Poetry Philosophy Poems

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Details | Free verse |

Hourglass

Sand falls
Through the glass
Love falls
Within the past
Memories dance
They never last
Head in my hands
As I stare overhead
At the hourglass


Falling Down Stairs

Stairs broken
Wheels unspoken
I fell
Grasping for air
Are you there?

Piano Keys

Playing me
Rhythms dancing free
Clouds in air
Notes tossed in despair
Are you there?


Voices

Echoes
Broken wings
Wounded sparrows sing
Clinging to clouds high in sky
Chirping symphonies
Knowing not at all the why
Never loved…
Never loved…
Never hugged
In solitude wonders fly
No one
No one is there



In the Key of Despair

Tap tap
Music in the ear
Flowing freely in the salty air
Beethoven, are you there?
In the breeze, I hear the notes
My mind runs away, it floats
Pain drowned in the river
Limbs frolic on shores of hope
Keys somber in black and white
As I touch them
It conveys the fright


Strings

Choking, not me, but the air
Credenzas and waves
Washing away the realities
Of all your trivialities
Whilst I whither and fade away
Inside a musical symphony
Strangled on lusty desires
Are you
Are you there?


Sleep

Notes hither and floating in the breeze
I look up
The moon
My last breath
My last hope
My last wish
A kiss from the one I never met
The moon hides under cloud
My eyes in tranquility close
The beat no longer in time
No longer there
Where ever I am going
My last thought
Are you there?






Violins and Other Things

Distractions
Deformed from loves inaction
Teardrops falling on time
Rolling down passages
Where darkness does dine
Notes high, notes low
Treble as I grasp the clef
The conductor knows all that is refined
In the end
He shall consume the wine
As I, was consumed by time


Masterpieces

The piano full of dust
Brushes dipped in paints
Now turn to dust
There is a poem over there
In the corner
By the naked painting
Of my Caribbean liver
That cried and wept
Day and night
Night and day
When willows swayed
And the raven landed
On the sill
Of the empty room
For I am no more

Silence whispers
Are you there?


Guitar Strings and Clouds

I caress the strings of discord
Melodies shouting
Displeasure
Credenza’s and interludes
Wine intrudes
The senses squished like sour grapes
Emotions boxed in crates
I caress philosophy
As my garden sadistically does undress
Taunting the desires of my illusions unrest
The rose and the rain drop
Embrace
I cry


Last Act

Once was life
One…… tear…   one tear…… drop
One gasp of fear
Fate licking……………………… deaths ear








Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017




Details | Light Poetry |
The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
My shadow flirts with the sun
As I caress the darkness
We are one and separate
As my shadow smiles
Anxiety suffocates me
The shadow will soon fade
I shall die
One happy, one not

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017




Details | Light Poetry |
Poetry

Is not the poem
Is not the poet

Is the observations
Is the emotions

Is the diversity. entwined
Opposing views always sought

Is the love
Is the hate

Is the sadness
Of losing to fate

Is the laughter
Of a child’s dreams

Is the love
That is sometimes unseen

Except by the poet
Who in his lonely sadness sees

The beauty of all
That surrounds the depression in he



In Poetry

I died
Long ago

My heart something broke
I became cold

I cried
For childhood days gone by

I died
A million ways

Now I write
From down below

Where darkness is the sea
That I sail in eternity

Of in the distance
I heard the notes of a symphony

So now as I sleep
A thousand deaths

I hope
For that one musical note

To wake me up
Heart and soul

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
Upon the twinkling of silent twilight,
tranquil thoughts set adrift, 
infatuated in elysian reflection.

The mind wanders, 
observing and listening - roaming;
avoiding confusing crossroads
leading into chimerical phantasms.

Overwhelmed by the darkness,
fervent fingers tremble,
yearning to bleed streams of serenity.

Suppressed soul whispers,
exposing sacred secrets,
releasing the mind from its chains.

Ink flows translating the meraki;
revealing a passionate poetic soul.
Empathetic emotions drain,
yet the soul desires to venture further.
Thirsting to dance forever in euphoric eunoia.

Meraki eruptions have no fear that
each drop may exhaust the pen.
For invictus ink is a valiant virtuoso,
calmly conquering consciousness 
to drift towards selcouth land.

Every muse lusts to manifest in meraki,
yet it is no miracle - it's a natural phenomena. 

