teach your children to revere and love me, not fear me,
I’m here to guide and protect them, for you see, I am LOVE!”

Please put your trust in me both below and above
For my divine power and glory is centered in love.

© Connie Marcum Wong

For Brian Johnston’s contest: “God’s Kind of Poetry”


Details | Poetry Poem | |

We Push The Pen

We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.

We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.

We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.

We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.

We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.

We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.




Details | Poetry Poem | |

Night Owl

Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!


Details | Poetry Poem | |

To the Scoffers of Sensual Writes

To those who think that poetry must be
of lofty things, not sensuality
To those who write of stars and sun and moon
and who to romance will not ever swoon

To those who write of angst and misery
of all that has gone wrong in history
To those who think I write frivolity
and read not what I write: an oddity!

I write to you, and all my thought's I'll bare
and see if you can argue if you dare
If you’ve forgotten passion's blazing fire
Or how consumed your heart was with desire

If you’ve forgotten romance in the night
Or making love in early morning light
If you’re denied the thrill of ecstasy
And can’t bear witness to its urgency

If you have come of age when health concerns
are all of life that now your mind discerns
I tell you dear, the fault is yours not mine
Devoid of love life meets not plan divine

The gift of love is granted from on high
You can’t deny that even if you try
the pleasure’s woven in anatomy
He formed and blessed our sensuality

To reproduce was in his own design
But also to enjoy the act sublime
There is a little bud that’s meant to thrill
It’s only use is pleasure to fulfill

So tell me, what is life if not for this
To show commitment with the sweetest kiss
In right communion to be drenched in love
And in its throes to glide to heights above

My fellow poet, write of lofty things
And all the finer thoughts that wisdom brings
I pity you for love and passion’s reign
Has banished you from glory with disdain

All nature and all life with love is mixed
And so my mind with passion is transfixed
It’s love that makes this world go round and round
Without it, best be buried underground.

Eileen Manassian




Details | Poetry Poem | |

WORDS

Your words flow freely like a cascading waterfall
Such beautiful writes, I can relate to them all

Words that reveal the pain in your eyes
The hurt you feel you cannot disguise

Tender words full hopes and of dreams of romance
Find the girl of your dreams, then take a chance

I am honoured to find such a treasured friend
Together lets hope our dreams never end

Jan Allison
8th September 2014

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Windowpanes

An ancient river, centuries-old shops and restaurants steeped in a 2000-year history and 
culture set the scene. The ambiance seemed divinely contrived to facilitate the purposes of 
our meeting and the very fodder from which the greatest poets are sustained.
Not newcomers to the area, Kay P. and I were assigned to the Army Security Agency Field 
Station in Augsburg, Germany in 1974. We were colleagues in the intelligence community 
with no romantic overtures to our relationship, save an appreciation of poetry and profound 
philosophical discussions. Kay wanted to spend the evening with a poet, so we planned the 
evening to be appropriate for the purpose. 
At the time and place, we quickly found ourselves hopelessly immersed in the philosophical 
foundations of my writings throughout the evening. It was the first time since Vietnam that 
I'd felt worthy as a person. I still recall sipping the red wine and feeling the warmth of the 
large hearth inside the Balkan eatery. I still see the swans gliding by on the Lech flowing by 
our café.

When windowpanes begin to weep with autumn's chilly dew, I'm taken back through seasons passed to one delight held true, A rendezvous that time allowed, a gentle evening spent Amid a time of long discord when days were dreary bent. I feel the stretch upon my lips, the smile returns once more. Again, I smell the Balkan fare prepared on Lech's old shore, The mood is cast in high regard, the wine is tart and dry, As Augsburg ripples in the wake when swans go gliding by. The ancient windows frame our view and day begins to wane As rivulets meander down and streak the dampened panes. The ambiance of ages passed beseeched us not to leave And held us in its warm embrace throughout the ebbing eve. My heart was scarred, without regard and hardened by the war But her esteem unveiled its worth, while nothing had before. She saw the child that once was me, I'd long since cast aside, And bade he climb astride his mount, engage his life and ride. Now, she is but a memory, whose kindness soothed my heart, For we embarked upon our lives on paths ordained to part. Her subtle way escaped my eye till time had made it clear That her esteem had set me free, that night I hold so dear. The poetry that filled my soul remains these many years, Impassioned in my warmest thoughts when autumn first appears, When windowpanes begin to weep, a-glisten with the dew, And I return to seasons passed, to one delight held true.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

SPILLS OF IMAGINATION



early dawn cracks the  wispy air
open , wandering around viscous spaces
like fairy shadows caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
 
taller than maple trees delicately rustling
the garnet of late Indian summer when
birds, orbits and urchins listen to 
a single searching sun… when all else
 
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain fired imagination straying  on
mouths of  gentleness  far beyond
nuptials of effervescent realms…
 
someone said morning becomes Electra,
that learning how to hear a pear or
grain unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
 
unfurl its leaves far beyond unknowing a
heart’s need to be:  the juice spills streams
waking new faces of time, bending the width
of life's rhyme through endless mystery...
 
a thousand times before and after, daybreak
and night twine... that in tints of all hues,
passing through fables of any season
 
is poetry's way of coming back to itself.


