Stone Age Poems | Examples
These Stone Age poems are examples of Age poems about Stone. These are the best examples of Age Stone poems written by international poets.
Flesh of his people tearing from the bone,
The soul seeps as the devil feasts for the heathonous shall moan ,
For the King of the wicked shall set on his throne,
World left burning with a chilling tone,
Gifts for the vile for he who sleeps
To the wickedest of wisdom that turned them to sheep
For the mother and children were left alone
For the clock that had broken shall turn them to stone…
I can assure you
Had a dream while sitting at the edge
of a hole where they had removed a stone
and the mold was soft to the touch
that I had died, but also said to myself that
Were I dead, I wouldn't be able to dream
I have growth on the side, which looks innocent
like the one I had surgery on, the new one
is on my back and tends to be ignored
I must see a doctor again before the ulcer
sprouts a green plant that has a red rose
that needs to be handled, not by a gardener
The hole had turned into a newly dug grave
I didn't care for this dream, wished it would
I assured my frightened self that I was not
dead, and the self said I will believe that if
You wake me up at eight
These walls are made of sedimentary stone,
it's a desolate house with glaring glass windows;
they emanate the reflection of distorted images,
gulls twirl around it, their shrills have a dark tone.
How quickly I have aged by noticing these deep lines
across this face that was as smooth as a child's skin;
doesn't time ravage everything, leaving a bitter grin?
Whoever envisions only joy is startled by surprises.
Do we restrain ourselves or live in utter madness
to reject the dreadful thought of each abstinence?
Does pleasure alleviate fears in hopeless moments?
Wouldn't it be a refuge from denial to seek resistance?
This rapid existence has a deadline for glory or demise,
being alive is virtuous thankfulness to implement reason
and choose the easiest temptation or the hardest choice;
the decision rests on either: become a saint or a demon.
At 2 a.m. the engine hums & the road awaits his tread,
A departing message on the front door camera to his wife and two kids, as he slips away in dread.
The house is warm, the night is cold, his heart is torn in two, for love is here, but duty calls,
"its the career he chose afterall".
He knows the sound of silence well, when fathers must depart,
He lived it as a boy himself—those echoes scarred his heart.
Hi-Vis uniform, the heavy boots, cigarettes comfort the pain,
Now he repeats his father’s path, the cycle forged again.
He grips the wheel, his knuckles white, his head weighed down with ache!
Each road he drives a silent vow: “I do this for their sake.”
The Coal Mine swollows up his days, the dust, the grind,
A job at home is the dream he holds, to leave no
family need behind.
And though each departing cuts him deep mile by mile,
He builds a future, stone by stone, for those who make him smile.
A father’s burden, masked with pride, though loneliness may sting,
For in his sacrifice he gives his children everything.
Angry Conifers
Trees in the avenue
have a weird sense
of humor
Long roots cracking up
finely laid cobble stone
pavement
Slightly bent easterly
give pain in the lower
trunk
The younger trees
bleat about older trees
taking space
Older trees show
distain of needy trees
no dignity
Trees are silent
lack imparting skills
shake leaves
You were once a seed,
now, just a forgotten weed,
withered and old,
slowly growing cold.
Don't turn your heart to stone.
She too flies all alone.
Flying far above
with a heart of love.
She's no ordinary,
strange tooth fairy,
beyond the Twilight Zone,
spirit of dreams and bones.
Beyond the clouds where starlight grows,
The sky becomes what no one knows.
A canvas brushed with dreams untold,
In hues of silver, blue, and gold.
Each dawn, a whisper calls our name,
A spark, a shift, a newborn flame.
The wind that moves through endless space
Carries the voice of time and grace.
We lift our gaze past fleeting now,
To skies where hope will teach us how.
No map can chart the boundless flight
Of futures drawn in morning light.
Let not your fears be wings of stone—
The sky’s a path we walk alone.
Yet in its vast, unfolding blue,
The stars remind: we’re always new.
So write your fate on heaven's dome,
And let the sky become your home.
The future waits where eagles fly—
Not in the past, but in the sky.
I sometimes wonder if the path I was meant to take was predetermined,
was the word destiny birthed to be my hopeless shackles.
The person I am is a result of what’s around me,
but you would never really know what truly arouses me.
I take a step back and I genuinely start to wonder if this is who
I was always meant to be.
I find myself going back to a time when my fate wasn’t set in stone,
the outcome could not be avoided,
it reminded me of a dog humbly trying to resist a bone.
Foresight has never been my mate,
one setback always makes me hesitate.
We all seem to want to go towards the laid out destination,
which is laughable, because our innate trait has always been
self preservation.
I reminisce back to when I thought nothing was impossible,
back to a time when I could freely be a pacifist,
but I have to fight,
because fate is the only true philosophy.
No matter how unfair fate may seem, it isn’t in any way mythological,
otherwise that would simply be hypocrisy.
Hail needles the skin.
Wind cracks the spine.
