Best Quot Poems
Do not get lost in the dream of a poet,
Whose heart is an ocean deep with thoughts and feelings,
He will navigate through each of your moments, without purpose,
Enveloping in verses the color of your eyes, your smile, unknowingly losing you.
In every word of yours, he will seek a universe,
Spending sleepless nights deciphering the hidden messages in your gaze.
He will agonize over a lost kiss, an unknown goodbye,
And create fantastic worlds, filled with doubts and shadows, in his poet's realm.
Do not fall in love with a poet, with his burdened soul,
For he will submerge you in the waters of his ceaseless love,
And you will feel overwhelmed by his ever-present affection.
And when your kiss becomes a mere obligation,
And your touch just a mechanical gesture,
His heart will bleed, and suffer even more.
He will analyze every thought, every moment, in a labyrinth of words,
Wondering if they are all figments of his mind.
And when you choose to drift apart,
He will wake up in the middle of the night, rewinding time,
Searching for mistakes, questioning: "Where did I go wrong? What have I done?"
The truth is, I am a poet, with the soul of a deep dreamer,
So do not fall in love with me,
Unless you're ready to love me in every moment, forever.
Because I have felt sadness too, I know what it means to go through a day without a smile,
without words, just remaining in silence, and sometimes that is enough,
because I have known loneliness, I know how heavy silence can be,
how you can feel invisible in a crowd, like a wandering cloud in a clear sky,
because I have been left behind, I understand why people stop searching,
it's not always about pride, sometimes it's just about pain,
because I have been hurt by those I loved, I know how hard it is to trust again,
but I also know there are still gentle hands, hearts that are still sure.
Because I have cried silently in rooms where no one noticed,
now I look more closely at those who quickly say "I'm fine,"
because I have broken and moved on, I have understood that healing
is not about forgetting, but about carrying the burden with gentleness until the pain
no longer screams so loudly.
I used to think I always had to be strong, now I know that gentleness is also a strength,
and that rest does not mean giving up, some days don't demand great victories,
just a small reason to believe that tomorrow might be a little easier.
And if you are still here, after all that has been, that means something,
you are not behind, you are not broken, you are just human and doing better than you think,
like a star that shines even when no one sees it,
like a flower that blooms again after every winter, carrying in its petals the story of a life
that continues to grow and dream, even when the sky is covered with clouds.
In this vast world, it is said that women do not possess a soul,
But observing us, men with hearts that beat and dream,
They, beings of sharp intelligence, have chosen to dress
Their appearances in garments of soul, in shadows and rays.
The poet, in his quest for truth and wisdom,
Sees how some, with skill, weave their souls from sunrises and sunsets,
He stands and wonders: "Could these beings, like muses,
Have learned the art of simulating the soul, of painting their hearts with illusions and whispers?"
They dance in a world of shadows and lights,
With smiles that seem to conceal unfathomable mysteries,
And the poet, with his soul that seeks answers in the deep night, writes unknown verses,
About women who seem to have souls, but in reality might just be silent reflections.
Some, with the grace of artists, have managed to deceive,
To create souls from dreams, from emotions and feigned feelings,
Like sculptors who shape the clay, they have fashioned an apparent soul,
And the poet, with his profound gaze, tries to discern.
Is their soul just a mask, a crafted illusion?
Or do they hide within a greater truth, an unrevealed secret?
The poet writes his verses, filled with questions and desire,
About women who seem to have souls, but in reality might just be wind and distance.
He writes about this magical realm, where truth is hard to find,
Where the souls of women are like shooting stars, beautiful but ephemeral,
And in his search, the poet remains ever questioning, ever restless,
About these enigmatic beings, who seem to have souls, but in reality, might just be ephemeral shadows.
A Poem in Pidgin English
Me, ma na SARS
I sabi drop bars
My gun ready to blast
Any youth wey dey drive cars
If tattoos na your singlet
We go treat you like piglet
If you no gree cooperate
Omo, you go catch bullet.
