Best Imaginationwriting Poems
But I remembered posing this possible problem to my son Keith, who is in the oil
business and he said that fossil fuel oils were derived from vegetable origins not animal
fossils.. But he didn't specify if it were like radishes, beets, corn or maybe watermelons.
I do have a lot to learn about oil. And knowing you know how serious I can be
about my writings I guess I had better stop for now and go to the library for more
information. Maybe one day I will be able to give you the answers to the questions I have
posed in my writing today.
By the way our trip to Douglas was to no avail. When we got there it was during
lunch hour and no one was in the office. We went and had our lunch and fiddled around until
about two forty-five. Again our trip out there proved useless. There was a sign in the
window they would be back at four o'clock. It wasn't quite three so we just pulled over under
a tree and waited them out. Or so we though. At four ten they still had not shown up so we
returned to Casper. As I was just writing these last few lines I dawned on me it didn't say if
they meant four AM or four PM. Well next week I my be going alone to see about these
fittings. If so I won't be able to enjoy natures beauty. And ...I hope I don't have any vehicle
problems either.
In the footsteps of a murderer
I followed him till here,
The road so far was dusty
With a thunderstorm of fear.
He leaves a trail of blood behind
Revenge is on his heels,
Guilt but haunts sleepless dreams
A murderer that kills.
I see him far ahead of me
He holds an open knife,
That grows out of his fingered fist
To take a living life.
I see him pull it back to strike
Innocent blood to spill,
A poison fang, a venom claw
To tear the midnight still.
Then suddenly I blink my eyes
I see my moving hand,
It holds a dagger in the air
To strike at my demand.
And looking back I realize
That the murderer is me,
While writing and creating
Spilling blood in fantasy.
Dark poet writing murder
Though imagining’s not real,
It is my hand that spills the blood
My pen that makes the kill.
One day I heard about a great novelist
who was also a famous artist
In his novels he drew some pictures
which were printed in the mind of the readers
Also I heard he had much fame
And I too wanted to be the same.
First of thought f writing a novel
which would contain none of the vowel
Then I realized ,it was quite impossible
so again I let my thoughts dribble
I was determined to write a book
which would be either by hook or crook.
Few days later I started writing the book
in which the main character was Mr. Cook
Mr. Cook was very kind and generous
and also he was very humorous
Unfortunately he was locked in a cage
which was written in my novel's very last page.
Then I hurried to the editor's house with my novel
and i noticed that he was still in his towel
I sat there till he read my last page
and I could see that he was full of rage
He picked and threw on me a big ice cream
only then I realized it was one of my jolly dreams.
Power Of Words
Dedicated to all the fellow wattpadders.
One day when I was writing a piece of poetry,
I had forgotten my present, future and history.
I was pouring my emotions on paper,
While sipping coffee and eating pieces of wafer.
As I was writing for the first time,
So I was maintaining the rhythm and rhyme.
Suddenly, I thought why we write.
So, I asked the poem "what can you do?"
"Can you become a piece of bread for the one who is hungry?"
"Can you become a toy for the crying child?"
"Can you become smile for that weeping soul?"
"Can you become shelter for the homeless?"
"Can you erase the fear of death from humanity?"
"Can you become a staff for that blind guy?"
"Can you give justice to the victims of this biased law? "
"Do you have any answers to these question?"
I shouted "what can you do?"
After a pause the poem broke the silence and replied,
"I can bring smile on the gloomy faces."
"I can unite all religions, all castes and all races."
"For them who are sad, I can become a thing of joy."
"For all the crying children, I can be come a toy."
"I can do everything whatever you have said."
"But do you have the power, the imagination and courage to produce such words?"
Her last statement made my pen to stop.
And I am no longer a poet.