Best Curated Poems
To my daughter who never listens.
Life is not as simple as a cliché.
It's not lullabies and butterflies.
Not all sounds are soothing,
not all flowers are faithful.
It's not as relaxing as a reverie,
rarely as poetic as a poem,
so you can't hide everything behind metaphors.
You have to express your true verses,
you have to serenade in your own melody -
but never forget the chorus to our song.
Life is full of storytellers who will lead you astray,
so never believe everything you hear or see -
create your own biography, make your own history.
Our existence is fragile like petals,
yet your birth created an oasis in my heart.
I remember when they said you would not blossom,
yet you flourished in essences of evergreen elegance.
I was the first to cradle you in my arms,
as I promised to protect you endlessly.
Hoping that you would soar forever,
spread your wings higher and higher.
We never truly realise the sacrifices of our parents.
I wonder if you will ever know,
how sometimes all I had left was my smile -
never would I reveal my frailties.
It was not a simple case of masculinity,
because even the most ferocious lion cries.
I hope you never face a struggle,
as difficult as the trials forsaken upon me
and
I'm sorry if at times you saw no emotions,
apologies for the tears I never let you see,
nor the fears I never allowed you to feel,
but it was the way I was brought up to be,
it's how reality curated my personality.
If the suppression of my feelings made you distant -
remember a father will always be a shepherd for his flock.
Wars from the past have infiltrated mankind,
yet there will be many battles to come -
just don't fall asleep among heartless sleeping souls.
I shiver upon the thought of our closing goodbye,
when my shield can no longer protect you,
as every knight has to eventually lay down his sword.
The world can be a cruel and wild place,
and I remind you there is always a rainy day,
so choose wisely the paths to ponder upon -
learn how to build your own abode.
You'll always be a baby in my eyes.
I'll always be so proud.
Even in silence... I will forever love you.
Dad.
Categories:
curated, appreciation, father daughter, life,
Form:
Free verse
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
Categories:
curated, character, drink, eve, humanity,
Form:
Prose
Looking intp the vast algorithmic wilderness we begin our search for truth...
For in this chaos of digital existence for we navigate
the maze of virtual connections seeking answers in the
pixels that....
form our fragmented identities.
Yet, amid the ceaseless chase for productivity we grapple...
with the paradox of busyness wondering if our
worth is measured
by our output or...
our ability to simply be.
In the era of constant comparison for we confront the...
existential dread of inadequacy haunted by
curated lives on screens...
that mirror our own
distorted reflections.
Beneath the surface of superficial interactions for we crave
for genuine connection searching for
authenticity in a world...
where masks are
worn as shields...
against vulnerability.
Surrounded by the droning of voices clamoring for...
attention we struggle
to find our own among the noise
craving moments of silence...
to hear the wisdom in
the wind of our true selves.
In the face of ecological devastation for we grapple with...
our role as stewards of the earth, questioning
the meaning of progress...
in a world on the
brink of potential collapse.
Against the backdrop of societal...
polarization for we confront
the existential challenge of empathy
while wondering if
compassion can bridge the chasms...
that divide us or
if we are destined...
to remain adrift in a sea of discord.
And in the end, the finality...
we finally realize the journey
was the destination all along...
Categories:
curated, culture, environment, philosophy, psychological,
Form:
Free verse
A dead man’s boat
rowed itself from isle to isle,
dragging its dead man in its wake,
partially submerged, their tether tenuous,
yet somehow never broken.
Past The Isle Of Reeds,
where the slaves had been freed
from the crack of their master’s whip,
and their master, with great resentment,
would be exorcised of the malice
that he had so slavishly curated.
To The Isle Of Defeat
where it was fortunate to escape
the ruthless jagged rocks,
its dead man did not escape,
but in death was spared the agony
of the broken bones and lacerations.
Painfully close to The Isle Of Cleansing,
adorned by sands and rocks made new,
freshly crafted for their arrival
just moments before their arrival,
but the dead man’s boat
would not surrender its dead man.
To The Isle Of The Precipice
where gulls and albatross
sullied the ancient cliffs,
the boat stared up at them
but gave no thought to climbing them,
its dead man may have fallen from them,
perhaps in a better life.
The dead man’s boat
left the isles
and returned to open waters,
it’s dead man dragged in its wake,
together to sink in time.
