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New Guess Poems

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

I Guess That's Enough by Krutsinger, Caren
Guess Not by Earnings, JW
Can You Guess by Bavington , Bette
I guess I love you by ndlovu, zothile
SENRYU - GUESS WHO by Talbot, Mick
Guess Who This Was Written For by Horn, James
I GUESS IT'S WINTER by Lee Sr., James Edward
Guess What's Next by Ellison, Jack
Your guess is as good as mine by Harvey, Aa
African democracy I guess by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon

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The Best Guess Poems

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No such thing as forever

We all arrive alone naked and vulnerable,
crying our eyes out, not knowing -
this is the first day of the rest of our life.
I guess the saddest thing in life is we have to grow up.

As children we live in a bubble,
gazing at lost stars - wondering which one is ours.
Not realising the impact of our childhood,
until we are adults and it is too late.

We jump in puddles, laughing at splashing sounds,
some even learn to place their coats over them.
Some swim within shark infested waters,
but only a few learn how to build bridges over them.

I have embraced the power of silence,
but some have succumb to it.
I guess it is all about the quality of it,
especially for those who struggle to listen. 

There has been many a rose that has bloomed,
but every single one crumbled into dust.
Even the one whose thorns pierced lacerations
through hearts of stone - yet the heart healed.

Many birds arrived echoing sweet symphonies,
yet there have been those that flew away in silence.
Especially the silent nightingale who sat in solitude,
whose lyrics my heart still yearns to feel.

I've seen many a ship arrive at my shore,
but each one unloaded and sailed away.
It was me who removed their anchor
and smiled as they sailed into the distance.

As tumours poison our existence  - I ponder;
will the human race survive earth's demise?
When death arrives we all leave alone empty handed,
not knowing that was the last day of our life.

I recall Freddie Mercury's famous lyrics... 
Who wants to live forever....   Anyway.

Silent One
Simple Musings
19 June 2018


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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POOR PETER PUMPKIN

Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.

The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.

Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!

I think it’s time for you to finally go and face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!

“My,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”

Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.

They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.

The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”

Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.

We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat."

Peter trembled with a chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”

He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As  he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!

“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you guys help me!”

Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.

For he ran across a man named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!

10~12~14
Contest: Halloween Co-Writes
Sponsor: Diane Locksley
Written By Jan Allison & Andrea Dietrich
~awarded 1st place~


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014


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The End

The End

Seeing through these cold dead eyes now,
This world looks much different.

The scars of one’s life entire,
Appear now for all to see.

What once meant everything,
Really means nothing now.

I still see and sense things mortal,
But the earthly world can’t hear my words. 

Lying on an ice-cold white slab this darkest night,
I see the pale yellow moon’s sad face in the sky.

With visions of people who’ve crossed over before,
I wonder when Charon shall finally appear?

Shall it be him who appears on this new horizon?
Or shall it be someone or something else?

The everyday mortal world moves on as before:
Regardless of one’s wealth, poverty, fame, shame, infamy.

I guess now all the ancient mysteries of the universe,
Shall become obvious and answered in kind.

I wonder what shall be said to me and the reception?
Thumbs up or thumbs down—I guess I shall find out.

The pale yellow moon now appears brighter . . . 
As if a special message cometh soon from a winged angel.

Hope this helps to answer my lingering questions . . .
As the dark void from the mortal world grows greater now.

I feel a gentle tug pulling me upward now from Earth’s grasp,
Into the majestic arms of infinity and into God’s eternal light!        

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
June 12, 2016 (Lyric)


Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016


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It is Quiet Tonight

It is quiet tonight.
The only sound is coming from
the soft murmur of the television set.
I don't know why I don't just put it on mute.
I don't want to hear what they have to say,
but I guess it is better than the sound
           of silence which is deafening. 
It hurts my ears, it hurts my heart.

Yesterday I was happy, but that was before,
before I stepped into the dark abyss.
I think I may have been pulled in 
           by the apathy of death. 
Death has such long arms.
I won't ask why, I know everyone must die.
But you left on a happy day, a day we were
making plans, and I had hope, 
       hope that we still had time,
                    time to share those plans.
You made me laugh until I cried that day,
        and then death swooped in 
                      and took it all away.
It is so quiet tonight.

