Short Record(A) Poems
Short Record(A) Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Record(A) by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Record(A) by length and keyword.
amid dry, gray dust
translucent spheres of glass
record a lunar past
https://www.livescience.com/china-rover-spots-glass-spheres
I look for a pen to record a line,
but the pen I find is an inferior design.
Not the pen I wish to use,
to write a line for you to muse,'
or send a love you may refuse.
My real name is Leah;
Yesterday my name was writing lyrics,
Today my name is record a CD,
Tomorrow my name will be best singer ever,
In my dreams my name is Kelly Clarkson.
Form:
Till lovers get nude by looks and kisses,
Cloths drop loose to desires that seek food;
Feeding the soul and the body,
Through dances on stages of love;
Giving fluid the score to take charges:
Then the waiting of formation by Destiny get ruled.
A chance to record a nine months progress;
By Divinity's will on what gender it could be.
Here Fate waits by Nature's office to propel the
wheels of the availing time.
One can a secret leak
While one didn't dare speak
All over seeming weak
But could fight for a week;
At a weakling not spit
But against A Camp fit
Live as needy prophet;
Starved eyes not on profit...
One can drop Bad Habits,
Yet much linked with their bits;
Record a lot of hits
But of Bob's Scattered wits;
Complete assignments fast
But later take The Last;
Meet a friend and walk past,
Friend dead, flag at half mask.
When you read a poem
Do you read it through?
Or do you squish it in your mind
Like gum on your shoe?
Can you actually feel
What the poet is writing?
Or do you act as if
The poet didn't take so long typing?
When you write a poem
Do you truly pour your heart out?
Or do you simply record a thought
And proceed to go about?
Can you actually enjoy
Endless streams of words?
Or do you let them fly away
Like some growing baby birds?
After we're gone.....
do we turn out the light -----
or will we hear our names whispered upon the wind?
After we're gone.....
does the midnite moon still stir the soul,
or the seasons still invite us to never be alone;
Do the birds still sing in the trees.....
Do harmonies of life seize to be.....
Can I feel her love still in a quiet breeze,
assured that I am?
For can history bare a great book -----
with all our names,
a record, a final log -----
that we were,
(at all) ?