Best Why Poems
I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles. I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.
Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
I Cry".
I'm named a willow tree and live in grace,
the whole of me distinctive in its shape.
My elegance well suits this lush landscape
of hillocks flung across the field I face. . .
and gentle rills meander through this place.
In spring I don a long virescent cape
comprised of many supple arms that drape
to earth and, with Eve’s shadows, interlace.
Oh, countless times Sun’s flecked my every leaf
and Sky distilled her stars as night would creep.
Young lovers, though, have fled, their time so brief.
They used to spread a cloth to eat; then sleep
beneath me in my shade. They knew no grief. . .
Not privy to their destiny, I weep.
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 Murderer
The Murdered
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime
Why of Why
Lovers Die
Mannequins Cry
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
Lovers Die
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
Mannequins Cry
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
Soldier stashed a silver locket
Safe inside his jacket pocket
When the war would numb his senses
He’d break down and drop pretenses
Open up the only token
That recalled those thoughts unspoken
Images of infant, young wife
For their freedom, he’d give his life
I write for just one reason
and it’s not for fortune or fame
I write to send a message
I write for God in Jesus’ name
I don’t seek approval
and I don’t seek any praise
I want to please only one
By the end of my days
I’ve been blocked and banned
I find the truth when I search
I’ve been teased and made fun of
I know my God without any church
I know that Jesus loves me
He has forgiveness in his heart
He is our savior and protector
and he’ll keep our world from falling apart.
i never wonder why i love you
why animals can migrate with no map
why do some moths as well as butterflies
able to choose wings up or down
yet they never vary in their species
the sun rises in the East
the full moon is gravid with romance
birds innately build nests without a blueprint
nary a lesson, born with their own song
all of these things point to a natural order
of what is and meant to be
that which is tried and true
what has worked thru the ages
what most of all endures
when i am holding you
my arms feel filled beyond measure
everything in this world is where it belongs
i love you because i belong with you
as does the evening's song to the nightingale
come morning the lark's duty to sing dawns' glory
the roosters claim upon the rising sun
a mockingbird's mating call fills the darkness
i see the natural order that surrounds my life
i never feel a reason to wonder why
you belong with me and i with you
the Earth and Moon, lip to lip
in a celestial dance, lost in each others' gaze
insouciant to a surrounding universe
it is said that if you never had a question
you will never need an answer
and when i look into your eyes
i never see a why i see every reason
of why i love you
9/18 Kismet
There's a love that's divine
and it's yours and it's mine like the sun
And at the end of the day
we should give thanks and pray
to the One, to the One
Have I told you lately that I love you
Have I told you there is no one else above you
written by Van Morrison
from the song
Have I Told You Lately That I Love You
I was born a poet not manufactured.
It started with a heart feeling fractured.
Childhood trauma led to built up suppression,
but the soul yearned for creative expression.
For years my poems hid in secret memoirs,
but a battle with cancer left behind deep scars.
Tongue remained silent, but my muse began to pour,
through reflection and introspective candour.
Some use words as weapons to cause sorrow,
but I write to leave a legacy for tomorrow.
I have no desire for applause nor for fame,
so I express my musings using a pen name.
Each verse is written through metaphorical blood,
in hope one day my life will be understood.
Why A Poem Is More Than Ink On A Page
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Why poems are more than just paper ink stained
they are truth, often from those painting, deep pained
they are treasures, from those with braver hearts
or valiant cast dreams from across star charts,
a warrior, singing of courageous deeds
or farmer, planting hope and true word seeds
a sailor, sailing through turbulent storms
a paper kids sitting in college dorms.
Why poems are gifts that the reader rewards
they are aces in life's hands of living cards
with wins that can benefit one and all
or valiant words sent to answer a call,
a lost soul, asking for some great relief
or sinner unburdening darkest grief
a lover, horribly lost in a maze
a phoenix rising from hot, fiery haze.
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Robert J. Lindley, November 9th, 2000
edited, July 13th, 2006,
March 7th, 2020
Note: We write because we must, we write because we should,
we write because to not write is a heartache, we write to unburden
our souls, we write to give to others, we write to record we existed,
we write to say we are imperfect, we are loved, we are forgiven, we are hopeful, we are dreamers, we are artists, we are painters, we are craftsmen,
we are fighters, we are lost, we are found and we care about more than just ourselves, etc..
The Willow did not always weep,
in summer sun and breeze.
But sorrow once did quickly creep,
amongst the bark and leaves.
For long ago a maiden fair,
would bask beneath the tree.
Each day as she had rested there,
the tree would always see.
The beauty of her freckled face,
the softness of her skin.
The sweetness of her simple grace,
her love it hoped to win.
Reaching out to take the chance,
in all its strength with care.
Dropping low the limb and branch,
to shade the maiden fair.
To hide her from all pain and strife,
to cradle her within.
To help her through her gentle life,
from now until the end.
But soon she cease to come and lay,
beneath the now bowed limb.
Her heart it seems had flown away,
as hope now starts to dim.
So lonely was the branching Willow,
that in sorrow it would stay.
Forever bent and bowed down low,
until this present day.