© Connie Marcum Wong
8-27-16

August 10, 2016 Poem of the Day


Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016


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The Library of Trust and Hope

The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015


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Ungrateful child

I woke up that day with tears in my eyes,
after I heard about your father's demise.
Guess you've never understood,
the point of being his blood.

I remember when your mother left,
how he was totally bereft.
Ran off with the man next door,
not once did he call her a whore.
Not once did your mother call,
too busy having a ball.
Forgot about her only child,
to live a life fun and wild.

He knew he had to be strong,
so the world would do you no wrong.
Every night he held you tight,
his eyes your guiding light.
Every time you would cry,
he would kiss those tears dry.
Worked three jobs so you had the best,
not once did he fail in your request.
He suppressed all his sorrows deep inside,
he was broken but never did he subside.

Single he remained for the rest of his life,
dedicated to you, so you would not face strife.
Yet you too, decided to walk away,
tell me what led you astray?
You called him a religious bore,
when you ran out of that door.
He had your best interests at heart,
but you belittled him for not being smart.

Then you wonder why he finally broke,
all that stress gave him a deadly stroke.
Now you stand there with your unfaithful mother,
with someone who is young enough to be your brother.
Crocodile tears stream from your artificial face,
as his coffin is lowered into his final resting place.
How ironic it has started to pour with rain,
maybe it's God washing away all of his pain.

Don't come running to me for sympathy,
I have no time for those with no dignity.
All his sacrifices now you seem to realise,
but he can't hear you, it's too late to apologise.
Because of you he lived a life heartbroken,
forever you will regret those words unspoken.

P.S
If you think his inheritance will help your austerity,
he wasn't that stupid, he left it all to charity!

The Silent One
16 February 2018

Based on a true story






Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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Hot And Cold Comes The Night


LIST POETRY - A FUTURISTIC INTERPRETATION
You must know I cried yesterday and I think I broke the world so I braided some words into twine planted some sweet and sour coated seeds I grew free standing expressions and then I joined them with left over thread to present these interlocking pieces in their proper order regardless of the number they wear in an attempt to confuse and deceive. I offer this humble list for your reading enjoyment It is an honour to have you visit my page. The pleasure I assure you is all mine WORDS ON PAPER - THE LIST FIVE I loved you centuries before we were born. You lived in my dreams before I ever slept. When others wasted time picking flowers I waited for when it was time to pick you. Love calls you in the natural scent of your partner. You'd feel their touch in the vacuum of outer space. Your desire for them would melt away the ice age. I want to find a door in the brightest part of the sky I could open to erase what was, to shine a light so bright it, like a book of golden words, would write ideas so vital as to eradicate even a suggestion of our mournful past. I want to be that magician who does not bother with illusion but rather heals wounds and shatters burden. TWO We were at the fair, joviality in the air. A memory filed, I was a young child holding balloons floating round like full moons in vivid colours bright. Fixed on this joyous sight I was on Cloud Nine proud these were mine. If I had not let go of them. If I hadn't watched them as they flew higher and higher as my heart sunk lower and lower I might of never learnt what it felt like - hurt. Hope gloats, hope floats. either your way or just away. THREE sometimes the afternoon sun is.....too hot to walk barefoot........on the concrete path still even then.......I refuse to wear my hat I guess I'll never change, I'm just like that. sometimes when I jump in the lake in late summer... with all of my clothes on...I do it in the evening......as I go down...way down to the bottom...there's a gentle peace overtakes me..I want to stay down like a rock... revel in the ecstasy...not swim back up..........not ever SEVEN ours was a paper mâché love living in a cut out cardboard home with a macaroni art painted lawn and nothing real to call our own nothing solid that we could hold. we tried stacking lego bricks but you have to be able to pop your cheek to qualify as a kid - to get a license to build. the castle we assembled didn't pass the test. so much for fairy tales - hello reality check. we rolled the dice but our thimble went straight to jail and our mouse ended up trapped. can you hear that buzzing the operation failed. where are you going? your tricycle is still in the shop and I might as well tell you..............I have no eights................."go fish!" we fell through the bunny hole where i - jack fell ddddownnn nnnnnnn and broke my crown and you - jill came tumbling aaaaaaaaaaafterrrrrrrrrrrrrrr EIGHT it is a choreographed ballet our love stands strong legs at the base digging deep build roots delicate hands branched out reach high long slim fingers define twigs draw space the body of our trunk thick sweet filled music fills our human needs one sound wind pixies dance meticulously the air sunlight leaks effectively through dark spots lifts carries holds and shapes our smiles it is a choreographed ballet our love in sync our bodies their senses once immersed in I now us ONE I know the last thing I want to feel as I leave this world, it is your lips on mine. When I take my last breath I want to feel yours with its loving touch. NINE Always, no matter the roar or intensity of the storm how severe the attack even out of the norm Always, i offer my hand with sincerity aim to deal with it peacefully. Always! SIX then suddenly it hits like a swarm of locus. a deep dark manifestation that greases my mind my very existence in its unforgiving sense of doom. every bone stiffens, when I move, a sound of dead dried out forest twigs breaking against the boots of hikers echoes in the confined space of my skull. i reach for a pill slowly it dissolves under my tongue i wait and i wait and i wait ... my body is soaked in a sweat with its own cold and hot tap. i assume the position, lying on an unstable floor. the creature depression is now in full control of my faculties. this too i will survive ...that is what i do...what i do...this is what i do.......somehow i survive. FOUR there is a deafening hush... silently raging through the core of my existence...still...I am humbled by the light and the love I have witnessed in my brief appearance...........here on Earth there is a river...that walks at my side... walks with me........at the same stride... April 14 2015 Armand


