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Best Spoken Word Poems

Below are the all-time best Spoken Word poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of spoken word poems written by PoetrySoup members

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speechless spoken word Artiste by ARTHUR, CHRISDAD KOJO
The spoken word cannot be unsaid by Broadbent, Robert
Oratory - Power of the Spoken Word by Ioane, Tiaua M
I am monster spoken word poem by Carroll, Ken
Speak Life: the power of the spoken word by nelson, louise
Sadness is a Visable Spoken Word by archuletta, dave
Epipoeticplectic - An awesome spoken word martial artist : AKRONEMS W BLOCK by Ridley, Wanda
just a little spoken word by poole, ciara
The Spoken Word Poet Pt2 by Anderson, Jimmy

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The Best Spoken Word Poems

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Silent Poet

(The Fallen Poet)

Shadows, fall from the east
Winter show, white meadows,
Compelling words lost, in a SILENT world
Beautiful, Bloomingdale is how it goes
Apocalypto-- my very own limbo
Alone in a field of corpses-
A field of men, women and broken pens, 
Images of angels fallen to their knees

A pace of space, of solitude
The sun a wasted disease
The more I prayed the worse I felt,
Lord, I came before you- broken and alone

Heaven sees the secret inside
Lost I may be, yet you see
Offended me, I no longer sing
I wait till all is asleep
My ink is dry, a broken poet, with nowhere to go
Lost in the shadows of snow, frozen like ice
A sheet of paper, with no meaning, no words

My friends, my comrades, how easily one forgets

Like a game of chess, I panicked
Made all the right and wrong moves
I lost my way, staggered across
Love comes and love goes
My heart weaker than, weak
I don't know how I survived before, 
After turning the other cheek
I was no longer whole, forsaken myself endlessly 
I was lost, could not even count on myself

Guidance, I ignored no one believed what's become of me
Alone, I stood in old footsteps after falling down

At times end, I found nothing could put me back where I belong
It's time to get back on offense,
Walk through the new, refreshing old footprints


Copyright © SKAT A

More great poems below...

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |


It's so simple,
So basic,
Yet we lack it.
Interaction is nothing without it.
Unable to make a bond because the fact is,
We've missed the point.
The point that connects you and me,
And not just on a family tree;
That connects us all from A to Z,
And not just on eHarmony.


Where did it go?
Or did we even have it years ago?
Afraid to go on the right track,
Because we might get stabbed in the back.
Locking our doors and checking it twice,
Like we're Santa Clause on a Christmas blight.
Putting a lock on our phone for protection,
Because your friends may use it as a weapon.
Hiding what belongs to us,
Because we lost our trust in all our lust.
But trusting each other is a must,
Because you cant spell trust without us.


A firm belief in the reliability,
Or strength in someone.
Can you think of anyone?
I am sure you can,
Maybe the one that holds your hand.
But for how long?
I'm sorry but it's true,
People can back-stab you.
But this can change starting with you,
Because if you trust people,
They'll trust you.
You may get hurt but at least you'll live,
With your heart on your sleeve and something to give.

So let's break this cycle of deceit and start this world anew.
It doesn't start with them,
It starts with you.
Trust someone and you will see,
How great this world could be,
For you and me.
It's not that hard so don't make it be,
It's only the fear of the possibility,
Of losing everything.
Don't fear,

Copyright © David Neuman

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Pain Game

Why do people, want to cause
Other people pain
Where is the Love 
That will break the chain

Someone says something
Then it's tit-for-tat
I've played this before
We all know the score
Now who's up at bat

I think it's time, for us to play
The self healing game
Before there's no one, left
Around to blame

One that's more thoughtful
And much less insane
Let's reach for the Sun
And help everyone
Come out of the rain

All we have, is this fleeting chance
To get this right
No time for jealousies 
No time to fight

Don't say, that you're sorry
Don't seek to forgive
Just start here today
And throw it away
And learn how to live

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Poetry Soup Kitchen

-Poetry Soup Kitchen-

Grab your aprons and spoon
Today we will not think of the stars and the moon,

Open your eyes, be grateful for all we have
Together we can paint the world
In any which way we desire