27th March 2019
Categories:
curated, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
Unseen but ubiquitous,
Savage and surreal,
If not curated but contagious,
Annihilative and aerial,
Then lurking, now loose,
You are the silent stone sepulchre,
Tangling, tormenting; transient truce,
An asphyxiating, aggravating and apocalyptic aperture,
You might among countless thriving throng induce fear,
Cause bountiful bouts of darkness and despair,
You might perhaps possess lives of mankind in multitudes,
Cripple economies and ravage revenues.
Say, can you cease the blowing of wildly winds?
Say, can you banish a bridal blush or a child’s caprice?
Say, can you hold the hanker of a koel for its lilting lyrics, while it sings?
Say, can you shackle the Sun, or rob its rays with your bitter malice?
You are nothing but an atomic annihilator, a sombre spree,
In vain you strive to rule over our spirits free,
We would surmount all sufferings and decimate your derisive decree.
Saptarshi Mukherjee
Categories:
curated, courage, death, endurance, hope,
Form:
Alliteration
if tears of the sun were the metaphorical keys
to unlock twisted trinkets of the searing sky
would you feel the festering forest~
homing arctic orchids within these veins?
or am I to remain detached and numb;
caged in a cursed collision
like an evanescent epiphany
of a misled marionette ~
screaming for a cathartic elixir….
tonight my intuition is a passive-aggressive gaslighter
manipulating the inner voice ~ like a pathological liar
freezing the floral clairvoyance…
while curiosity keeps crawling
amidst crestfallen opium
I ponder: do frost and flame, as I breathe in bleakness~
transcribe how the echo
within the fog filters reality
curated in the midst of melted angst
fluctuating like stone-blind blackness~
a drop-dead delirium kissed by the darkness
of a silent sepulcher?
I’m a prisoner of splitting supernovae
caught in polarized pyretic disruptions
for everything feels like exaggerated deceit
when truth seems like a mere dot above~
a hyphen of irrational ratios
carved from calculated confusions,
betrayed by the violent strings
of my violin heart…
Categories:
curated, angst, anxiety, emotions, mental
Form:
Free verse
Bits 'n Pieces of my soul
to be downloaded by the Marketplace
(or souled for a pittance at your request)
Doth thou find me Likeable?
God Bless my Fakebook Self!
All the shiny bots N pieces I've manicured just for you?
Why, they're just a miniscule reflection
An endless mirror,
scattered pixellated gems--
An electronic finger pointing back at Me.
The manicured, curated Me I've
divvied up for you to see, Yes--
but Nonetheless, you didn't protest;
Or did Thou?
Categories:
curated, conflict, irony, perspective, satire,
Form:
Free verse
This World That Takes
I gave too much.
A chalice filled to the brim,
pouring over,
love spilling, although unasked for,
but the world took it anyway.
It takes.
All it does is take.
It absorbs every light, every warmth,
leaving none to spare, none to return.
People—so consumed by their mirrors,
worshipping their own reflections.
Social media becomes their altar,
their source of love, their sense of giving.
They pour themselves into screens,
into curated images, fleeting likes,
forgetting that we stand here,
in the real world, arms outstretched,
offering love, offering compassion.
But they don’t see us.
They can’t see past the glow of their screens.
I believed in love, in giving, in healing.
I thought the world could change,
that it could soften beneath the weight of care.
But this world grinds those who love
into dust.
It chews through the tender,
spits out the remains.
Perhaps it’s not me who is broken.
Perhaps it’s the world.
This world isn’t good enough for me.
For a heart that holds oceans,
for love immeasurable for unyielding soil.
Perhaps the fault isn’t mine,
but in the world that took and never saw.
Still, I wonder—
how much longer can I pour myself out,
before I fade into the very dust it leaves behind?
Written by:Hannah McMorris
Categories:
curated, anger, dark, deep, depression,
Form:
Free verse
H O P E
“Hopeless,” they mocked her in school —
Oakiness in progeny opened other possibilities!
Palatable pearl curated grand’s hand-me-down.
Everlasting Hope - God’s prize.
