Get Your Premium Membership

Best Date Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Date poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of date poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Date poems, articles about Date poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Date poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...



New Date Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Date poems are below this new poems list.

FIRST DATE by Leksat, Lemayian
First Date by messina, charles
Our Bowling Date by Dright, Colette
A Dream Date by Cunningham, Tom
BLIND DATE - NOW A COLLABORATION by ALLISON, JAN
Best Blind Date I Ever Had by French, Jonathan
Date by McGuire, Timothy
A Ridiculous Out-Of-Date Habit by Ellison, Jack
My Dinner Date by Clark, Susan
I Want To Date Rebecca, How Shall I Ask Thee by Moscovitz, daniel

View all new Date Poems

The Best Date Poems

Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry -
when asked where it began,
I’d say it started beautifully
before the dawn of man!

It glistened on the oceans
before man came to be.
It blossomed on the grassy cliffs
that met the first great sea.

It glittered in the moon and stars
and beamed on earth below
in meadows where bright flowers danced
and on the pristine snow.

It sparkled on the lakes and streams,
and when man came along,
he took sweet words that flowed to him
and turned them into song.

This was how it always was
before we knew of time.
The poet who begot us all
made it to be sublime.

Poetry has now evolved,
and as with many things,
there are many kinds.  . .  but I
still like it when it sings!

For the  Poetry For The Sake Of Poetry - Poetry Contest Poetry Contest
of John Lawless.
Date posted: 9/13/14


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Artillery Rain

~Perfect Rain~

I can see!
All the tribulations around
A rage against the burning wind
Nobody hears the crackling sounds in my voice
Everybody avoids feeling the smoke hidden within
A rain so deep it burns all the enamel off my skin
A rain that cut my soul in half
Two-piece that will not entwine or merge down a dragon path
I feel this eternity has no ending blaze
Trigger happy rain, extinguishing a bonfire around my rose.

I will sleep under the artillery stars tonight
With the perfection of my fiery crystal lava teardrops
Washing the ashes of my face,
Suppressing the overwhelming fear
Knowing no one will ever, "BLAME IT ON THE RAIN!" 
As long as the torch keeps loading another artillery round.

~*~
PD
4/12/12
Trashed  #3, sponsor, Broken Wings
Date Trashed November 2nd, 2015


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

September

"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad." September, drifting in with glow of moon, you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves. The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues. You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves. In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse. For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze. The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues. Though warmth may linger through your final days, old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong! For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze. September, you’re a melancholy song. Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk! Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong. October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque. September, drifting in with glow of moon, though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk. In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon. Written a long time ago. Date posted here at Soup: 8/29/11 For Joseph May's Terzanelle Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Small Bouquet Of My Word Groupings


you were an infant
i would sing a song i created for you

'there's a baby in my arms
there's a baby in the mirror
but honey 
there's not really two
the child in the mirror
is only 
an image 
of you'

in that same vein i write this

_

you can't hide inside a mirror
it wouldn't be good for your image
if you see what i mean
take a minute to reflect on that thought
frame it as you will
raise a glass to good cheers
this isn't the time to crack
or 
feel shattered 
no 
it is the exact reverse

like skipping a rock across the smooth surface of a lake
seven skips of good luck
because you are the fairest of them all

looking back at yourself 
keeping it compact
as you duplicate your own words 
impossible to read from the other side
this echo of your vision

the epitome of a prototype replicates

ditto 

who is the quintessential hero and who is the fake

go through that rabbit hole -straight to wonderland

bedazzle -radiate -glimmer -scintillate 
deflect
the glare will define you

you have not now or have ever been a duplicate
you are and will always be the one and only
-


Oct 2 2017 - love above all else love - armand

—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—

BONUS POEM

But Tell Me Where Do The Children Play 

you can't lie your way to the truth
what we teach our children 
should apply to us too
you took a wrong turn
check your moral compass
the needle is spinning faster
than a bottle in search of a kiss 
what would our mother think
if she knew what you were up to
you're changing everything she fought for
in her life children mattered
like the singing preacher asked
such a long time ago
'...where do the children play...'