Let's give, live and celebrate the New Year
Poetry Soup Style
Happy New Year 


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Midas Touch

~Do Not Trust a Word, He Says~

He speaks of sunken treasures the way no other man 
The map of his essence is drawn in the stars 
His smile of gold ride out the waves 
The moon is pulled by the prestige of his masculine art 
With great pleasure, your heart now sits in a glass case 

His love lavishes making every moment memorable
This gentleman cultivates you from every direction 
Your blood rises to his flirtatious ego 
His eyes, manipulate you, invade every dream, 
Endless lust, pulled by the enigma of dragon dust wind 
Falling flowers of forgetfulness, when lost in his touch 
He endures, he breathes in ways you can't resist 

Uttered words easily wrap around your heart 
In a game of trust, his lips persuade another kiss 
Like a syndrome, you babble and drool ---- stepping all over yourself 
You are naught more than a fool in love, 
Trusting and believing every golden word spoken from his lip


( A Poet Destroyer Collection)

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

My Silence Speaks

I wish I could tell you
what you've done wrong
But there'd be no point
You'd explain it all away
and say, "Fight, Babe
Fight another day.
Battle scars come and go
This you should know
It's part of the game
fight another day."

I wish I could tell you
What you didn't do
That was wrong too
The hurt, it's just the same
I know, it's love's silly game
I'm done playing
You were terribly wrong
I can't be strong
I got no fight left
For another day

So, hey!
Wish I could tell you...
But, then again
My silence will let you know
I see it all
What you hide inside
Wounded pride
You lied
I cried
But if I tell you
All you'd do is deny

So...let my silence speak
Thought you're strong,
but you're weak
Fight another day...
Fight another day...

Fighting days are through
Yes, through for me and you
I have no words left
So...I'll let my silence speak! 

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Obsolete Words

He verbalized 
He verbalized emotions

Poets are boring
In circle
They speak of pictures in words raining emotions
Crafting arrogance in words shaping negative smiles
They worry not of the uneducated
Poets are boring
They speak bombastic thoughts with no
explanations in sentences married to multiple dots
Sentences and numerous dots

Skies raining thorns aimed at sinful skeletons
Storytelling tales in wordy storyboards

He verbalized 
He verbalized emotions
He spoke reactions

Where i come from
Dogs don’t eat dogs
Dogs bark in favour of crops
I’m from the city that never sleeps with no pity
I’m from the ghetto that speaks of famous beggars

He voiced 
Until poets spoke
Until spears got shaken and poked

Shine not from negativity
See those who speak with your ears
Poets are far from boring
They live in places of the living dead

They walk solutions before difficulties wearing a stranger’s shoes
They speak tears before drowning regrets
Old age poems don’t need social workers
They live fresh fragrances for decades
Eyes and ears resurrect their messages

Let those words be out of date
Poets are disciples of your queries
The energy plugged into your feet
Spitting answers before prank stars question your remedy 

Look into the eyes of lies
See emotionless reality attract visions
Look into the eyes of lies
Look into the eyes of lies

(c) Ray

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

She Hulk

When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses 
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed 
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were  ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman 
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or god,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us 
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood 
just how much words effect us. 
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.

Copyright © Katie Pukash

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Letters I Never Sent

Earth is a building
A crowded house covered with thorns 
donated by peacemakers

A building
Showered with endless tears washing sad feelings
Tears that fill holes to shape the planet with goals
It shelters those that shelter themselves
Shame poor souls
Pass them free suicide ropes
This earth is a shack overcrowded with souls hungry for 
reality’s accuracy

A construction that shield competitors for God’s recognition
This earth is a round promised lie
Circled to circulate exclusions
A bunkhouse burning from the heat of human insults
Group hugging insects 
Voice planning impacts 

It glows echoes of reality’s limping lips and confused vintage 
Glorifying gruesome goals
The third house amplifying fear as a choice 
The next door neighbour to your borrowed smiles

A building 
A freak round building 
Earth is a tornado moving bricks from one mind to others

