Poetry Uplifting Poems

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Details | Light Poetry |
FORGOTTEN TREASURE

I found the fountain of youth
When I stumbled across the forbidden garden
Right smack in the middle,
Was what I thought to be a wishing well
I tossed in a quarter!
Looking down with a puzzled face
I peeked to see where it fell
I leaned over and that's when I saw my vanity
It was always there waiting for me
The reflection in the water was my face
In wonder, I asked what this vision could be?
With one drop on my taste buds
I knew I found the one true key
The most beautiful thing that can set one free
I reached in to touch the poetry inside me

      ~5/31/11~

repost- My first poem on the soup

Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2011




Details | Free verse |
A poet enters a private sanctuary,
A sacred place where the imagination
Dwells with a mélange of emotions
Conceived by aesthetic beauty,
Often divine and esoteric in nature;
That comprehensive longing to
Express through common language
That which is so vitally uncommon. 
Words that seek to form a bridge 
Between intellectual abstract thought
And the world of the inarticulate.

A way to express the depth of sorrow
While having it become a cathartic
Release, thereby relating to others
In commiseration and heartfelt empathy.
Poetry has the ability to help, to heal.
To reach souls enduring that same pain
May be a blessed gift poetry genuinely
Offers in a nonintrusive manner, helping
Lonely souls know they are not alone.

No-one escapes the loving light poetry sheds.
It dwells inside each of us, realized or not.
It teaches with simplicity, expands the mind,
Ingratiates itself without any effort when
Expressed with forethought and integrity.
It may stir emotions from the most stoic.
Speech itself, lives and breathes, and is poetic. 
Acquiesce to that silent voice inside which 
prevails upon the heart to be released in verse.

Poetry may elevate our spirit with such intensity 
To generate a feeling akin to euphoric bliss.
Poets, honored in past glory with the status of Kings,
Now dwell in a world often misunderstood by the
Masses too busy to take the time to regard its worth.
How fortunate for the insightful who appreciate and
Embrace the ageless, immortal soul poetry provides.
They are blessed and will give birth to future poets.

© Connie Marcum Wong


Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
To take each day as it comes
To gratefully praise The One
Joyfully face the new dawn’s grace,
That's now my everyday plan.

To take each day as it comes
To guard my thought as it roams
On anything or anyone
That's now my everyday plan.

To take each day as it comes
To be careful with my words
To use the value of my hands
That's now my everyday plan.

To take each day as it comes
To do everything I can
And bring a smile to not just one
That's now my everyday plan.

To take each day as it comes
To celebrate other’s gain
Not consciously cause another's pain
That's now my everyday plan.

To take each day as it comes
Not all the time comes the sun
For sorrow comes to everyone
And that I must understand.

To take each day as it comes
And know that I’m but a man
I will be glad, life’s not that bad
And do my part in God’s plan.



*A resolution during a time of disappointment.

Kim Patrice Nunez
04 August 2015
image credit: Edwin Hofert

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015




Details | Light Poetry |
The softest part of a woman
Is not where you may think

Behind the ears 
in the mouth 
or lips of petal pink

inside the knee
inner thigh
you still have not to find
the tender place…
it’s not her face
or curve against the spine

her finger tips
bloom of hips
the nipple, or the eyes
beneath the breast 
 just a test 
to know you really tried

a trick you say!
if not the cradled
skin between the toes
a game to play
who finds the way?
who can really know?

The softest part of a woman though
is nowhere you can touch

with fingertips
or open lips
it’s nothing of the such

Emotion…
you might say above
is everything she lives
but not just love
and then it is
her willingness to give

Copyright © Ezra Vancil | Year Posted 2005

Details | Light Poetry |
Say ye to the righteous, that it shall be well 
With him, for they shall eat the fruit of their doings.
                            -Isaiah 3:10


Though peace your soul is denied
But your heart seeks many a things well
Hear ye the word of the lord
"It shall be well with you"

Though sorrow your home reside
And thy pain comes with the day
Hear ye the word of the lord
"It shall be well with you"

When darkness has passed away
And a new day has come your way
This is what the lord had said
"It shall be well with you"

When the sun's sleep begin
And the stars are out in grace
This is what the lord had said
"It shall be well with you"

Though thy shame be great indeed
And your name has a date with pain
If thy hope remains in God
"It shall be well with you"

So a poor wage you endure
But an entrepreneur you long to become 
If thy hope remains in God
"It shall be well with you"

Copyright © Ingibo Benson | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

                   …In that moment, her soul was in my arms.

