Wonder where I'll go
Where, oh, where without my protector
Yet, I've gone with him
At least part of me
Gone
One tree felled
Now limbs fall from the other
So, I 've lost me
Maybe through poems
I'll find will find myself
from a mother’s love come children who behave
why’s the world then filled with knaves
blue wings flapping air
his feathers catching sun's rays
grazing gray blue sky
Tired of feeling lonely
And drowning and floating
And living in conflict with myself
Drinking constantly and never quenching my wondering
Tired of seeing life and not being a part of it
Tired of being a part of something I cannot trust
Tired of not following my own plan
But take heart, I remind myself
That being on the outside
is good
For a writer.
I wonder if he has ever truly been in love.
I wonder if he actually knows what the word conceives.
I wonder if there exists any warmth within him,
because honestly, none of it have I ever received.
I wonder if he means his flattery.
I wonder if their heir can ever be one.
I wonder so because it’s someone new every day,
and how much really am I allowed to wonder at the mercy of his gun?
I wonder when I think about those already shot dead.
I wonder if I would be a candidate.
I wonder so because the universe never told him about my ‘one and only’ theory,
And in earnest, who even am I to put up a debate?
I wonder if he’s ever wondered
how it would be to be more than just a name.
Oh, to be held in regard, and not simply just forgotten by flame.
I wonder in the truest sense if he’s ever borne the bloom,
because as it turns out,
it is I I wonder about,
and the hypothesis that I never tried is only easy to assume.
If only so much I didn’t wonder,
I could have broken free
from the tide that drags me under.
Nonetheless, I ask, for I know not if a man has ever genuinely been in love with me.
She's walking around town with her hood covering her sad eyes up.
She's sulking with a frown, her lower face not covered up.
She's thinking, "Wonder if someone will ever again fill my cup."
The young set out to be a poet,
they move words around
to reflect their thoughts on life.
Unfortunately,
they have not yet made that life
into a poem.
They are no less passionate as the mature,
the world may have hurt them deeply,
but most do not understand
how really very bad this world can get,
especially, if they find themselves
in that place
where poetic words explode.
The old know,
in their failing hearts, they know,
that a poem is a weeping statue
once erected as an ode to joy -
Thankfully,
even the saddest of poems
has eventually,
a chance
to be rescued by time.
I know how heavy those three simple words can sometimes be,
But I am wondering if you can at least feel, well, me?
I am wondering if your heart is also seeing what I see.
a wisp floated down
landing in the meadow bright
did faeries get it?
will they sew it into a pillow?
use it for a faerie blouse?
two dwarfs laugh.
I despise dwarfs.
they are thoughtless mind readers and bullies.
They tease me with mean finger gestures.
Being an adult
I stick out my tongue.
I'm standing
In a line
Patiently waiting
For my turn or time
Standing in the lane of success.
I keep wondering
So many had made it
Why is mine staying longer
Sometimes I admit
Maybe mine is bigger
Or it will never come to my time or turn.
I keep racing for it
So many times
I work and prayed
But still a delay
Then I try to replay
Just to see if I'm not doing enough.
Past me not that I have Wondered
By:Hymn. Written-me
Thee of love
an unbridled passion
Yeah of desire
A lovers want
We in love
A foolish conversation
We as one
Means others undone
I sought to be
As we are lovers
I bow from performance
I had been willing
Oh love Devine
Might I be less hated
To be loved
and in love
But not with you
Speak ye as mine
Ione dare not whisper
Oh til then
We part as friends
He who supplies
My weather you wonder
That we may be
Only friends
Oh then to God
I am recketed
In waiting
Abesenace I am
Without
Oh til then
Must stand
Debated
My thoughts and views
Trampled about
My true love
Allan done
To reduce tensions
Ignorant me
My foolish self
To be yours
I wait in wonder
Troubles me
Of then we are
Least and not perfect
Oh to God
And those who had
Troubled most
Redefined
Might than
You desire
Lay with me
Stress me not
But to ones duties
As lover
Friend
And wife
Consider me
In ones
Thoughts and mentions
Pray for us
We better still
I remain in the silence of the evening, wondering if it still matters now,
Whether you have forgotten me or if I was meant to forget you,
Because, in the end, what truly mattered wasn't the goodbye,
But the way you stayed, honest and full of love,
Truly present when I needed someone the most,
Like a warm light embracing the shadows at dusk.
Perhaps forgetting isn't the hardest part,
But losing someone real, a living and authentic presence,
A soul that knew how to be there without a mask, without hesitation,
Like an old tree offering shade and shelter on scorching days,
Or like a gentle river singing its story among the stones of time,
A thread connecting hearts lost in search of an answer.
So I sit here, contemplating memories that slip away like sand,
Wondering if your memory will remain alive deep within me,
For what mattered wasn't the departure, but your silent permanence,
Like a forgotten song that still echoes with longing and gratitude,
And perhaps, in forgetting, I find not an end but a beginning of understanding,
That the true loss is the absence of a heart that knew how to be real.
I thought she was my doppelganger
I did not approach her, nor she me then
1972 in an airplane hanger
I wonder now what could have been
I'm beginning to wonder
if God made the world.
or was it the devil
when God wasn't looking.
Once as outlook seemed demeaning
I pondered life’s varied meaning
Only one thing I wished to be gleaning
The simple answer of why
I was near full to bursting a seam
Then as if by heavenly beam
The answer was great to a dream
One that made me feel as if to fly
See, as I wandered the day
There on the road lay
Some sort of fey
Whose life came to a stop
My mind seemed to tarry
And though understanding may vary
I think it’s kinda scary
That even a fey can flop
This answer a divine source must have sent
That from above must have lent
A sight of a precious life callously rent
An oh so powerful truth
Now some might consider this a creation of the mind
For me this is how I the excellent answer find
In truth the answer isn’t always oddly signed
The truth is actually oh so common
The fact is that great and small
The most precious is lost to the call
None are immune from passing that wall
Why worry about death even when life is freshest?
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Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.