My heart married the future with all its dimples
Holes piled up with fables
War of voices in ties and suitcases
 Killing the already dead in word visions
 Picture pictures painted in demonic paint brushes 
Bunch of hands group shaking greetings 

Earth is a building
A crowded house covered with thorns 
Donated by peacemakers
A building that let loose diseases for business   

Some letters i never sent

(c) Ray

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

God, don't look at me like that

I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon,
and the bullets of my heart don’t bleed like you think they should
instead they melt
melt like icecream set out in the summer sun,
like the mountain snow run off into the streams,
like ice clamped together between my fist,
my fists,
my fists that stop bullets from protruding my skin,
my fists that explode and scream louder than a sermon.

God, don’t look at me like that.
Your pupils look like firing bullets,
knocking us out one by one by one,
saying you can’t come in
because you never learned how to pray. 

God, don’t look at me like that.
Your iris’s look like vortexs of instability
rolling our ground like an earthquake
telling us to do more,
be more,
pray more,
or we can’t come in.

My fists stop the bullets and together our fists make boulders,
knocking down our insecurities
one by one by one.
If we don’t make it in
then that is okay
because our fists will turn into butterflies
and our hearts will turn into lions
and our bones will turn into the infrastructure of hell
because that is what my preacher told me.

Preacher, don’t look at me like that,
don’t shake your head at my appearance
just because I have ink on my arm doesn’t make me less of a person,
just because I have color on my eyelids,
just because my skirts above my knee,
just because my fists don’t unwind and interlock doesn’t make me less of a person.

I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon.
God, don’t look at me like that. 

Copyright © Katie Pukash

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Conventional Girl

Underneath the sea of trust 
Words shovelled sand in her eyes
The smell traced back a map of hope
Paradise could still not be located

Joy lived far from her earth
Please wake me after my death
For I might have missed the turn 
I did dig my own emergency grave I remember

My dream trails had no brake lights
Bumps after bumps 
Poetry drums speeding eternal crumps 
Every soul bumped into my back seated lips
The road to their ears required constructive rhymes
Poetry police 

Bulldozers bullied opportunities on the pavement of my love
Paradise got dizzy and lost meaningful visions 
Conventionally my heart is one
Sharpened in tubes sharing heart-beats with no lies

I loved loving love
Restricted dreams to stick-away from uneven pants chasing bums 
My mouth opened doors shaming the unshakable love triangle stunts 
Usually conventional uses are unusual 

My heart my grave
The future I paved
The sand glowed like stars in my eyes
Disgraced to blind my visual crafts
My confession

The roots of my strength came in veins
Circulating thoughts 
He made me shoes from manmade bricks
For I walk buildings in my dreams 

Skyscrapers scrubbing the breeze of hope in the sky
She placed her heart in rules
Speak your promise 
I the conventional girl 

© Ray 

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Eyes on Words

Eyes can feel the unseen 
Before it is verbalized and organised in pain
They seize innocent criminals that abuse letters 
Eyes of creativity don’t feel no pity
They endlessly seek traumatized emotions in numerous seasons

These eyes live in the back of every tongue rotation
These eyes pee tears like polluted rain drops 
Urinating deceases polluting the already sick tears 
They lecture life with pride
Eyelashes that endlessly spray hope in words with no doubt 

Eyes on words prefer no sun glasses but stanzas
They speak darkness in all artistic graphics
They visualize visions in brain map fantasies 
A place with more sins and judgments they visit
They speak non-rated missions

When the world is rude to you don’t be picky on dreams 
Dreams are never on vacation
These eyes can sense 
These eyes are like pens 

They are fans of disappointments while contribution stepladders 
It’s like a clan 
They reproduce stomach cramps using fertile words
The family of giving and receiving

Eyes on words speak in mute expressions
They build towers of tomorrow’s errors
Buildings that look down on problems
Eyes on words are like cold visions with no ice

© Raymond Ngomane 

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Writer In Me

Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls

He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips

Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage

The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps

They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon 
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs

Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing 
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle 

