Lines Poems - Poems about Lines

vroom…vroom Toot-toot near miss stay tuned I say highways are not not hard takes a Bard to park this poem vroom…vroom make room I’m here to stay not ruin someone else’s poem near miss stay tuned takes a Bard to take a part in this traffic easy go when it’s light but when it’s heavy write…right…write…left crossing lines make sure they’re not double seeing reality toot-toot vroom-vroom have to cross the line so I don’t hit the accident don’t do a bang up job back at it write...

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When the lines are blurred How can we tell who we are anymore How do we know when innocence begins and when it ends Or if it ever really happened At all This was not everyone's experience But it was black children's For a black boy who had to be a man Before he could be a child...

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ever shut your eyes and glide the free fall of bodily movement with the mind just vapours exploring that other place that you have to run from and to but the trance can be captured and eyes closed, heart beating uninterruptible, yet corruptible by thought alone, you're anyplace held, in ecstasy,...

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The curse of the writer woo’s angels and devils Chasing the daylight far into the night Each phrasing an omen of hope or foreboding With lines that entangle — in lost delight (Dreamsleep: June, 2025) ...

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If written with meaning A message that's charming And raises euphony May be called poetry With rhythm in motion That stirs your emotion....

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In Between The Lines To be discreet. Some will understand me. A time to write. A time to drink. Life with no boundaries. Toil in the night. Read in between the lines. Love writing. Always thinking. Empty pages. Poetry with coffee. Document your own journey. Own ideas. No limits. Ink on paper. Many new titles...

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You stole her from me and I hate you for it, You're more fun than I am and I hate you for it, You give her more confidence than I can and I hate you for it, She'd rather spend time with you and I hate you for it, I'll be here when you're not and she'll love me...

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_______________________________________ Between these lines A poem starved of meaning lies Begging for redemption From injustice, hatred, and corruption. This poem is a mother One who stayed long after he left, the father. A young woman tracing love with blind hands A girl in a world where her rights are mistaken for demands. This poem is meaningless As spineless as a snail It makes no call...

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All ‘red lines’ erased by the sands of time Cross them off one-by-one ...

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What nonet flaunts its lovely derrière? Then sings with sweet, buttermilk sound— with shape fully self-aware, in nine lines? Ass firm, round, curvaceous with flare: and so high, bound for beach wear, and found, here? ...

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Lines in lightning carved in stone? Geoglyph, take form. Mile behind the melee zone? Keep the soldiers warm. Bright beside the boreal pole? Buildings in glass, shine. Heaven and Hell, thy control! Doom and Death, we dine! Trickle, time? Riddle or rhyme? Boxes, sheath the mime. Dynamite, done on a dime? Skidding in the slime... Forlorn and forgotten? Adventure, dare to seek? Render red run rotten? Ergo, the boneyard creak. Sleek...

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EIGHT BEAUTIFUL LINES Filled with peachy pleasure in parsley pastures I eye eagle elegantly elevate in elongated flight warriors wonder wisely about rising Sun whispering wondrous worldly wishes across abiding angelic appled air spun elves and fairies pirouette in royal ribbons blue with mystics maypoling as kittens mew a mistletoe mist of fat figs feasting true...

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Stirred. Blurred. Deferred. A haze of thoughts. In the raw. Unprocessed unpolished. Ethereal feral. Impulses really. I might drown. A sea of ambiguity. Random content in my private universe. At times, I want to scream and be heard. But all in time that can’t be rushed ~ Excerpt from Collaboration with Kirk Tierney, based on my poem 'Writing Is How I Connect'/ Painting by Suzanne Van Bebber AP: Honorable...

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Annother place, annother time Annother ode to you in rhyme Annother word, annother line Annother poem from the mine Annd so it goes, the things sublime About you, things that are so fine About you, things that come to mind About you, flow from my pen in grand design...

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The small hard stars scattered on the cracked pavement. Each point a tiny sun, a miniature challenge waiting for a flick of the wrist, a calculated bounce. We knelt, children then, intent on our small universe, the satisfying clink against the unforgiving gray. Loss was a sting, a momentary eclipse of our focused world. But the game held us, a primal geometry of hand and eye, of anticipation and release. Each...

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