The Silent One
27 November 2017


Meraki: The soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work. This Greek word doesn't have an English counterpart.
Chimerical: Created by unchecked inspiration; fantastically visionary or highly improbable.
Elysian: Creative or beautiful; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.
Eunoia: Beautiful thinking.  Shortest English word that contains all five vowels.
Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvellous. An Old English word and can be found in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe from 1814.
Invictus is Latin for “unconquered.

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
The End of Love

A secret grief rips apart all that was
Slaves to the sexual caresses of time
Stallions in black gallop gallantly in fields
Of spring full wishes
Thou seeith the birth of love
Naked hopes surrounded by sweet perfumes
Seduced by the gods or by demon fools


Dancing, towards our own charades we sing
Funerals consume autumn’s dead poets
The gravestone cold and gray
We hug it like a long lost friend
One may see a battle lost
The other a battle won
In November we reminisce the soldier and singers too

Didst you know I was a prostitute?
Selling my soul to the hourglass of eternity
Foolishly hoping to sleep upon her breast
Shivering as others seem to fall right at deaths door
Brimstone, black and rose

The underbelly of St Laurent
Youthful boasts as the old man in cane hobbles
Generations sailed down the main
Some seeking solace others finding fame

Vaguely the recollections appear
Visions inside dreams inside the darkest fears
The end of love is near
For the hand above is reaching
As I float to the end of time

Enchantment in the crypts
Ravens dancing as they consume our mortal
Hearts
No smiles, no sleep
Thou did knowest I’m surely certain
The dance of death
Only to be followed
By a piper
And angels violins

Rags and shrouds, kiss them all goodbye
Hallelujah



In Memory of Leonard Cohen, a fellow Montrealer, 21 September 1934 – 10 November 2016.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "

I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "

I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "

I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "

Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language .  Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society ) 

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Haiku |
Probabilities

fallen fruit exists
earthen harvest and ground meet
jars in the pantry

Robert J. Lindley ,07-24-2014

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |










































© Arthur Vaso 2014
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes: This poem was formally called “Winter Blizzard” I just posted it with a new title. If you know of what I am referring, then 2 more must I do

More Notes: This poem is for sale for 2 million dollars, however I will give any major Museum at 10% discount.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
Spill Ink—the poets’ timeless warp and woof;
Signifies our mantra beyond reproof;
Late at night as poets struggle to write;
Our Muse enchants poets to such delight;
Poets seek tone and tenor for a splash,
And images and nuance for a dash.
"Spill Ink!” Poets cry seeking perfection!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved 
(October 18, 2014) (Rhyme Septet)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
To wake up with the rising sun
Wishing me old bones stay in bed
No longer do I feel to run
Life is all but over and done

I look in the mirror feeling blue
Front teeth no more, leak like a canoe
Getting old, this is no fun
Spending my days inside, away from the sun

Ricky called, hey Arty lets go out
Sorry Ricky, I am too old for that
Ah come on Arty lets go to the park
Leave me alone Ricky I am staying right here in the dark

Ricky was persistent, come on arty the park the park the park
Art replied, I am old now I don’t do parks!
Why not? It’s a sunny day; we always have fun at the park
Cant, Stevie told me, I am too old to go out and play

Why he said I am too old for toys and my trucks
I am too old to play even with the ducks
I didn’t wanna be old but there you have it
Stevie says I am one big sissy with my toys!

Ricky, not to be deterred
Come on man, I love toys too 
Lets go the park, come on come on
You are only seven years old Arty!

I feel older Ricky and missing all these teeth
No one will want to play with me, no one at all
I do Arty! lets go, besides haven’t you heard the news?
Seven years old why that’s the new five!

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
My Guitar weeps
And not so gently
It strings together broken tears
It has seen my feeble attempts at love

My Guitar laughs
As I try to serenade
A song that lovers play
It strings together broken romances

My guitar sleeps
For I am not doing to well
In charming your heart
My guitar is bored

My guitar kills me
And steals my girl
They were meant to be it seems
They joined chords and sang

The funeral was brief
The music was good
Guitar music after all
Now they travel onwards

Musical journeys
With not a thought of me
With no guitar
As the ghost of me weeps

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Monoku |
I write metric verse therefore Iamb.

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
And the little men they breed
Would counsel silence.

     She bursts instead Athenalike
     From out the wearied brain
     Or grows painfully from every vein
     Like ivy's tiny tendrils
     Pulling monuments to ground
     Inch by inch
     To let in the light and rain
     From which newer monuments may grow.