I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind

© Raymond Ngomane 

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |


I am that tall,good and kind man
I have the longest legs on earth
I am the fastest man on earth
I am deaf and dumb
My eyes lead me like a sheep and its lamb
I am very curious but,
very time conscious
I am jobless
I am homeless
I always thirst for water
I always need a good Samaritan
Despite my state,
I am the world's priority
People suffer a fate
But need me to be free
I am he everyone awaits to make a mirth
I go to anyone who is willing 
All I need is caring
Everybody needs me
But I come without acknowledging me

I come I come
I stand at your door
Open and welcome me with a kiss
When you delay,I make a hiss
The next scene, I turn my back to the door
There you will miss

Don't try opening
For I am time conscious
Don't try calling
For I am deaf and dumb
Don't try following
For I have the longest legs on earth
Don't try chasing
For I am the fastest man on earth
I come to make you mirth
But you can choose to be in dearth

I came I came
I stood at your door
You welcomed me wonderfully
But you made me sit on the floor
You left me and forgot to close the door
I moved out slowly
Upon your return,
You didn't see me
You forgot I am time conscious
I saw someone ready
So went there because I was curious

You tried calling
But forgot I am  deaf and dumb
You tried following
But forgot I have the longest legs on earth
You tried chasing
But forgot I am the fastest man on earth
I came to make you mirth
But you chose to be in dearth

I stood at your door
You welcomed me wonderfully
You made me sit comfortably
But refused to give me water when I was thirsty
You left me and forgot to close the door
Upon your return,
You didn't see me

You tried calling
But forgot I am deaf and dumb
You tried following
But forgot I have the longest legs on earth
You tried chasing me
But forgot I am the fastest man on earth
I came to make you mirth
But you chose to be in dearth

I stood at his door
He welcomed me with a kiss
He closed the door,
gave me a place to sit comfortably,
gave me water to lessen my sore,
Prepared me a mutton
He made me eat like a glutton
He laid his spreadsheet on a bed
He gestured to me to lay my head
I slept until he received what he needed
He decided to keep me forever
Alas,I embark on a journey
Joy like a river flowed in his heart
He smiled while escorting me

Yes I am
I am the very person you needed
But I came and you took me for granted
I am the one you are awaiting
When I come, show me the caring
I am opportunity.


Details | Spoken Word 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 | Spoken Word Poem | |

Today Is A Gift


Hold on to those moments Of Spoken words of Meaningful Sincere Love Tomorrow might never Become the present © By Eve Roper 6/22/2015

Copyright © Eve Roper

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |


Every one’s got an opinion
We are entitled to our views
But, we won’t all agree the 
Difference often times are 
Somehow the simpler the 
Problem harder the 
Layering instead of issues 
Open wounds
And personalized attacks 
Are used
A point of contention is
The deliberate disguising of
The truth 
Distorting facts
Figures assembled by rote
Really there are a lot to be
Having regards to the distance
Between what had first prompt 
The opinion
And the reasoning that led
To this irrational tirade and suit
A stuck in a bog like situation
Like the dreaded dream state 
Being awake and can’t speak 
Move or do what you want to
While the root rot
The debates rambles on 
Unable to; save quip,
Get a grip on solid ground
Consensus pursuit 

Copyright © Weston Gregory

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Rumors Whispered

Tip toe
On silent words
We know

The heart hides lies

Hushed hopes
Gone...but not gone
Love copes

Poet: Casarah Nance
Form: Musette 

Copyright © Casarah Nance

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Death is Not a Loss

The creaking of old hard wood floors
Flowers, weary with wet petals stuck to the pot
The absence of dogs barking and cats purring is almost unbearable 
My own thoughts ticking by

The familiar smell of food does not waft 
There are no lights on
Just dust 
Dust on the chair, the tv, and even my favorite picture on the wall.

The house, almost empty but the language on the walls speak, calling out memories 
The presence of her comes close
Presence. Here I am. 
In this place I am... I once had a dream,
A dream of sunshine moments and cold lemonade 

The dust is now clearing as pictures become bright
Past becomes present and the roads of memories end at the horizon where I also end,
Seeping into the cold dark couch 

In this sea of comfort it is an expression of love
for death is not a loss,
but past memories of life.