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015


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Love Sleeps, Never Dies

An old man
A Grumpy bitter old man
Bitter face
Red nose
Wrinkled beady eyes
Scruffy clothes his best attire

Life has not been kind
So his bitter words bite those around
He lived alone, inside his madness
Leave me be and go to hell
His favorite expressions

The phone rang one night late
This is the Court sir, your brother’s son and family 
Have been in a terrible accident
Only your niece of four survived
When can you pick her up?

The old man was in a daze
What the hell was he being punished for now
Keeping care of a dam kid
What the bloody hell did he know about that?
"Well sir, we will be expecting you tomorrow, 9am prompt please"

Walking back to his flat, with a 4 year old girl in tow
Well the neighbors gawked to say the least
The poor little girl, tears and teddy, trying to keep up with grumpy
Once inside his flat, he looked at her with disdain
Said "Guess you be expecting some food or some such"

She nodded, as sad as she was, she was indeed hungry
He showed her the cupboard and fridge, milk and cereal in there
Help yourself, and wash the dam dishes afterwards
Don’t got no extra bed, so you sleep here on the couch
She nodded silently, thinking the world truly must have ended

Days, turned into weeks, turned into months
This little girl complained not once
All she could think of was her pain
Mummy and daddy were in heaven where ever that was
Why they left her was truly confusing

Friday was her birthday
She was sad and missing her family
Getting ready, she went to the cupboard for dinner
The old man said what the hell you doing that for?
She shivered in fear, he was always so so so mad

She apologies, sorry uncle Pete
He replied you sit your self down right there
And you be quiet you here?
Then the lights all of sudden went out
Bright tiny candles burned in the night

The old man, said, is your birthday after all
Hope you don’t mind these little cupcakes I got us here
She looked at him with new eyes
He turned, not quite smiling, no miracles just yet
They ate in silence after which, he said good night and happy birthday

The next morning even they really never talked
Other than who does what chores
Or how expensive she was to care for
She asked out of the blue
"Uncle, why do angels have wings?"