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Lyric |
The words we use become pictures into lives
Pictures from words spread out for all to see
This is what becomes of our poetry
Has the makings of a montage to me
With words we complete many pictures
Pictures then arranged to fit in closeness
And so with our poetry I do believe
We create a montage for all to see

Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown | Year Posted 2011

Details | Light Poetry |
The town was all a flutter; Zombie the Musical, was coming to town.
We all signed up as extras… Yes, as Zombies… here we did come.
Bruce Willis was the hero, with the Mad Scientist Z, for all to blame.
Dragon wanted to be the hero, but became the Evil Z. OH! Poor Thing!
His penguins, the perfect zombies, chased across the screen, so berserk!
The director wanted his zombies to twitch, but all thought he said, twerk!

Someone turned on ‘Thriller’, and amid the music, things began to work.
The penguins were endearing, as they stole the show. Wouldn’t you know!
As they did the: step left, step right, Shuffle, shuffle, twerk, twerk, twerk!
Dragon flew on the set, but things got wonky, as the set, in flames, went up.
He crash-landed in the fire works, which scaring most the towns’ zombies off.
All was meant to be dark and scary, but naturally that came out, sooo wrong.

The witches decided to dig up zombies, for the flash mob scene, to work. 
The new zombies, did their own thing, chasing more town zombies away.
The witches got them from the cemetery, not telling those alive, today. 
Bruce Willis, by now, was really banged up, as he fought the zombies off.
Everyone knew something was so wrong when one bit Dragon in the butt.
Thank goodness that fricasseed Zombie, couldn’t bite thru Dragons Scales.

Well, everyone made a run for it…as the penguins steadfastly twerked on…
At this time, some say, the director was straight out seen, pulling out his hair.
He was yelling: Dumb Zombies need a brain! & They’d head to the cemetery… 
If  ‘they only had a brain!’ So someone added the song ‘If I only had a Brain’. 
The director wanted Die Hard, but got ‘Die Hard without a Brain’. Yeah, Way!
Tho some would simply end up calling it, ‘Die Hard to Twerk another Day’.

The director decided: if he couldn’t beat them, join them. Yes, he surely did!
With the ending credits Dragon twerked. Groan! For shame!  Nobody Look!
That’s when Bruce Willis called Chuck Norris to help round the Zombies up! 
The Zombies wouldn’t take their cues! Well, not, until, it was time to Twerk!
Then they all just joined in, as apparently a real Zombie…Can Indeed Twerk! 
They were all, finally sent home, with smiles upon their face. Uh... we think!

The witches put them back, by order of Chuck Norris, in any case! It’s True!
For a witch can mess with a director, but No One messes with Chuck Norris! 
What! You knew? And the after show party, with Chuck Norris, had such flair!
He even ask Dragon for an autograph… Now, Dragon’s head is in the air!

And Note: Not a single Zombie was hurt in the making of this musical…
          Though, many a one, did fall down, when Dragon flapped his wings.
          The fricasseed Zombie liked his suntan and new hair style, it seems!
Written By Carol Eastman 1-22-2015 

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Armadilly came galloping into Troll Lake, bent on seeking a new life, to unwind.
He’d rode out of the Badlands, leaving only a trail of blowing dust and leaves, behind.
His steady stead Jalopy had been pounding feet, relentlessly with powerful strides.
Rearing up, Armadilly stopped before our Troll Bridge with his slingshot at his side.

I could see, he rode the sleekest mount, and the biggest tortoise, that I had ever seen.
Man that armadillo knew his tortoise flesh… this was the fastest one, ever been!
I would say: he truly looked, the devil’s mount… with glowing, fire stocked eyes.
The stranger named himself as Armadilly, but his true identity, could not be denied.

He was really Armadilly Billy, The Slingshot Kidster, as he bowed to us, so very low.
With a yes Ma'am, and a no Sir, he was smooth and could charm, near any old soul.
The Trolls loved him for the spell binding stories, that at the campfire, he gave away.
He never talked about his past, but we knew who he was, without being told, that day.

The rumor had it that Sheriff Bunny Garret had shot him dead, on one fateful day.
Another said he’d faked his death, heading south to Mexico, his life to live away.
But we knew better, for he was here with us, right now, on this illustrious day.
We knew he was a kind and misunderstood guy, because of what I’m about to say.