you can argue climate change
but you can't deny the quality of the air your breathing
when did we start bottling water just to take a drink
the taps are bleeding led 
too late to fix the guts of generations who drank it with trust
how do you look at a storm in the eye
didn't you already prove your blind
or do you keep yours closed so no one can look in
look deep inside your heart 

'...tell me, where do the children play?…'

Oct 2 2017- armand

—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—

 BONUS POEM THE SEQUEL

Me? I Saw More.

the clown danced like a marionette 
his painted face featured a grimace
and

and a tear

me?
i saw more

i smiled
no fear here

a performer 
an amazing mime artist
a procurer of pathos

he was pulling a little red wagon
with a large orange hard ball
walking on the spot
performing 'funny'

me?
i saw more

we often have to carry more 
than we think we can handle
our shoulders grow
atlas carried the earth on his shoulder
when we think we can do no more
we do even more than we need to

i saw more
the power of one
we don't need help
we need initiative 
no brother or sister's need
is less important than our own
'give and you shall receive'

we are all more
it takes a strong child 
to raise the values of a village
i can't win unless we all win
we have tried the blame game
five thousand years later

nothing

we are being led by weak men
want bigger and bigger guns
at a time when we have enough weapons
destroy the earth hundreds of times over

money is 
has always been
evil

me?
i see more
i see you
and you 
and you

ghandi was right then
ghandi is right now

do you see

Oct 2 2017- armand

—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—

 BONUS POEM THE SEQUEL TOO

Firefly


i am going to touch you
like a firefly touches 
the dead of night
lights the obscurity 

i want to illuminate 
the pitch dark of your perspective 
inject a bright glow of hope
cleanse your thoughts of the negative

did you argue today 
felt regret
did the daily news invade your cheer
turned your 'in the pink' to something 'blue'

i am going to reignite  your sense of calm
wave a wand -make your heart smile 
warm your complexion to a glow
spread your goodwill worldwide

life i assure you isn't a rotting corpse
you have the strength 
rise above the doom and gloom
you are presently living

the alternative is an untimely exit
unnecessary 
i believe in laughter
and i believe in unconditional love

more
i believe when your back is against the wall
persistence will create a door
a passageway out of the muck and mire

no matter how thick the fog
it only takes a breeze
to clear a path
one you can ride to your destination of choice

Oct 2 2017- armand

—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—?—

BONUS POEM THE REBOOT

Colour Me Ill 

i tried to fly today
nothing deep here
this isn't that type of poem
didn't go that well
i fell flat on my fa fa fa face
(pardon my stutter
a temporary side effect of the fa fa fa fall)

i wasn't writing any poetry
at the hospital either
all joking aside 
there was a lot of blood
did you know that doctors 
have no sense of humour

i was slurring anyways
you gotta love that morphine
they were cleaning up the blood
i said thanks dr. acula 

not even a snicker
and i'm not speaking of a chocolate bar
wasn't even my joke
stole it from Mitch Hedburg

coincidentally the doctor left me in stitches

the nurse said she was taking me for an X-ray 
i didn't really hear her but she was a knockout
something ..x 
sounded go go good to me
i was running in front of the wheelchair she was pushing
i was excited

we got somewhere 
she left
you gotta love that morphine
i must of impressed them
they thought i was a model
they took pictures of me
Bi Bi Big pictures
you should of seen the size of the negatives 
i ordered ten sets 

they pushed me outside and left
pa pa par for this course

suddenly my nurse date was back
they always come back

aanndd 
she's gone 


Oct. 2 2017- armand




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2017


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Revelation in the Rain

She briskly walks in January’s rain, which drums the endless rhythm of her pain, pulling closer round her shoulder in the downpour the leather jacket he so often wore. Another day like this she can remember when he had worn the jacket, and against her he’d pressed as they stood kissing in the rainfall. The world could wash away; he was her all! No storm could stop their loving as they raced with great anticipation to his place. Before they’d even reached the bedroom door, they’d flung their rain-soaked clothes along the floor. Underneath the sheets, though cold and wet, they madly kissed. He was as passionate as winter’s storm away from which they’d run, and yet he warmed her like sweet summer’s sun! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She‘s almost home; the rain has nearly died. She thinks of all the nights she lay and cried. While thinking how the rainstorm’s cold still lingers, inside the jacket’s pockets she moves her fingers. In the lining of one pocket, her fingers meet a crumpled piece of paper - an old receipt - its date from when, without a word, he’d left their town and in the city, by a drunk had got run down. The piece of paper gives her now a revelation- A high class jewelry store had been his destination. He’d planned to ask her very soon to be his wife. and bought a ring there on that last day of his life! His parents gave his jacket to her, yet she’d always guessed the worst for why he’d left. What happened to the ring? She cannot know. But now her tears with bitter sweetness flow. For Silent One's 'Love for movie screens' Poetry Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

