First Crush (for Vanessa, wherever she may be....)
The desk on which I wrote first poems
Six-liners, desperately in love
The LPs carried down the street
In case we met, I might impress
Her with my fresh scrubbed face
I wished for glasses much less thick
And hair more so, and darker yet
Waiting for Saturday to come
Imagining with whom she'd leave
The taste of Kiddush on her tongue
For some smoky mysterious pub
Or movie house, or music club
She seemed so self-possessed!
Was she? Her poem said
Sometimes I wish I didn't see.
Living would be so easy.
Her perfect face, perfect to me
Swelled bosom, page-boy hair
Soft eyes, why did she wish
For blindness nonetheless?
Not a single kiss, in truth
Not even one caress! Just one
Slow dance in the shul:
So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright -
I still know every note.
And then she rode off for the night
And for the rest of time
She vanished in the world upon
Whose surface, in whose face
I would never find her trace
My friends, laugh all you can
I wonder if she made it through
And thought of me again.
I seek her still, so that we may
Compare our poems, our notes of grace,
And all the people we became.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Perfect Place
Recession - a perfect fit,
Makes no difference where he sits,
Not since they cut the ties,
Put some sadness in his eye.
Promises - come and go,
Soak the sun in drifts of snow,
A qualified butt-collector,
Working for the private sector.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
They took the plans from up my sleeve,
By an architect, on new years eve,
There it goes, a new bronze tower,
Washed away with an april shower.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
But, when youve gone,
Im still here, the only one,
My eyes and my ears,
Will be here til Im gone;
And its still the perfect place,
To rest a tired and weary face,
And its still the perfect place,
To lose your soul with a trace.
A lived-in face, with a root,
Of matted hair, a smiling tooth,
A dirty hand, a pixies nose,
Scratches underneath his clothes.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This must be it ...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Perfect Place (live)
Recession - a perfect fit,
Makes no difference where he sits,
Not since they cut the ties,
Put some sadness in his eye.
Promises - come and go,
Soak the sun in drifts of snow,
A qualified butt-collector,
Working for the private sector.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
They took the plans from up my sleeve,
By an architect, on new years eve,
There it goes, a new bronze tower,
Washed away with an april shower.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
But, when youve gone,
Im still here, the only one,
My eyes and my ears,
Will be here til Im gone;
And its still the perfect place,
To rest a tired and weary face,
And its still the perfect place,
To lose your soul with a trace.
A lived-in face, with a root,
Of matted hair, a smiling tooth,
A dirty hand, a pixies nose,
Scratches underneath his clothes.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This must be it ...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Evening Poem
AN EVENING POEM
An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.
All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.
We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.
It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.
What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flying South
I never knew that flying South
Could be so long and wearying
I thought it easy to descend
Simple enough to reach the end
But it takes a life to find
The strong foundation of the mind
To put the fastened chains aside
To see sunsets with open eyes
The body not so perfect now
As if it ever really was
The daily circle on the wall
The evening rise and morning fall
Every minute on the clock
Is scarce, I have to make it count
Down beneath the yellow stars
While the time is running out
Imperatives of conscience call
Cheap translations don't suffice
Patches on my eyebrows thin
Girls pretending to be nice
They pin me wordless to my seat
Until I dare not turn my face
Fatal for me to compare
The lightening catches silver hair
There is a cot to sleep alone
Until the hurt begins to drain
Rebirth, rejuvenation starts
When I will kiss her in the rain
So long in limbo, hopes confined
Words and letters made in flight
Recruiting poems, tokens of art
To cross the bridges to her heart
For years we dream of one embrace
Celebrations we prepare
Flying through the hemisphere
Soon we will be meeting there.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
0009 Favorite Poem
and you can’t remember much
about the first time you read it except
that it held you to the end, but most of all
this one line, which seemed to hold
the key to the whole poem
as if you were opening the closet of your mind
to bring out something which you knew was there
but instead something way at the back
called to you and you remembered
a moment from way back you thought
you had forgotten
and then you read the poem again
in company with the poet and
yes that’s it, and the two of you
became friends for life, almost
related.