He saved our squirrel, Funkundilly, from a hawk diving straight for her, inward bound.
With his slingshot, like streaked lightening, he forced the hawk to spiral to the ground.
And we all applauded that Funkundilly was now, once again, so very safe and sound.
Then he strode, spurs a jangling, to dish out his own type of justice, so very renowned.

With a steely glint in his eye, he ordered the hawk away, or meet his end, he did convey.
And you can say that frightened bully hawk, really high tailed it, as he ran away.
Everyone celebrated that night, with Armadilly, all the way to dawn’s embrace.
Before he left, Armadilly knew from then on, he’d always have a home in this place.

But his mind was set on a wandering, more of this world’s adventures, to unweave.
So with a HiHo! Jalopy! He took off, leaving in another cloud of dust and leaves.
But I heard him shout that he’d be back again, soon… 
And we were sure, that’s just what he would do!


Inspired by Silly Billy the Kidster's--- Billy the Kid Blog
An epic poem by Carol Eastman

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2012

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 |
News Flash! Dragons Back! He’s the News Hog of the Day.
No one can print, without him, becoming entangled in some way.
He heard that there’s a new newspaper lurking, around the bend.
He wants to know… if he can pose as the new Super Hero, therein?

He’s already has a cape, and cell phone, so those in trouble, can call.
But beware, of his landings, he’s known to knock things down, even walls.
Still he gives a striking pose for the paparazzi, who always following him.
He’s been made a junior fireman, because fire simply, doesn’t bother him.

He saved a cat form Old Lady Moores’ burning barn, just the other day.
Don’t believe the rumor, it started from a stray spark, one of his, they say.
Remember don’t say that, it makes our little Dragon cry…it was the wind!
Our Carpenter Trolls are building a new one; to replace the one, he did singe!

Acorn Falls is our town; Dragon seems to have put it on the map, to stay.
Folks in town are wanting a name change, to Dragon’s Mayhem Falls, today!
If you want an exciting vacation, let me know, I’ll tell you where, it’s at!
Here are the numbers to call, to contact us, and we even rent hard hats.

The carpenter Troll’s are             1-800-555- Repair & Fix
The town number has become      1-800-555- Mayhem Falls
My number for a joyous write is    1-800-555- let it rip
To Rent a Super Hero Dragon is    1-800-555-Dragon Here

Just remember that if you call Dragon, Please keep the other numbers on hand.
There’s a free coupon given, for first time services, if things don't go as planned.
And remember, if repairs are needed, a free barbecue, can be on the house.
Especially, if that’s what’s burning, so be prepared, eventually it'll be, put out!

Written 10-18-2014

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Poetry Soup
Rare Group

Copyright © Tyesha Ehigiator | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
The snow so deep… That it was over our heads… Was a melting by the hour!
Give it a day, or two at most… and with this heat… it would all be gone, forever!
But in the meantime, we were sadly stuck, in mud, deep, within our own backyard!
The water couldn't run off fast enough; our backyard had become a swamp, marred!

Just then, low and behold my old Volkswagen bubbled up, thru the mud it came!
You know, the one, surely you do! Last year it had floated down the storm drain!
Now, low and behold something got out! OH WHAT I’ll never, ever, really know!
Said he was the REAL Swamp Thing, and tired of spring-cleaning his house, so…

He chained the car to a tree, as he hopped out. Said his name was “Gone Fishing”.
Said his Mama read it on a sign, and used it to name her sweet, baby, Swamp Thing!
But then, he saw our back yard, he shouted in delight and decided to visit for a spell! 
After all, it’s turned into a real swamp! And he’s the real Swamp Thing! So, Do Tell!

Dragon, the penguins, and all else, followed him straight, to the swamp so profound..
The penguins slid down the muddy slope, and followed the Swamp Thing all around.
But when Dragon tried, his weight got him stuck! We had to wench him, to the shore.
Mud became the name of the day, with mud and snowball fights going on, in galore!

Everyone was in seventh heaven, ‘Gone Fishing’ the same, as they slide, all about!
Fun ensued! For how often can he vacation about? Only once a year! No doubt!
After 2 days of fun, the snow was almost gone, so we cleaned them, as they played.
Yes, the fire hydrant was turned on! Dragon threw his Penguins, happily, into the spray!

