Tells Poems - Poems about Tells

she tells the story I also heard on the news most of the facts she spouts are alternative facts Her version is a better story embellishment that adds flavor but also lies...

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Yes! My Master She Is Called Little Shorty by some five feet and all taller in high heel shoes. beautifully wonderfully made by God! Listen the soul speaks remember she is born emotional in destiny and intent moves this Grace. So many knows her as forbidden. She is in love with love! Caress the inner...

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here we are encased in body-mind feeling incomplete, we wish to expand we sense there is more to us than this but who we are we do not understand thought and senses are the tools we use yet form decays and one day we will die cognition operates in a limited spectrum our heart’s secret desire is to wingless fly trapped...

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Bloody war raged on. Superpower leader said: "Sometimes kids fighting like crazy in the yard, can't be parted." "Best leave them fight on for a while." Anyone care for TACO and cheese?...

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I am no longer of use. That much is clear. They pass me by like I’m furniture— just another shape gathering dust in the corner of the kitchen where light rarely lands. My face, once proud, is smudged now— not by time, but by its absence. I used to hold their mornings together: 6:45, the hiss of the kettle. 7:02, cereal spiraling into bowls. 7:58, the door slammed...

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g a l e - f o r c e w i n d s l a s h i...

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Ollie onion had never been this mad in his life He turned all his anger on the kitchen knife How dare you try to peel me, you interloper, he said. The knife was embarrassed, his face turned red. I did not know that you were alive, he admitted. No one told me this, I am confused, he spitted. Ollie was not...

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Every piece of jewelry tells a story Seeing jewelry wears on it defines who you are Wearing it reflect status, class and passion Jewelry is a state of character and taste Make sure yours is a tale of elegance Elegance is the accessory that never goes out of style Jewelry is its perfect embodiment surrounding in its creation Owning...

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Apparently, I was a naughty boy At three, Disappearing in a shopping centre, Lost for what felt like hours. Legend has it, The infant siren song caught air-conditioned wind And led the search party to a curtained grotto. She tells me, there, they found My talent on display, A song and dance before a giant mirror, While curious stranger neighbours Changed their clothes. I don’t believe...

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Dust coats mementos in treasure trove In a veil that palls recall with a shroud. It dims the past with repast of neglect, That taints memories with fading, settling light. Echoes become fainter, scenes blur, The sharp clear focus softens in the listless mist As dust pervades relentless, unstoppable It quickens the quell that time tells Neglected memories to fade, be lost and...

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All the calamities are meant to quiet noisy minds asking too many questions The signs of angst & friction is an attempt to rub us the wrong way quelling what our minds have to say In these days of endings & beginnings the way forward appears to be shrouded in confusion In a blink of an eye ghosts of the past return with masks in tow as if they fell...

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My mom, she, when I was just three, Would binge operas of soaps, and she Tethered to the television, after her sail Home from Pearl Harbor, would not fail To hug and kiss our butterfly eyes and cheeks. She’d store mama’s milk in freeze for weeks. As we’d march off to church crammed in car, Mom saw her binge as a sin...

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The mirror tells 'no cop in sight', So hit the gas, slow bus up there, Stop sign swings out, red flashing light, Swerve left, dumb kid, gave her a scare … My rearview shows I'm safely past, But that brat's face, how close it came. Oh, that's behind now, get home fast … It's me who matters in life's game! But why on...

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Celine watches crime stories on TV every day a daily diet of murderers and rapists, her man says “what the hey?” She laughs at his fears she might kill him in his sleep. Go to bed, honey, she says to him. Count plenty of sheep! She has a fantastic sense of humor for she is most bright. She pays word...

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Maybe, it’s easy, Trump to trigger, Tells, this man seems his own grave digger. Now, well past the debate, With nigh but sealed his fate, That he’s a beaver far too eager. _________________________ Happenings |07.09.2024|Humour, America, political Poet’s note: The first debate was won by Trump by default. This one is lost, and Trump is dumped in a grave dug...

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