Me ma na politician
If you check, I be magician
I dey "pight" my brand of "kwarapshen"
Play ball, I go give you admission.
My certificate na banza
My account balance na fire
If I like I go make yanga
Even next time I go still dey power.
Me ma na Naija
Our mumu don end here
Una plans go backfire
Na my generation go matter
Una vision dey our museum
And we ready to change our condition
Even if una kill small portion
We go still carry out our mission.
Lekki na the catalyst
We go use am minimize fatalities
We don learn all una tactics
And we have all the relevant statistics
Baba God na our confidence
Next election una go see our relevance
We dey ready- no more reluctance
2023 una go see proper sense.
True desert memories of my time spent in the Libyan desert. (Very early 60's)
The link re. the last senryu gives the details of how a young soldier lost his life by ignoring orders. Not a friend of mine, but we were comrades in arms.
HAIKU & SENRYU
night time desert... cold
can freeze... belies the hot days
no moon... pitch black night
~
daytime desert... hot
the sun takes no prisoners
yet nature survives
~
tortoise... chameleons
scorpions... puff adders... flies
shy desert wonders
~
two four week tours
my work... I endured
free time exploring
~
North Africa
unhospitable deserts
watermelons... cool
~
there are hidden fears
world war two ammunitions
bomb... mines... shells... killers
~
look... don't touch... report
standing orders .... don't deny
one did and died
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The link below will take you to a page where the young soldier's death is recorded. Please note this was not entered as html, I used converter entities to get it up in the html format. If I have broken the rules I apologise and will remove it but for those interested copy it now.
http://www.farmersboys.com/Roll_of_Honour_Pages/G_Evans.htm
<a href="http://www.farmersboys.com/Roll_of_Honour_Pages/G_Evans.htm">Farmers Boys</a>
*The Passionate Shepherd's Final Plea To His Love* ( my version of the conclusion, ) inspired from " The Passionate Shepherd To His Love" and " The Nymphs Reply To The Shepard" by Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh
I never spoke rivers seize to rage, nor denied disease of winter brings the flowers to fade, surely there will come nights that our home be plaqued with cold, and indeed Father Time ensures our bones will grow old...
How can I promise you truth in every shepherd's tongue, when I am the only one? However everlasting youth is quite possible, if you look past your worldly presumptions of love...
Tangible were never thy cap nor kirtle, neither beds of roses nor gown or anything embroidered in myrtle, merely metaphors my love, in attempts to swoon, for all I can truly offer you, are all my remaining suns and moons...
From behind a wall of protection you stand, armed with daggers of doubt that you throw at each man, who ever so tries to untie a layer of twine, that you've entraped yourself under meant to be there for all time...
But if from behind that wall you've built ,my love, you are not compelled to move, your heart I'm afraid, it will wither and die, and you'll never know of any love..
So come live with me and be my love, and all that has left my lips, I'll prove, together we'll build a foundation, and watch it grow under golden hues...
You've never heard laughter, like that of a child's echoing through the hills, so welcoming that from miles, birds will flock to perch upon our windowsills
What say you my dear precious? from that stubborn wall shall you be moved? Or shall I knock down each brick until my last dieing breath to ask once more to come be my love....
If I were a child again, I would learn to draw worlds from lines and curves of dreams,
To breathe life into paper with colors intertwined in a silent and pure symphony,
But as an adult, I don't even know how to draw a boundary between desires and reality,
Letting the outlines fade into the fog of days that pass relentlessly.
If I were a child again, I would learn to say "no" as an incantation of freedom,
To protect my soul with gentle yet firm refusals, like the walls of a fortress,
But now, as an adult, I struggle with my own hesitations, a battle of politeness and fear,
Unable to refuse, burying myself in promises I cannot keep.
If I were a child again, I would learn to maintain order in the chaos of play,
To carefully tend the fragile gardens of intensely lived moments,
But as an adult, I have only learned to unravel things, to leave everything in disorder,
Trying to find balance on a thin thread of desires and regrets.
