Best Temporary Poems
Today might be "that day"
When playing the victim
Might have to end
You need to face the challenge
Head on
Hiding behind the frontage of 'I can't'
Uttering the words 'I am not ready'
Won’t always work
Somehow you need to try again
Somehow you need to want to move on
You need to want to go beyond yesterday's mistake
Placing yourself out there again
Will bring a different view
Will open you to other possibilities
Then the ones your mind's
Awakening is showing to you
Do not stare blindly at your situation
Temporary halt
Does not define
Ultimate destination
©050320151345
Heart singing,
I race through warm sand;
then fling myself to the breeze!
I take the leap from land to water,
riding roller coaster crests.
Soon my skin will wear
summer’s ink.
Written by Andrea Dietrich 5/17/2015 For the "Give Me a Sign" Poetry contest of nette onclaud
everything is temporary.
the future will be the past.
all them certainties,
are going to fade away,
and you’ll have nothing to show
only a morbid mind,
obsessed with death’s cold hand
and voices echoing from long ago.
everything is temporary.
what are we going to do?
but dance and laugh
drink and cry.
even your unstoppable greed
will not be a place to hide.
White Sand and Temporary Oblivion
For an aching moment
I faced dazzling
Gypsum and glass as splinters
Of sunlight pierced the air
Bouncing bright off the landscape at
Alamogordo ---fat Cottonwoods and
not a tree in sight not
Here, the sight of the unholy Trinity
test
Blessed and blast
A fitting slant rhyme for our
slanted
times
askew at
1700 Silica Avenue in a decidedly
different Manhattan where no
Dandy boulevardier would dare strut.
Castle Bravo likewise
No place to dwell as we
Did our best
to incinerate the century
Trolling for a toll in the ashes of the atoll.
No sufficient payment was made.
But all that brightness
those purblind moments flirting
With nothingness all
retreated
Like genie to bottle
Heard whispering,
"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds..."
Certain whispers linger
Portending brighter, more permanent
Non-being; so be it.
That's not your father lying there.
That's simply a temporary vessel from the Lord, a spare.
His soul is in Heaven with his lovely wife.
He's no longer in pain in this worldly life.
He's risen to Heaven to be with our Father.
His blindness and weakness no longer a bother.
He's made new again; he can see, he can run.
I promise in Heaven, he's having way more fun.
He was a blessing to many here on this earth,
and he loved his family for all he was worth.
We will laugh, we will cry remembering his many years.
We will mourn and shed all of the emotional tears.
We thank you God for his time here with us.
But, we know you now need him more than us.
We will see you again, only next time will be greater.
We'll not only see him, but also our Creator.
In the evening quiet hours silence speaks loudly of her
while outside the stars forget to twinkle and the moon hides its face
until morning sun brightens day and sparkles on dewdrops.
He recalls her laughter when spring flowers begin to bloom
each one chosen carefully as if she knew they would long outlast
her temporary stay with him upon this hallowed earth.
There are thorns on the summer roses that are quick to prick
the unwary garden wanderer as he selects the perfect
bloom for lost love now sleeping beneath a marble marker.
Winter arrives quite suddenly with icy cold despair
and wind whipping drafts against the lonely cabin once built for her
his rose of youth long dead and gone he lays his head to rest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We fall backwards
into the snowdrifts,
arms sweeping arcs like wings
in slow motion.
Cold seeps
through mittens,
but the sky
is sooooo wide.
Pressed deep,
we breathe
cloud-breath
into
cloud-light.
We rise,
leaving behind
these fragile ghosts
their imprint
remains after we stand~
temporary cathedrals,
hollows
where the world held us
just long enough
to matter.
THIS IS A SONG DONE BY CARRIE UNDERWOOD I WANTED TO SHARE WIT ALL OF YOU.
Little boy,6 years old,a little to use to being alone.
Another new mom and dad,another school,another
house that'll never be home.When people ask him
how he likes this place,he looks up and says with
a smile upon his face,
(CHORUS)
This is my temporary home,it's not where I belong,
windows and rooms that I'm passing' through.This is
just a stop,on the way to where I'm going,I'm not
afraid because I know,this is my temporary home.
Young mom,on her own,she needs a little help got
nowhere to go.She's lookin for a job lookin for a way
out,because a half way house will never be a home.
At night she whispers to her baby girl,someday we'll
find our place here in this world.
(CHORUS)
Old man,hospital bed,the room is filled with people he
loves,and he whispers don't cry for me I'll see you all
someday.He looks up and says,"I can see GOD'S face.
(CHORUS)
THIS IS OUR TEMPORARY HOME.
SONG BY CARRIE UNDERWOOD
THANK YOU FOR EVERYONE WHO TOOK TIME TO READ THIS
COLLEEN MARIE BONO
They’ve traveled from one house to another.
Some may say they’re strong enough to go on
Without a woman to call their mother.
Attachment is pointless, soon to be gone.
Another house that will never be home.
