Whether you have written the poem, or this is a poet who is not that much popular to the people, but familiarize us with the unknown work of a not-so-well-known master. Will I begin? -OK. Here is an Oriental poet's lines..
"Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets."
Let us secularize hub-forums
Here is one of mine;
He is sat in a wingback chair in his study
The gardens are stretched out before him
He watches her smile and move and be
His house guest.
He leans further back, but feels no comfort in it
A weary sigh pierces the silence
She is bending down, picking yellow daisies
His ideal woman.
Two long decades ago marked their meeting
He now knows her quirks, her scars and fears
And her hopes. Though she cannot see all of his
His dearest friend.
He gazes as intently, as revering as usual
The Sun lends a glow to her honey-wheat strands
Could she ever understand how she transfixed him?
His lone desire.
It is torture as he roams over her rose-petal face
Her eyes glimmer, her lips curve. His breath is robbed
She does not know how enchanting she is
His only thought.
He hides his head and mind in large trembling hands
But she is etched in his imperfect person
She does not see the love he harbours
He will, soon perhaps, be in another realm
He likes to think she will place orchids by his marble slab
And though he had never believed it before, he hopes he shall feel her
He stops midway - leafs through pages and recalls acquaintances
She will need someone; truly loyal and kind and perfect
And she may fall in love with one of these gents
His soul mate.
He rubs at his eyes when the ink slides down words
Names cross his lips but neither sound right alongside hers
Because it should be his. She should be his.
His only redemption.
There is nothing but empty hopes in his pained mind
And her name and her face and her goodness
None of which will he live to hold
He drops to his knees, his face crumpled with defeat
With eyes shut tightly though the floor still grows wet
But he will live until he can give her away
His only wish.
He sees her stroll down the pebbled path
He will one day watch her pledge herself to another
She will not fathom the expression he will wear
Thank you all
NAPOLEONIC ENID BLYTON
It felt as if I was rampaging through the pages of an Enid Blyton storybook….jogging through the Enchanted Forest among the red-spotted toadstools and green luscious trees…and excitedly climbing the friendly Magic Faraway Tree. I poked my head through the fluffy white clouds..at the top of the tree..expecting to see elves giving away sweets to funny furry animals and happy old women..with broad grins and cuddly spiders. I was disenchanted. I saw politicians arguing over the abortion law..and I saw..disasters of our modern age…I saw… two tall trenchcoat-clad gentlemen beating up BigEars…presumably the victim of a money-lender’s trap. I saw the Three Golliwogs being ushered into a Black Maria…hand-cuffed not to a jovial PC Plod but to three vicious looking bastards with hands the size of three hams. So I slowly started my descent of the once majestic tree…now riddled with dutch elm disease. Each limb and twisted bough offered a view of life’s ugliness. Where once sat a chuckling pixie now nestled an ogre..with a dagger and a threat. I hit the ground..with a soul-stirring thud..and decided that adulthood was a sever blow to my life. I awoke. I laid in sweat..and decided that I should do something today with my life…because I knew that somebody up there was wheeling the old metal chair towards me and booking my place in that rest home by the sea…where I had the opportunity to assume the identity of Napoleon..and strut around..hand in coat-pocket, declaring ‘Not tonight Josephine’ over and over. So I considered my predicament. I’d reached the age of 28 years and I had a string of non-successes hanging around my neck..like a conglomerate dog after a blood-stained bone…but this bone had no marrow. I knew that someday soon one of my canine pursuers would bury me in life’s garden..and not return to disinter me…too disinteresting you see. I hoped that one day I could make one of these dogs my best friend..which incidentally should be easy…because they wag their tails whereas we wag our tongues.
(that's one of mine btw)
My Valentines Poem
I buy Chocolates for you,
I grow Tulips for you.
I give Kisses to you,
I have loving for you.
I am caring for you,
I am sharing with you.
I get closer to you,
I grow older with you.
But the one thing I want, which will just have to do.
Is signed and sealed letter with DIVORCE from you.
I do not consider myself a poet. There have only been two times I have felt compelled to write poetry. This poem is included in a very personal hub I wrote about my son:
My Son His Son
the first glimpse of you
through and through
a mother to this child
Is it true?
My precious boy
a love so new
dark curly hair
white chubby cheeks
tender and fair
I gaze into BIG pools of chocolate
and get lost
are you really mine little man?
my heart held captive
your biggest fan
a toddler uncovers
the person in you
face covered in smiles
eyes dancing too
tiny sounds of music and laughter
will you love me forever
never say never
you were mine for many years
sharing love, laughter
a multitude of tears
you got lost
as manhood geared
confused and searching
spiraling far away
I died inside
It didn’t seem fair
God broke through
with his care
took the weight
on His shoulders
you were mine for a time
HIS for All Time
All grown up now
My Son His Son
I still get lost in your eyes
To stare and adore
from the shore
a very strong man
to the very core.
I have a thing for refrigerator magnet poetry. It always turns out hipster-esque, and therefore it's classified as crappy poetry.
Oh, the joys of refrigerator magnets.
the sky drew it's darkened clouds about
the earth grew dim as the cries rang out
“I've lost him,” was her angry shout
to the moon and the stars and the world without
“oh! sing me a song my firey maid!”
but the world of death was a barricade
he reached across the vale of gloom
to search her face in the teary room
he sought her eyes and he found them there
“remember this my maiden fair
the world below is a world of grief
and death has brought me sweet relief
death is not a painful thing
it's relief from pain only dying can bring"
It's three in the morning
and I have no gun
to protect myself from the demons,
that only come around at 3am.
My arm throbs in morse code, S.O.S.
It's three in the morning
and I have no peace
to shine a light through the darkness,
to find my bed, to sleep again.
My arm throbs in morse code S.OS
It's three in the morning
and I have no clothes
to protect my body
from the blistering cold I feel,
standing outside your love.
My arm throbs in morse code, s.o.s
It's three am, and I needed to write
hoping to purge myself
of all this you
that only comes at three AM,
when I am alone,
When I cannot sleep;
from the pain that spreads
throughout my being.
Fear grips me by the arm, and
whispers, "The night is young,
It's only three."
How sweet it is, your soul, I see
With eyes that pierce with silenced pain
of past long gone, mere memories
Yet softness still, your touch remains
Eyes pure and warm like silken rain
Slips through my soul without a peep
Like midnight grounds dancing with thieves
Now sadness falls across my face
A tear slips by then starts to rain
My soul entwines around your pain
My life I'd give to take away
The scars of life that took its toll
And caused the pain your heart endures
With every breath my body takes
With every drop of blood in vein
I'll take your pain, consume it whole
Release your heart, unbind the chains
To free the love inside your soul
So here I lay, my love partakes
All that you are...........All pain erased
When you need me
I will be there for you
When you leave me
I will still be there for you
Heart bleeds to think of you with someone else
Heart needs to accept that you belong to someone else
Don't ask me to remember the good times we spent together
They were not good enough else we'd be still together
Let me share your world
becoz' I am not your world
Truth hurts but am ready to accept
Love you more is what I can do best
Wait is beautiful for someone you love
Love becomes torture when you waited long enough.
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by Lybrah 5 years ago
I think it would be a good idea to share our poetry on here.Post your poem, It could be like a contest or somethingAnyone got any poetry to share?
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What are two to three tips you can share on raising a child?Please keep it positive. Both parents and non-parents may respond
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