Literature Poems | Examples of Literature Poetry

He lived in chilly, damp London at the intersection of Medieval and Modernity We know little of...

Continue reading...

Literature is dead so say talking heads Done in by new technology with an assist from eschatology Whoa, Nellie! Hold your horses here ...

Continue reading...

Our king was quite ill and almost dead. I cured him and got him out of his bed. My late father's knowledge saved the king's life. The king wants Bertram to make me his wife. This is a reward for my noble deed. Bertram thinks I'm someone he doesn't need. I love the king's ward, and I want him so, but he...

Continue reading...

Bitten by an Iscariot snake #blossommonyei I trusted you, we had our fun, Shared so much, thought we were one. But when I needed you the most, You turned away, just like a ghost. It hurt so deep, I felt alone, Lessons learned, a heart of stone. Now I see who’s...

Continue reading...

"The Devil's message" --BlossomMonyei-- I have made money a focal point Ambition is all you'll chase You'll work hard just to live soft I'll weaken your faith, trusting is of no use. Beliefs differ I had divided the world into segments of religions. The truth hidden, a wolf in sheep's clothing. My deception lots will fall for. Pleasure, Ignorance, Wealth, They'd stand in...

Continue reading...

In my comfy corner, a little space A place of my own, as soft as a lace Lays a long chair of queen’s height with a wooden base With a rocking style for a ride at a mild pace Cushions of vibrant colours, in fitting size in the pattern of a maze Attracting all in less time, fixing attention and...

Continue reading...

To be literary only if it is of matrix of all colors high writing only if it is sculpted iron and strength ...

Continue reading...

Theater Of Life We met as strangers stranded in the park, Lonely as the night - Wandering in wonder, will the train surface? 1:35am she thought to provide me warmth Open arms, I drowned beneath her chest. We sang, imitating the birds in the far away forest, The wind sang along in uniformity, blended we thought! Utopia was now newly found home,...

Continue reading...

I walked where the trees don’t speak— yet somehow, I heard everything. The wind and the trees held secret meetings, and the leaves nodded in agreement, like spectators dressed in green. The waters didn’t rush— they marched steadily down the riverbank, telling stories in ripples— of rain that once fell, and mountains they had kissed on the way. The sun appeared, golden and gentle. Snakes and lizards...

Continue reading...

I think at times I am unfair with poetry, wanting perfection I am not -- wanting poetry to clarify, purify...as though poetry were independent from its source alas, poetry is only worthy as its loss....

Continue reading...

In an old-time real-book-with-pages feel in his day, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote 'Treasure Island', in his own inimitable way, and tho' I know I may be wrong, he could not have been pulling Long John Silver's leg, as John would not have had a leg to stand on, for, with his crutch (plus parrot), and I quote, 'He had still a foot...

Continue reading...

As happiness now, Johnson thunk, Requires that a fellow be drunk, Pursuing the happy, A literate chappy, So happy became that he stunk....

Continue reading...

Truth is not for everyone -- some prefer lies...some prefer dyes, and not natural soul color. Some prefer love~ and some just mouth the word...never to be heard nor felt deeply nearer the heart. It's like that with most things, the prose and cons of openly living as opposed to falsely revealing: Some contrive a story-line, while other authors...

Continue reading...

If only wings all words would soar...too many anchors yet to endure. Knowing is maybe less important than living? Certainly we are not here, to teach God anything. We soak in our grief -- till the black robed thief returns us. Traveling more deeply in sometimes is the only way out. We travel and...

Continue reading...

I sat where the ferns stood guard— solemn sentries on wood pedestals— my back pressed against her bookcase, cradled in the soft hush of the window seat as snow rehearsed its silence just beyond the glass. Like a priestess reading spells I turned the musty pages of her herbal catalog— wild ginger, mandrake, devil’s claw, some deadly and some to heal— and I whispered their names...

Continue reading...