Its Poems | Examples

Distance '

Its never been an object..So why?
reiterate that as a reality.? While never acting
On the opening.' Of interaction with the
Enormity of possibilitys, summarily.'

Staking Its Claim

A fetching title
can save a poem
Like a fiery maestro
can free a song

Its marching orders
endorse each line
And beat a cadence
that words define

To set the page
and clear the way
It stakes a claim
to all you say

While some may tout
“It’s Just A Name”
The Sage reminds us
— its crown reclaims

(Dreamsleep: September, 2026)

Summer; Its Expansive Vision

Heaven is real. And what for it
Hearts, harmonize, do
Believe, we can. Oh! Such days, can.
Warmed, this pleasant, through.

Whose sky, back-rolled, of blues, deeper
Whilst this, sunned, lost in.
Having disclosed,of hope, wish, dream
That, infinite, spread
Fulfillingly near, wing-sped
As divine blessing.

A Frog; Its Lone Voice Of Longing

A deep gloom
Is your room.
Yet there's none plusher curtained.
Willow-hung.

Heart of sighs
Touched now cries.
Old ripples, therein waking.
Through what's sung.

WHEN ITS ALL GONE

I stand back and watch the river
It's flowing so fast
It's been like this day and night
With no end in sight
I already lost my home
And know I have so many doubts
I lost my dog
And right now my mind is in a fog
I lost my only transportation
Now I see my car going down the river to a new location
I lost my beautiful wife
My future is not so bright
I lost so much all at once
And I know to get back on my feet it will take months
I don't care anymore my life was very good
I thought  my house would have withstood it all
I have nothing left
I'm so stress
The only thing left is my gun
 And I'm not going to run
My life is completely done

Close to this sleeping root, in its flesh of ancient earth

Close to this sleeping root, in its flesh of ancient earth,
something struggles silently to become light again, to be born anew from shadow.
And we remain, with our thoughts hanging like a rope torn from the sky,
wondering whether to overlook its gentleness, sweet and annihilating.

A tumbling of black waters follows, over the forehead of my memory,
a shaken clarity, like a lightning bolt that lies, falsifies, and forgets.
Then I barely recognize the electric grace of the men from long ago,
whom I had seen carrying their rusted shirts through the swamp that scorched them,

planting themselves in the ground with arms outstretched like a cross, a condor on each shoulder,
men who wanted to die beautifully, shattering their bones like ancient bells,
their eyes extinguished like burnt amber, silent as icons forgotten by prayer —
and I feel them smoldering within me, like a root that refuses to sleep.

And I walk out into this magical, phosphorescent rain, mystical and cold,
to untie the rope that binds me across centuries and dreams,
to roll myself back into the root from which all that I am has struggled to become again.

Its about You.

The taste too sweet
like drips of honey and meat
Your scent in the air
Your hair on my pillow
body in my bed
Your taste too sweet
like love when our eyes meet
The touch of sin 
the taunt of when
I taste You again.

The Canvas Eats Its Maker

The artist starved beneath dawn’s cold whisper,
 easel tilted, drunk with yesterday's grief.
 Paint clung to his fingers like blood,
 a palette broken, leaking joyless rainbows.
 Each breath was a war he couldn't finish,
 lungs collapsing under the weight of color.

Light cracked through the blinds,
 half mercy, half mockery,
 and the brush trembled in his grip,
 a dagger dipped in quiet despair.
 Every stroke carved pieces of him away,
 his veins screaming for reprieve,
 screaming louder than the silence.

Coffee cups gathered dust on the windowsill;
 he hadn’t noticed them for weeks.
 The room smelled of sweat and turpentine,
 raw and sharp as the edge of failure.
 Each design stripped him bare,
 flesh scraped thin by his own will.

He fought sleep like a boxer with no gloves,
 shadows moving faster than his hands.
 “Keep creating, keep bleeding,” hissed the echoes,
 as if ghosts held the brushes too.
 The canvas stared back, white as a corpse,
 waiting for its pound of flesh.

He had died seventeen thousand times,
 not once with enough left to bury.

Childhood Makes its Final Descent - CM

“All grown-ups were once children... but only few of them remember it.” ~   Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Childhood's magic once cast spells of wonder. 
Wildwood berries turned to pirate's plunder. 
That bright hummingbird, extraordinary,
in flight, became a wish-bestowing fairy. 

Then, imagination made a carpet fly.
Men were heroes, never falling from the sky.
I miss that genie spell that lasts but twenty years. 
I kiss childhood goodbye as it disappears.

Where Earth Keeps Its Prayers

dusk gathers breath along the trees~
a quiet calm that moves with wind-borne mysteries;
soft mercy drifting through leaves and breeze,
truth rising in the depth of being.

Vejon health ,

Https://vejonhealth.com has a
New report out in conjunction
With I C A N the informed consent
Action network..Dr Phillip Macmillan
Is attempting to mitigate any damages
To health that he can)
Also to gain transparency for actions taken
By people in positions of trust during
The time i reffer to.' 2020-24..

What Holds Me in Its Snare

sainsburys its not all white '

Not for me, i'm not going to buy it.!
I like multi-toned eggshells
Bad move guys cause
I will never..Ever boil
Poach scramble
Or fry it.)

Pouring Milk On Its Expiry Date

Still flows like silky smooth ribbon,
So I see it is not yet rotten.

Children's Poem: The Tired Star

A little star blinks in the night,
It watches over you to keep warm,
And gently whispers, "Go to
sleep."

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