Well Written Poems - Poems about Well Written

I haven't written anything truly meaningful in a while, my soul is silent

I haven't written anything truly meaningful in a while, my soul is silent,
So, could you speak to me a little more, give me a voice through your presence?
It’s not about selfishness, but the ink in the pen yearns for your attention, it trembles,
It desires you, more intensely than I do, in a silent dance of

A Poem I Should Have Written But Didn't

I walked a quiet road at dusk,
Where frost lay silver on the grass,
And in the stillness, words I sought
Some startled birds would rise and pass.

They brushed my cheek, they touched my hair,
Then vanished into fading blue;
I thought of you, old friend of snow,
Who spoke to silence, stern and true.

Your lines were fences in the mist,
Your

Written On Hearts and Minds

On a tablet of stone,
Mankind was made known,
A covenant of laws to abide.
Not a place remaining to hide.
Sinful nature that leads to death.
Come seek God who created breath.
On a foundation of sand,
Was written one shall not stand.
The storms, wind, and waves.
But by the One who rose from the grave.
For all have sinned and shall not

Good Morning Prayers

Dear Lord Jesus

You're my friend and You are my brother even though You are a King,
I love You more than any other and my soul belongs to you.
You're my Rock and You're my Shield to You alone will I gladly
Yield.  As the deer pants for the water, so my soul does long
For You.

I 

AI is Destroying The Written Word

                            I want to weep
             at the destruction of poetry
that comes now with the use of

In all the books of history written with ink of blood and dried tears

In all the books of history written with ink of blood and dried tears,
There is no war that was not hatched in the shadow of palaces of power,
Governments alone, like birds of prey sharpening their claws in silence,
Independent of the hearts of people, for whom war is always poison.
How many generations have marched on dusty

Written in Silence

Some souls don’t chase the blinding stage,
They live between the lines of age.
Not carved for fame, nor shaped by fame,
But born to set the stars to flame.

I wrote a script in desert sand,
A tale of fire, of heart, of land.
Dubai lights danced upon the sea—
And in that dream, she came to me.

Her steps were soft,

healing words already written

time

and seeming aging

affects us all

that's the story

told and told

convincingly yet

appearing with

a healing emptiness

appearing as these

words

Limericks Written In A Country Churchyard

There once was a sensitive vicar,
who said, "I'm not one to bicker,
but the peal of that bell,
makes me feel quite unwell,
and plays merry hell with my ticker."

An incensed old soul by the spire,
preaching incense-igniting to the choir,
exclaimed, "There is but one catch,
when striking a match,
don't set your surplice on fire."

A parson spoke from the nave,
"Spend

At thirty-eight, his story seemed to have already been written

At thirty-eight, his story seemed to have already been written,
he sipped his coffee and recalled where he went wrong or maybe got it right,
for he had grown tired of the insurance game, of small offices with glass walls,
of clients who came and went like faceless, soulless shadows.
He was weary of the lies told to his

The red bracelet

Red bracelet 
My mother went to ganga 
And bring some gifts
Some gifts for my sister 
Some for my brother 
Some for my daughter.
And one red bracelet for me 
That red bracelet I didn't like it once
It was made up of 12 beads with centre of an eye
I don't want it on my hand 
Just want

Written With Desire

Mothered inspiration birthed from the seed of my soul
send my mind in to a frenzy with racing thoughts hard to gather and control
Words roll off my tongue with provocative pronunciation
climaxed by the inflection of each insertion of punctuation 
ejaculated thoughts wrestled into pleasure provoking position are gone over back and forth and back and forth

If no one seems to give a hoot about a poem you've written

If no one seems to give a hoot about a poem you've written,
try reading it out loud to your dog or to your kitten.
And if, as you read it, all the while,
you see their tails wag and their faces smile,
it was worthwhile ~
at least ~ from where they're sittin'.

Written in Response to Pensive Solitude on The Eve of This Night Revisited

An outcast this night,
I mournfully sigh with gloom:
but, I make war, fight!
to defeat my rising doom,
and defend my haunted tomb.

There is a teacher I know, part two, written but never sent series

There is a teacher I know. Someone who walks into the classroom like he’s stepped into a memory, quiet and worn, yet still showing up. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, his voice carries more weight than volume. His words are deliberate, as if each one has been measured before release. There is

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