So, now you’ve read all their poems,
feel some more than others but
as if you wrote them all in the same room
where you read them together
and you wait for their new book with
a sorta family pride
and like family,
you leave the poems for a spell,
grow up a little, then
come back to visit -
they mean more;
can it be,
you've both grown?
each time you come back to them
you carry them more close to you
in fact you feel that you could write
poems very much like theirs
as if you’d inherited, too,
the family gift
and though you wouldn’t of course
seek them out in person except
in a reading where you’d
have to share their warmth
with the rest of their extended family
but not say much since
you are a, well, close relative,
if you happened to be driving a route
not far from them, you’d detour,
park a little distance from their house,
but have it in your sight,
hope you might catch a movement,
wait a few minutes, then
start the car with almost a sigh
half relieved that you didn’t have to try
on their cautiously polite doorstep
to find words to say
you love them in their words,
which you almost wrote together,
lived them together;
love them like life itself,
love them
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poems in Vain
I lay on the bed, write a poem by my tears
the paper was my hair and the pen was a finger
good night, sweet dreams, sleep along and think of me
sleepless night, sweetest dream, stay awake for me
you are the compass to find the right way
I won't say i'm a captain but that is the way
when the night is calling me
suicide is controlling me
I'll come to fight when the moon falls apart
I'll dance at night when the nightmares all goes away
poems in vain
I won't let myself get back to what I was before
before the night goes down take a look into my face
cry my darling sure you're getting much better than me
use your compass to find the right way
I say i'm a captain and this is the right way
I can't forget those nights as i'm waiting on the cold deck
waiting in the cold for death with my broken open arms
when the night is calling me
suicide is controlling me
I'll come to fight when the moon falls apart
I'll dance at night when the nightmares all goes away
poems in vain
poem by Mohammed Hassan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Was Away From The Poems
I was away from the Poems
I could not hear them within myself -
There were many sounds
Many different kinds of words
And speakers and ranters and shouters
And all kinds of false music also
And even beautiful music and prayer-
But there were no poems
I could hear no poems
And within myself suddenly there came such ‘longing’
And such ‘anxiety’-
‘Where is the Poem? And where can I possibly be if there is none?
And how can I find it again? ’
And all I needed I thought was some long long long silence
Some being alone and away
Some forever waiting to hear
Some listening to the true voice
And then somehow somehow the Poems would come again –
And here here here it is now
The poem
Quiet and sure and happy and light and singing
As if it were the one music God wanted me to hear
And repeat always as if it truly were mine and yours
Dear imagined reader,
Alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Being In Love In 1974.
Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left
to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her
but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair
was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet
she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around
and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house
by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee
the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you
imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute
she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed
and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time
a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work
you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat
and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages
of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it
each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow
and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind
depressed
and love blind.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Being in Love in 1974.(poem)
Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left
to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her
but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair
was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet
she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around
and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house
by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee
the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you
imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute
she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed
and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time
a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work
you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat
and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages
of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it
each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow
and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind
depressed
and love blind.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Circus
I remember when I wrote The Circus
I was living in Paris, or rather we were living in Paris
Janice, Frank was alive, the Whitney Museum
Was still on 8th Street, or was it still something else?
Fernand Léger lived in our building
Well it wasn’t really our building it was the building we lived in
Next to a Grand Guignol troupe who made a lot of noise
So that one day I yelled through a hole in the wall
Of our apartment I don’t know why there was a hole there
Shut up! And the voice came back to me saying something
I don’t know what. Once I saw Léger walk out of the building
I think. Stanley Kunitz came to dinner. I wrote The Circus
In two tries, the first getting most of the first stanza;
That fall I also wrote an opera libretto called Louisa or Matilda.
Jean-Claude came to dinner. He said (about “cocktail sauce”)
It should be good on something but not on these (oysters).
By that time I think I had already written The Circus
When I came back, having been annoyed to have to go
I forget what I went there about
You were back in the apartment what a dump actually we liked it
I think with your hair and your writing and the pans
Moving strummingly about the kitchen and I wrote The Circus
It was a summer night no it was an autumn one summer when
I remember it but actually no autumn that black dusk toward the post office
And I wrote many other poems then but The Circus was the best
Maybe not by far the best Geography was also wonderful
And the Airplane Betty poems (inspired by you) but The Circus was the best.
