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Best Poems Written by Contact Us.Aspx

Below are the all-time best Contact Us.Aspx poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Aspirations, Boundless.

Planted firm in dirt
They reach out with open arms
To Heavens above.

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Sex Appeal

When the lady walks
Men make full use of the eyes,
And women the spleens.

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A Busy Man

You know those buildings that you see?

On an island of their own, impressive yet forlorn,

Beautiful yet distrusted, desired yet unloved,

Sturdy yet crumbling, rigid yet wobbling.


I walk through these structures of steel, dressed in pressed suits, 

I bump into busy strangers, scurrying in and out of Waitrose, Boots

Not once do I wonder, what their stories are

Will I ever see them again, nor do I care.


Yes, I spare a glance for the women,

Walking fast in stilettos, judging each other

With their glossy hair, neutral makeup and arrogant brows

After a while they all start to blend together.


I do not know it yet, but someday

Someday soon, if I am lucky

I will wake up a changed man,

I will not hurry and scurry, I will not plan.

I will throw my Blackberry into the Thames- watch it drown,

I will laugh and laugh until I forget to frown.


London has a beautiful heart- big and warm and full of tears,

Surely, she will forgive me for not loving her enough all these years.

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Fancies

I sit, chewing on my pen tip,
Trying to look as if I am deep in serious thoughts, 
Tapping my foot with an air of restless efficiency,
Fussing over my spellings and ink blots.

I glance at the somber calculator,
It seems to glare at me in quiet reprimand.
I make myself type in a few numbers and symbols,
And the answer comes up sooner than I demand.

The numbers, the symbols, the words of wisdom,
Swirl around me in incoherent randomness,
As I sit, and ponder, trying to hold my senses in my slippery grasp,
The immaculate rungs of logical thought swiftly become meaningless.

So I give up, or rather, give in
To escape to that secret land of foolish fantasies,
Which had been tempting the edge of my consciousness for so long,
Causing my homework to be a series of blunders and idiocies. 

I dream of happy endings, of forget-me-nots;  
Of stormy emotions, the sweet pain that accompanies love,
The sparks that fly between you and I, the carelessly concealed attraction
Of star-crossed lovers, the suns, the moons, the heavens above.

I dream of rain, and sensuous nights,
Of raptures, and laughter, and mischievous delights.
I carve out a perfect picture in my mind, with my imagination as the frame,
I have gone too deep-long forgotten that this is just a game.

The sound of my own joyful laughter brings me crashing down to earth,
The tick of the clock, the sweat on my brow,
And other subtle reminders of reality registers on my fuzzy mind;
I sigh, and go back to doing my homework for tomorrow.

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Survival

The path narrowed till
Stepping on each others' toes
Was the way forward.

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Playpen

They talk and talk
Running in circles
Trying to make sense
Of what they have, between the two of them.

They both have a lot of baggage, I suppose
Old wounds that haven’t entirely healed
Memories that tug at them when they indulge in reminiscence
Tears they have never shed, anger they have never expressed.

They are a bit like wary children,
Meeting for the first time across a playpen
Wanting to play, but cautious too
Awkward and shy, not sure what will happen
If he isn’t good at peek-a-boo
Doesn’t like to color the flowers pink and blue
And many such things which she likes to do.

Or worse yet, what if he is mean and a bully?
Pulls her pigtails and makes her cry
Destroys her drawing, draws a mustache on her pretty butterfly?
So she is cautious, and quiet as a mouse
Peering at him through her lashes, too shy to tell him to come close.

He, on the other hand, tries to look bored and impressive
And like he has done this a million times
Like he knows a lot, lot more than he actually does
The alphabet, the spelling of his name, songs and rhymes.

He has met girls before; and thought they were silly
Squealed too much, wore clothes that were too frilly.
This girl was no different; she wore a pink bow and carried a dumb doll
But there was something about her, which made him think girls weren’t so bad after all.

She, on the other hand, had never talked to a boy before
Nor had she ever wanted to
Boys were aliens to her, those loud sweaty things
Who eat their nose boogies, and always have something naughty to do.
But this boy, with his big floppy bunny ears;
Something in his voice and his laugh, too
Made her want to sit next to him, and pat his hand when he got a boo-boo.

So they sit, on far ends of the playpen, sneaking peeks at each other,
Making up their minds to ask the other to play together
And changing their minds the next instant-
Maybe it’s not a good idea to be so blatant.

Maybe they will become friends, before the bell rings, before the day is over
Or maybe they will be strangers forever.
However it turns out, they will be okay
Because that is children’s way-
They always end up finding someone with whom to play.

Neither of them knows how they feel about each other
Or if anything at all
All they know is that they want the other to stick about
At least long enough for them to figure it out.

So that is the story, of two grown-up children
Trying to make life happen
Reaching out for something that looks golden
But then again
Even if it they end up mistaken,
They’ll eventually find the right person
Somewhere in this big wide playpen.

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Lonely Valentine

Anticipation
Surges throughout the day, but
Is not rewarded.

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Tears

The sky sparkles
With the solace that comes
After the tears.

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A Few Slices of Bangladesh

A little brown river, 
Naked children splashing in its muddy waters,
Their mirth and laughter of raucous delight,
Untroubled by foresight.

A tiny hut made of mud,
Parching in the dazzles of the ruthless sun,
The bent figure of a farmer as he nurtures
The field of paddy that his simple heart treasures. 

A bustling bazaar,
With its overwhelming array of sights and smells,
A man with a cart full of ripe plump litchis, a rickshaw puller,
Whiling away the time, adding to the cacophony as they bicker.

As the sun sets over the distant ragged hills and lush overgrowth,
I ponder on what I have retained
From the journey across the plains of my mother land,
Bangladesh, where happiness and poverty, go hand in hand.

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Insane Design

Don’t know him at all, not really
Nor how I feel about him, actually
But that’s alright, 
A snippet of laughter, maybe a moment or two
Isn’t that enough?
Isn’t that just about enough, for now?

I can be all optimistic,
And feel that he is someone I can trust someday,
But what good will it do me today?

Or, I can be a pessimist,
And fear he might turn out to be a monster,
Hurt me in new ways; make me feel like a fool someday.
But what good, pray tell, will it do me today?

Maybe I should just be philosophical,
And believe that we cross paths with people for a reason
It’s part of some great insane design
So I should sit back,
Wait, watch how the planets align.

Quite possible, that this is nothing, really
Something that doesn’t hold any meaning, actually.
Someone who will become less than a faint memory someday.
Though what good indeed, will it do me today?

Maybe I think too much, 
Assign meanings, interpretations to things which have none,
Mistake for reality the stories I have myself spun.
Maybe I should just try and have fun
Isn’t that enough?
Isn’t that just about enough, for now?