Justin Bordner's How Poetry Began Contest
by nette onclaud

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Where Poetry Lives

 His  poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that 
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
hunting grounds
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
that inspire
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where  poetry lives

Details | Poetry Poem | |

On every tenth of June

On every tenth of June
 
The sea waves splash upon the moors for years 
and shadows draw along the walls festoons
unspoken verse, conceived on silent piers,
the advent of our loneliness attunes.
 
That day of June remained our only fair
and minds' ascension to the astral reign,
blooms' multitude and fragrances’ affair
a purple thistle on the field and rain.
 
Remember me, a windy song and laugh,
our holding hands and young, the Summer’s call,
we celebrated then, upon the wharf
and acanthine of solitude's dance hall.
 
On every tenth of June my eyes embrace,
above the summer moors, your lines of face.
 
© G. Venetopoulos, 06-14-2013, All rights reserved
(English Sonnet)


Details | Poetry Poem | |

A Cameo Appearance By Andrea Dietrich

It was not the mountains.. those that dwarf us, the forests that invited our senses...seduced us to stay. Nor the oceans whose mass we contained within us, creatures small and large...some we loved and others feared. Not, the floating rain, the clouds...kind or angry, the sky bright or blackboard black, the falling leaves or those who held on tight, the multiverse of colors sharp or flat. NOT...the seasons that in all their glory arrived  or stepped away as their sister or brother took the stage. Every inch of our untouched world chants to our sensibilities, the perfect candidate to rule our internal domain. Life in its all knowing way  has always bestowed us with gifts, unfolded miracles in our wake,  other times challenged us in a rage. Our world would take an eon to notate. Not, those particles...each made the whole, stirred our voices...drew from us...song. We, are only messengers. Our words not our own. Some call it passion, others magic, they also call it art. Some suggest it comes from the heart. Whatever you call it, this mystical harbinger who through us communicates... it is he, she, responsible for what we loosely term art. Poetry like all the arts...never began as such... rather it is integral to just being. IT is US...  just ask the lady with the pen and pad writing while driving her car... it is a part of our existence  ...it has always been. poets would write, even... if they lived in a vacuum.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

A Poetic Caress

I write of things that are real,
yet can be hard to express.
And encourage hearts to feel,
with a poetic caress.

My pen interrogates pain,
to try and explain the hurt.		
And redefines what is sane,
by exposing all the dirt.
	
My poems describe feelings,
from first breath to death's embrace.
And shattering glass ceilings,
vindicate pride and disgrace.

My words reach out to a few,
going beyond expected norms.
And challenge their point of view,
through rhyme or established forms.

My compassion knows no bounds,
dissecting anguish and tears.
And my fragmented heart pounds
exhuming dead dreams and fears.

My soul pools in broken hearts,
as it leaks upon the page.
And anxiety departs,
from the heart of this old sage.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Message to the Lover of the Poet

To be in love with a poet
Is not an easy thing
Try as you might, you will never
Live up to his dream

For the poet isn’t content
With love’s status quo
You please and you tease him
But it’s not enough you know

For living there in his mind
Is a picture of the divine
You know that he longs for her
For it's shown in every line

The woman of perfection
Who is not of this world
With raven tresses of hair
A passion flower unfurled

The poet “sees” this woman
And his senses just take leave
For her love is deep, intense
Her body rivals that of Eve

She is tender and she’s giving
Never asking in return
She waits for him night and day
And for his love she burns

She nurtures his desire
Fulfills his every whim
For she is his possession
Remains faithful just to him

She sees in him embodied
Every single manly trait
Each and every need of his
She’s sure to satiate

Ah…mere mortal woman
Who must compete with this muse
You find that you fall short
And your love’s prone to abuse

For who can dare compare
With a poet’s romantic dream
The siren who sings to him
Who floats on clouds of cream

Poor lover of the poet
Sitting all alone at night
Waiting for him to see you
and your needs to ignite

Love him, my sweet, love him
For in the end...he’s just a man
That silly muse of his dreams
Can’t caress him, but you can

So win him at this love game
Make the fires really burn
Try to enchant his mind
So that for YOU it will yearn

Warn that charming seductress
That muse who tries hard to woo
That you have a jealous heart
And you've made him drink your brew

Your body, your soul, your desires
Bathe him in all of these
Not with words but your hands
Make him to do just what you please

For a poet is just a man
Just a simple man is he
Grant him all he desires
Only then he'll set you free!

Jade

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Her Masterpiece Is Her Story

Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.

One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.

She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?