That shot them almost to the moon above! The closest to flying they would ever be!
They soared then slide down the street. Even Dragon did play this time! How sweet!
But ‘Gone Fishing’ knew his vacation was up. So he waved a hearty good bye…
As he jumped into the Volkswagen again, and let it fly, and man, could that baby, fly!

It flew down the street, and back down the drain! Before our very own eyes!
That was the last time we saw the Swamp Thing, as we waved, a sad goodbye!
But next time it snows to mile high deep… as it melts, we’ll be looking for our friend.
Here lies our story of ‘Gone Fishing”. It’s real! Honest! To you, I’d never lie! I defend!

And I expect, where ever he really is now…  He’s ‘Gone Fishing’…THE END

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Romanticism |
Pursue love,
the love that has no meaning,
the silver ports of the moon,
shine so bright,
that it blinds you in the twilight
she is beautiful and she is divine
she is the song sang by the sweet nightingales
in the gardens of worthy, overgrowning and blooming roses,
like wildfire grow tall and the thornes of the vines
tangle around her feet and drag her ever so slightly
throughout the garden of beauty.
As the roses lay along a table,
as she sits at the table
and she waits for me, the wordman
to come to the dinner table at the stroke of nine
and sit with her,
start a scene or two of romantic setting,
to pursue love in her name.
Love is around us,
the candlelight shines and reflects in her silk hair,
as her evening dress glitters and shines
and her bossom shows itself in the nightsky
as we lay together,
we pursue a dream together,
forever we live together forever,
as we stand upon the belcony of Romeo and Juliet's love scene
we swim in a pool of sweet divine care and love,
we swallow grapes and drink wine
hand and hand on Persian rugs and virgin white cloth sheets,
we dance to a simple, yet sweet Chopin's masterpiece
of his beautiful nocturnes,
which make such a sweet and romantic song in our heads.

We stomp out the flames
as we dance the night away,
and you lay in my arms,
and I kiss you upon your lovely head,
and you hold my hand,
and I hold you tight
never thinking of letting your love go away from me,
I would take my own life,
before I lose your love.
See us together,
it is a painting that lasts lifetimes,
that needs no touch-ups.
I care for you and love you!
Love me, I know you will.

My sweet and loving portrait lady,
who in reality is more beautiful than a fully bloomed rose
that sits on its green stem,
in the garden of beauty that sits outside my window.
Come up to my chambers
as I picked roses for you and pettles litter the atmosphere
as love's tension grows
and suspence brings us together,
let us make love tonight
seal the passion
and pursue love once and for all.

Then shall we wake with the first rays of the blazing of the morning sun,
I shall wake next to your beauty and glory,
and I shall point my attention to the heavens
and thank the Gods for sending you on the open road,
toward my chamber door, I call my heart.
Then we shall dress, and walk the pathways
in the garden of beauty
and I shall pick a bauquet of roses
and we shall sit by the lake and pursue our love
for one another
and nothing, not one earthquake shall shake us apart.

-9/26/2013-

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
     SHINE"ING"

        Shining with my lively smile,
  keeps you in denial with my G-Q style.
  You say it's murder, I say it's a mistrial.
    You misapperehend me to not understand me!
              I can sell ice to a eskimo,
      fire to the devil that lives down below.
         I'm the tower with the infernal powers,
            shining with infinite brightness,
              causeing definitely blindness!
                  I wanna be rich *****!
           Thats why I keep the gun at my hips!
                      My lips soft as silk,
                   body as smooth as milk.
              Your addicted to the way I spit,
              I'm a convict held in comtempt.
                Your baffled by my ego,
                but it just the principal!
                       I'm shine"ing"
         I'm a dependant of the money I make,
             and addicted to the abuse I take,
             prosecuted for the way I think!
             I'm the air that fills your lungs,
      I'm that pill you take when you have a headache.
 Solid as my body that naturally retains the same shape.
            The illest part of my personality,
                   is the identity of me!
          The diversity of being in the streets,
              is truly the best part of me!
                       I'm Shining

Copyright © twanna Irisha | Year Posted 2011

Details | Light Poetry |
Thinking of thee day when I went to see, accidentally looking at you made me feel like I was on Extasy. I watched your eyes while they were watching me. Looking into my eyes you knew I had those qualities of motherly nurturing, morality therefore giving you that love story.. Connecting on all levels we both became thirsty eagerly, as if we had telepathy. Our minds and soul became as one, as our heart beats began to beat as one. Loving abnormally to an unusual degree, chastity pure purity our love story... Each day you spent with me, I took away all of your misery. I became your biggest fan fore you were my man, by your side forever i stand. Love so compact. Loving the monogamy having one mate at one time. Loving you for a life time. Mourning for your touch that I began to love so very much. Your generosity of your mentality intellectual capacity, your supremacy, supreme power of authority love for me. Is the best part of our love story. With each touch I lust, real love i gush. Having the ability for mobility to take tenancy inside of me. You became my property. We had symmetry I was the beauty, and your my harmony. True and forever exceptionally... Love story.