She cares not at all 
For their inconvenience.

     She shows herself so many ways:
     
     As the boldly topless Priestess,
     Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms

     As the nun in golden sunlight
     Falling through cathedral stone

 This lady is a child
 All innocence of face
 And Ageless eyes
 She knows all that remains of purity,
 And every excess she also calls her own.

She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering her sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work

     Creation     Destruction     Change

Upon her restless,
                                   Gifted
                                               Tongue.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007

Details | Light Poetry |
These barren walls
Keep me chaste
Vows of silence
Diminish nothing of wanton passions of the past
Days in silence, looking upwards to God
Thoughts linger, to where true love lies

I toil in Gods works
Knees now as rocks
All of Gods floors, so clean
Daily rituals, in quiet do I share
Our virtues preserved, hidden from worldly sins
But I have loved, yes, and long I still do

Illusions of piety, they scare me not
Love stirs goodness, surely no sin
The days of eternal springs
Gardens so fresh, flowers in bloom
Hand in hand, with his intellect and charm
Beauty within, for we dared the philosophical

Arms and legs entwined, deep in thoughts
My professor of life, and thinker to all
He belonged to France
Nobility, and all
We parted in love, 
Who sees my tears, behind these walls?

Our reasoning lost to passions turn
He admits not, the love he yearns
His Order condemns, his inquisitive thoughts
He burns what he writes
Heretic or not
A leader of philosophy, a greatness in his time

A fate, that brings upon me guilt
His torture of manhood, he suffered much pain
Questioning his intellect, is love, his very brain
Each to our separate, Abbeys’ of god
Vows of silence, yet the ink flowed
Reliving now, what surely, should have been

A love so great, why considered a sin?
Has not this society, any compassion at all?
Learned I was in Latin and Hebrew
And so with the pen, letters did flow
And from afar, in pain, our love re-lived
Passions in ink, became again exposed

Alas he is older by a fortnight or many
He longed for love, yet he fights from within
His values, his passions, his life’s dedications
His soul has been burned, wounded by time
Ending his years, thinking seduction undone
Redemption shall be waiting, from the heavens above

My love Abelard, my tears you never saw
I was strong, as you gave me the strength to be
And I, was happy, knowing our desires shared
The angels will tell you, your fame will endure
For the greatest of all philosophies
Our love will be


Abelard and Heloise are one of the most celebrated couples of all time, known for their love affair... and for the tragedy that separated them.
Abelard (1079-1142)
Heloise (1101-1164)

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Couplet |
What is a dream 
if not reality's conceit?
What is reality 
if not a shadowy deceit?

The dream circle was unsealed 
when we were born
and dream-time filled our lives 
from night to early morn.

The circle grew ever wider 
in our youthful days of yore
with unbounded dreams of glory 
on some far distant shore.

But then the circle tightens 
when our days near to a close.
Dreams replace ambitions 
as one's mortal body slows.

So our dreams in poems we'll write
hence when we disappear,
we'll leave our mark in some small way 
to show that we were here.

And in some far off time we hope 
someone will read our verse
and a dream that was a part of us 
will shake the universe.

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
I walk through the life of silent dreams
A museum of sorts
I passed by my reflection
Not a mirror in site
I was horrified
As I stared into my face
No, no, I could not
My eyes could not view such horrors
Shut tight for fear of light
The journey was long ago
Where emotions floated or not
The soul fell into the sea

I belong to no one
Thus they say I am free

I belong no where
Thus I am in a prison

I float inside a bottle
Like a goldfish in bowl
Waiting to be painted

Knowing too well
The drawing will never be done

The wilted rose shall weep
One more time

For the face no one shall seek
Incomplete

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Dead Poet

Are you a poet?
Are you a good poet?
No you can not be
You must be dead
In poetry DEAD is good
We can read and NOT listen to the dead ones
Silence is golden
One day I am sure
I will be a good poet
With all my cheering fans



Dear Lord

Dear Lord, please don’t take me now
Let me here awhile longer
Dear Poet, I will let you there on earth until you
Compose the best poem ever written
Oh Dear Lord, bless you, bless you