In his usual grumpy way, he replied
"So they get the hell away from us as fast as they can is why
This world is no place for happiness or angels get used to that"
She was taken back by his bitterness, still………
She replied, “but I dream on them looking over me uncle"

Well he looked at her, and somewhat softly and with unusual kindness
He answered her "that’s because you are one of them, a sweet little angel"
She ran into his arms and gave him a big hug
This was a very good thing.
For then she could not see the single tear the dropped to the floor

He actually hugged her back and with all of his heart
That day, a day for most people that was a normal day
Was for him and his little charge, a miracle
A small loving child, held that secret key
To opening an old mans heart


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015


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Worst Love Poem Ever Written

Listen to poem:
I suck at dying poems
Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems,
Hair falling out in the shower poems
 
And I told a half truth
When I told you I could write you one
In less than six months (It's been eight)
I apologize for being so late

I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful
Like those ribbons
I see all over the internet
Filled with cheesy generic rhymes
That could get me hired by Hallmark

 I just know my metaphors will start melting
And that my similes will get all soft
 I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off

I went to Google
And the typed in the word 'happy'
Three billion things came up
Not a single inference to
Breast cancer, hair loss
No redirects to mastectomies

The only thing research could teach me
Is that a good day on chemo
Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black
And has no blood in it
Or when your urine
Smells better on Wednesday
Than it did on Tuesday
Sleeping less than 12 hours
When 24 would be better

Still I refuse to finish this poem
Without something bright and hopeful
And I know I'm doing a horrible job

America has more poets
Than it does alcoholics
   And Pot smokers combined
And you chose me to be
Your Breast Cancer
Poet Laureate
Trusting me to write a poem
About the biggest battle in your life

And don't think
I didn't notice your Facebook activity
Had decreased by 88%
In the last three months

And you aren't really
Coming to any more of my poetry shows
Ever again. Are you??
But we still have January, February

And how do you write
A Breast Cancer poem
With no references to breast
(I get embarrassed)
 That would be some kind of Oxymoron
I guess

But even if you had one breast
Or no breast
or if you had less hair than I do
I promise to look only in your eyes
And never ever even notice
Or even think about it
And never for a moment
Would I feel sorry for you
Yes I suck at lying too...

But I don't suck at loving you
Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning
 With no Cancer at all
And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside
Your bedroom window...
And I would be right there with you
Holding your hand while we look down on Paris
And you can impress me with your French again

And if I ever make it
To the Pulitzer Poetry board
I might lose a thousand points
Just for this poem alone
And my hopes for the prize will be smitten
And some old person with white hair will say
That this was the worst love poem ever written


Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016


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Revelation

They always said I was "special" or useless,
full of excuses, slow to learn but my wit had a quickness,
so I decided to embrace my uniqueness,
and look at me now leaving people speechless.

They challenge me and their ego decreases,
they think I'm an easy target all blonde and simple,
but I can tie laces and pull down bridges,
leaving red faces on all those people.

I'm just a nuisance that you cannot silence,
it's just the written word it's not acts of violence,
but offensive 'cus I've mastered the art of deliverance,
I went from special needs to the rank of brilliance.

I'm an example of how evolution is impossible to prevent,
I don't have a need for revolution, I don't give up and reinvent.
I'm this generations arrival of something different,
and what that means is anything but insignificant.

It's just the basic nature of our creature,
the arrival, the stay and the retreat,
a rotation of stature and main feature,
allowing the old to take their seat.

I've realised that being different is a gift
able to move you above the competition.
It's a rare dynamic thought process that lifts
out a unique idea missed by everyone.

It's a natural advantage to protect from sabotage,
that has an exceptional outcome way above average.
I don't need to hide out of sight wearing camouflage,
I have the right tools and ambition to build my own bridge.

I write rhymes but it was never predicted,
people thought my brain was restricted,
I always allowed their insults to inflict,
listening to put downs meant my mind was tricked.

Then I stopped listening and my confidence lifted,
and found that being unique also means gifted.

Many remembered by history were not deemed ordinary,
I guess "the odd kid" grows into the extraordinary.
Creating their very own original story,
billions lived but they stay in the memory.

So, I guess, with a self belief that could be me,
and if not at least the illusion makes me happy.