Copyright © twanna Irisha | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
Tell me of your peace. 
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place 
As it gently sloughs the pain away 
Tell me of your peace 
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind 
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace 
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know 
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease, 
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here 
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now 
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies 
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free 
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within 
Waiting for you
For you to let it be

Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |
Of the many stars I have seen,
Justin, you are by far the most exquisite
I love how you just mold into my heart,
Sifting the words we share part by part,
Lighting the path to inspiration,
Attaining your lightning connotation

I love how you relate to my struggles,
Allowing my feet to rest on your gentle wings,
How your loving eyes look in-between the lines,
To see inside such poetry, the divine intertwine

You do not waste your time in the sky,
Rising every moment in your heightening knowledge
You burn brighter for what matters
You hold tighter to the light with gladness,
And you are not afraid in the prowling wilderness
You are never afraid to express your genius

Long ago, I had wandered in the haze of many a soul
Closed and withdrawn in the strolls of dark foes
In your luminous presence, you awakened this dreamer
My eyes widening in the unity of word-weavers
To access your bloom was to shatter all doom
And in awe, I aspired to be a part of you

I love that you care of my virtues,
How you give and give tremendously
How we understand each other in synchronizing energy out of this world
I love that you will feel my heart, as I do yours
I will love these truths forevermore

A tribute to this burning star is never enough
You have inspired me beyond what I can see
Beyond what dreams a dreamer be
And for that, I must thank you,
As you persevere in your incomparable brightness
To illuminate my path, and our paths, 
Into the extraordinary, eternal unearthing of fate, fervor and fortune

For the “Tribute: Poetry Contest” 
Sponsored by The Silent One
August 4th, 2015

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to sleep nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.

My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
*Palindrome Poetry*

****Inspiration****

Libra,
represents scales.
balanced and fair.
Sway little, intellect overbearing, charming.
Opinions strong, mediator, excellent.
Bonds deep, spiritually forging connections.
Compatible, Scorpio and Gemini strong.
Artistic and creative. 
-inspiring- 
Creative and artistic,
strong. Gemini and Scorpio compatible.
Connections forging spiritually deep bonds.
Excellent mediator, strong opinions.
Charming,overbearing intellect, little sway.
Fair and balanced.
Scales represent
Libra.


***Palindrome, by definition is a word, phrase, verse, sentence or even
     poem that reads the same forward or backward.***Example***
           "Artistic and creative inspiring Creative and artistic"

   
Jared Pickett
9/15/09
Asavvy1

Copyright © Jared Pickett | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse |
I have dropped my pains on pages of poems,
the ink in my pen treasures my groans,the 
quill is my sword, with edges sharp enough
to sculpt the perfect picture, the quill is the
only thing you got when those devils try to 
get ya, the only warmth when those men or
women forget ya, I bet ya a million bucks 
and yes it sucks, but poetry is more than
just writing, its healing, remedy of feeling, 
dealing with the worst of you,  quenched the
thirst of you, a doctor or a nurse to you, 
sometimes you  get delusions and think it
gave birth to you, as it pours on its immensity
of worth on you, that's what enchanting words
will do.



One day I gave poe to a dying tree 
now it has grown it looks fine to me, boy oh 
boy the tree said to me, if it wasn't for your 
poe in tree  another day I wouldn't have seen,
but now I have STRONG roots running below
city's a million  feet strong and a billion feet 
long and I can stand to bear the blues jay on 
my branches, with songs all day long, I wrote his 
song it went like this poe in tree poe in tree gave
ETERNAL bliss to thee, oh by the way, I am
the tree saved by poe in tree poetry poetry

Copyright © Elliott Bowe THe DrUnKeN POeT | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
She, Of The Cosmic Essence
Aware Of A Power
Aware Of A Presence
And Aware Of The Need For Our
Desire To Rise Higher
… and Higher
To Our Optimum Height
Patricia … You Are Like The Alaskan Lights
Those Northern Flares and Colors In Cold Night 
Floating Dreams, So Mesmerizing
Patricia, Brings It To Her Poetic Themes
Such Are The Verses She Shares To View
And Reading Them, She's Showing You
Her Cosmic Essence Insight
Oh Patricia, You’re An Alaskan Light …
So, Keep Reaching, Keep Speaking … and Write !


