A dandelion
protruding sidewalk cracks
filthy air
most rotten of cities
A hummingbird
flitting face-to-elephants-face
tiny
delicate chirps
The acacia
belittled by oaks through storms
bending easily
leaves unsupervised
Take a deeper look
and the lines will appear
backwards to forwards
realization
Tall and stealthy
stranded in lonesome
resiliently surpassing rose gardens
the dandelion
Fierce and courageous
now eye-to-eye
self assured pecks intimidating its peer
the hummingbird
Stability and boldness
leading skies dance
roots so firm refusing to break
the acacia tree
Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a girl in a wardrobe,
Who does not let go of your hand,
There is always a girl in a museum
who does not look at Matisse and Cézanne,
There is always a girl in a garden
Who steals apricots and oranges,
Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a cat on a pink chair
Who yawns seeing you happy,
There is always a blue cat in yellow sheets,
Who waits for someone to stroke him a hundred times,
A young cat in trouble who thinks
to the mango that you covet.
Cleaning the dust never ends,
A wild orchid asks for water and love,
A wild orchid is still waiting
May a poet change his life and color,
It is enough for Matisse to comb flowers
To remove the dust from the world, that
Grapes in the fruit basket.
Shape of the mouths
Silence of the footsteps
Harmony of the tears
Firmness of the handshakes
Emptiness of the buffet
Declare:
Were they in love or in need.
Moonlight's bright tonight.
Let's go outside and play.
We can run until dawn.
Morning's still far away.
Embrace the lingering warmth
From the setting of the sun.
Streets grant one true path.
Night calls our return.
In silence the river washed
Our dreams from the shore.
Shiny speckles of sand
Are ours no more.
We’re left vacant and empty
With no pathway home,
Yet the streets keep calling,
Calling our return.
The nights will restore
What we knew in the streets,
But lost from our lives
In many years since.
New challenges we’ll face
With joy and with grief.
Head-on and direct,
Reclaim our belief.
Come share the night,
And the life we must lead
In the streets of the city
Where we can be free.
Moonlight's bright tonight.
Let's go outside and play,
In the streets of the city.
Morning's still far away.
In scales of steel, the city sleeps
Where dragon laws in darkness creep
The streets are veins of ancient stone
Where freedom's blood has long been flown.
The towers pierce the smoky sky
Like claws that grasps and never die
The people move with careful pace
Under eyes that watch each secret place.
Through gates of fire, the rulers pass
Their shadows cast in endless glass
Where every breath must be confessed
And dreams themselves are put to test.
But deep within the burning core
A spark remains that dares ignore
The chains of law, the weight of might
And whisper still endless light.
What's your story?
Is it a sop story too
Cause seemingly everyone claims too
And maybe there's not a good story to tell out here
What's your story?
Is it worth even telling at first
Or you believe it needs to be told
That's why you get all grumpy when no one wants to listen
What's your story?
Why do you think yours has the punch
And are you sure we don't have a story like yours out here?
Or you just want to tell yours too
I ask cause why should anyone care in the first place
Cause if you're doing it just for people to care,
Then are you really living?
Or you're just doing what all the others before you have done
Must you curve out a name and still make everyone say it
I thought the greatest satisfaction comes from knowing you did it
Or doesn't it count until they all know?
That's why I ask What's your story?
My story is already out there
But I'm sure you missed it
Cause we only relate to stories closer to us
That's why we live on hurting each other cause why should you care?
The PO£T
Ancient poems resurrected and recited
From the murky depths of history,
You hold, against your breast,
The fresh warmth you now perceive.
I tell you tales of my youth
Of day and night, dawn and twilight.
Alive still in my beating, aching heart,
And now held in my hands to reveal.
You ask me to start from within myself
As I recite these vivid scenes.
I feel still, loneliness when you don’t notice
I’ve shared my sacred dreams.
All because of that single decision
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
Because of what he chose
This is what he is
Independent
Not
Incarcerated
Whole
Not
Wounded
Confident
Not
Confused
Slipping off of the rusted edge, on which side will he land?
Brilliant
Not
Bleak
Courageous
Not
Cowardly
Relieved
Not
Remorseful
This is what he is
Because of what he chose
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
All because of that single decision
Now, what if he wasn’t resolved in his decision?
Simply read the poem in reverse.
Moonlight’s bright tonight.
Let’s go outside and play
In the streets of the city.
Morning’s far away.
We’ll dance in the streets,
Race under the stars,
Staring into the eyes
Of oncoming cars.
They’ll tell us their wisdom
In archetypical style
Of the roles that we play
And if we survive.
The dogs of the city,
They howl and they fight,
Then fortune they share
For our hungry delight.
When morning comes early
With its fresh silken dreams,
We shake off the dust
Of what we have seen.
We’ll feel the warm sun
Wake our guarded souls,
To feed us again
As we make our way home.
Our lives have been spent
Living other’s requests.
Now is the time
For our own conquests.
The streets of the city
Are daring and sheer.
Come with me now.
Experience no fear.
We may sit in the sun,
remembering the fun
of our youth.
Then a bee buzzes by,
to remind us
of the truth
That flowers are pretty
and to the bee, sweet.
But memories can hide a sting
we wish not to repeat.
Do the leaves of our cups also turn yellow ?
The rooms of green grass collect cobwebs
From the Kafkaesque vermin, fly away cuckoos
Questions galore in the river's tide and ebb
____________________
September 5, 2025
Gondola was prepared to welcome you
You desired the white clouds instead
A void settled on the palm of my hand
The bird too couldn't unfold its wings
_________________
5 September 2025
The hat hangs on the wall,
not as a relic,
but as a witness—
to mornings that began before the sun
had made up its mind,
to arguments with weather
and the quiet pacts signed in sweat.
Below, the boots—
faded, cracked, obedient,
still loyal to the shape of a man
who walked with purpose,
even when purpose was
just getting through the day.
They are not symbols,
though we make them so.
They are not sacred,
though we treat them gently,
as if disturbing them
might sever the bond
that holds the past
to the present.
And yet—
the window is open.
The light is not wistful,
but new.
The boots do not mourn.
The hat does not sag.
They wait,
as all things wait
for the next hand,
the next step,
the next story
to begin.
Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.
The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.
The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.
I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.
Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.
I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.
i keep watering seeds i know will never grow
i give every seed a chance at life
never giving up on them
even if i can see so very clearly
they won't live
at least not long enough to bear crops
i feed and feed and feed
running myself dry just to water you
i'm almost out of water
but i'll use my last bit on you
even though i know you won't give a single thing in return
but i keep watering and watering
knowing the outcome each time
but maybe
just maybe
i can get you to grow
even if i have to kill myself
for you to survive
Specific Types of Symbolism Poems
Definition | What is Symbolism in Poetry?