Copyright © KC Seligman

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Summer Of Enchantment

Warm evenings have that lazy feel,
As the sun sets upon the day.
An orange ball suspended,
As all cares now swept away.
The exotic smells in the perfumed air,
That lies heavy all around.
Mimosa now that in full bloom,
As its branches drape the ground.
Do you ever look at the sky?
As the stars come out at night.
When you’re held by that someone specials arms,
And don’t want to say goodnight.
Though no spoken word is  uttered,
As eyes gaze into eyes
It’s said there windows to the soul,
Mere feelings can’t disguise.
Love can just be fleeting,
With precious thoughts we steal.
And in that brief encounter,
We know that it’s for real.

Copyright © nicholas windle

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Softness of a Country Rose for Mary Jo Hoose

A stranger lifted me up today
While I was lost in my own self-centered universe, 
Silently crying about nobody else reading, commenting or caring 
About anything I’ve said, 
Considering myself poetically dead.  

I’ve been more concerned with the encroaching materialistic  
Responsibilities, requirements and concerns of living 
Instead of turning my attentions outward towards others 
And lifting myself out of this whirl pool of self-pity 
Into the ocean of giving.    

When to my wondrous delight dark turned to light 
As out of seemingly nowhere a fellow poet spoke gently and composed: 
“Your poetry is like the softness of a country rose.”
And while I know not where she lives and breathes
This furtherance of feeling was shared with me:
“I too am blue as sky is gray and nothing more will do today
Except ethereal connections are how we poets play.”

I was more than moved, to say the least
How this gypsy out of cyber space 
Renewed my poetic vow:
To speak the truth simple, plain and clear 
As I know how.  
And how 
My words and hers connected 
Through the vacuum of space and time 
Is a story for another day and rhyme. 

Until then, I stand transformed  
By those few words she engendered – 
And would give anything to tell her   
How sweet and kind her words were rendered.          

Copyright © Terrell Martin

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |


I still look for her. 
In the middle of the typing and the traffic 
and the deadlines and the bills, 
I look for her–the girl, who believed 
her bare feet could outrun the moon. 

She ran like a boy. She wasn’t trying to. 
Her strides were not intended for similes. 
No, she ran the way she always did 
When she wanted the wind to dance 
With the ungraceful tangles of her hair. 

Her gestures, careless, 
Were not meant to fit in boxes. 
She knew she was a girl; she had been told. 
But she didn’t have to know that one word 
Was the gravity that would keep her in line, 
Inching from one label to another. 

I still look for her. 
In the dusk and the shadows 
And the starless sky, I look for her– 
The girl, who believed in magic and 
Ghosts and faeries and monsters. 
She didn’t have to know the shackles 
That came with age, the chains 
That would bind her to the reality 
Where monsters don’t hide under the bed, 
Sometimes the monster, 
It’s in the daylight 
With a sharp tongue and a sweet smile. 

I still look for her. 
In the sunlight and the mirror 
And the eyes of strangers, 
I look for her–the girl, who didn’t think poetry 
Lived in the ink or the page or the vocal cords. 
She held poetry in the tips of her fingers, 
And she felt it each time she touched 
The surface of water and made ripples, 
Or when she traced the contours 
Of her mother’s face. 
She made poetry 
Like it was meant to be–felt. 

I catch a glimpse of her sometimes. 
In the Goosebumps, in the butterflies, 
In the sweaty palms, in the flutter of the heart, 
In a daydream, in a shooting star. 
But she’s fading, fading because 
Now she knows the moon isn’t following her 
And poetry made by hands, felt but unspoken, 
Unwritten, can be forgotten.