For The Girl, Who Shared A Comfy, Snug Book Read
On One Of Her Snowy Days … (Via Her Poem- ‘Autumn’s Passing’ 
Also - Your Poem ‘Journey’ is One)
See … It Brought Back Some Wonderful Memories To Me …

                   Your Poet-Friend,
         
                           The  MoonBee

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
Burning so bright
With new found life
Released from his ball and chain
Out of the dark
And into the light
Flying… on wings of freedom again.

As he writes his life
His soul ignites
In flames of wisdom and sight
Brilliantly claiming 
His God given right
As his truth kills the evil ‘Black Knight’.



Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006

Details | Prose Poetry |
One individual called "she" stepped into the sheets of a life story
Sheets that used to be occupied
She walked back and stopped at a chapter which tell the story of an obsolete chamber
A space which stands for behalf of the memory and wounds

A diorama played by shadow
A story with no beginning nor end
They've been there with decent backgrounds and decent light spectrum but called gray
The view was frozen, the chatter was muted, and that feels fell into the melancholy

Those with the outstretched hands which too high to be reached
Those with the self existence but too blind to be seen 
They abandoned as a figure of reserves without knowing the essence of a solace

And that individual creature went on her way back to the labyrinth of time

This time someone seized by the story of a root baste
Those roots were heart in shape and the hue carved a warmth, but once howled a bitterness
This chapter tells the story of a lush tree with the fruit of love
Fruits that contain the complexity of love, passion and a place to berth

And the fruit of love revealed its story to someone

Those who hide behind their false mannerism had carved their name on her shoulder
Those who have offered their hearts and bent on their knees 
Those who play fire in a lust, fell into a seek
But the love that she wants still unable to cover the part of this story

From the fruit of love to the sheet's of light

This chapter tells the story of an old house with extensive bed of flowers
This house represented the aesthetics, peace and harmony
A house which brings relief, spaciousness and joy
In that house she knelt, release all her mess
To the house the journey was anchored

In every sketches that have been through
None could live without the presence of others too

Obsolete chamber, lush love tree, beautiful bed flowered old house
Those who were involved in each story of the bulkhead of life
Those who were crawling along and came from different angles of infinity
Those who were instantly filled the pieces of shoot and became the shoot

They are the perfect gift for the imperfect souls
Not as a complement nor as a reserves
Yet as the major part of the heartwarming life story

Copyright © Yanny Widjanarko | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |
Could a sadder face there be?

Oh Crying eyes,

melancholy.

Please, don't drip
those salty drops.

So many kisses I'd give to stop!

I am yours
you are mine
we will get threw in little time.

For what is life?
A little race?
We set the gaols
we make the pace.

So with me run.
We will get threw.

You help me, I'll help you

Sure and keen
eye's on the mark

Let's give this course 
a little spark.

Slow to see a river glide
forest green, country side.

Drink in scent of hewy blooms,
pause to touch in cedar rooms

Give this chase a pinch of spice
A season spent to melt the ice,

that grips us when,
we do fear,
of wasted steps, 
passing years.









Copyright © robert rekab | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Dragon went to the mailbox this morn, 
And he came excitedly flying back, yes, toward the house… 
So Now, you should… be doubly, doubly, doubly forewarned.
Yep! Now, you GOTTA know… We’re in for a LOT of ensuing chaos!

Yes, He had a letter addressed to him… 
With a smile on his face and a letter in his hand…
And what, you ask, had him wearing, such bubbly, bubbly, bubbly grin?
 He’s going, this year, to the Fireman Competition, and held the invite so grand!

By Now, you must know, such excitement, so fine… 
As usual, made his fire to run, run, run… onto the letter in hand…
And that Date, and the Time? You know, that fire? Well… never mind!
Thought this would slow Dragon? No way! He’s ready, now, for that Laurel Strand.

