Best Philosophy Poems | Poetry
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New Philosophy Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Philosophy poems are below this new poems list.
Trouble Free Philosophy
by sensele, john
by Johnston, Brian
by Enriquez, Leon
by Vitale, Mario
Declaring The Socratic Philosophy
by Crisci, Andrew
by Ligon, Juliet
by wade, fauxcroft
by Robinson Jr., Freddie
Philosophy of Education
by johnson, edward
THE PEPPERMAN AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF ADVENTURE
by Harris, Michael E.
View all new Philosophy Poems
The Best Philosophy Poems
Over the top lads, for old Blighty! Hold the colours high!
Say a little prayer for me, for this summer day we die.
My brothers from the ripened field and blackened mill, shop floor,
Your brother in a killing field to fight a rich man’s war.
In bloodied mud and shattered wood, fight legions of the brave,
Unwitting youth, you’ll do your duty until you’re in the grave.
A sergeant greets a fresh-faced boy, “welcome to the slaughter!”
Here you die from three diseases, bullet, gas or mortar.
In arms we fight together and in leaden hails we pass,
We die amongst the filth and stench that once was verdant grass.
“In the morning we will remember them” we hear the leaders call,
Those fickle words of history, will not remember us all.
Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.
The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.
The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.
We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.
Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2005
Who but God could paint the evening sky
And use a brush that is a fiery torch?
Tonight, the garish sunset makes me high
In awe, I stand and watch it from my porch
Who but God could make the insects sing?
Cicadas droning on with their night song
Still better yet, to sing with legs and wings
Tonight, their cousin crickets sing along
Who but God could hang the moon and stars?
Each star a wish, the moon a silent friend
To light our nights as we live our memoirs
To pull the tides and push them back again
And yet, I understand, some don't believe
Who but God can grant them their reprieve?
July 19 2017
Religion or Philosophy
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2017
Through the glass
Within the past
They never last
Head in my hands
As I stare overhead
At the hourglass
Falling Down Stairs
Grasping for air
Are you there?
Rhythms dancing free
Clouds in air
Notes tossed in despair
Are you there?
Wounded sparrows sing
Clinging to clouds high in sky
Knowing not at all the why
In solitude wonders fly
No one is there
In the Key of Despair
Music in the ear
Flowing freely in the salty air
Beethoven, are you there?
In the breeze, I hear the notes
My mind runs away, it floats
Pain drowned in the river
Limbs frolic on shores of hope
Keys somber in black and white
As I touch them
It conveys the fright
Choking, not me, but the air
Credenzas and waves
Washing away the realities
Of all your trivialities
Whilst I whither and fade away
Inside a musical symphony
Strangled on lusty desires
Are you there?
Notes hither and floating in the breeze
I look up
My last breath
My last hope
My last wish
A kiss from the one I never met
The moon hides under cloud
My eyes in tranquility close
The beat no longer in time
No longer there
Where ever I am going
My last thought
Are you there?
Violins and Other Things
Deformed from loves inaction
Teardrops falling on time
Rolling down passages
Where darkness does dine
Notes high, notes low
Treble as I grasp the clef
The conductor knows all that is refined
In the end
He shall consume the wine
As I, was consumed by time
The piano full of dust
Brushes dipped in paints
Now turn to dust
There is a poem over there
In the corner
By the naked painting
Of my Caribbean liver
That cried and wept
Day and night
Night and day
When willows swayed
And the raven landed
On the sill
Of the empty room
For I am no more
Are you there?
Guitar Strings and Clouds
I caress the strings of discord
Credenza’s and interludes
The senses squished like sour grapes
Emotions boxed in crates
I caress philosophy
As my garden sadistically does undress
Taunting the desires of my illusions unrest
The rose and the rain drop
Once was life
One…… tear… one tear…… drop
One gasp of fear
Fate licking……………………… deaths ear
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
The Park Bench
I wish I was a poet
With magical words
To make people see all of the absurd
Tears fly, paintings in pastel die
When we look into our mirrors
We sometimes miss
What love dumps upon all of us
We shed tears, for we forgot to shed fears
I have no legs, nor any crutches
So my voyage has ended
I only observe
When goodness is confused
When gestures are refused
When the kiss that could have been
When a poets tear seems obscene
The one who hears is often deaf
The deaf sometimes have nothing left
If I could give a kiss away
I would give it to lovers with hearts that sway
Drawing love on paper in may
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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
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
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
Night sounds come in floods
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
The girl turns to face
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
The Scarlet Letter H
Two Windows The Bridge Thomas Gordon
You could tell, He was an older man
You knew, With a nice smile.
