Best Font Poems
Who was it that first said..
'the eyes are the window to the soul'..
who's eyes did they envision..
and how did they know?
And what of sweet wetted fingers that comb..
to straighten this messed heart cowlick I own.
Few well paired wanderlust seek a divine pardon..
still fancy the folly of youth's far flung travels.
Two trespass meadow lost to petal lined garden,
til intimacy's last mystery unravels.
Darting dawn awakes to write upon love's torn page..
parting drawn in true type font in spite of heart's age.
A sweet little girl named Alex.
Always put words in italics.
Plain print wouldn't do.
So when she was through.
They were known as Alex Italics.
I would like to ponder wisdom
loving relationships and things
A life lived beyond good intentions
What it means to have strong wings
To know that life has a purpose
When it is lived beyond myself
I don't need to fill all my cupboards
It's better that I share the wealth
All those things I think I'm needing
are trapping me within the want
I see heartache written in graffiti
Why am I blinded by colourful font
If my more means that I'm taking
Is any of it truly gain
Others find food in dumpsters
and I am ignorant to their pain
In this world of want and plenty
I know I have more than my share
By remembering where it came from
I should know I have plenty to spare
God implores me to be giving
To have faith He won't let me down
These hands have a special purpose
If I'm willing to venture down town!
This old poet's words are dying...
Slipping into damp, craggy times.
Still reciting-still reciting in the bend of mind.
Exploding seeds from graying volcanic lungs.
.
Staring down the last of the embers.
No dry kindling left. It's beginning to rain.
Young poet smirking at my dog-eared years.
Yes-I am jealous of youth,
its pliable cotton candy mind.
I've definitely lost the edge
but like to think I've one good punch left
One clever thought
A brilliant line.
Yes, I'm burned out and envious
but my tattoos and battle scars
are still etched in bold font.
Await the zenith of the sun,
cross clay courtyard a beckoning
barefoot walked, heartstring undone,
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Soundless clarion of tears fall
toward absolution’s bright blessing,
within the domed sabil I call...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
The fountain's dry, but not my eyes
sounds of grace rebound, amazing,
Amazing Grace, sang such as I
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
We are but one beneath the sun
for all our fears and wandering
all creation our companion...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Let spirit rise on minaret
and phantom penitents come hieing
all is well, we are God’s get
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Peace is not a relationship of nations. It is a condition of mind brought about by a serenity of soul. Peace is not merely the absence of war. It is also a state of mind. Lasting peace can come only to peaceful people.
Jawaharlal Nehru (1889 - 1964)
If there was one thing that I really did want
I'd have to say it's a sarcasm font
I'd use it to torture, I'd use it to taunt
That would be one thing I really would flaunt
That would be awesome, I'd use only it
For some of these postings that's all that would fit
I'd install it myself if it came in a kit
A sarcasm font - now that'd be a hit
One Word #18
Font, Noun, The particular size, weight, and style of a typeset.
An elegant font that is written out,
But then when you try to read it,
It’s impossible.
I wonder if humans are the same way,
The most beautiful things in this world,
Can’t be read.
Humans are distinguishable by how they write;
Some people messily write in protest,
As they don’t care.
And others make a beautiful word,
But are forced to write “normally”,
So they can read.
Like an onomatopoeia that can’t be heard,
Cursive is a font that can’t be read,
By the careless.
But I wonder, even with glasses, could you read it?
“I can’t see what you’re trying to write!”
It’s for the best.
Feelings can seemingly happen in water washes,
But then your words are blurred by your tears.
It’s unreadable.
Having taken off my glasses, I can’t see,
And I can’t understand what I’ve written.
Like from the start.
But with my glasses on, I now see,
We were blind before we even started,
Completely overlapped.
Whether a font can be read or not,
We are all blind to our own desires,
Just another crime.
Tip-tap, is that the sound of pen on paper,
Or the sound of tears hitting the paper?
Blurring it.
With your glasses on, onomatopoeia and fonts blend,
He and she join emotions in a ringing word,
For it doesn’t matter.