29/03/18
P.O.T.D 30/03/18


Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018


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I The Mirror - With A Major Contribution By Joseph May - Dramatic Free Verse

Listen to poem:

an impression of the world
stands before me
Left is right, and right is wrong, 
and the mirror reflects a melancholy song.

i the mirror
not 
the babbling brook,
or
the rippled river
whose images tell harmless lies.

i
the mirror,
who was once held in the 
weak, shivering, hands of a life nearing its end
now lay
on broken, crushed bones, crumbs
and i 
one thousand shards
the cracks
the jaded moments of my life.

i 
an unintended semblance in the raging waters
crashing against the killing rocks of the rushing falls.

never utter the curse
"it can't get any worse"

the serpent swallows the swollen cow,
swallowed - the farmer's wife,
swallowed - her son,
swallowed - the thorny toad,
the black widow spider devours them all!


i the empty frame
the bits and bites of carpenter ants.

my world 
a perverse facade
of
what should of been
of
what 
is
of
what
was

or of
what? WHAT?
less?
i guess.

NEVER utter the curse
"it can't get any worse"

whose voice 
will bring me peace,
whose rapier 
will deliver me,

who will 
burn my body whole
or
dig me a deep hole
or
throw me void of soul

into 

the waters of the screaming ocean 
who herself dies a slow painful death.

Dec 20 2015
armand 
with a major contribution by
Joseph May


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015


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SIMPLY TOO GOOD TO BE YOU

I guess we can all struggle when we sit to write But use your own words - to plagiarise isn’t right When I read a poem that’s simply too good to be true I then begin to question, was it really written by ‘you’ Googling a few lines will give me the answer You’ve been caught out – you were a chancer I just want to read poems that I’ve never read before If I find copied poems I won’t read ‘yours’ any more Why claim words from another writer, for it is a crime You’ll never find it happen in any poem of mine 7th February 2015


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015


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I'm just a man

You sat there crying with tears rolling down you face Asked me why I didn’t show you any compassion All I could say was that: ‘I’m just a man’ I should have wiped away your tears and held you tight Told you I loved you and everything will be all right Yet, I showed no emotion, because ‘I’m just a man’ All the answers to your questions, I couldn’t find I was impatient, because ‘I’m just a man’ All those times you would scream and shout went unnoticed I thought you would calm down after the silence I never meant to hurt you, but ‘I’m just a man’ I can still remember the day you said goodbye I was so confident you would come running back I wish I wasn’t so arrogant, but ‘I’m just a man’ I saw you walking the other day with another guy I can’t help but be jealous, because ‘I’m just a man’ I saw you smile and you seemed so happy Finally, you met someone who understood you Who will show you compassion and hold you tight You deserve a real man, not someone still a boy But how could I understand, when I don’t understand myself I was an unloved child who lost his childhood Nobody taught me how to become a man Nobody told me the difference between right and wrong Nobody taught me how to love and care for another School didn’t teach me anything about life Now here I am again all alone, dealing with the ghost of the past Even though you don’t think so, I did love you deeply Guess I didn’t say it enough, because ‘I’m just a boy I hope you have forgiven me for the times I hurt you Because ‘I’m not a man’, ‘I’m just a boy’ The Silent One Simple Musing Originally posted 9 September 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017


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No Words

Words I’ve never spoken
are those I’ll never write,
like words that might recall
the glow I felt one night. . . 
One choice lifetime’s fragment
I took for paradise. . . 
and for which memory
alone cannot suffice.

One summer’s whispered end. . .
your feel, your touch, your scent,
your lashes on my cheek,
the pure enrapturement. . .
your hands and hair like silk,
your pause to gaze on me
seem now more illusion
than past reality.

No words can bring to life
the fleeting ghost of you.
You haunt my empty hours;
there’s nothing I can do,
for if you think of me,
I guess I’ll never know.
And how you made me thrill
no words can ever show.




Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010


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Politics and Poetry - is hate really the answer


Politics and Poetry – is hate really the answer

Why write a poem of hate about Trump
He’s been there just over a week
Though Hilary Clinton the people did dump
It still matters not what they seek

He cussed and he lied and they think that he cheated
While she was an angel for sure
Still not accepting that she was defeated
With her server on her basement floor

They say that this guy he don’t act Presidential
He talks like some dude in the hood
Just like a neighbor, a friend, residential
That proves then that he is no good

He lunges at beautiful women parading
This guy never can get his fill
Though they never minded the task of evading
Monica’s blue dress and Bill

I guess it just feels better when they are shouting
This terrible feeling they tote
To me it just seems like a big bunch of pouting
Perhaps some forgot how to vote

Now we see protesters clog up the city
Vulgar the words they do lob
If you ask me I would say it’s a pity
Why don’t these folks have a job

I’m guessing this problem, Trumps’ also to blame
No work must be fueling their fears
But wait now, I don’t think that he is the same
Who sat in that chair for eight years

They scream for the people his order is banning
This policy that they abhor 
Though back when the Donald was happily tanning
Barrack did the same thing and more

He called it a pause, whispered, it’s temporary
Kept them from reaching our coast
In secretive silence this news he did carry
Always a wonderful host

But I don’t recall hearing people complaining
No “you are a racist” was heard
No hate escaped from some loud voices straining
Not even one single F-word

Now Schumer is weeping, his fake tears are falling
Crying, “This man is so mean”
Though not long ago old Chuck he was calling
For banning and vetting extreme

Both sides of his mouth to me it is sounding
Claiming that he’ll never quit
I’ve got a huge headache, my head it is pounding
Can anyone say hypocrite

But Donald, that creep, he made fun of a cripple
Waving his arms in the air
While I don’t remember it causing a ripple
When Obama, the same he did share

The laughter on Kimmel was on the floor rolling
The POTUS excuse I am sure
When the Special Olympics were said of his bowling
Their handicap tied to his score 

But now we all find it’s a whole different story
Some didn’t get what they want
Cheering the sound of a Meryl Streep fury
While all the rest of us grunt

I didn’t cast not one vote for Obama
But accepted the office he won
Then didn’t whine and go cry to my mama
And think that the country was done

I never threatened to blow up the White House
Like some has been singer might do
Or paint on a sign about raping his spouse
That’s such a sick point of view

Yes you are welcome to have your opinion
Just try to use some restraint
And don’t try to change me, I won’t be your minion
Mine is a mind you can’t taint

Live and let live, now my penned invitation
Thank you if you stopped to glance
For I still am proud of this wonderful nation
Let’s give the new guy a chance



I am not very political and hardly ever include it in my poetry. But it is really starting to bother me the amount of hate that I see everywhere now about our President. The news, the internet and now hateful poetry. I get it that some don’t like the guy but if they don’t like someone at work or at school or at the mall or wherever, is attacking that person the answer? Is posting nasty things about them on the internet or social media the answer? Is destroying private property and threatening innocent people the answer?   Is acting like a bunch of uncivilized, ignorant, uneducated, DEPLORABLE people the answer? I am sure I will lose most of my readers here because of this but fair is fair. They way I see it, the guy deserves a chance and if he messes it up, then I will say I was wrong.    


“All we are saying, is give peace a chance” – John Lennon








Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017


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Night Owl

Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!



Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013


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The Snowflake

Young love is pure - like snow when fallen new -
and always I’ll recall one wondrous day!
Through dawn, soft powder fell; clouds lingered grey
until mid-morning. Splendid sun shone through
the gloom, and sky turned periwinkle blue!
Excited, we ran laughing, out to play
in snow, which all around us brightly lay.
But never did I guess what would ensue. . .

You chased me, until breathless, we both dropped
onto a blanket of sheer white, and then
a snowflake touched my mouth. Your fingertips
began to trace its shape, until you stopped. . .
Your gaze became intense, and that is when
you bent to kiss the snowflake from my lips.
















Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010


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Finding BigFoot

For BigFoot I searched everywhere.
In all the Northwest, he’s not there!
Then I thought I might know
where a BigFoot might go . . .
so I went where the barbers cut hair!