One beside the other. He was always
They were, dressed Impeccably dressed,
In sheer outfits... Impeccably groomed.
One beige, One tan So when it happened,
Both stripped When everyone
identically. Heard it happened,
They had, they have, They were shocked.
Identical panes. His peers liked him,
Every moment His peers respected
Of every day Him. His demeanour
They looked at, Never changed.
The same identical The company was
Outdoor scene. Downsizing.
Every moment Thomas Gordon was
Of every day Deemed redundant.
They looked at, He gathered
The same identical His belongings
Indoor scene. Left immediately,
I suppose Without a word to
one could say Anyone. thirty five
At least one was, Years of his life
It takes a clear thought - a 360% forensic inspection
A battle well fought, to get to an accurate conclusion
At least one is, Ended abruptly. The
Redundant. But, Next day everyone
If you looked deeper Read about him on
These two identical The front page of the
Windows Newspaper. He was
Were, are far from, Trending on the
Redundant. Internet. so when it
When you opened Happened when
Both windows Everyone heard...
And only when He did not go
BOTH were opened Directly home.
An amazing On that fateful day
phenomenon occurred Thomas Gordon ran
A natural, soothing, Into a burning home.
Refreshing, necessary, He saved two lives
Breeze, filled the room. Without a thought
Oxygen to breathe For his own welfare.
They were, They are Apparently
Two windows. Mr. Gordon
Identical?- Yes! Was anything
But redundant?..., BUT redundant.
September 4 2015
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
All lovely words
All so misconstrued
silence envelopes our delusions
Desire, we lust the attention
at the forfeit of philosophy
Love, we crave at Kings expense
Sacrificing those whom love us true
spilling blood at humanities alter
Romance, we desire for loves embrace
knowing serpents sell snake oil remedies
Beware the soft spoken
cringe when you hear words only a token
Seeking the truth, not platitude
discover love, in those that.........
Breathe actions, not poetic verse
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018
My shadow flirts with the sun
As I caress the darkness
We are one and separate
As my shadow smiles
Anxiety suffocates me
The shadow will soon fade
I shall die
One happy, one not
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Listen to poem:
it was the sixties
we were young
we were going to change the world
spin it like a basketball on our finger
take the three point shot
win the game
we had great leaders
john, robert, martin...
the planet was singing
with the purity of a four year old
The ants go marching two by two;
The little one stops to tie his shoe,
it started raining bullets
our optimism soured
slightly at first
and the grassy knoll
and the sniper
and the magic bullet
john was shot
we sat on the edge of our seats
The ants go marching four by four;
The little one stops to shut the door,
John F. Kennedy was assassinated
The ants go marching five by five;
The little one stops to take a dive,
years had passed, five
look before you dive
the civil rights movement gathered
to fight for their God given rights
the right to be treated as humans
exactly that...humans...no more no less.
to listen to the man who had said
"Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon
which cuts without wounding and ennobles
the man who wields it. It is a sword that heals."
the man who stood on the hill speaking
"I have a dream today!"
The ants go marching seven by seven;
The little one stops to pray to heaven,
Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Martin Luther King Jr. was shot
and my God it rained
it rained salt
as a nation black and white cried
The ants go marching nine by nine;
The little one stops to check the time,
time for the rise of Bobby
Boom, boom, boom, boom!
i wish he could have ran faster than the bullets
they murdered John's brother
Robert F. Kennedy was dead
the sixties where almost finished
and i wondered
if the world would ever be the same
I marched away buried my face into the ground
To get out of my pain.
great leaders lost
words that radiated
the envy of the world
it's two thousand sixteen
and we have sunk so deep into the dirt
i know we can't Trump this disaster
have you ever heard of fools gold
we have a choice
our lives count
remember the ants
nature's banner is blowing in the wind
the little one shout
March 16 2016
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2016
Is not the poem
Is not the poet
Is the observations
Is the emotions
Is the diversity. entwined
Opposing views always sought
Is the love
Is the hate
Is the sadness
Of losing to fate
Is the laughter
Of a child’s dreams
Is the love
That is sometimes unseen
Except by the poet
Who in his lonely sadness sees
The beauty of all
That surrounds the depression in he
My heart something broke
I became cold
For childhood days gone by
A million ways
Now I write
From down below
Where darkness is the sea
That I sail in eternity
Of in the distance
I heard the notes of a symphony
So now as I sleep
A thousand deaths
For that one musical note
To wake me up
Heart and soul
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
This life we're living
Is so unforgiving
Reminding us every day
Of games that we played
Choices we made
Dreams that faded away
Paths that were crossed
Loved ones we've lost
Still promising a brighter tomorrow
When that promise is broken
Our wounds rip back open
Leaving hope to drown in deep sorrow
From our very first breath
We're stalked by death
We live our lives in fear
Knowing well it won't last
So we live loose and fast
Look up and the days have become years
We add peace, subtract strife
Find the sum of a life
Discover we've love left for giving
Love that goes wasted
On the bitterness tasted
In a life so unforgiving
by Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2018
The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.
Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.
This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.
The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.
A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.
Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.
The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.
At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.
I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.
The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.
Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009
I thought I was coloured blind
free thinking and kind
with an evolved mind
Loving and accepting
of the ones I find
Yet my blindness
Is that of privilege
I'm just a visitor
in the Global village
From my narrow thin mind
there is too much spillage
Although so many
are forced from their homes
My life seems carefree
I am deaf to the groans
Brown women wearing veils
that can't protect them from stones
I live in a white washed place
No "Freedom Marches"
for men of a different race
Yet, if I look back and trace
there are darker stories to face
We all took part in shameful things
Yes, we share in the disgrace.
Highways of tears
Rivers of shame
someone else to blame
Each child got a new name
They were forced to forget
the place from where they came
with black and red skinned men
They can't forget
this now or that then
Promises and promises
but who how and when
Or will their children
have to live it all over again
No longer colour blind
With the opening of my mind
I let colour seep in
Starting somewhere different
today I begin
Because I know
it shouldn't be
just the privileged who win!
For SKAT's premiere contest.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016
Why oh Why
A Collaboration between Seren Roberts, Tim Smith and Arthur Vaso
Poem inspired by Seren Roberts
Each poem written from a different view
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime
Why of Why
Sat, with his head in his hands
Remembering how love had once been,
Now, because of his stupidity
He was on his own, solitary again
Remembering, how love had been,
Behind the bars he now calls home
He was on his own as before and again,
Realizing, he was such a petty bitter fool
Behind the bars he now calls home
His mind, aflame with tears of regret
Realizing he was an utter fool,
To have stabbed her to death in a bloody pool
His mind aflame, with deep regret
Why... did he buy a knife that day...why?
To have stabbed her to death
Cause she had given love another try.
Oh how he wishes, its he that had died
I linger with the scent of flowers
cascading over what was once spring showers
Your red hands drip passion
long since cooled
darkness surrounding you has lifted
and only I can see the light
Why couldn't you leave
a girl clamoring to be free
dressed in a burnt orange skirt
driven to the stake with your hurt
Words were written on the wall
but all you did was erase it all
Twisted as the knife turns
in a cell your hell burns
We have no faces
We have no voices
You think we have no feelings
You see us as objects in commercial spaces
We saw the hidden knife unfold
We saw the young ones stabbed so bold
Pain is the emotion that frightens us all
Mannequins crying, tears running as we see her crawl
When the blood flowed
When the redness of hate showed
We with no faces
Shed tears at the human disgraces
Such young love so brutally robbed
By the jealous and lonely one, made us all sob
He regrets I am sure the hate that overflowed
Life's so torn it can't be sown
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Door to Nowhere
Royalty have Chateau’s
With moats and drawbridges
Artists have colors
Paints and brushes and dreams
The poor have soup
And Marie's gateau’s
The lonely have open doors
I let my baguette go hard and stale
So I could stab myself with nourishment
As my blood flows slowly
Through that door with no hope
I with no rope, fade away
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Arise and fall; the cycle of life; birth and death are human plight.
A life is lit and it burns short; when matches struck bring in discord.
Flames burn dim or bright; many deny, their own bright light.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015
I would like to talk about "nothing"
It is a most peculiar word
I have heard it used so often
The way it's used is often absurd
I'm told there's "nothing" to worry about
Yet I worry about "nothing" for days
I try to stop worrying about "nothing"
and why "nothing" inside my head ever stays
There isn't another word for "nothing"
With "nothing" only "nothing" can compare
When a woman speaks about all her clothing
How is it possible she has "nothing" to wear
When she tells me I'm "nothing" short of amazing
What in the world does that "nothing" mean
If that "nothing" is really something
If I look will that "nothing" be seen
We are told that everything comes from "nothing"
A "nothing" theory that lacks evidence
A Big Bang and a boom from a "nothing"
If an explosion is something
Is that why "nothing" makes sense
So if "nothing" in the end becomes "something
Then "nothing" is "nothing" at all
Just a word that causes confusion
"nothing" can be big or quite small
If "nothing" can separate us from God's love
Please keep "nothing" away from me
For if I settle for "nothing"
It will separate me from eternity
So you can see why "nothing" is a problem
I am "nothing" if I can't be me
"Nothing" in the end is perplexing
For "nothing" is a mystery!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
What things does one possess
at journey's end?