If I were a child again, I would learn to let go of what no longer fits,
To let the wind take memories away like the leaves of late autumn,
But as an adult, I cling to candy wrappers, to small gifts,
Kept as relics of love, fearing to lose what once was.
If I were a child again, I would learn to truly live, to breathe joy,
To dance through days without worries, to rest under a sky full of living stars,
But as an adult, I merely survive, with nights of broken rest and shattered dreams,
Searching for meaning and peace in the tumult of a life always on the run, always uneasy.
If I were a child again, I would learn what is truly necessary, essential,
So I wouldn't have to unlearn what isn't mine, to shed the false ballast,
To grow with a light heart, untouched by useless burdens and hollow dreams,
To embrace life with the pure innocence and courage of a beginning without end.
You are a treasure, sitting in the empty theater, under lights slowly dimming,
You wait for the screen to gather dust and for rust to settle,
The plays are woven from the hands of talents, just for your curious eyes,
Shimmering dresses and perfect scenes crafted for your sincere approval.
"Madam, are you happy?" they ask after every happy ending,
But you shake your head, knowing happiness doesn't come without creation,
It's not a gift of fate but a creation of your own will,
Offered not by others, but forged by your hands from dreams and desires.
"Be silent, continue your acts and leave me to my sadness,
What do you know of change or impossible destinies?
What do you know of being trapped in this abandoned room?"
The song resounded faintly as you sank into the cramped seat,
Watching joy through thick glass while everything outside falls apart,
The world collapses in silence, and you remain a witness,
There, in the empty hall where dreams rise and fall,
You are a treasure, a soul in search of a crafted, not gifted, ending.
In this theater of life, where plays are endlessly performed,
You are the director of your own fate, seeking happiness among ruins,
In the silence between acts, where thoughts flow like a river,
You find yourself, crafting endings not happy, but true.
Wandering through dreams and silences, I choose to survive or submit,
the blow is different now, no longer what it once was, a faint echo.
Submission was just a bow, and life promised a new fight,
survival was mere awakening, without titles and hollow possessions.
The world, with its sweet pursuit, has left holes in our souls and chipped smiles,
I wander through thoughts and ponder the meaning of the word "submission,"
lowering my being, I wonder which path to take,
do not offer me shelter under a wing, I need no kings or thrones.
Be lost with me, let change come from conviction and fury,
peace carries a cost I cannot afford, it's too expensive a luxury.
I wander, and I’d rather drift aimlessly than be anchored
in the world's trash, I prefer to float through dreams and unknown winds.
I wander, an ever-seeking soul, between hidden questions and answers,
searching for a world where freedom has no chains and the heart can fly free.
I will sculpt the life of my dreams with tireless hands and a heart of flame,
regardless of the falls that lie in my path or the rejections that close doors,
even if time is sometimes against me, the wind of luck can change,
and my work, a river of unrelenting efforts, will shape destiny with patience.
Hard work is in my hands, and my steps are as constant as a river,
sometimes luck plays its role, running against my pace,
but no matter how many times I have to change the crumbling path,
in one way or another, I will reach my goal, a lighthouse in the distance.
I may not be the brightest among stars, but that doesn't mean I won't win,
what I lack in brilliance, I make up for with the fire deep in my soul,
and even if night falls late over my tired steps, I will rise,
I will run on paths that twist or break, but the dream remains, the goal is one.
I have been ignored, I have been doubted, left behind in many races,
but I never stopped showing up, even in silence or hidden places,
every "no" has strengthened me, every fall has sculpted my soul like a statue,
I don't need to be perfect, I just need to stay whole, to keep the essence alive.
Let the world move at its own pace, let the noise pass me by,
I walk with vision in my heart and storms born under my dark sky,
so laugh, doubt, walk away, I'm not here to earn your belief,
I'm here to write my own story, line by line, beyond pain and shadows.
Because one thing is certain, whether the days are harsh or clear as morning,
I will create the life of my dreams, with every step, with every unbroken breath.
In a universe of lights flickering on the edge of consciousness,
The desire to possess becomes a hypnotic melody, cold and painful,
Binding our souls to the shape of objects, captives under a mechanized sky,
Where the thirst to consume flows through veins, a "biological" need that consumes us.