To fit in and be like the rest
of us humans, he’d look his best.
so I went to each shop
where I thought he might stop
to have hair removed from his chest.

To Hollywood soon I was led.
I’d heard of a man with a head
like a wolf’s, full of hair,
making everyone stare.
What I found was Hugh Jackman instead!

Then a man I could not see too well
crossed my path at a fancy hotel.
When I got a good look,
that was all that it took!
It was furry but small, Steve Carell!

The last guy I saw in that land
of Hollywood stars acted grand.
That guy, very hairy
made Big Foot less scary.
He went by the name Russell Brand.

From Hasselhoff to Bradley Cooper,
some hairy guys are super duper!
I kept at my quest
when to the southwest
I moved, for I’m always a trooper.

I searched high and low, five years more,
but by then, I had grown very poor.
I had always liked shoes,
so thought I would choose
a job in a classy shoe store.

Like Carrie in “Sex in the City,”
I loved my work, and I looked pretty
with swank heels on my feet,
yet I felt incomplete
There was no Mr. Big! Such a pity!

But while working one day without care.
I looked up  Can you guess who was there?
This odd creature so tall
made Shaquille look too small.
And he hardly could hide all his hair!

No fresh smelling flower was he,
but kindly I sensed him to be.
As I stooped down to put
my hand on that Big Foot,
I knew fate had led him to me!

Written by Andrea Dietrich 









Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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Poor Peter Pumpkin

Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.

The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.

Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!

I think it’s time for you to finally go face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!

“Oh my,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”

Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.

They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.

The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”

Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.

We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat.

Peter trembled and grew chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”

He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As  he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!

“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you both help me!”

Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.

For he ran across a guy named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!


Written by Andrea Dietrich and Jan Allison, for the 
Halloween Co-Writes Poetry Contest of  Diane Locksley


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014


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Cats Cats Cats

on...                                                     Oh!                  Oh!
                                                       What?              What?
                                                       Do you think of cats?
                                                     We have too many cats.
                                                   At least, they feast on rats.
                                                 Cats. (*) Cats! Cats! (*) Cats.
                                                 What do you think of that?  I
                                                 have seen them with a mole.
                                                 Dead, pulled out of his hole. 
                                                  A delicacy I once was told.
                                                       My cats are: Meow.
                                                 Some big fat- Meow!
                                       Rat-eating cats.  Meow!
                               I never see them eat a bat.
                        I guess at night, they sleep or chat.
                  Cats do not have wings.  They cannot fly!  
               My, oh my, will they wish someday to fly?
            At early dawn it is time to prowl.  Not for owls.
        Meow!   They hunt for snakes, insects, some fowl.
      Silently, sneakily, stealthy, spying, they P-o-u-n-c-e-!
     It’s survival of the fittest, kitty cat style.  Buy a bell.
    You may see them on the ground or in a tree looking
      down. Meow!   Sometimes they will play in the sand.
      Rolling, flipping around on every inch of ground.
       Or you might find them upside down flexing,
         Anticipating their morning prowl.  Meow.
              By and by, success is found.  
                  In their kitty bowl...  Meow. 
                   Smiles!  Meow, Meow, Smiles! 
                         Copyrighted on January 27, 2010


Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010


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JAN ALLISON

I am from Great Britain – it’s not a rumour I always try to write with a sense of humour In 1996 we moved to live in the Isle of Man I can say with hand on heart that I’m Jan NOT Stan Work with youngsters who have ‘special needs’ Very rewarding occupation - but challenging indeed! I am short in stature – guess I have low ‘elf esteem’ Tall greying men I adore – I love to see them in my dream I love to eat plain chocolate – don’t need to watch my weight I’m really quite petite – my hubby thinks I’m great Met my husband Bob at Radio Lollipop Both were volunteers – he loved my low cut top! Love to listen to music and go to hear a live band Best gig ever was ‘Queen’ - the best band in the land I have a wonderful son he is my pride and joy He’s at university now – no longer my little boy Started to write poetry when my husband got cancer To get my thoughts on paper to me it was the answer My friend Jenny Brewer introduced me to poetry soup Took me a month to join but I’m so glad I joined this group Wrote thirty poems with Darren as Jadazzle United When Daz returns to good health I will be so delighted I am happy when with friends but like my solitude too Try to do my best in everything I do The past 14 months have been so challenging for me With writing I can escape and set my emotions free Now my dad has passed and mum is in a care home I am now ‘free’ and my self-confidence has grown 12th April 2015 Contest: Bio of a Poet Tammy Reams ~awarded 1st place~