THE MALE MENOPAUSE - please feel free to join in the collaboration

Ted’s libido has now gone astray He refused a quick roll in the hay So what could be the cause - It’s the male menopause He’s been grumpy and snappy all day! His testosterone levels have dropped Many Viagra pills he has popped He drops one in his tea It will keep his cookie Standing up straight whenever it flopped By jingo, Ted’s put on so much weight It’s not down to the lunches he ate His once perfect tush Has now turned to mush Ted should diet before it’s too late His middle aged paunch has been spreading Can’t fit in the suit from his wedding He once was so hot Now he’s gone to pot And now I hear he wets his bedding Ted’s developing male breasts, I see So I renamed them "moobies," tee hee They stick out so far He needs a 'man bra' If measured - he’d be bigger than me! Ted’s losing all the hair on his head (It’s sprouting from his nostrils instead) With long hairs in his ear Poor Ted can hardly hear And he braids it when he goes to bed BY JAN ALLISON 8/4/18 Mister T has trouble finding his ding dong I have to laugh even though I know it's wrong He's nothing but a wimp Now that his parts are limp Bet he knows where it all started to go wrong WRITTEN BY LIN LANE Ted is anxiously awaiting his date A beautiful blond he met out of state took blue pills from his pocket to help rev up his rocket but he wonders if she would rather wait WRITTEN BY TANIA KITCHIN "I'm so sorry". Apologised Ted To his wife, as they lay in their bed It's not you that's the cause It's that male menopause "Do you fancy a cocoa instead". WRITTEN BY RICHARD D SEAL Well the doc said “you need exercise”, So it’s football today with the guys, Roger yells “on me head!” “Well I could do,” says Ted, “What’s the point though, when everything dies?” WRITTEN BY NINA PARMENTER That male menopause can be iffy, do more than just cost you your stiffy. You've no more will to jerk; it's just way to much work, but you'll write new haiku in a jiffy! WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART Ted had a problem didn't know the cause his mate told him it's the manopause advised him to see Bill to purchase a blue pill Bill said this will amuse her indoors Ted asked his wife not to sneer or mock when he told her it was such a shock he had tried a blue pill to give her a big thrill worked too well its now a stumbling block. WRITTEN BY ROY PETT She burst into the room and caught Ted lying naked, aroused on the bed thought that she was the reason that he was now 'in season' not brochures for a new garden shed WRITTEN BY VIV WIGLEY There a was guy named Ted,that was cool He would make all the young ladies drool Now he’s married and limp And he resembles a blimp The “lift” tanked and the Mrs thinks his a fool WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y The male menopause caught up with old Ted He's no longer the stallion in bed But now he takes a little pill Before he goes in for the kill Now his poor wife just lays there full of dread WRITTEN BY TOM CUNNINGHAM Ted used to be good in the sack. `Til he started smoking that crack. Now his wife`s had enough and she`s left in a huff and picked up a spare with Jack. WRITTEN BY CHARLIE KNOWLTON His wife asked, "Ted what's the cause" He replied, "tis the male menopause, I was embarrassed to mention It won't stand to attention" I'm afraid you've been clutching at straws." WRITTEN BY GARY SMITH Ted loved his "kit-and-kaboodle", Kept it clipped like a champion poodle But a glitch in his gland ... Meant the thing wouldn't stand So it hung from his gut ... like a noodle. WRITTEN BY GREGORY R BARDEN
IF YOU WANT TO JOIN IN THE FUN PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME ANY POEMS TO BE ADDED