Copyright © P.I. Alltraine

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |


I thought of one of my nephews before I wrote this, God bless him please

He's from a western land where the hustla's real,
And the thugs'll steal,
Brothers'll kill for the love o' bills,
Tryin' to get a mill[million],
Means much blood'll spill

So his forte's to scheme & die fo',
Gettin'that cream[money] & lie low,
Then hittin' up his rivals
An eye for an eye
and dealin' with street survival,

Makes him drift back to his childhood,
When it was much peace & all good,
But now he gets no sleep
He creeps deep in foul hoods,
Where bodies get chalked & the crowd stood,

In amazement,
Witnessin' homicide engravements on the pavements,
Too much of this misbehavement,

Has the communities decaying
and too many youngsters fall before their prime,
And the harsher the crime, steeper the prison time,

But he was born a product in a wicked jungle,
Bred to run amongst those who are far from humble,
And addicted to makin' they're funds grow,
And plus they're quick to stun those,

Who gets victimized by the hoods jurisdiction,
A whole slew of unsolved crimes
with very few convictions,
And justice is missin',
Because this lifestyle is opposite of fiction,

So he marches through ghetto life
with his hard hat & boots on,
Still focussed on gettin' his loot on,
While killers get their shoot on,
Many of them shoot wrong,
So innocent bystanders been dying for too long,
But he continues to move on,
As 1 of the Young, Wicked & Black

Copyright © louis brown

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

In Response To My First Poem

In Response To My First Poem

-Inner Spirit-

A true and fighting spirit within us all surely must lay
beneath this weak armor made of water and clay.
Has it been destroyed in your life and soul,
by seeking comfort, pleasure and another goal?

Waken it if it still remains to be used for greater good
stop playing the excuse of, if only I ever could !
Renew that gifted spirit to stiffen the weakened spine,
take strong stands and draw many a hard line.

Truly sad that we get only one weak human life to live,
copy virtue , kindness and learn to sacrifice and give.
Be noble in courageous thought as well as in all your deeds
courage often springs from the smallest of little seeds!


~                ~~                 ~

My Response

He remained true to a dedicated and uplifting vow
Although, a weak vessel made of red cracking clay.
Years had taken a slashing toll, in great pain now
Yet his huge heart still sang out in its own way!

That terrible destruction time always seems to wreck
Dark, sad seeds planted in so many weakening souls.
Such looming obstacles hindered his long, lonely trek
Prayed he each day with faith to reach all his goals!

As many did in truth point out his stinging defeats
He begged pardon, crying his heart did remain true.
Only after helping others in their successful feats
Could his heart and soul celebrate with all of you!

Shining inner spirit, resting most secure in his mind
Watching as his last candle flickered and burned out.
Forever praying that deep love and faith all may find
Lights flashing, he flew away at the first angel's shout!


For 12th Contest, Sponsored by Silent One "Response To Your First Poem"

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

This is me

You wake up in the morning to look in the mirror,
To say "This is me".
To Compare yourself to what you think you should be.
"I'm fat.",
"I'm ugly.",
"How can this be?",
"Why did God do this to me?",
You put on some make-up or some acne-cream,
To cover the blemishes that others can see.
But it doesn't mater what others see,
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And the beholder is me.
So stop annotating,
And start complimenting,
Not on what should be,
But on what is!

You were created in God's image,
To see who you really are,

In that mirror is not,
"I'm fat.",
"I'm ugly.",
But a scientific creation from stardust,
Something that's way beyond us.
And what's inside is something so unique,
So special,
Because no one else has it,

It's you!

You are the most amazing thing to walk on this Earth.
With the ability to wake up and show your worth.
So why wake up and talk negative?
When you could wake up and smile.
Why not be happy for a while?
Why try to please everyone else,
When all you have to do is be yourself?

People say "What matters is on the inside.",
And you say "But look at my outside.".
And I say there is no good side,
You as a whole is the creation,
There is no separation.
Each person with 46 chromosomes working in perfect symphony,
Destroying themselves with negativity.
Just Stop!

You are beautiful because you are rare,
Because no one else can compare.
Your face,
Your nose,
Your eyes,
With your sense of humor to comprise,
Someone no one else can match.
Try to make it in a lab...
Try throw it down the hatch.
You compare yourself to everyone else,
When you are one of a kind.
Why can't you get that in your mind?
Diamonds aren't perfect so why should you be?
Beauty is not symmetry.
Look in the mirror and what do you see?
The beauty that you are...
This is me...

Copyright © David Neuman