Ii Poems - Poems about Ii

lay aside their arms .. for ~ just one silent night ----- Light up the Lanterne Sponsor: Nette Onclaud 19/05/25 ----- The Christmas Armistice of 1914: World War I on the Western Front had settled into stalemate. On Christmas Eve, soldiers from both sides spontaneously began singing carols - mainly...

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When I was younger, I thought that in retirement I would take pictures of or paint beautiful clouds situated so vividly above us. Clouds more often appear as wonderous displays in the canopy. Clouds sometime seems so ominous and threatening. Clouds often hover above us like a band of darkness and at other times, they are white and crystal...

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When I was 16 my face suddenly froze, As I passed out in my friend's arms, I was laying there, face turned rose. I awakened, memoryless, then recall harms. When I was 23 I was very far, But I wasn't alone as I kept on twitching, She saved me while my spirit was afar; Soon I flew back to my body, waking. When...

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How enlightened I feel Her music so surreal I wonder on her ordeal Whatt makes her feel these feels? Does she chant them back in silence? Read and recollect at night? Does she always sing with her whole soul? Or is this her therapy, instead of to write? Bjork, bjork She took over New York Hollywood legend of course Even Ayesha doesnt have discourse She's all like Bjork? I...

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These are English translations of Issa haiku about the seasons: spring, summer, autumn, winter. Autumn wind ... She always wanted to pluck the reddest roses ?Kobayashi Issa translation by Michael R. Burch Issa wrote the haiku above after the death of his daughter Sato with the note: “Sato, girl, 35th day, at the grave.” In this world where I was born every...

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/ "Like Open-Mic Explosions from the End of Language". ~ Chat-GPT / _____ Madmen leaked a rash of sky-blue puddle; fatally cloistered the hat-flu's hubble - To wit: - the half-time half-life smile of she and the other half-wonder of me. Far far ready to say maybe to love; moved in half-dream to plumb half-baked memories. ("But weren't their novel 'dogs-of-war' and lovely...

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I creep into your room, my steps are unsteady, You went to bed with symptoms of the flu, A soft child’s breath is what I seek, To touch, to comfort—to ensure peace. But as I peel back the covers, I find Your stillness is no longer sleep. I call your name, my voice trembling, Attempt to rouse you from your peace, But you...

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Natives interrupted Guns pointed to their chests Blown away like beautiful dandelions Into that sweltering sun Americans lollygag In their newly claimed land Under that grand old flag Slaving away, picking cotton Under the South’s heat of injustice Scarred with inhumane treatment Sweating tears and pain Burdens heavier than sandbags Yes, they’re slaving away Under that southern flag Stripped away from homes and work And terrorized prior still No voice spoke...

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A women's life is her own She wasn't put on this earth To serve another nor be treated All kinds of ways, today's women Want her own career, make Her own money, and make her own decisions Not to be Burden down With a bunch of children That mainly seems out of control Some people see women as Property and constantly plot to take...

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"The clouds parted like the pursed lips of desire," opening to a dazzling glow of molten fire, as rays reflect to cover rippling waves below, and like a fairyland, the colors blend their flow. Dear Nature is the painter of the finest art that marks its motion as it spreads and morphs apart just like a lovely watercolor's subtle smear captures a...

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When the river failed I was asleep and the birds breaking to air made no sound because I speak IN ...

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Shall I compare thee to an onyx rose? Too dark for day, too ripe, yet not to rot— Thou bloom’st where sacred streamlets gently flow, Where dryads sigh and phantoms sing distraught. Twin serpents writhe along thy moonlit spine, Their glistened tongues sing out a breathless psalm; Your breath the zephyr through the cypress pine, A storm of touch disguised in...

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I decided it was time to move my load to the next machine. I also decided time to come forward and come clean, Saying you can keep all of my coins as a token of my love....

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March, 2025 She walked past me today. Her gaze hollow, her pace a ghost. I can see crimson threads weaving down her arms— not gloves, no. I think she’s going to the Cliff. I wonder if she’ll return. Most never did. April, 2025 She sat at the bank all day and stared at my ripples— It is what I’m proud of the most. I tried to sing for...

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She’s at it again. Wasting my ink staging yet another death. I draft her crimson melodramas with third-hand metaphors as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic laced with rust and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume. I thread her June into forced sonnets (poor things), before her gin drowned the meter in proofed regret. Even a pen gets impatient. Sometimes she pauses, as though it might save her— I...

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