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2018


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Trail of a Raindrop


Sudden rain brought me under your umbrella for the first time. For the first time you were so close to me with your fragrance. The umbrella was not big enough to cover both of us. A raindrop was trickling down your forehead. I was following it's trail without listening to you. Your words couldn't touch me like the raindrops falling outside. The trail of that raindrop uncovers some secrets for me, your eyes were bluer than I thought and your dimples deeper. I discovered a beauty spot below your left ear lobe. Today,I know about all your beauty spots.... But still now in a rainy day I want to walk with you under the same umbrella. Date:27th May 2012 =============000==============


Copyright © kash poet | Year Posted 2012


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Dumb Questions

I was changing a tire and the neighbor walked by
Stood and looked a while, then he said Hi
Got a flat? he asked and this made me grin
I said no, just changing the old air and putting new stuff in.

Was coughing and sneezing. My throat was on fire
Got a bad cold? My wife did inquire
No, it's not really bad. It is a good one
I love watery eyes and watching my nose run.

I was on a bus and on my newspaper I sat
The guy next to me asked "Are you reading that"
I said yes. Reading through your butt is all the new rage.
Then I stood up and turned the page.

Dentist hit a nerve and I came up out of the chair
Did that hurt? He asked as though he really did care.
I said no, there was a spiritual woman I used to date
And she was teaching me how to levitate.

I hit a pothole with my car one night
It made such a loud noise it gave my wife a fright
Didn't you see it she began to cry
Of course I did. I hit it. Didn't I.

Once I tripped on one of my little guy's toys
Fell down the stairs and my wife heard the noise
Did you miss a step? She screamed from the hall
I said "No Dear, I think I hit them all."


Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2007


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

It was Beautiful Yesterday



Bha e brèagha an-de
(It was Beautiful Yesterday)


There was a sailing vessel
With many a sail proudly lapping in the wind
A flag of the Celtic honor, in ruin an rented
As all the sailors sing
Of my love for you
From long ago
Before death became our friend
Oh would I be sailing from stormy seas to the Scottish glens
To lay some flowers at your side
Your beauty is now far under
My love ill wait for all eternity
For loves resurrection’s stormy thunder
Our bodies may be under stone
Our memories long lost in tales and fable
Let no man ever lay any such claim
Our love was not the gift of briny seaworthy fame

We be only stones, in a meadow blue
When you come upon our fate
Tiss with this verse, I state my case
The life that escaped our sadly date
Love though was true as sky
For long ago, she bid adieu
Her sadness at my drowning departure
As I her lover was told to be 
Buried deep and under sea


Both sadness and the tossing waves
Took the life out of her and me
So when you look at fading stones
Remember the love that used to be



Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Slipped On A Tear Drop

I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her arms. She never knew how much I needed her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her soul. She never knew how much I needed her. Between yesterday’s old coffee and today's bright doom I broke in half. My heart slipped away into the hell of her death and my mind created LOST memories. So many moments of despair she held, and so many times of loneliness I lived. Beneath the darkness of the moon I drowned in a river created from her pain. It engulfed me into oblivion and I shall never be the same again. Sisters need each other and I needed her. Life seems over and death seems so FINAL. teardrops in her arms- woe brings rivers of d r o w n i n g DEATH by suicide I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her misery. She never knew how much I loved her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her heart. She never knew how much I loved her. After the downpour of anguish I fell asleep. Nightmares of our final hug GOODBYE. If only I had held on longer maybe she would have felt more love from me. Maybe enough love to keep her alive. For she never realized how much her pain caused me heartache. She bled in sadness and I bleed in regret. No time to heal because healing is no more. Life seems dark and death seems so BLEAK. one final goodbye- not enough pure love from me two dead souls bleeding I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her remorse. She never knew how much I longed for her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her essence. She never knew how much I longed for her. Before she was born she was already gone. A lifetime of sorrow and feeling different. It was hard for her to be a lesbian. Too hard. RIDICULED and damaged beyond repair. No more light at the end of her tunnel and the lessening of sunshine during her days. It’s depressing to think about what she felt her final moments of life. Her goodbye letter was awful. Full of pain and too much grief for me to read. I keep it in a journal tucked gently away. One day I will pull it out and read it again. Life seems wrong and death seems so BLACK. suffered from regret- too flawed and b r o k e n to heal sister’s forever ~She s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her grave~ I Slipped On A Tear Drop N/A The Creative Collective Anthology Series Date Judged: 7/9/2017 Date Written: June 21, 2017


Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Recalling Her

It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
fuzzy-downed peaches, yellow-tangy lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candies.

Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever-flames that blaze across her page.

My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.

Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.

*

It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.

I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.

Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.

There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing...

Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.

*

It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.

My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness...

Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.

Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.

I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.

And the smudged charcoals of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours...




in memory of my grandmother

2nd place in contest 'Anything Goes', date judged 4/12/2014
date written 11/3/2013


Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2013


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

AND THEN I KISSED HIM - COLLABORATION WITH TIM SMITH

Hot date
Can’t wait

We're at
My flat

Cute eyes
Nice thighs

Admit
She’s fit

So sweet
Must eat

We dine
Sublime

First Kiss
Sheer bliss

Soft peck
On neck

Tongue's twirl
Toes curl

First base
Hearts race

Undressed
Bare breast

Blimey
She’s ‘HE’

No joy
Ladyboy

Fussy
Pussy

Night ends
As friends

Written by Jan Allison & Tim Smith
28th August 2014


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Hope

You see hope when two kids share marbles between a volatile border.


Date: 16/06/2017


Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

My Heart Beseeches An Answer In Collaboration With Robert J Lindley

(Part One- She Asks)

I awakened slowly stretching my body, then into a yawn,
My sleep filled mind remembers you left before the dawn!

Reaching beside me feeling only coolness of my sheet,
Alone now the rain outside hits the ground in rhythmic beat.
The fresh cool breeze whispers through my open window,
Catching billowing curtains into a back and forth show.

Caressing like cold dead fingers upon my naked skin,
Traveling back in time which I know I had let you in.
Our words danced in tango style, each one held a line
Glasses raised to our lips, we sipped succulent red wine.

I awakened slowly stretching my body, then into a yawn,
My sleep filled mind remembers, you left before the dawn!

Soon after we laid together, right here on my bed,
Oh why didn't I stop us then, to turn you away instead?
Now I lay here thinking, as an ache overwhelms my chest,
Gave you what I swore no more, gave you my very best.

Wishing for an answer,on this cold, wet, cloudy day.
How much more my bleeding heart will have to pay?
For allowing this intrusion into my life again I did dare,
Yet I have no answer, of how much or even if you care.

I awakened slowly stretching my body, then into a yawn,
My sleep filled mind remembers you left before the dawn!
~~ ~~ ~~
(Part Two- He Answers)

How could I, truly be deserving of such an angel as you
When fear of that impossibility hit so hard, away I flew!

My darling, fear not, my racing away has a most just cause
I woke that morn, your angelic beauty gave me pause.
For my life had for decades fallen into the deepest dark
Then my finding you and our first night together left its mark.

As I looked in the mirror and saw me lying next to you
My heart almost burst, knowing it was too good to be true.
There you were, naked and your alluring beauty sublime
I thought of my past, how if it hurt you, would be a crime!

How could I, truly be deserving of such an angel as you
When fear of that impossibility hit so hard, away I flew!

That morn, I gave my sleeping beauty a sweet kiss
Trying to grab more of what I would soon so dearly miss.
For I could not bear to bring into your sweet life my pains
Or darkness of the dreams emerging from my past stains!

For you see, long ago, for another beauty I once shot a man
I was so crazy in love and thought that was a great plan.
Then our night, soft kisses restored, your gentle touch fired me up
I found my saving paradise, complete with its full golden cup!

How could I, truly be deserving of such an angel as you
When fear of that impossibility hit so hard, away I flew!
 
Brenda Chiri and Robert J. Lindley collaboration..
Date:10/26/17



Copyright © Brenda Chiri | Year Posted 2017


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Toilet Bowl Committee

Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)

A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
---
If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low

Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger, 
straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself

Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors 
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dry grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood, 
overpower any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs

Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T


By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood) 
Date: 12-15-13

~*~


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Even The Angels Wept

The day you died you took me with you,
The way you lied shook me black and blue.