Sometimes I feel I actually am the person
Who did this, who wrote that, including that poem The Circus
But sometimes on the other hand I don’t.
There are so many factors engaging our attention!
At every moment the happiness of others, the health of those we know and our own!
And the millions upon millions of people we don’t know and their well-being to think about
So it seems strange I found time to write The Circus
And even spent two evenings on it, and that I have also the time
To remember that I did it, and remember you and me then, and write this poem about it
At the beginning of The Circus
The Circus girls are rushing through the night
In the circus wagons and tulips and other flowers will be picked
A long time from now this poem wants to get off on its own
Someplace like a painting not held to a depiction of composing The Circus.
Noel Lee was in Paris then but usually out of it
In Germany or Denmark giving a concert
As part of an endless activity
Which was either his career or his happiness or a combination of both
Or neither I remember his dark eyes looking he was nervous
With me perhaps because of our days at Harvard.
It is understandable enough to be nervous with anybody!
How softly and easily one feels when alone
Love of one’s friends when one is commanding the time and space syndrome
If that’s the right word which I doubt but together how come one is so nervous?
One is not always but what was I then and what am I now attempting to create
If create is the right word
Out of this combination of experience and aloneness
And who are you telling me it is or is not a poem (not you?) Go back with me though
To those nights I was writing The Circus.
Do you like that poem? have you read it? It is in my book Thank You
Which Grove just reprinted. I wonder how long I am going to live
And what the rest will be like I mean the rest of my life.
John Cage said to me the other night How old are you? and I told him forty-six
(Since then I’ve become forty-seven) he said
Oh that’s a great age I remember.
John Cage once told me he didn’t charge much for his mushroom identification course (at the New School)
Because he didn’t want to make a profit from nature
He was ahead of his time I was behind my time we were both in time
Brilliant go to the head of the class and “time is a river”
It doesn’t seem like a river to me it seems like an unformed plan
Days go by and still nothing is decided about
What to do until you know it never will be and then you say “time”
But you really don’t care much about it any more
Time means something when you have the major part of yours ahead of you
As I did in Aix-en-Provence that was three years before I wrote The Circus
That year I wrote Bricks and The Great Atlantic Rainway
I felt time surround me like a blanket endless and soft
I could go to sleep endlessly and wake up and still be in it
But I treasured secretly the part of me that was individually changing
Like Noel Lee I was interested in my career
And still am but now it is like a town I don’t want to leave
Not a tower I am climbing opposed by ferocious enemies
I never mentioned my friends in my poems at the time I wrote The Circus
Although they meant almost more than anything to me
Of this now for some time I’ve felt an attenuation
So I’m mentioning them maybe this will bring them back to me
Not them perhaps but what I felt about them
John Ashbery Jane Freilicher Larry Rivers Frank O’Hara
Their names alone bring tears to my eyes
As seeing Polly did last night
It is beautiful at any time but the paradox is leaving it
In order to feel it when you’ve come back the sun has declined
And the people are merrier or else they’ve gone home altogether
And you are left alone well you put up with that your sureness is like the sun
While you have it but when you don’t its lack’s a black and icy night. I came home
And wrote The Circus that night, Janice. I didn’t come and speak to you
And put my arm around you and ask you if you’d like to take a walk
Or go to the Cirque Medrano though that’s what I wrote poems about
And am writing about that now, and now I’m alone
And this is not as good a poem as The Circus
And I wonder if any good will come of either of them all the same.
“The Circus” from The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 2006 by Kenneth Koch.
poem by Kenneth Koch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poem As Conversations
a poem for ramona
and a poem for jean and a poem for candice
and a poem too for yuri
and a poem too for emma and another poem for hannah
and another poem for allan
and the rest of the clan
they are but
conversations sticking to my mind
and through these poems
i replay them
and you think these are not poems at all
precisely, these are conversations of the living
the living word
the word that still cohabits with us
we let them out from our mouths
but you do not wish to recover them
did you mean them all to be said
with the terms and conditions of truth?
i am recording them
and i am replaying them through these lines
i look where truth
lies
i find some and keep them
and these are these
on these lines
a poem for you a poem for the world that we all make
what we say is what we get
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I'm Not Perfect
I'm (x8)
Had we met at a different time we'd be perfect for each other,
Now were spending all our time, in this world come together,
My heart is aching, from all the love your giving,
Were not faking, is this the life were living?