The mountain holds,
breath seizes on the tongue.
Snow knives the summits.
Cracked hands fumble dry stone,
paper-thin air slices,
bald eagles tilt in the blast.
Alpine skiers parched,
no more Earth Day banners.
Cherry Creek scrapes its bed.
Feces in the bedpan,
chapped gloss smeared,
cocoa hair salted and smoked.
The Zephyr rattles east,
carrying the mountains backward—
Grand Central dissolves
Along the shore
Wind
adores the sand, the stone
The Salish Sea
calls to me
I am an island upon an island
Restlessly
wishing
A gull in communion
with mountains, trees
Water my source of birth and food
Harbinger of ancient ways
In my soul such dynasties
free themselves
Only within the emptiness
where the wind exhales
are you with me
Forever
on the edge
Eternally
your footsteps left behind
though washed away
I see them
Remember
as no other could
Even though water brushed aside
the moments
I am the witness
Your cry imbedded in my soul
A starfish rests upon my pillow
at night when the sea
the Salish Sea
calls to me
Dream the dream of us to be.
Connections in mirrors that aren’t there. But in reflection they shine like they don’t care.
Does mud and stone hold on to our memories?
At night when we hear sounds of decades gone, oh sometimes too clearly.
Starlight shows us places we’ll never see.
The trees rings speak of ages in which we’ll never be.
The oceans’ tides have witnessed our history.
There’s something in the air that we can’t see.
A glimpse between life now and of the past.
A split second triggers memories we hold fast.
Memories of lives in history?
Our we connected to the world in ways that we can’t see?
Dear younger self,
You are beautiful, your skin was never “to” dark
It is just fine, infact it’s perfect. Don’t base your skin color on your worth.You are enough.
Live in the moment, don’t spend your childhood years trying to grow up.
You’ll look back wishing mom sent you into your room for a nap as a punishment. As weird as it may sound you’re going to miss being able to take a nap without having any repercussions.
Also enjoy the time you have with the family, Because before you know it you’ll be a senior ready to graduate and move states as soon as you get that diploma and you’ll go from being able to walk down the hall to your siblings room to tell them your day. To having to call them on facetime and only seeing them on holidays.
Cherish the time you have with grandma more because before you know it youll go from being able to call her everyday to speaking to a stone wishing it could talk back to you.
Lastly just live in the moment don’t rush things.
I saw a storm of Ice and Stone,
Curling North the footed hill;
From which grows the cold and bone,
Beholden to whom the beggars kill.
The ashen clouds above the alabaster-
A sieve to the dense and wet-
Hurls itself upon a pastor
Who preaches that which isn't yet.
I saw a wyrm, or an armless slither,
Bubble from the preacher's mouth.
It curled in smoke into the weather
Which had boiled to the South.
Lest the East of orchid hue,
Eclipsed by this tempest's crest.
In neon strips, atramentous blue;
I waited, watching, in the West.
The spin of stone and thick of ice,
Had eyes for that beneath its gale.
It at last approached, to name its price,
And returned my gaze with orbs of scale.
Their pupil slits,
Bright stalactites,
Hung in sable ink of iris;
Claimed my sight, without a fight,
Traded for words scrawled on blood papyrus.
"I Wish I Never Failed in Love"
In the realm of heartbeats, I lost my way
A path that wound through love's disarray
If I had one more wish, I'd undo the pain
Erase the scars, rewrite love's stained refrain
A tragic ending, where love went astray
I thought I was special, but faded away
A good man turned cold, a heart turned to stone
The evil I despised, became my own
I wish I never fell, never dove so deep
Never surrendered to love's deceiving sleep
I wish I could forget, before heartbreak's might
Raped our free will, and extinguished love's light
In the shadows of what could've been
I search for solace, a love unseen
One wish remains, to turn back time
Rewrite our story, rekindle love's divine
But alas, memories linger, a bittersweet refrain
Reminding me of love's irreparable stain
Yet still I hold on, to love's pure flame
Hoping someday, love's beauty will reign.
This poem maintains the original message and emotion, with adjustments for rhythm, flow, and poetic clarity.
Would you like any modifications or changes?
He used to take his lectures with a cigarette and a
blindfold.
Can you publish a single sentence?
Didn’t work for James
won’t work for me
choclate sorbet
sunday
in the pipe playing
old mexican sweat
from an old tube amp
and how’s that for a sonnet?
Close but no dice
this ain’t horse shoes
and you ain’t no hand gernade
ten stone gained
while im ten stones lost
stoned in the gutter
wasn’t me on mr ferris’s window grate
too bad
no one likes the blues anymore
and the inner critic keeps chewing away
through the poems like I’d left them
for the rats
real sick son of a
to dissolve one’s own work
never made sense
didn’t have to
makes sense
and then you name it
god the names
the fonts
it’s the title of a Piece after all
too much noise
interferance
bad baggage send it out
its not mine anymore
and so the poems go