The sorrow you felt, I sure felt it too,
The tomorrow dreams won’t come true.

All the good hello's turned into dying goodbye's,
All the to’s and fro’s burned holes in my eyes.

You thought you were so sly, but I always knew,
You fought so hard to die and knew I needed you.

Depressing mornings and nights of pure hell,
Lessening of warnings and sights when you fell.

Deprivation of your soul saving wonder,
Trepidation of your whole wavering thunder.

Heavy-hearted moments with stitches on your wrists,
Broken-hearted atonement with twitches on your fists.

Unheard thoughts engraved in your soul,
The third day I tried to save you...you lost control.

Forgiveness with a burden held on my left shoulder,
Impulsiveness when you're hurting, (I couldn't hold her). 

     
     Bleeding and burning and 
                                     living and dying....
                 Needing and turning and
                                           giving and crying....


It's been five long years since I’ve rested and slept,
I try to smile but in my dreams even the angels wept.



Date Written: May 1, 2016

Your Best Rhyming Poem
John Hamilton




Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Loving Son

They always said, “Please bother us no more” when Tommy sang, and Mom would stick her head inside his room. “We need to shut your door!” And once he loudly sobbed because he tore his toy plane, but all his father said was, “I cannot be bothered any more.” Another time he fell and felt so sore, but Mother quickly wiped the spot that bled, said, “Go to sleep. I’m going to shut the door.” He learned to neither ask them questions nor expect attention, for he felt great dread of hearing their “Please bother us no more.” One day a young man thought, “What’s living for? No more tears do I have left to shed. . . I’d better not forget to shut the door.” They heard the shot and ran and saw the gore. Their loving son lay silenced on his bed. The note read, “I will bother you no more. Mom and Dad, I remembered to shut the door.” Date first posted: 7/26/12 HM in the "It shouldn't hurt to be a child" Poetry Contest *The simple abuse of neglect, probably the most prevalent of all child abuse.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Tribute to a Major Appliance

Sub-titled: What’s in YOUR Fridge?

Please allow me to introduce myself:
My name is Ms. Fridge A. Daire
I stand tall among my lesser cohorts
and MOST of them really look up to me

However, I have two problems:
First, I’m FED UP with my owner
He's always opening my door
reaching deep inside (Oooh yeah!)
helping himself to my goodies
without EVER cleaning me out
or scrubbing me from top to bottom
Doesn’t he know a woman has NEEDS?

Then there’s that stupid stove next to me
who’s constantly flirting and making passes
Says he wants to ‘warm me up’ and ‘defrost’ me
bragging that I’ve ‘got the hots’ for him
which absolutely makes my Freon boil!
Of course, I always give him the cold shoulder
by freezing him with my famous icy stare
and responding, “Simmer down Four-Eyes"
or “I don’t date shorter appliances"
But he’s always cooking up something else...

So I asked my owner to move me to another spot
He said he would if I wasn’t so heavy...HEAVY?
What kind of thing is THAT to say to a lady?
He also claims there’s no other place to plug me
PLUG me? Who does he think I am anyhow?
I found it quite crude and vulgar! ANYWAY...
I suggested an extension cord and he blew a fuse!
Geez, no wonder he’s still single...





  


Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2015


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Forty Today

Visited you today
as the sun set in the horizon…

the orange tinged carnations 
were a perfect complement 
for the skies
and for you… 
orange and blue
always remind me of you

the winds softly blew
and I just sat there
staring at the grass,
well more at your name really…

hardly believing
what I am looking at, 
that it’s been seven years

of missing you,
of just putting that reality
at the back of my mind…

But there are days,
such as today
which make me 
confront that reality—

I see your smile,
remember your laughter
celebrate your spirit
and your love

Tears, I tell you I have
the most stubborn tears
maybe because they 
make it so real for me?