What bits and bobs? What trivial tripe?
Please, do tell, what is the hype?
For should I recall anything at all
of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
it would be the warmth of a companion's smile;
his hand in mine, while on this earth for a while.
The tickle of a tide brushing against tiny toes,
while the whisper in the wind, tells me all she knows.
Should I gaze at gems, pearls, rubies, emeralds--
Forsake the wisdom of the solid for the beauty of the temporal?
Should I throw caution to the wind, like seeds for the birds,
or stick to what I know - the solemnity of the written word.
Of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
be there anything at all worthy of my recall?
Happiness, Peace, Love and Joy -
these remained to be my one and only lot.
These intangible things more valuable by far
than gold and silver ingots.
At journey's end I stopped to ponder,
in the cloudless starlit night,
about the heavens and her wonder;
I was struck by sudden insight:
the lightness of the moon
suspended in air,
and the weight of a mere thought
that put it there.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2015
I write poems because it's fun
And I'm not the only one
It's an outlet for verbal expression
A hobby and not an obsession
I'm an amateur, not a pro
Thankful there's someplace to go
Where others like myself
Can write without seeking wealth
An opportunity for me to learn
Gain confidence in return
Friendly contests sharpen my skills
Winning is a personal cheap thrill
Not everyone feels the same
For people like me, that's a shame
They're always causing dissension
Complaining and seeking attention
In their high chair, they bang their spoon
Grown men crying childish tunes
The food that once filled their belly
To them is now tasteless and smelly
I say, find another place to eat
Let us amateurs compete
Nobody's making you stay
You don't play well with others, anyway
Bland food doesn't suit your palate
Over here you're wasting your talent
Why stay here and eat slop
Since your talent's so over the top
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
Upon the twinkling of silent twilight,
tranquil thoughts set adrift,
infatuated in elysian reflection.
The mind wanders,
observing and listening - roaming;
avoiding confusing crossroads
leading into chimerical phantasms.
Overwhelmed by the darkness,
fervent fingers tremble,
yearning to bleed streams of serenity.
Suppressed soul whispers,
exposing sacred secrets,
releasing the mind from its chains.
Ink flows translating the meraki;
revealing a passionate poetic soul.
Empathetic emotions drain,
yet the soul desires to venture further.
Thirsting to dance forever in euphoric eunoia.
Meraki eruptions have no fear that
each drop may exhaust the pen.
For invictus ink is a valiant virtuoso,
calmly conquering consciousness
to drift towards selcouth land.
Every muse lusts to manifest in meraki,
yet it is no miracle - it's a natural phenomena.
The Silent One
27 November 2017
Meraki: The soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work. This Greek word doesn't have an English counterpart.
Chimerical: Created by unchecked inspiration; fantastically visionary or highly improbable.
Elysian: Creative or beautiful; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.
Eunoia: Beautiful thinking. Shortest English word that contains all five vowels.
Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvellous. An Old English word and can be found in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe from 1814.
Invictus is Latin for “unconquered.
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
Swept up into piles; everywhere
Abouts; in collected heaps all
It is almost as if the drab
Streets were strewn with the
Precious wealth of King Solomon's
How it seems so far back, when, at
Springs nagging behest, those
Cautious tips, encouraged by
Warming beguilement of new winds,
To reveal those never-before-seen
But their sap, like my zest, has
Shuffling disconsolately to and fro
As those of us, that, in our
Unnoticed maudulin, have grown
Steadily more old:-
As if Hardrada's slain warriors,
Covered by their cracked shields,
Lifeless and fallen they lie.
A flock of racquous Starlings,
Scuttering downwards, noisily
On the stripped branchs of a
Diminished and abject tree;
Although a sizeable band, growing
Daily, hardly a paused murmuration
Dropped from flight...