By Tom Clark, Copyright 2008
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.tomclarkarts.com
With Shakespearean romance I can't compete
Or Virginia Woolf's lovely agony
Or the wit of Dorothy Parker or Mark Twain
The genius of Emily Dickinson, splendidly plain
I know there isn't a need for my amateur offerings
I freely admit - I do it for me
I want notice; I want my spark to be seen
When I first found this site I read a whole batch
Of poets whose prose I could never match
I was eaten up with insecure jealousy
But also found it inspiring
After twenty years of inactivity
My muse awoke to creativity
I drank in new ideas, forms, advice
My skill grew stronger, found new life
I started placing in contests - what a rush!
On comments I developed quite the crush-
Both receiving, and leaving
Encouraging and believing
I discovered true kinship and camaraderie
And the privilege of reading such artistry
Of which I am truly admiring
The recipe
For this soup of poetry
Is reciprocity.
9/15/18
Why are there stars, Mommy?
What kind of stars, my child?
You know, Mommy, sticker stars, five-pointed stars and snowflakes.
Well, how about movie stars and TV stars and sports stars too, my child?
Oh, I don't know, Mommy. Besides, I asked you first: Why are there stars?
OK, you did ask first. So, I guess I'll have to answer, not that it's easy ...
Well, each star has its own unique -- style, my child. They may be as
numerous as the sands on the seashore, as God told Abraham, yet each is
a bit different from the others, ... in size, perhaps, or color or shape, or
even purpose or destiny,...
for you see, they're kind of like us in that way, aren't they?
We're all unique, all 7 billion of us earthlings. Yet each of us has a
different mission, a different purpose, a different reason for being
here. So, too, the stars...
Yet somehow there's something more to the stars, something deeper,
isn't there, my child? ~ Yes! God made those very first lights, those
original lights of the stars like our Sun, for our Sun is a star, SO dazzling,
SO incomprehensibly bright, that He had to hide that light from us
for a while, for generations and generations, even unto our very own day
~ until we would grow in stature to be able to receive ... to receive and
see... to receive and see, and welcome! … with open arms -- with all
our heart, with all our soul, and with all our might -- that special light
~ For that light, my child, that starlight, is God's very own Light,
The Light of the Creator of the Universe Himself.
And now you know why there are stars, my child.
My picture of pain,
Exists with a slight twist,
I place a sharp razor on my wrist,
Dragging it vertically and horizontally I make slits,
Feeling the urge after every heartbreak,
Feeling the urge to cut with every mistake I make,
Someone help me, but please do not refer to me as insane,
I’m not seeking attention; my body gets numb to the pain,
Expressing the pain I’ve felt emotionally by hurting myself physically.
The endorphins which releases from each cut causes me to fell high
If you ask what’s wrong I’m going to lie.
But as you can see the truth, I am not fine
I’m slowly breaking down inside,
But I cover up all this pain with a smile and pull down my long sleeves,
That cover up the all the memories that each scar leaves.
Oh, why must you of love be so afraid?
To hide behind the wall of broken dream
For once your love was callously betrayed
And now you will not bathe in passion’s stream
I wait for time with truth to curse that lie
That faithfulness illusive must remain
You think, unloved, that LOVE to you must die
And so you close your heart and nurse the pain
Lie silent, love, and let me soothe your soul
You’re battle weary, made to feel like steel
Succumb to me and give to me control
My soothing touch is able hurt to heal
Unchanging is my love, a fervent fire
Condition it knows not, nor treachery
To bless you with contentment, its desire
If you but test, you’ll know its constancy
My love for you lies dormant for a time
I wait awakening of you to me
I fear you will not feel its heat: a crime
There is so much my love was meant to be
My love for you is pillow for your head
My love for you is food for famished frame
My love for you is peace on restful bed
My love for you is lust devoid of shame
Give in to me; give in to this my plea
Let down your guard and let me taste of you
My lips have longed to kiss what eyes can see
This love that fills my heart is love that’s true
Eileen Manassian
(Written to the rhythm of "The Things that I Love", if you want to sing along!)
Eating black licorice and cake with thick frosting!
Not doing so many things too exhausting.
Trying out ice creams in flavors galore!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Viewing good dramas that make my heart flutter.
Watching those movies with popcorn and butter.
Finding myself in a huge discount store!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all!
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball!
Petting a kitty, curled up warm and cozy.
Doing my e-mails or writing a poesy.
Wave-running, sunbathing, down by a shore.
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Seeing God’s wonders - like sunsets and flowers.
Looking at paintings or reading for hours.
Dancing and laughing, and oh, so much more. . .
I’m always doing the things I adore!
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all.
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball. Yes, life is just a ball!
For the Happy Days Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Why is it that pressure feels so heavy?
When pressure isn't solid.
Why is it that tears of anger hurt more?
When anger isn't sorrow.
Why is it that life is a challenge?
Life should be a gift.
Why is it that car was there?
In that right place. At the wrong time.
Why must I live my days in memory?
Ten years still don't block that moment.
Why can't I be stronger?
Make you proud of me. I know you're watching.
Why is it that you didn't look the same?
In that bed. In the hospital.
Why did I hug that woman?
The one who hit you. She brought a plant.
Why did I say 'She'll be okay.'?
I hoped. Knew it wasn't somehow.
Why did it have to happen right after our phone call?
Two more seconds you'd still be here.
Why are we left with all these questions?
Spoken out into empty air.
Why am I still here?
There must be something I'm meant to do.
Why?