Question Poems - Poems about Question

How do I know what true love is? Is it the effervescent warm glow? Is it the loyalty and respect of masters pup? Is it the fire of passion that waves uncontrollably? Is my love truly in love with me? How do two people to love each other equally? Do they take turns like musical chairs? Do they have to complete each...

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based on the song Bible Black by Heaven and Hell for Ronnie James Dio Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In this dark. misty land a stranger took me by the hand- and into a gloomy library I was led. A dusty book was soon found, I was fed- heed...don't ever bargain, never be sold for these words are...

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I am the question mark at the end of prayers yet to be answered and life's last breath I am the indecision of a silent breeze, always unsure of when the wind might overtake it I am the absence between yesterday's promises and tomorrow's regrets I am the homesickness for a place I cannot remember nor be certain of...

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Every poem paints a picture worth a thousand words or so I've heard and a little whimsy goes a long way it can even make your day yet if I may have my say not to laugh occasionally once in a while would be a tragedy so let me see you smile and to make a long story short as I have often thought if brevity be the...

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How on earth we have found each other? You asked in one of night messages In the facebook groups its one way or another On the same train we were passengers We got off at the same station We took the same street to the house With roses and other flowers plantation A home where you lived with your spouse The carers teams...

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What is beauty? Can I sing to it? Can I bathe it in Honeydew lotion and read it ancient love poems as it fights the gravity of sleep? Can I feed it pureed applesauce and wipe its dripping face clean? Can I hold it in my arms and feel the weight of infinite potentials I will carry on my shoulders until it finds place for them on...

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If it's a choice to be happy is it a choice to be beautiful? Will beauty wrap me up in sherpa and bake me until I'm gold brown like the perfect chocolate chip cookie, if I will it? What is beauty anyway? Is it even real? Or will it all just disappear with our flesh as it wastes away into the earth it once called beautiful?...

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Who will prevail - gardener or snail?...

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It’s the work of fate or so we’re made to believe that when trials fall nature had it all planned. But rarely do we pause to ask ourselves Why this? Why me? We make choices and for each choice, a consequence be it a leap or a crawl we must brace for the fall. Question everything. Even nature is a question a challenge we were born to accept....

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I beat the Holy Spirit at its own game, Yet the heavens whisper, calling my name. How many Archangels have fallen to me? I count their wings—one, two, three. I ponder the question, sharp as a blade: Could God ever fight, unafraid? No scripture speaks of His hand in...

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A rose upon the vine too soon will fade; no matter if the bloom is bleak or fair, its petals drop, no matter what their shade and lie forlornly in the garden there. A rose is just a flower and no more. Its blossom time of hours far too few; once petals fade, there’s no one to restore that graciousness and...

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She's never loved broken love poems, but now she writes them. She's always feared swollen heads and broken tones, yet now she finds she fights them. Despite her mother's devotion, she's forgotten the taste of oxytocin - broken bonds within the unspoken, spoken. Now emotion runs frozen underneath hollow motions. These days she spends her time playing theologian. Here's my question: No one cares to know...

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In the whirlwind of my thoughts, every question spins like an unwavering storm, a slippery enigma that escapes every attempt to grasp it in my palms, a million whispers dance in my mind, day and night, never pausing, like a spring tide forcefully hitting the shore, they strike my mind with a deafening echo, I spill my thoughts when...

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Is it enough to call yourself a poet, take some scattered words and hang them out like flags flapping pointless rags unless arranged with skill, pooled to fill an empty space with dribbled verbs that splatter making stains upon the page, there must be meaning, surely something more than endless dreary sounds waves of flotsam floating noise which lands then strands itself...

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Darkness engulfed me I struggled to adjust to the shadows blinked when my vision brought to light— an empty room, rumpled sheets of an unmade bed a tear-stained pillow where I'd laid my head There was a wooden luster on the furniture I sniffed the unmistakable church scent of candles six long white tapers on two candelabra My fingertips smoothed white satin beneath...

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