They say it is futile to chase the chimera.
That the more you seek it,
the more you feel
you are losing yourself along with it.
Do not listen to them! ...
For this very page you hold
tells you that you have found it!
It is pointless to read it;
you will not understand!
What matters is that now, you too
carry somber signals!
These signals bring you face to face with it.
It matters not whether you contend with it;
you will understand!
Written: September 17, for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
***********
I flipped the book with a steady hand,
chapters etched as runes into the sand.
The tale was tangled, the lead crowned,
beyond, silence fell, no closing to be found.
The final leaf had vanished, sly and fleet,
perhaps devoured by some voracious beet.
Or maybe scribes, with quizzacious delight,
slipped it away to prank the sleepless night.
I searched the margins, parsed each crabbed line,
for clues the author left in sly design.
A smudge, a doodle, statice pressed in place—
but no denouement, no triumphant grace.
So now I tell the tale with aplomb:
the villain married, bought a stately home.
The hero tripped, repined, then took a nap—
the dragon joined a choir, and learned to rap.
And if you ask what moral can be spun,
I’ll say: beware a most distant sun.
For endings hide, as frenemy or ghost—
the last page missing always laughs the most.
THE STAGE IS MY PAGE
I don’t write poems—
I live them/
Jazz is my heartbeat/
poetry my voice/
truth my purpose/
I don’t sing the words/
I paint them/
in sound, soul/
and hip-spoken stories/
Man, that’s the vibe/
I speak the music/
all day, every day/
words, beats, people, power/
Real voices change the world.
Dreams don’t work/
unless you do/
Speak it/
Live it/
Love it/
Every verse is a movement/
a music poster for the mind/
The mic is my pen/
The stage is my page/
I was in the mood
for a real page-turner.
My bibliophile friend
handed me a book of white-knuckle suspense.
"Read this! It's quite a doozy!," she promised.
And she wasn't lying....
I blew off many a phone call,
filed away my to-do lists,
prioritized book above all hobbies,
yadda yadda.....
I was surprised how fast I got to
the final chapter.
Alas, I didn't get to close the book.
Not yet anyway...
A surprise I never anticipated, you see.
Ugh, never have I
groaned so loudly in my life!
Jane knew I'd come to her
confused, demanding an explanation....
"Hey, is this your idea of a practical joke?", I asked.
She guffawed her "Yes,"
handing me
the last page she tore out.
Silly gal, best believe I'll get her back.....
The feeling of impulsive sensitivity,
the beginning,
the search for the meaning
of despondent emotion,
the end.
That was my realization
when I was at the threshold
of the fading twilight zone
and my marooned mind sank in despair,
contained.
When the day’s last wind began to blow,
I saw my shadow lengthen
in the corridor of the past.
I tried to saunter on the fervent footprints
buried desolate under the delusive dust,
while the last mile waited to be walked.
My life’s story written in a tome
of unending miserable episodes
described in distressing chapters
that continued to drag on.
I decided to not turn the pages any more,
wished the last poignant page was missing,
perhaps never written,
or replaced by a new page
unfolding the chronicle of dreams.
Started reading an interesting book on ‘ Life’
Very vivid introspection dealing with all aspects,
as Challenges , Struggles , Happiness, Sorrows.
Success to access, Failure to endure,
Enthusiasm and despondency …
excavating mind - brain - soul.
At the end reached last chapter titled ‘ After Life ‘
That’s all writing ‘To be continued. …..
But Nothing Else.
Eternal Question was unsolved,…..
I am reading about a poor chap,
by a killer led into a trap.
I’ve been biting my nails
at the ending’s details,
but the last page is missing. Oh, crap!
All was well with us till we went to church,
where we were told that we had sinned,
that we must atone so as to be saved,
a verdict that left us chagrined.
Temples and mosques too offered no solace,
each but a control mechanism,
within which parables are constructed,
designed to trap us in that ism.
Somewhere in all scriptures the plot is lost,
being God realisation,
instead of which we are to join a cult,
demanding our soul’s prostration.
Noticing all paths lead to a dead end,
we chose to befriend the vast void,
dissolving our mind in time stretched silence,
reclaiming heart’s light unalloyed.
The truth is within, not somewhere out there,
immediate and intimate,
to which end, simply melding head with heart,
we birth bliss that does not abate.
What religions conceal, we now reveal,
as our origins we retrace,
when heart is pure and eye becomes single,
we see God clearly face to face.
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
Life is like a book,
Each page is a memory.
Just take a look
At what happens every day.
Until you reach the last,
Are you done reading history?
And now you know the cast,
You realize the book is not finished completely.
The last page was missing,
Wherever you search, you’ll never find it.
Reading from the beginning, but there is no ending?
No one knows; only God decides it.
The last page is human life,
It is the missing piece.
You will not know while you’re still alive,
Not until you die—rest in peace.
I love old book stores.
The smell and look of old books,
sets my heart a pumping.
At home I have my favorite stops,
checking out each shelf carefully.
When I travel,
I look up stores before I leave home.
My list can be short or long,
with a book or two or three following me home.
This summer I found an old book,
a book jumped into my shopping cart saying,
please take me home.
I have been reading on and off for weeks,
last night I got to the end.
I could not wait to see what was going to happen,
The Last Page Was missing.
I wrote a story
About love and life,
My life, my love
All the memories, some strife
I wrote of joy,
There was peace and praise
Hearts were broken
But love would always amaze
I wrote of wonders,
So many reasons
For heartfelt smiles,
All those seasons!
I wrote of dreams
It’s hard to believe
All those treasures
I just couldn’t conceive
I wrote of grief
That came from caring
Suffering and tears
My soul I was sharing
I wrote of a lifetime
Of prayer and hope
So many changes
I found ways to cope
I wrote of beauty
In the starlit nights
Beautiful music
In the still morning lights
I wrote of knowing
How it feels to mourn
My heart is comforted
Despite this pain I’ve worn
I wrote of blessings,
Some days were so good
Every season of life
I’ve known, I’ve understood…
It is Jesus who tells me
What it means to know
The love that is with me
Love that gives a soft glow
But that final page,
The page when I’m gone
I can’t write that chapter,
It’s an ending not yet drawn.
When God tells my story,
After death has taken me home
I know that final page
Will be so amazing… sweet shalom!
Every high
Every low
I’ve mourned each death
Along for the whole ride
As if I knew you
As if you knew me
I see you in my dreams
And in myself
Travel in time
Unearthly beings
Denying the possible
But it’s all real to me
Real friends
Real problems
Real goodbyes
Last episode
Last chapter
It’s been a good run
Maybe I’ll see you again
But it won’t be the same
Because it’s not my life
Not my friends
Not my feelings
You’ve lived every life
I can only live mine
If only I was fictional
Where the happily ever after was mine as well
Where you would know me just as I knew you
Where I wouldn’t have to say goodbye
Where I wasn’t scared of the end credits
Or the last page
There is a workshop tucked away from the sun,
hidden somewhere between
dusk and dawn.
No one can see it—
unless invited.
Some find it during the darkest moments of their lives.
Some arrive after accidentally taking the wrong jeep home.
Others swear they simply followed a page torn from their diary,
carried by the wind.
Every guest is given three things:
a blank page,
a pen,
and one instruction.
Create for the soul your heart wishes to reach.
Every piece finds its way.
No words left to write
My thoughts fade into silence
The page stays empty
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.