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015


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Guess Who

~It's a Beautiful Day~

Under every star, 
A smile waltz-like no other
Once a simple cherry blossom girl, 
enjoying puppets and lullabies.
Sitting in front of the screen
Anxiously waiting for him to come in
through the front door, whistling a song, 
trading a suit jacket, for a zippered sweater;
made with love. ---My day just got better---

   ***It's a beautiful day***
In a charming little town square 
A servant, serving a friendly atmosphere
Welcome to the land of make-believe, 
where all my friends are real.
Here comes the speedy delivery 
Mr. McFeely and his letters.
Prancing puppet skin in love with
Beautiful Lady Aberlin.
Henrietta, a mighty and feisty pussycat
My favorite strings are the king and queen
Before the show ends, Trolley's a friend
tooting around from make-believe to reality.
   ***It's was a beautiful day***
Oh the innocence of my childhood, 
       My neighborhood is gone

By: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2016


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BERT'S WILL

"A cappuccino would be nice 
And thank you Anne dear friend. 
Since Bert has died I've felt quite lost, 
But time has helped things mend." 
 
"I guess what hurt the most dear Anne 
Was finding in Bert's will; 
To me he never left a thing; 
A truly bitter pill." 
 
"He never left you anything! 
I thought Bert more sincere, 
But is that diamond ring not new 
You're wearing sister dear?" 
 
"Well let me put it this way Anne. 
Bert's will did leave a bit; 
Five grand for a memorial stone 
And this dear Anne ... is it." 




Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005


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It Only Hurts When I Smile

I put a smile on my face when I go outside 

My friends all see the pain I try to hide in my eyes

And I try to act like I can make it on my own 

Since you've been gone I'm alone 

I suppose I'm gonna be here a while

And for the rest . . . of my life

 It only hurts when I smile.
.
I thought our love was strong

I didn't think you would leave

I think about about you all the time 

Do you still think about me?

and when I think of how I threw us away

It only hurts when I think 
.
The first time I laid eyes on you you took my breath away

I lost my breath again the day you walked away

Pain won't go and damage is done

And I just can't feel a thing

It only hurts when I breathe
.  
And I see where I went wrong

And I see what I've done

But I don't see you coming home to me

And when I look at it all that way

 It only hurts when I see
.
And I just can't live without you 

My heart is still in your hands 

And there's no "this" left to fix

And there's no "us" left to mend

And I guess I gotta live with it

So it only hurts when I live
.
I put a smile on my face when I go outside 

My friends all see the pain I try to hide in my eyes

And I try to act like I can make it on my own 

Since you've been gone I'm alone 

I suppose I'm gonna be here a while

And for the rest . . . of my life

 It only hurts when I smile.

And for the rest . . . of my life

 It only hurts when I smile.


Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2016


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A Letter to God

  

I wrote a letter to God and I had to ask why,
He allowed so much suffering and little people had to die?
One’s that had never caused trouble or done anybody harm,
Taken before they experienced life, plucked from their mothers arms.

He said answer me this, why did my son have to suffer and die?
Nailed to that cross I couldn’t even watch, all I could do was turn my head and cry!
What trouble did He cause, what harm did He do?
And all for what, He did it for you.

He said you couldn’t comprehend all the things that daily take place,
And all I ask is your trust till we meet face to face.
He said all things have a reason and someday you will know,
But you must trust in my word so your faith will blossom and grow.

I said Lord please forgive me if I sounded out of line,
It seems like all we ever do is complain, ask for mercy, or whine.
I know that you are busy so I guess I will close,
Thank You for listening and my love I enclose.



Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2009