The market, a labyrinth of exploitation, weaves the unseen class structure,
Advanced capitalism hides its fangs under a technological veil,
Transforming class interests into glittering commodities, their enchanting shine,
And it is not the machines that suppress dreams, but the unseen masters who decide their numbers.
It is necessary to remind that science and technology are couriers of liberation,
Only their use in a repressive society makes them tools of domination,
In a world where the sky is covered with endless desires, we find ourselves captive,
Seeking answers in the darkness, melancholic dreamers on the sea of illusion.
i'll always love you
i'll always be hear for you
i wont go anywhere no matter what happens
my love will reach you and protect you
The young woman with a whispering voice, prisoner in words as soft as silk,
Weaves her silences around her like a veil that cannot be torn,
Her demeanor is a dance on a thin wire of bittersweetness,
And she knows if a wrong word escapes, the world will become a torrent of judgment.
She is not allowed to express her frustration, nor the anger boiling in her veins,
She remains polite, even when the storms within pull her into the abyss,
What will they think, what will they say, if she dares to untie her tongue,
If her words were to sound harsh like stones thrown into their silence?
The young woman with a whispering voice cannot speak her mind, trapped in social chains,
Her words must always be gentle, always like a muted melody,
She cannot raise her voice without being labeled a "disgrace,"
And her gaze, an ocean of unfulfilled desires, remains always drowned in conventions.
My dear, see how we please people according to their desires,
When care is not "offered" but merely "gifted" like a trophy of vanity,
The young woman with a whispering voice cannot free herself,
Her rules are chains of silk that cannot be seen but weigh heavily.
The poem flows like an unseen river through the silent landscape of souls,
And in each verse of melancholy, she finds a fragment of freedom,
A hope that one day, her voice will be the song of a liberated bird,
And the chains of silk will be just a memory of a time of captivity.
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In regnis verborum, ubi somnia avolant,
Versum componam virtute purissima.
Calamo in manu, cor meum flagrat,
Narrabo fabulam, notissimam unquam.
Super tabula caelesti gratiae,
Colores amplexus amoris exprimam.
A primo mane ad crepusculi fulgorem,
Tapestry conficiam, poetae somnium.
In pratis aureis, ubi flores saltant,
Rhythmos in dulci somno congregabo.
Odor jasmini, aura mitis,
Arcana flatus inesse susurro.
Cum metaphoris vividis, caelum depingam,
Siderum symphoniam in habitu concors.
Earum tremulas melodias, coetus caelestis,
Ignem aeterni desiderii excitabunt.
E profunditatibus incognitis, animam extraham,
Arcana solvam, spiritus integrabo.
Per gaudium et dolorem, triumphum et desperationem,
Aperiens sensus, sine timore communicabo.
Humana miseria, thema aeternum,
Hae versus decorabunt, vividus rivus.
Cum misericordia et compassione, calamus meus fluat,
Revelans veritates subditas penitus.
Per fabulas antiquas et narrationes fabulosas,
Heroes dierum antiquorum excitabo.
Eorum virtus et sapientia, in aeternum sculpta,
In poeticis stanzae, in perpetuum conservata.
Ab altissimis montibus ad latissimos oceani sinus,
Perambulabo terrae spatia, longe lateque.
Verbis ut navis, maria navigabo,
Narrationes aperiens cum clavibus infinitis.
In echo risus, lacrimarum retentarum,
Historiae patheticae suum nexum invenient.
Melodiae vitae, tam lenes quam clamosae,
Cantabunt carmina sua adoranti multitudini.
Quot verbum scriptum est, universum floret,
Infinite possibilitates, extra aulas nostras.
Nam in regno carminis amplexus,
Mundus expergitur, ornatu gratiae.
Hoc ergo carmen fiat testimonium verum,
Potentiae verborum, magiae quam efficiunt.
Nam in his versibus, studio compositis,
Inest poema maximum, oceanus aeternus.