He flew to the Firehouse, lickety- split…
Crashing into the fire truck, giving it a broken axel and 4 tires flat, flat, flat!
Leaving his head, stuck, solidly, through the window, into the trucks cockpit…
Fortunately, out ran the fire chief, to organize the rescue, of our little dingbat…

When NOTHING ELSE would work, all the firemen…
Put their feet on the door, grabbing Dragon, and they pulled, pulled, pulled!
Finally, it took old Grandpa Troll to pull his head out, by taking the door off…
And then breaking the door apart! My! What a day, I must say, THIS had been!

Then next week’s competition was explained…
As a Charity Event to enhance and outfit their old faithful fire truck!
Now a little rescue practice will never, never, ever… it’s ascertained…
Ever be turned down! And Oh My! And Oh Well! What’s that truck worth? 

That is… compared to our klutzy, little clown…
Grandpa Troll donated repairs as Dragon worked it off, day after day, after day.
My Moral is: If great you will be, then mistakes will be made along the way…
As you walk to your destiny, don’t despair; just keep going to your brighter days…

Written By Carol Eastman 5-19-2016

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
     When i grow old i will be glad
of the five braw weans im blessed to have
Gordon my oldest wise for his years
Kelly shes bolder but inside theres tears
Ashly my nightmare but i love her to bits
Sean has a laugh that has me in fits
Natasha the baby the wee cuty pie
I hope when she's older she gets a good guy
they are all so good looking no one can deny
and their all the apple of this mothers eye


Copyright © Kate Mcnaughton | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
      My Bros.' & Sister's the [Book] tell us that we are made in the image of God, made
in the likeness of him.  So why is the World suffering much to much idiosyncricie's whe-
ther you're fat or slim ?  Do you know!! Do Ya!!...  long and many year's ago, Noah
is assign an important task, that being! to build a ship (the Ark) for the purpose that
(GOD) seen the supplication of his creation.  He is sadden that sin enter into evil thought's
of mankind, and the collaboration of their choices brings no satisfaction to the reasonable
reason for Noah being choosen to finished the Ark {no satisfaction}....  My guess is
that Noah prayer's was like, "Show Me the Way Home", Lord, thou reason that the rain 
shall come, makes a consorted effort to save a generation, I am so along.  "Show me the 
way Home".  This-thiss generation ignore's the preaching for a 120-years, now water is
around their necks and the door is (slam!!) shut.  "Slam-Shut".  My Brothers ' Sister's
do you wonder why the likeness is impossible to live up too.  We choose to live to do
our own thing - our own way.  That's O'K from a selfish standpoint.  But for a spiritual
analyzationable lovepoint, sometimes the seperation is somewhat confrontationable.
     So-so my brother, the long way home is a fight that the "Anti-Christ commit to the 
principalitie's warfare against the conscience of your mind and you become blind and
you heed to the warning and now he see's (The Anti-Christ) that you are not strong:
(I'm so all along) Now my sisters that implie's to you also, your fight is a battle the ene-
my approaches from your blindside, and if you're not carefull, "you will believe in all the 
lie's.  (Be Strong)  
"Show Me the Way Home", LORD-show me.  Me and the tall and short one's and the cre-
ated of all children's whether large or small.  When we have fought against the file's of
the enemy, and we all are along.  Before the gap get wider (and ?)  "Show Me the
Way Home".

P.S....This Poem is the first of a two-part initative in God's awsume plan to regenerate a
society of any culture, that we as his children must ask him to "Show me the way Home".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Verse |
is it the wave kissing the sand 
or is it the ocean
- deep from her heart
sometimes gently,
often hard,
but always with passion?

is it the sand kissing back
or is it the land
- happily losing ground 
with every kiss
to his eternal mistress,
the occupant of his soul?

is it this poem touching your heart
or is it our souls
- hugging each other
on a sandy beach,
wide and infinite,
day in and day out?



Copyright © A.O. Taner | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |
Since joining just yesterday,
I have not had much to say,
As I sit here idle,
Waiting for a title,
I watch as you pass my way,

I am honored to be here,
While a select few may jeer,
Mostly I can see hope,
From the end of my rope,
Bringing about a joyous tear,

For all poets who have been called,
Disenchanted or enthralled,
Our mission always true,
We inform and move you,
To make you act or make you halt,

To rise above and expound the truth,
Or to lose ourselves in a groove,
Whether blatent or far out,
We live to learn - live to shout,
About love, laughter or the blues,

For although I may be new,
To this small poetic group,
I see what you've built,
With talent and skill,
Namely this Poetry Soup,

Copyright © My Gull Wheels On | Year Posted 2006