What would Jesus Do?
Certainly not everything
I ask -- far wiser! Honestly,
I doubt that any of us knows.
Would He turn the other cheek?
Perhaps, turn a few tables over?
Call all Father's children, his
sacred sisters and brothers,
or a generation of Vipers and
snakes? Instead of armies,
would He have sent Social
Workers to settle with Hitler?
What I don't want to do...
is someday stand before God
and say, while the world was
burning, and innocence being
consumed, all I did was pray
when a bucket of water sat
beside me....
We are the wild hearts,
we are not the weak,
we are the strong,
we have come to consume,
the weak, the evil, with fire,
we will not break, we will not bend,
forwards we charge,
heart first into battle,
injury and death make us stronger,
we are here to purge the earth,
only love shall remain, selah.
.
i were thuh
red ant
silently softly
suddenly
hern
spot i spy'd
((snap))
*whut ")
Spring becomes tender
Poetically laughs and cries
with the first fruits of arrival
with the finality of departure...
Your body, with pleasure
like a flower opens into petals
when I skillfully touch you...
This simple life of ours,
in grandeur, does indeed blossom,
when we weave ourselves in nobility...
To truly love is:
to provide attentive ears,
to offer obliging arms...!
Life always becomes art,
canvas, palette, action...
in the mystery of creation!
Wine can be:
oily, full-bodied, fruity...
sine qua non; good grape, good wine!
Oh no, I’ve fallen in love again
Why does this always happen to me?
Love is no bigger than a small apple
It reflects in the eye but beats in the chest.
What am I falling out of love with?
I can’t carry every apple I see.
I loved you.
I know asking you to love me back is not what love is about. With you I’ve seen what true love is all about. Forgiving you in the gravest of situations and picking up the pieces of us even when it hurts my hand. With you I’ve seen what love is not about. You neglecting my hurting hand is not love.
Dreams of us running wild in the rain, looking into your eyes with my hand in your hair, no horizon, no end…have come to an end.
There are no butterflies, no blooming flowers, no loud love confessions.
When you walked into the garden that day, I expected it to turn from night to day, but you stepped on the grass and it died, it turned to ash, you entered and the colour slowly faded as the fountain went dry. The rose wilt and withered as you walked upto me.
You touched me and I turned to dust, mixed with the wind and gone. And the beautiful plot of my oasis turned to desolate land.
Summer’s End
The sun begins to set a little earlier now—
a gentle breeze brushes past my suntanned face and
I walk briskly on the sand which feels cool beneath my feet.
My pace quickens, like the prance of a Cat on the prowl.
Once home, the trees which line the street on which I live
stand majestically tall. No longer still, they begin to
sway to the music of the gentle breeze which softly touches
and fondles the leaves with a caress that only the breeze can give.
The air envelopes me, telling me it’s cooler than before—
and I run to the place that I call home,
Glad to be sheltered from something I feel in the air—
from a sky whose sun, today, will shine no more.
I pause in the house whose windows openly beckon the freshness of the crisp breeze as it quietly enters, gently pushing aside the ruffled curtains, and as it filters through the rooms—
I suddenly realize, it’s Summer’s End!
What does it mean to be the next flower to fall after the garden fence is reinforced with tears from the street?
the universe,
the air,
nature,
thought,
the void,
the full,
the eternal,
the whole,
creation,
existence,
non-existence
the before,
the after,
matter,
antimatter,
spirit,
the ethereal
the pre-life,
life,
the afterlife
good,
peace
omniscience
omnipotence
omnipresence!
I cannot proclaim more than this now
I lack greater vision and light than I hope for in God
more feeling and wisdom...
Sunshine and revelry steeped the day like sweet tea dripping over a glass's edge. Overflow dribbling down rejuvenated the laughter of the gut and burst forth into an excess of jubilation. The cup wants to be filled with adulation for the man to drink; the man is a goblet steeped by the day. Over him jumps his spirit, blooming amidst his body's celebration into a new stance, pose, and guise. The transvaluation of the spirit leads it to elevation, upwards, it laughs yes, raising the cup and dousing its thirst—the birth of a madman steeped in sunshine and revelry.
The expectations of the heart bound the passions in a silent breath, holding within the roots of flowered lungs – the grandiose applause beating against ribcages. It reverberates with aching and longing to be heard. A silent breath holds the hand of a lover yearning to be seen, to be reciprocated. The expectations of the heart wilt without the waters of recognition and the abundance of love, unabated and unrestrained. Flowered lungs sprout daisies – effeuiller la marguerite, a silent breath holds the hand of a lover. The anticipation of the heart swirls the passions into dance like the wild winds carrying petals through their drift – and she loves me.
A man keeps planting flowers in a place no one visits.
It's not that the place is heavily guarded so no one can enter.
Or that the place is so complex, like love, many people are afraid to give it a chance.
It's not like that.
It is just an easy path to cross over to see that place where a man keeps planting flowers.
Expressionally, he loves what he’s doing.
At no point does he need someone who would appreciate him for his work.
He needs no one who would clap for him,
or criticize him, saying he doesn’t do it right and should work harder.
It's not like that.
No living breath has ever even touched the idea of planting flowers in a place no one visits.
But that man got it on his own.
He loves what he’s doing — but no one knows why.
And as the narrator,
I am also scared to see that place.
Watch the leaves swim in the wind
As Autumn’s corners unfurl
And as we sail on
On the face of reflective waters
In our relationship
Just you and I now empty nesters
No one to pester us
(but we miss drinking from the scuttlebutt)
As we greet and kiss the morning
(And each other)
Now I'm her knight in white
And she's my bride in white
Now its just us twain
Reflections of when we first met
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
Am I a foul fellow when the house is longer than this morning? Am I the designer of the living room that doesn’t encourage formality, because we’re associated with rigid boundaries? I’m the next citizen of an affluent hovel. I’ll be the next coastal lowland along any gulf & hearing your voice, pattering on every rooftop, I cover all the island-dotted lakes with your shadow. Somewhere within, a breath produces vapour, making the sauna feel even hotter. Now if my shop doesn’t pay you, it means my family goes hungry. No public property is written off here. You’re the capital of these floating islands, a nice account in the only bank here, you can take my people for a holiday to May Isle. I get a bit of capital, nothing is your own, is it? It’s for her, my daughter in a white mask.
Specific Types of Poetry Poems
Read wonderful poetry poetry on the following sub-topics:
180, archive, foundation, in motion, in voice, out loud, slam
and more.
Definition | What is Poetry in Poetry?