Are you all hippopotamuses?
Some one was asking , not me

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Is this a poem?
I will let poets decide
I read here, words and prose
How is it possible
Such ingenuity, over and over
Inspirations
Expressions of the heart
Kindness exposed
Bitterness sits in the cold
Storytellers
Poetic wisdom's
Lovers shedding words
Lost souls attacking verbs
Poets in mourning
Deep and emotional losses
Opening the gates of heaven
For the bereaved and forlorn
Poets dancing
Poets crying
Poets who dance and cry
Add some spiced rum and tears
Poets who ponder why?
Poets who offer comfort
Random words of the charitable order
Poets who cannot compose
Yet they are more poetic
Brutal exposure of the heart
Is poetic in its own right
Painters of poetic verse
Who disperse art like candy
I bow my head
In honor of you all

My last request
When that dark omen of death arrives
There shall be a poetic funeral
I shall write nor speak no more
Of lovers and poets
Drunk with words
You all, hoist some cheer
I wish to be surrounded
With poets
As all of you

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Here, as I wander
Many roads, many paths
All one shall see
Is I walk alone

She appeared, like a dream
Like the mist of night
Or the fog of morning light
But I swear she was there

I reached to touch
The sweet taste of what was
I longed for the past
Yesterday, when dreams were dreams

I could smell the fragrance
The smell of morning lily’s
One could taste even the air
And feel the suns grasp of the day 

Such desires burn deep
Within our souls, should one believe
Or so I have been told
As a withering candle, my desires have faded

Tears, oh the tears have faded
The heart grows, only in  the desires for thing past
And yet the heart, sands of time, becomes a desert
The music still plays, and I still walk

alone

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
Another day
Another memory fades
Le jardin que toujours existe
Has disappeared, disparu

An army of 40,000 destroyed
All that my childhood held dear
They arrive in planes and limos
Coal fired three piece suits

They lectured the poor
They sold platitudes like souvenirs
They had Trudeau promise all and yet nothing at all
They had the press, polluting just as the rest

Paris 2015
The grandest of caviar conferences
Performing Eco terrorism in front of your very eyes
You all applaud when in fact you should all cry

They will tax you until you die
As you breathe the fumes of their failures
They are the magicians of false hope
Singing to the masses of global complacency

I will not dance or sing
This clown as left the ring
The carbon you all hate keeps seeping in
The cows and goats feel is no sin !

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
We loved the land
We tilled the earth, under sun we toiled
We pledged our souls, to nature’s whim
The King of France none to pleased

We took the sacraments
We held our faith, mournful to fates embrace
The British demanded a new oath we take
And scalped we were, both sides did partake

Our villages burned, our fields afire
Our woman and children, in hunger perished
We feared Monckton, a hunter of death
And from him, to ships hold, deported at best

We preyed to Canada, to lend us a hand
Evangeline an angel of our land
The darkened forests, to where we fled
Became bloody in battles, and turned to red

For Redcoats wandered in search of scalps
As Father Le Loutre preached unheavenly deeds
He was bloodthirsty and in skirmishes his evil flourished
His Mikmaq warriors helped rivers flow to blood

We lived along the rivers edge
We fought them all, to no one did we pledge
As serfs we served, to whom did rule
In the end, the forest sang our quiet eulogy

The vessels sailed from Halifax
With their human cargo of Partisans
Off to the West Indies, and a new land
Disease triumphed where Lord Laurence failed

And so the voyage, onward went
The traditions of Grand Pre, to Louisiana was lent
And there they settled, peace at last
As angels of their battles, in sacrifice did rest

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | ABC |
Alphabet Constructs 3 2 1

Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees

Bulimec Barbies browse media monkey banalaties

Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios

Dopamine dreams dilenate check cash desires

Echo endorfins eulogize bullet brain excrement

Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivoloties

Gonadial grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities

Helical hemorriods hinder senior stricken hemocraps

Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate post partem iconoclasts

Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers

Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs

Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies

Malovent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules

Nevertheless nightengales nourich ruby rich noonbeams

Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages

Pensive picses picnics lovelorny passions 

Queer quiet quintensials release rancid quotients

Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble reprocussions

Silky seafoam silohouttes fornicate frothy sandlets

Tepid torch trilogies belie beligerent tourniquets

Useless utterences utilize organize orgasmic utopias

Venimous vixens violate cruel.com visions

White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds

XY XX xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms

Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yeilds

Zen zealous zions mirror maginfy Zoneotones 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
If I were the president,
in our fatherland, no citizen will be a bastard
and mutual respect, our networking web.