Curious how emotional feelings can change,
Depending on the font type that you choose.
What’s written can also be swayed by the font,
This font that plays with your muse.
Times New Roman is the traditional, respectable read,
Reliable information’s read here,
Whilst Script is more elegant and creative and hip,
Like reading a poetic Shakespeare,
But, if you want to read clean, current, and stable,
Sans Serif is often the choice,
Or if you want strong, progressive, stylish and chic,
Gothic will be your print voice.
And then, if it’s a friendly short story,
A bold Cooper is what you might need,
Then ,finally, after you’ve put the right font on the page,
You’ll enhance your emotional read.
The eyes fall heavy, dropped like iron weights,
The crimson seal breaks open on the page.
A silent heart decodes its darker fates,
As lips unclose without a smile to gauge.
Out through the mouth, a stark emission flies -
A gasp of feathers leaves a bitter trace.
Black words like crows sweep through the quiet skies,
To peck the margins of a narrow space.
No whisper marks the blood the poets bleed,
Dark mulberry stained upon the sacred font.
I dip the quill to satisfy the need,
And trace the only baptism that we want.
Our drawn out paths were meant to run divine;
We cast the runes and walk the crooked line.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
Calibri and Arial are nice, but a little too common for me.
If I were to be a font,
I would pick which one with care;
Old English Text, French Script and Matura are cool, but I don’t quite have that flare.
If I were to be a font,
I think it would have to be bold;
Aharoni, Copper Black and Elephant might all be in the fold.
If I were to be a font,
It would have to be descript;
Baskerville Old Face, Broadway and Forte my personality just doesn’t fit.
If I were to be a font,
I would want to be understood;
Times New Roman, Century and Courier, I think, all would be good.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
And whatever font I happened to be,
I hope that you would choose me.
Any utility that allows you to change a font, its colour
can be used on Poetry Soups poets notes no bothor
this line is in the coloured white, alright
the line above is in white to see it you must highlight
this line I have used a script font and used the colour red
All the above lines were typed using the OpenOffice utility
This line and the line above typed using PS's editor.
Your social construct?
Smile in a different font;
I asked for nothing;
The message is still the same;
Ridiculous dynamic.
Your icy words skate across your lips colliding into my ears
Your hatred towards me is beginning to become clear
My world is diminishing, a collapsing sphere
Losing you is my greatest fear
I've become drunk on the taste of my tears
Your eyes loom with dissapointment
My timing is always wrong,
should i book in advance for an appointment
Painful like a burned body in the need of ointment
Concerned over your welfare
Because I can never really be there
Your annoyance is unfair
I will never be your answered prayer
I am a rabbit who is stuck in your snare
Broken like a wooden chair
Needing repair
Your changing ways
Remiends me of an actor in different scenes from different plays
You think the devil has led me astray
I love you more every day
I think that's more then you could truthfully say
You wish you could yank on my strings and I show me the right character I
should portray
Your eyes say it all,
I am not who you want me to be
What i am is wrong, which is just me
In your confined walls i'll never be free
Blinded with love I cannot see
Bended on broken knee
Stinging remorse from the bumble bee
Looking from the highest tree
Screaming like a banshee
Come back to me
Falling like a piece of debris
These words that beg for understanding are my final plea
Poems settle softly on the 'Peace Race,'
But a cyclone wind whirls to birth mishap.
Each soul foresees truth at a dreamer's pace,
While blue Earth is ripe with thoughts to unwrap.
Hope clasps the trees, painting the Elven hues.
Freeing our pink hearts' lasting love that swells
When wise leaders embrace the moonlit views,
Invoking kind spirits, summoning Elves.
The moonlit council leans on bargaining.
Soft persuasion drifts gently to mainstream
Garden Sprites who charm the soul, nurturing,
With the Elves' theme of peace that reigns supreme.
Kind 'letters' soar above divisive schemes
As Peace becomes more than an Elven dream!
Frequent famines, furrowed foreheads, faint
Father's font fructified, free flowing
fare for fragile famished families
finally fullness, faith
freedom from fervent fraught