Tip's of Women?
Lounge flushed
In delusion
I plays
Issues of wear
And weather's are vain
Tip's of women
Tied entrances
As low as old war
Gushes enter our floor
Isn't hours tasking?
Asnt looming often rooming
Rooms join dolls bury
Hands praying? So ways say
Papers run in the filled nights
Breaking ideas, counts, verses, checks
On tables and on the mind
City damsels, men aren't rhymes
Okay honey man
Driftwood apartments
Kevin issues jazz
You accident prone today
Chaska home
I have been behind San Francisco Paris
Says speaks for itself
Fearless abandon
Call on shores
Runned in
Hip at the door
Night the session
Strange moon wander in question
Illusive paints
Harken of tame
Tara I uncover
Repent dowry upon my branch
Eyes drafting midnight
Hourglass tarnish adventures
Lost rehearsal
Power
I’ve been sitting on unfinished poems for years.
They were not uploaded because they were not done.
Now I have reached the point where I need your comments,
To influence what I write.
Before, what was written was enough,
But now I can’t write, so I’ll show you my b-sides.
Besides what else am I going to do?
I had nothing ready, now I’ve written three.
I ain’t wrote a thing in what feels like years,
So I guess it’s working; what you thinking?
Let me know.
Maybe you’ll inspire a poet.
(C)2024 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
At night, sad things;
I write, with wings !
The soul is his home,
detachment an intruder.
He is like a street dog
who sees rainbows.
A slate reflects life;
emotion exposed by a pen.
Pain and beauty cut deep.
No bandage can heal;
only words can complete.
I thought my words were stars, unshaken,
But they were only lamps in mist—
Too bright with pride, too quick to waken,
Too eager for a fleeting tryst.
Now softer rhythms touch the page,
They move like rivers, slow and deep,
A gentleness comes with quiet age,
And truth no longer stirs from sleep.
The vanity of sounding grand
Has slipped like ash between my hands,
I lean instead on earth and sky,
And write the way the roses die.
If I have grown, it is by loss—
By setting down the crown, the gloss,
Until my words are bare, yet whole,
Like light that falls and heals the soul.
I’m an idiot; I keep bending
my feather-tipped thumb
like lumber; not limber
this knuckle bone nail
painted cheap-pink; thinks
only of ink in bottomless pit
push, press, plunk; put on
the old brace to restrain
but don’t you know; the sucker
will escape ‘cause the writer
just can’t give it a rest; useless
to try - won’t cut it off, right?!
Write!
.
.
.
.
.
.
I was raised to kill, no blink, no pause
Your face was the bounty, my finger the cause
Ain’t no enemies whisper, they don’t feel the night
I tasted your name, lost grip on the fight
We met in the smoke where the shadows slide
Gun in my hand, but my heart stayed wide
You smirked like “do it,” I said “hold up,”
Steel in my grip… I flipped it, whatsup
Love sat where death shoulda been
Your silence spoke loud, my war unseen
Hands held fire, lips made truce
Every kiss a crack, every touch a noose
Then thunder came, your squad, my kin,
I caught your eyes and prayed again.
You aimed at my chest, I didn’t move an inch…
Shot through my heart… straight into your ribs
.
i recall thuh bubblez
from mine think's spew
yesss
in her womb
i hear’d momma say
“It’s kicking”
‘twere thuh burst
uv
bubblez though
from mine first
haiku
*where are my mannerz;
ty freya mill for this inspire ')
who'd uh thunk it, from such
thuh terse query
how do you write poetry?
I am stunned by this question.
How do you not?
My heart longs to have a poet
Willing to write with me a duet.
I am utterly distracted by the erratic
Pecking of the field mouse
That has found living with me to his advantage.
Still I want to write
That poem
That will make children laugh
Old men roll in the grass with lovers
And young women run in the streets naked
Singing Hallelujah.
I wait to meet you in the midnight of time
To scare the monsters with our passion.
Free me from this bold transgression,
Random words without expression.
No clear thought from them unfolding,
I’d rather listen to a scolding.
My plead is this, if not profound,
Please mute thy instrument of its sound.
For better yet it’d surely be,
If some message the reader could not see.
Please add some rhyme, or at least a rhythm,
Expound on something, begin with a given.
They say that the wind as it rustles the trees,
It’s only a wind ‘til one calls it a breeze.
Chaos will come with no rhyme or reason,
To thy own words be true, no need for treason.
TAKING ROOT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A field of snow before the first footprint.
My hand hovers, a hesitant bird
above the frozen ground.
What seeds to scatter here?
What thaw to coax from the barren space?
A word takes root.
Another follows, tentative, green shoots
pushing through the icy crust.
It unfurls, tentative,
a fragile bloom pushing through concrete,
nourished by doubt and desire.
The pen, a conduit,
trembling at first, then finding its rhythm,
a dance between intention and impulse.
The page surrenders,
accepting the ink's embrace,
the birth of something new,
A poem emerges, breathing,
where only emptiness resided before.
My pen hesitates to speak its mind.
Trepidation? Perhaps! Perhaps something more...sublime!
The words needed to convey collective thought,
Are now lost in a maze...in a labyrinth of time.
Ink fails to write the plight of the pen.
Punishment? Perhaps! Perhaps something more...amusing?
Perhaps some recurring penance demanding payment?
Perhaps both? My pen finds it all...most confusing!
What bright light must now shine thru yon window?
What new wonders must fill these empty skies?
What shadow lifted, from pen...so gifted!
What ink must now flow thru it?...from my eyes!
pages of haiku confetti in the wind
Specific Types of Writing Poems
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Definition | What is Writing in Poetry?
Poems Related to Writing
print, handwriting, script, hand, scrawl, scribble, autograph, calligraphy, cuneiform, shorthand, hieroglyphics, longhand, manuscription, essay, poem, literature, piece, publication, manuscript, novel, review, work, paper, theme, book