Little children crying themselves to sleep,
wondering where they will be next to roam.
All they can do is to hope and to weep.
Will they love me enough now, I wonder.
Shall I go away or shall I stay here?
At night, I can still hear the loud thunder
of his footsteps drawing so very near.
Though I may never find my one true home,
For love, I’ve found- I’m no longer alone.
Temporary InSlamity
Two a.m , still awake, gettin’ leg-shakes
Gaggin’, burnin’ on my mis-slam-stakes
Tryin’ to win some judge judy’s hot damn
Thank-you-ma’am for hosting this con-slam-test
As I sling slam sludge like hogs in a hookup ham-fest
Just a small-time soul slammin’ junkie motha
Hopin’ this funky slam betta than at least one otha!
Didn’t know when I started tho…
Twenty-five crappy lines could sentence me
To prison time for petty poetic crimes bro... or should I say brotha….
Cause this fussed-over cussed-over rhymin’ over-doses
Ain’t no Gun and Roses, hell it ain’t even close-es
More like prosetry psychosis
Induced by late-night deep hypnosis
Where am I??? maaannnn.. time to be poppin’ some more no-sleep no-dozes
Hope the Judge J. rules summarily
That I suffered temporary in-slam-ity illiterarily
Or had an unnecessary ca-slam-ity vocabularily
And no matter which way judge rolls, just so she knows
I didn’t write this slam ma’am… this slam is writing me (very eerily…)
So Judge Judy of poetic tort, appealing to your phoenetic court
Don’t abort this sham of a slam to the sordid slammer
Order it posted where it can be toasted on glam slam site Instagrammar
Cause tryin’ me, fryin’ me over crimey slammism
Means death of ode age in poetical prison…
© 2014 all rights reserved
Beauty without grace is like
Fish far displaced from water
And watching it die right there
Is like living in a world with no air
It is that flame
That burns within them
That bonfire they never want to see end
If seen beyond the eyes view
A flower's beauty is so much satisfying when picked
And its sweet fragrance captivates thirst
Within love - seeking hearts
Like that of a seductive touch
Not even the finest piece of art or photograph could capture
It's beauty under the scorching sun
From a thorn comes a rose
And from a rose comes a thorn
But when beauty soon fades
It remains a mere bit of finery to be thrown aside
“Oh people of this temporary world..
May you enjoy the abundance of its trivial offerings..
You have no clue of what I see and yearn for..
And, how could you, as the death is the end of the road..
But, for the lover, it’s the union with the beloved.. the end of waiting and suffering..
To light up the world one must first burn a little..
Burn in the love of the ONE till the temporary curtains fall..
To reveal the divine elevator to the beginning of peace and permanent grace..
And an eternal pleasure and a never fading Joy!
So, let the lover cry more and laugh only but little…
For his yearning is not for the Temporary…”
~UK
PS: Dedicated to the utmost faith and resistance of the brave people of Gaza and Palestine
#FreePalestine
Grant yourself the opportunity to feel everything
Even when it feels like no one will ever realize
How deeply you hurt
That pain does not own you
It is you at work
Don't ever pretend
You are content all the time
That will curtail your growth
We all need some breathing space
In order for us to regroup
Don't ignore the hurt
Don't ignore that part of you
That sometimes feels so empty
Work through it
Walk through it
Even pain
No matter what the cause
Does not own you
It is like everything in life
A temporary season
Who you are after the process
Will be your testimony
©100620161420
Temporary identity
Tarek Hasan
So that was good ---
Why are you dark night
Jonaka burning the light?
You were unknown unknown
who will like you own it.
So that was good ---
Why were you away
My foolish heart?
Red dawn as the sun
Uday were in my life.
That's a good....
Why the tears stream Boy?
If you do not love me
Why was that day with you
My brief introduction.
The temporary altar, Translation of Etiemble’s quintet: Le reposoir by T. Wignesan
For us
As for me, I have renounced the noxious vault
where the other life child concealed a father
whom he had sometimes betrayed his mother
who took him for someone else
the baby she sensed to be a clone.
For you, I have renounced the death mask
which earlier on I yearned leaving on this earth,
baked dust. Pride? But tomorrow you wander about
looking for me in this me, void of feeling,
i‘d rather leave nothing: all: my image in you.
For you, I have renounced the common grave
where, in me, eponymous heroes mortify themselves.
Pride of another kind – hero and zero, these rhyme! –
which provoked me to disown my verse thanks to theirs
in swarms: for you, my passing is not news in brief.
For you, I have renounced the morgue’s formalin:
life lingers on in me as a Sorgues medic
glides me in a body-bag after the great organs
of the death mass. I’d hardly serve to
disgorge your viscera live, and dead, to undo you.
For us, I’ll burn in a crematory oven:
not love’s fires which burnt their poems:
not loves gone cold which had me in thrall
-the floodtide of sperm and blood, mixed with anathemas-,
but of wood and for you. Death, where’s your victory?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014