I look around me
and look for that sign

Nope, not there…

I say a prayer
and speak to you
thankful for the life shared

I kiss the date that you were born

and walk away

my reflection on the car window
misty

One last look around,

and then I see it…

a cat, as we drive away…

Skies now streaked purple and pink


**My brother would have been 40 today, May 6…



Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2011


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Night Silence

Twilight evokes my tranquility and silence of the night, with my peaceful guidance between the moon and the stars, the placid eclipse in the universe is so calm and bright, I play my melodies so gently on my acoustic guitar. With my peaceful guidance between the moon and the stars, there is a symphony shining through the constellations, I play my melodies so gently on my acoustic guitar, between sundown and nightfall there is a correlation. There is a symphony shining through the constellations, I feel a tune so vibrant with echoes of a midnight chorus, between sundown and nightfall there is a correlation, I see the paragon moon reflect equanimity before us. I feel a tune so vibrant with echoes of a midnight chorus, the stillness exclaims compassion for the world to see, I see the paragon moon reflect equanimity before us, Mother Nature has created nocturnal brilliance, so free. The stillness exclaims compassion for the world to see, for some the silence of nightfall seems so hard to find, Mother Nature has created nocturnal brilliance, so free, as the halcyon dusk sets, ready for the destiny of mankind. For some the silence of nightfall seems so hard to find, the placid eclipse in the universe is so calm and bright, as the halcyon dusk sets, ready for the destiny of mankind, twilight evokes my tranquility and silence of the night. The Love Of Nature Contest Date Written: June 14, 2016


Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Let My Quill Always Write Even If Unheard

A very wise woman once said I must write just for me, let there be no other reason for e x p r e s s i n g my soul- For I’ve l o n g e d for this passion to continue for eternity, and at my worst is when my journal seems to be full. LET my pen proclaim my adoration for only my heart, let my verses s c r e a m my insight for only my eyes to see- If there are souls who would like to t e a r my words apart, then I shall sit back and let it go very calm and quietly. No other can determine MY worth as a poetess, I am who I am and happen to appreciate my benediction- Tonight I will s o f t l y lay in bed and sincerely digress on the meaning of what my QUILL releases without restriction. I may not be famous or hold a popular moment in the light, I may not be the best at every l i t t l e thing that I do- I can sure be stubborn and I’ll admit, not always right, but s e r v i n g my internal purpose I shall ALWAYS continue. My pen loves to rhyme and my parchment loves my pen, I’ve become a woman with whom has great worth- Then please tell me why I seem to get so upset when, I am condemned for what I WRITE when f e e l i n g at my worst. I am a child of God who pours sunshine upon every word I write, if there are others who don’t see the value in my words- I will no longer be losing any more p e a c e f u l sleep at night, and I will continue to write just for me, EVEN IF UNHEARD. Written By: Laura Loo Date Written: September 19, 2016


Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Her Son Nathaniel

She is searching for the son taken                  from her arms 
         simply because she was believed to be a child herself.
She was unable to stand up to her parents’ wishes -
those GOD fearing upright Christians whose pride mattered
                           more than               their daughter’s feelings.

Her son’s pink-cheeked newborn face, chubby and cute,
    haunts her waking moments.
But in dreams, she sees him               tall, athletic and so beautiful.
Beautiful like her Johnny, the boy with whom she’d conceived her son
all those years ago.
         
 Nathaniel she had named him, Nathan for short!
              Shortly thereafter, she’d accidentally but happily been given to know
    that the adoptive parents were honoring the wish of the biological mother.
              They’d kept his name Nathaniel. Though she knew not their surname,
         his name was her glittering hope. It IS her hope today,
           for this one piece of knowledge has sustained her through
                              the eighteen long years that were to follow
                                     that long sweltering summer before her child’s birth.

That summer so long ago, when she'd been made to stay at her aunt’s house
   in a little town far away from her city and out of sight of her parents’ friends.
As her belly grew larger, she would bide her time, sometimes taking walks.
Past a rusty gate that led into an old graveyard, 
                             she would seek shelter from the sun,
            along a green shady path            meandering past headstones
headstones with names of souls who once inhabited this strange little town
                            where she was spending the fifteen summer of her lifetime.

She'd never been the child her parents believed her to be; she was an old soul.
   She could have been a good mother. If only Johnny had not deserted her.
Oh, beautiful Johnny, the father of her Nathan! Surely she'll see her son soon,
                       and surely he will resemble the love of her youth.

