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Best Poems Written by Insane Writer

Below are the all-time best Insane Writer poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Insane Writer Poem

In Memory of Her

My love, do you still remember me?
The vow  we made under this mango tree
I was younger then while you were old enough
But in my heart I knew you're my better half
Your face that time, it's painted here inside
After the wedding, we had that romantic ride
We took that road riding on a pretty white horse
You were holding me throughout the journey, of course
But suddenly a storm came while we're on our way
You've loosen your grip, we didn't make our day
A strong wind got me while you were thrown afar
We've been apart, heart-broken like victims of war
My love, do you still remember me?
Two years and more, we're here under this mango tree
Now, I'm tracing the carved hearts with our names entwined
Wishing that like them, you and I have that strongest bind
My love, do you still remember me?
Until now, your memories never set me free...

Details | Insane Writer Poem

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone, 
Green fields and waving woods upon, 
And soft winds wandered by; 
Above, a sky of purest blue, 
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue, 
Allured the gazer's eye. 
But what were all these charms to me, 
When one sweet breath of memory 
Came gently wafting by? 
I closed my eyes against the day, 
And called my willing soul away, 
From earth, and air, and sky; 

That I might simply fancy there 
One little flower -- a primrose fair, 
Just opening into sight; 
As in the days of infancy, 
An opening primrose seemed to me 
A source of strange delight. 

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; 
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee, 
Oh, still thy tribute bring! 
Still make the golden crocus shine 
Among the flowers the most divine, 
The glory of the spring. 

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell; 
And hover round the slight blue bell, 
My childhood's darling flower. 
Smile on the little daisy still, 
The buttercup's bright goblet fill 
With all thy former power. 

For ever hang thy dreamy spell 
Round mountain star and heather bell, 
And do not pass away 
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow, 
And whisper when the wild winds blow, 
Or rippling waters play. 

Is childhood, then, so all divine? 
Or Memory, is the glory thine, 
That haloes thus the past? 
Not all divine; its pangs of grief, 
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,) 
Are bitter while they last. 

Nor is the glory all thine own, 
For on our earliest joys alone 
That holy light is cast. 
With such a ray, no spell of thine 
Can make our later pleasures shine, 
Though long ago they passed.

Details | Insane Writer Poem

Sunshine

flawed to near insanity
but long as you could hold down a job then its alright
isn't that a wise policy she asked
i'm not so sure
watching the clowns strut their stuff
in the midnight sun
they are reckless to be certain but self aware to a fault
just makes it all the more bizarre
watch em go at it with each other over the simplest thing
its no way to live
you can vouch for the living as long as you haven't died
and this madness is just shy of being in a pine box
so darling lets get outa this crazy place
get away from the thinking
that you gotta be like everybody else
get away from the plastic hippie rat-race
roll down the easy highway
find us some sweet sunshine to breath in
find us a better life to be.

Details | Insane Writer Poem

Stone

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat 
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom 
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon 
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side, 
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.