No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.

Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.

Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.

She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.

She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.

Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...

That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.

Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.

Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.

This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.

Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.

She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.

He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.

Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people, 
who saw her cries for help.

And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.

She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.


Details | Poetry Poem | |

Toilet Bowl Committee

Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)

A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
---
If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low

Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger, straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself

Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors 
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dried up grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood, overpowers any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs

Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T


By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood) 
Date: 12-15-13

~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Poetry Pillar

When Light needed a body to behold, and color to kiss,
as Darkness dreamnt to die in the dawn of depth,
when Soul lustered to lust for learning, and being learned,
as blood bespoke to bones for building a star of flesh,
when Time needed the umbrage of it's ubiquity to be understood,
the moment texture tempted touch to tease with a thousand sensations,
when laws of love sought a language to express the extremes of it's lips,
as romance rampaged through the ravishings of famished hearts,
when the seduction of sorrow made heros of loving men and women,

When Justice appealed to the instincts of intent for inscriptions of innocence,
as bravery found battle in basic questions of survival and conquest,
when war demanded a metaphor in the terror of it's diligent destruction,
as Faith found resolve in seconds small along with giant gestures,
Death singing melancholoy for sympathy and Life haughty upon it's horizon,
when Angels chose to wear albatross of gold to feel the rue of rogues,
as the most perfect woman ambushed the ideals of rumored beauty,
when God wanted imagination to create immaculate reality
Poetry began, born in the instant of forever Art,
because, the only promise of a Poet, is Passion -

Dedicated to Poetry...J.A.B.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

Patchwork Girl

As we watch the girl stumble inside of her cage.
We wait, from without, and we shout out directions.
Answers opposing, our voices clang together --
As useful as banging of pots to the floor.

Enslaved, she carries the weight of his weakness.
Pulled to bloody knees, she dare not cry out.
While around us were blue skies and grasses so green,
Her sky was obsidian, with dust at her feet.

Filled with remorse, bruises deepen and spread
Into scars and disease she thinks cannot heal.
The patchwork girl, with no shroud for cover,
Lay broken and hollowed in chains of defeat.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

DREAMER'S SECRETS

Virgin piece of paper
You lay in front of me
Bare, a sleeping beauty
Mesmerized by what I see 

In that moment, captivated
Drawn into your light
I'll cover you with passion
Long into the night
You'll give this dreamer's secrets.. sight

I gently touch your canvas
Let lover's feelings flow
You give every indication 
That tonight you'll let it go

And I am filled with wonder
Of all that we could be
Amazed that you weren't taken
Lost in this serendipity
When this night is over
Oh forever, it'll be you and me

Penned flame, yeah all I got
Two now one, love's knot
Feel the stroke, inks heat
Making music, love's beat

And what we birth in secret
Tomorrow will be so clear
Spread across your sheet
Love's expression without fear

So remember every moment
How I mused over you
Together we created
A masterpiece to view
You've made this dreamer's secrets.. true

Penned flame, yeah all I got
Two now one, love's knot
Feel the stroke, inks heat
Making music, love's beat

Penned flame, yeah all I got
Two now one, love's knot
Feel the stroke, inks heat
Making music, love's beat

Perspective: The Poet Pen's RELATIONSHIP with Paper

Contest: Regina Riddle's "relationships" 
Date: 7-25-14

Details | Poetry Poem | |

- Wings On An Elephant -



You can try

yes you can

putting wings on an elephant

yes I know you can

Poesi without love

is impossible





13.03.2015 A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

- Everyone who writes poetry leaves a bit of their soul and heart - 


Details | Poetry Poem | |

August rains

The steadily falling cold August rains
Continue to pour upon Cheshires lanes;
over flattening fields of soddened wheat,
Soaking the grass, splashing the feet.

Stands the Combine in the shed,
The unripened apples hanging rosy red,
Stands the caped heron all alone;
The glinting eye as cold as stone.

And in amongst the many puddles
We step around like our troubles - 
So lurch ahead with our retreat
Like drunken fools in the street.

And through this months darkly frowns
The cleansing downpours wash the towns;
Scrubs the spire from ingrained time,
Absolves the guilt from the crime.

Details | Poetry Poem | |

India

I hear much joy in the music,
View elation in the dance
Feel happiness in the laughter,
Soulful spirit in poetic romance.

I feel love in the language
Swelling in my heart.
Reverence for God and Goddess
In beloved families far apart.

I love the customs and the people
As they celebrate each day
Living life to the fullest
In their honor I wish to pray

That I may learn to be as humble
As loving and as kind,
To be blessed by elder wisdom
In every senior that I find.

This is a gift to give my children
To open their sleepy little eyes.
To see the value in rejoicing,
To reach for stars up in the skies.

When they learn this knowledge 
To listen well to the sages,
They will know of sacred secrets
Handed down through the ages.

© 2014 Connie Marcum Wong