Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jun 2018
Elizabeth Squires
the passion for creating
poetry and prose
began in his formative
years
as he progressed
into adulthood
the fervency did increase
every time
he sat at his desk
the greatness of language
poured forth
on the vellum
his ink wouldst
come to life
verse and paragraph
illustrating the painted scene
so too
the inner most thoughts
which dwelt inside
his innovative dreams
he imagines
being among the stars
writing of a wondrous place
and his desire for this
shall always be
utmost of embrace
The poem was inspired by a good friend of mine.
 Jun 2018
Kristina Carmela
It seems as if poets
Have felt the most pain
But to be in euphoria
Is a celebrated gain
For when every time
A write is admired
A smile on a face
Defeats the sadness they hide

It seems as if poets
Have eaten pages of books
A dozen of dictionaries
And novels on nooks
I cannot explain this
But I believe so
That those words we have written
From where we don't know

It seems as if poets
Have hearts that beat rhyme
For it seems just too natural
To call it divine
For every scenario
A piece is inspired
Half a moment later
Pure greatness transpired
 Jun 2018
Nat Lipstadt
you give me waaay too much credit;
u are investment; a great poet,
needing tending and nurture,
watering and encouragement;
since god could not be everywhere,
he made sure many poets exist
to tend
to their fellow's seeds
~~
the problem with seeds
they don't come with a guarantee
from the manufacturee,
or a note from home
for the teacher,
that makes ''my dog et it''
slightly more believable,
each a new babe seedy needy,
crying in the mid of night,
for water and loving attention
as it teethes roots in the soil,
and
the discourteously majority
fail to appear even if you read them
good night moon, nightly

you must plant ten,
hoping one child,
will sprite sprout
and even then,
survive the outrageous misfortunes of  natures
bumps and beaks of the day and night
that lurk about in a
disarmingly charmingly
destructive way

did i say ten?  
idiot.
plant a hundred
just to obtain one germination.

I think the seed guys have
conned us pretty good
the odds
truly ****
as you, the champion children
like to say nowadays,
and **** they are,
too right

sun I cannot control:
water and soil, I can,
for if n'ere to rain,
your seeds will be
well fed,
well read,
and the water,
my eyes will supply
naturally
nat- u r a ally
 May 2018
Adele
no one owns this land
bloodshed and atrocity
lord tyrants and battlements

the Vikings seafaring
Erik the Red with his sons
Leif and Thorvald, continuing the journey
Columbus, Champlain, Cartier...
Jacques Cartier looking for China found ‘Kanata’ and they now call Canada
captived Donnacona and his clan from Stadacona

the mariners, cartographers
no one owns this land

the slavery and civil war of Catholicism and Protestants
the ‘Black Death’ from bubonic plague

the man’s bones from the rat’s alley
below the ground with sunken skeletons
who fought with swords and knives and a broken arrow trying to dug up their way

to the bridges and skyscrapers that buried them deep with the poison of ideology
that says ‘you are not welcome’

the silent voices screams
‘this is our land, this is our land...
this is not our land and there shall be no peace.’
 May 2018
Cné

Poetry comes back to me
where long there had been none.
Lyrical, the imagery, once shared
and then was done.

Thoughts of such sincerity
in words that grace the page,
Race across the span of time
that bridge the gap of age.

Trusting in the ardor that
has cooled and healed with time,
I read again the tender lines
of kindred souls, in rhyme.

Oh spirit of another age,
reach out from time and space.
Fan the embers turned to ash
and torpid ruin replace.

 May 2018
Traveler
Oh sea of madness
Oh ocean of fools
This water between us
Is but a drowning-pool

Tomorrows is out of focus
In the dimness of foresight
Sticks and stones in pockets
This involuntary fight

No shelter from the tempest
The storms that never end
Just a longing to return
To embrace your love again....
Traveler Tim
 May 2018
Edmund black
Do
                                       Not
                                       Let
                                 Yesterday
                                       Use
                                       Up
                                       Too
                                      Much
                  ­                      Of
                                     Today
JUST LET IT GO !
 May 2018
Busbar Dancer
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
 May 2018
South-by-Southwest
I am the father
to the son
who will become
the grandfather
of my soul

What I have
proclaimed today
leaves a statement
for the future
someday to be told

and when the wind
is released
it stirs ancient dusts
uncovering
a continuum to bind

Like the sins
that are covered then
we reach forward
back in time

to the father
found in me
will be the son
found later
down the line
Next page