She has returned to this little town where she’d felt her Nathan’s tiny fingers
  wrap around hers that last day she held him - as if imploring her to stay.
But obedient daughter that she was,                she gave her son        away.
Today her Nathan turns eighteen. Born August 28th, he can’t be hard to find.
How many Nathan’s with that same birth date could exist in this little town?
                      She has kept the vow she made to herself all those years ago -
                                    to not try to see her son until he became an adult.
Now she is finished visiting the town’s two schools. 
                   There is no record of a Nathan, Nate or Nathaniel born Aug. 28th.
All these years clinging to her hope. Had the adoptive parents left town?
Had her son never grown up in the little town at all?
With dismal thoughts swirling in her mind, she finds herself walking. . .
                          walking like she did in the summer of her tribulation.
Past a rusty gate is that old graveyard she remembered from before.
                Here she is again on another sweltering August day walking
                    along a green shady path            meandering past headstones.
Almost instantly, her eyes are drawn to a small mound and a stone
                                                                                      overgrown   with vines.
A strange dread has come upon her.  As if compelled by some strange force,
               she finds herself yanking the vines off the tiny headstone!

Tears well up in her eyes as she reads the birth date on the stone
             and sees the very short span of life revealed by the date of death of
                                                                                   her son Nathaniel.


Written 10/1/16 for the Overgrown With Vines Poetry Contest of Broken Wings which was judged First place along with some other first place beautiful poems, 10/8/2016


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

One Stone - Unknown

you May-
think me odd    perhaps strange 
peculiar and off the wall-
but I
like to wander cemeteries

among    rows       on rows

I love the tranquility
there is a peace    like no other
where hidden birds sing melodies
and little creatures scurry
and time    stands still 

and I like to read inscriptions
on tombstones in the dappled sun
    or rain wet or snow covered
        gravestones monolith
            flagstones flat and small
                all the RIP inscriptions

among   rows    on rows

the relic stones     I do adore
those traces
of family history
faded now and obscure
covered in moss    some toppled over
I have to get close to read
    and even then it is a mystery

on a bright sunny day
camera in hand    journal ready
      my mind at peace
I noted    one stone    inscription
reading  U N K N O W N
this of all the stones    this broke my heart

among   rows    on rows

no name     no date     no record
no flowers ever I am sure
  no memorial of any kind
     a homeless man, perhaps
        or woman, maybe
              a baby unwanted     so sad

of all     the commemorative slabs
   the huge monuments with many names
with    beautiful words engraved
  of remembrance    with dates and names    

this unknown stone has broken my heart . . . 

____________________________
November 9, 2017


Poetry/Free Verse/One Stone-Unknown
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9597-09-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.


Written for the contest, Two Word Challenge
sponsor, John Lawless


Second Place


Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2017


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Quirks


Some people frankly write about their quirks.
If I had any, I would tell you so.
Though no outlandish trait within me lurks,
some folks think I’m a nut. What do they know?

Why do they criticize when I engage
in conversations with myself. What’s wrong
with them? Also, they frequently enrage
me, looking shocked when I burst into song

while jogging through the neighborhood at night
clad in my red muu-muu and army boots.
I overhear them saying, “What a sight!”
I live around mean-spirited old coots!

My grandkids, too, think my behavior strange.
because I check the stove repeatedly
(I must be SURE it’s off!) and rearrange
my papers fifteen times. They’re irked at me
 
when I repeat myself five times a day.
I do this for THEIR benefit! They just
do not appreciate wise things I say.
One learns by repetition; it’s a MUST.

I surely hope I’ve made this crystal clear:
I have no oddball quirks; I’m truly blessed
with wholesome traits that, I feel, should endear
me to all those who criticize and jest!

FICTIONAL (well--some of it))


Date written and posted: February 6, 2018

Contest Title:  Quirks

Sponsor: Madison Demetros





Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2018


Details | Date Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Why He Fought 8 x 8

Soldier stashed a silver locket
Safe inside his jacket pocket
When the war would numb his senses
He’d break down and drop pretenses
Open up the only token
That recalled those thoughts unspoken
Images of infant, young wife
For their freedom, he’d give his life




8x8 Poetry Contest
Sponsor:  P. S. Awtry
Date:  November 10, 2018


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2018