If I were the president
the people will be my senate
and their satisfaction my template.

If I were the president
all sectors will be cycled with excellence
all human needs will be met with kindness.

If I were the president
cremation of human disasters fully executed
our mentality will be built in love.

If I were the president
good ideas, I’ll romance
into reality, I’ll convert.

If I were the president
life will be a comfort zone
with every compatriot a beneficiary.

If I were the president,
the simple flow of Life would be applied;
basic made basic, luxury made luxury.

If I were the president
health, mobility, literacy and justice
would be rights, not privileges.
This third world I see
would be transformed to the first, I dream of,
so God……… Make me the president that we need.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
REINCARNATION THINKING?

Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex 
outlined images.

We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the 
background and spaces of the images

Sub-titles are allowed.

When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.

C.A.K. 12-6-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING

Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether

I was a firefly, a bird of prey 
a centipede, a fish fillet?

A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?

A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.

A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish

All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.

Of all of these,  I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.

CAK 7-23-2012



MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION

As 'core' beliefs thicken so, 
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must, 
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place 
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.

But for you, dearest one, do you not remember 
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul, 
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it. 
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled. 
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle 
so you don't fall off. 

10-3-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -

If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?

A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,

There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?

One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.

CAK 4-03-2012


REINCARNATION ENDING

Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?  
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee 
or brown turned leaf upon a tree? 
A  seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?  
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?  
And when the cycle is complete 
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair 
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,  
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.

6-2-2012

Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way

   For Kim Patrice Nunez*, with hope

Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
Let your wheels skid by letting loose grip on wheel
Free verse range’s for marksmen trained on rondolet*
Dipodic foot pantun villanelle dactyl

Cut their teeth on the slippery run-on-line
Roll their anaepest tongue round limerick rhyme
Do not a ballad begin with aubade fine
Nor drive straight past end-stopped line’s feminine rhyme

Such as painters’ coprophilia canvasses
Hide chance ironic hidden ghostly faces
Cubist abstract surrealist morasses
Whose apprenticeships lead to trumping aces

Far too many poets love the sound of words
Yet shirk bardic tasks speeding on twisted roads


     * Nunez: Sorry, no tilde over the “n” on my Mac. 	
•	rondolet: French pronunciation rhymes with “way”.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Yes you, and you, and you over there
The nerve you all have, it’s sickening
What right do you have to leave this world?
Why do you all die on me?
What is life that you toss it away?
Old and sick, humppph excuses I say
I have had enough
No one must leave
Stop, I command time to STOP
Are my tears not enough?
You all conspire against me, I know
To add me to your collection
Of death
Why? Why? Why?
All your kind smiles, laughter and love
You make the world shine, and give hope
Only to disappear to the afterlife
Is this not cruelty?
I beg of you all, do not go
I have not the strength to carry on
Here, as you all dwindle away
Leaving me to ponder my own mortality
Alone, alone I sit, knowing romance will be kindled once more
Death will come to offer me a final kiss
Whom will hate me?

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
David Meade


It’s been over a month
And not a verse, or line 
No limerick or witty fair
No Haiku or Hitachi or Kyoto flair
Left with no choice
No new material to feed
We must come up with those albums
Of compilations indeed

The top 20 hits of David Meade

David Meade’s best Love poems

Top Hits 2014 of David Meade

David Meade says Haiku to you

Top 10 Dancing poems by David Meade

Haiku Haiku its poems of Meade we do

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
This's the world of dreams  and 
reveries
Where I think ev'ry that reels,
After a thousands times,
would as same beliefs things 
besought me,
Is it a mere dream? 

Copyright © kelechi Emeaba | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
You may have seen
Cinderella’s poison undressed
A few moments obscene
Where the people claiming hold to beauty
Pretend to be the victums
It’s sick to see a bully
Shed tears and play the world for fools
However cyanide nor mediocrity will do
Never seeing the world in another’s shoe
The Saints do see, looking down on your phew

They can not really write
So no one really views
Why bother with their hatred spewed?
When flowers bloom and better talent is the news

They lie and slander
Even caught red handed
They will say; is you who are blind
They, the beautiful ones, so unkind

Little ones, pretending to have big shoes
They lack eloquence but that’s not news
They are seen for what they are
Jealous of the brighter star

Without their baggage, one can travel far

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017