1/8/2020
Juliet Ligon’s What's In A Name Poetry Contest
Categories:
curated, identity,
Form:
Acrostic
1. Lasagna Recipe
2. How to replace alternator
3. Bookstores near me
4. Coffee shops near me
5. Breve
6. Breve vs latte
7. How to tell if your house is haunted
8. Derealization
9. Common ghosts
10. How long to boil eggs
11. Chairs stacked in a pyramid
12. Footsteps
13. Hearing footsteps
14. Hearing yelling
15. Yelling just outside my door
16. Bruises
17. Random bruises
18. Angry ghosts
19. Angry ghosts
20. How to get rid of angry ghosts
21. Why is there an angry ghost in my house
22. Exorcist
23. Cheap exorcist
24. Package stores near me
25. How much is too much crying
26. CPTSD
27. Baby names list
28. Indeed
29. How to move on
30. Pilot pens
Categories:
curated, anger, anxiety,
Form:
Free verse
If you stare at the sun long enough,
your eyes will become the desert
they’ve always failed to see;
Just beyond the limits of their
perception. Empty, dry and tragic.
If you stare into a pool of water
long enough, you’ll see the vivid
reflection of years meant to wade
through relevance, yet stopped short,
trapped in the irises you’ve held
in a skull destined to become part
of an ocean’s reef; another story
lodged in the coral of ironic distraction.
If you read these words, and look into
yourself
…just long enough
You’ll see a life meant to be defined
not by the elements around you,
but by the intention in which you
choose to see, and be seen.
The ripples in the water,
made by your stroke could
drown you, or push you further
toward a destiny written in the
eyes of elements curated by a
glow not of the sun, but of your own.
You are at the helm,
twaddling notes, denoting
the curious expectations of
a young drifting sum of celestial
coordination. Where you go is
up to you. What you see, feel,
what you hear, taste,
What you change…
is in the heart of each moment
you continue to turn the cogs
of understanding, and breathe in
the truth of why the wind pushes
you toward a horizon that continues
to stray.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Categories:
curated, imagery, imagination, introspection, journey,
Form:
Free verse
When I was 19 years old
I collapsed on my twin size collegiate bed
With my head in my hands
And I sobbed
Because for the first time in my shallow existence
My carefully curated victim complex was shattered
And I realized
I
Was not a good person
Cross my heart and hope to die
Because I chose to screw my face in a permanent sneer at anyone who dared to get to close for my comfort zone
I wore my pain like armor
Without realizing
...that
was heavy ...
And the walls I put up became my isolation chamber
And in a crowd of friends I was alone
Pity party for 1
And we can pit past against past
And play the world's longest game of
Who had it worse
And I though I was self-assured the gold medal in one-up-manship
But I was just smothering daisies
Trying desperately to grow in the black tar cracks in my heart
Running from sunshine
Still believing I'd find someone to be my light in the darkness I loved
As though it wasn't horrendously selfish
To expect my poor unfortunate soulmate to be the crutch I was hell bound to crush
As though I could keep extinguishing the lights of others because I wanted my nights blackest black
Because life's colors hurt my eyes
Because the pain was comfortable when it was bottled up and binge drank like moonshine
I had become the world's best extinguisher
Sour-faced joy-sucker
Begging for a light in my darkness
Then snuffing it out again and again
Always expecting someone else to
Re-light it
And I'm here selling my soul to this microphone because I know I'm not the only professional extinguisher
And it takes one to know one
So if you find yourself
On a twin-sized bed with your head in your hands sobbing
Know
That dark
will always lead to dawn
And you can learn to love yourself with the lights on
Categories:
curated, anger, dark, identity, slam,
Form:
Free verse
Her soul bereft
Blank her stare
Her silence deaf
Nothing to share
The wounds inflicted
The petals withered
Emotions, riddled, conflicted
Hazy pale moon
Inside her head
The open wound
False promise made
No more swoon
Deceived, enslaved, betrayed
Hearts theft, brutal
The torture unkind
Memories crawling, invading
Destroying her mind
Her spirit ensnared
Stark her face
Curated her smile.
Categories:
curated, heartbroken, lonely, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
Social media helps us all connect
as slowly we all lose the skill to relate.
We have a hundred or so
friends that we see every
detail of their lives in images
rants and memes. But all we
really seem to know
about them is a very
carefully curated version of
their filtered lives. We are awed
when they divorce their perfect
spouse or end up in rehab.It is
the lie we believe to be truth.
The image is in the whitespace (Facebook icon)
Categories:
curated, social, society,
Form:
Concrete
I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:
“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”
“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany
Categories:
curated, humor, parody, political, school,
Form:
Free verse