Now I know another Autumn is
I note the resounding emptiness of
The wide avenue compares favorably
With the compressed and leaden sky;
The sudden intervention of an
Appealing thought, and it occurrs
That, if I were as swift as
Fleet-footed Leonidas then maybe
I too, this desperate day,
Could outstrip the retreating
Shadows of this disconsolate Sun?
Alas...I am aging with every
Approaching Winter, pattern
Baldness spreading across my
A body can feel a cold dampness in
This sort of air...
Then - an involuntary shiver!
Perhaps unwelcomed memories of
Many a wasted year...
Thinks I with a rueful frown;
In the minds eye a glimpse
Of the ferocious Wolf slipping
Quietly through the half-open gate -
Here he once roamed in all his
And, standing admidst the vestiges
Of a former great nations
Squandered wealth, to which
many sentimental hearts still
To wonder what the patient Saxon
Should make at the sight of such
The ruination of this his once
Untamed and wild estate?
That ancient Saxon full knew.
He knew of cruel hardship, of all
Essential things that so engaged
His pressing needs, his Thanes
Though of heady aspirations...he
Had but few.
He knew of the devastaing blight
Of sweltering drought,
He knew of the tipped rivers
But the old Saxon? ...he just
Re-doubled his efforts - and took it
Manfully on the chin!
For when the hardy Saxon undertook
To do a job it would usually happen
That he did it well.
And what of his countless, long since
Ignored, secluded and wooded dells,
His dusky, hollowed glades?
Deep inside: trapped sunlight still
Floating liken a glassed surface
Upon a pond;
Once, therein, that Saxons
All-consuming hours taken up by the
Resounding crunch of the ever eager
And were it truly ever was this
Humongous supposed repository
For Englands "Green Man"? Ditto
For the fabled Unicorn recorded
By the minstral balladeer's
Ancient Greeks did say that only
The gentle and pensive maiden
Had the power to coax such a
Timid beast: one of many wild
Wraiths, emblazoned on many a regal
Shield, that do unashamedly beguile
Throughout our legendary history!
Our mundane present now a sad
Parody of melancholic destitution;
As if a Summer laid to rest...and,
Thus, finally, we reluctantly
The dismal plink, plink, plinks
Of trickling water dripping into
The roadside drain;
If that stoic Saxon had any woes
He would have no time to lend to
Idle moments wasted dawdling
Among dead leaves.
Where now Wodan, his many other
Gods? His charioteering tales and
Warring stories not even
Half-forgotten memories that only
Befuddled minds of lunatics might
How resplendant the rusting gasworks
Appears, as, behind her looming tanks,
Sol's disintegrating orb wearily
Who would deny, at such instants,
Much dimming beauty can be found...
Even inside a crowded towns huddled
The low streetlamps, mounted like
Matt pearls, beginning, cautiously,
Predictably this awakens some
Roosting birds...some of which,
Dutifully, begin to sing.
A muddled obliqueness, inherent
On varying angles, converging
On the temporary juxtapositions
Invented by the electric bulbs
And although I have never felt much
Of a compulsion towards sentimental
Or to seek solace in the comforting
Familiarity of a mothers
Romantic recollections, to which we
All sometimes cling,
I grope like a blind man...as if
Reaching out into the foaming
Darkness intent on finding
Something essentially quintessential
That I instinctively sense is so
To be continued...
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012
A fleeting still small voice tries to warn me
A sudden overwhelming desire to run
The tell tale taste of metallic flakes
Means my nightmare has begun
Everything around takes on a ghostly pallor
A landscape of anguish and corrosion
A moment of silence before the violence
The flash of light, the brilliant explosion
The sound of the Sun fills my ears
Fear, my throat, though none escapes me
And paralyzed I clench my eyes
As my tormentor prepares to rape me
And it's endeavor is absolute
Consumption is its ultimate goal
It exists to chase me so it can erase me
Whilst feasting on my soul
And then that familiar salty smell
The sudden rush of warmth so stings
Engaging me relentlessly
In vile unspeakable things
Over and over and over again
My limbs stretched and wrought
As it's teeth tear my bones bare
It's mind defiles my thoughts
And still wounds beget wounds beget wounds
As in the mouth of madness I suffer
And with every injury he just seems to be
Rougher and rougher and rougher
Then just as suddenly as it began it ceases
And for a moment I am clearer
And then the true horror of it all
Is revealed in a darkly lit mirror
There in front of me stands my destroyer
Face flush with it's fill of my pain
And I find that it's eyes and mine
My God, they’re one in the same
Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2011