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
Now i'm right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
I feel right on time,
More and more we are together, tryin to discover,
I see a flicker in your eye, are you lookin for somethin better?
You once told me lying on the ground, but keep goin up and down, yo!
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
Now i'm right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
I feel right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
Now i'm right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
I feel right on time,
Why waste it thinkin about it? taste it,
Don't waste it thinkin about it, taste it,
It really doesn't matter wherever i may go,
We're tied together, that's one thing we both know, yo!
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
Now i'm right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
I feel right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
Now i'm right on time,
I'm not perfect, but i'm perfect for you,
I feel right on time,
Right on time, i feel on time tonight, i right on time, i feel right on time,
Right on time, i feel on time tonight, i right on time, i feel right on time,
Right on time, i feel on time tonight, i right on time, now i'm right on time,
song performed by by Grace Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I AM THE MOST ordinary PERSON THAT YOU MEET on the street
Reading my poems, my essays, my comments, my biography
She thinks
I am a manic
Depressive
one infested
with a bipolar
personality
neurotic
to the
utmost
psychotic
insane crazy lost bewildered out of this world
out of touch in limbo unleashed unsheathed
out of touch out of this world
o my god
o my!
She is wrong
Completely wrong
I am the most normal, ordinary person that she can meet
on the street
In her normal life
I work in an office
With a coat and tie
My hair is shiny
With gel
My hands soft
With ease and comfort
I smell perfume
My nails are clean
You cannot even tell
That these are the fingers
That compose
The hand that composed
Those poems
Political, sadistic, masochistic
Love, libido, desire
Nature, carabaos, birds
Violence, war
Irony, paradox
Rape, murder
Food and shit
White sands
And long long vacations
I have the perfect smile
The male version of mona lisa
I have the poise of
David not Goliath
And you wonder this man is not the poet in the poems that he
Writes
I expect him to have
The looks of a madman
Scattered hair
Looking shit
Foul shit
Emaciated
Eyes with bags
Insomniac
Hot tempered
Oh my God
I have the face of angel today
And the people always tell me
I am God’s gift to them
On this I agree
Indeed I am no madman
I am a trance in that poem
I am the medium of the higher voice
I am simply an instrument
And as I write every word
I know nothing
I am not responsible for every word in my brain
I am a tool
I am a knife
I am a gun
I am a chewing gum
I am a boat
I am a motorbike
I am simply the stenographer for every word that I write
For I am merely a voice
From those who cannot speak
I am merely the messenger
For those who are souls
I am just a body
To their wisdom
I speak
What I have is only the courage to be an instrument
When all of them are gone
I am dumb
I am myself
I am the most normal person that you meet
In fact, indeed, in truth,
I am just a nobody.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Breakaway
Opened my eyes this mornin' with a smile on my face
My arms wrapped around you took me away
And it got me to thinkin' that we need to do
Is take a Sunday drive and drive on through
Monday, Tuesday, Friday and Saturday too
Let's disappear, gotta get out of here
Feel the wind across our face
We'll have some fun, gonna dance on the run
It's a perfect day to break away
We'll hit Tulsa by Tuesday follow the stars above
Spend the weekend in Vegas and gamble on sweet, sweet love
It don't matter what we do as long as I'm with you
Let's disappear, gotta get out of here
Feel the wind across our face
We'll have some fun, gonna dance on the run
It's a perfect day to break away
Yeah, yeah
Break away
Yeah, yeah
Let's disappear, gotta get out of here
Feel the wind across our face
We'll have some fun, gonna dance on the run
It's a perfect day to break away
Let's disappear, gotta get out of here
Feel the wind across of face
song performed by by Rascal Flatts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Changes
I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't tell them to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Where's your shame
You've left us up to our necks in it
Time may change me
But you can't trace time
Strange fascination
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Poems in her
Poems in her
It has become now a journey
Crusade against no one but a turn key
Almost with single thought in mind
Something new to search and find
You can call it divine injection
Penetrates in mind for lovely action
To transform thoughts into words
And create poems to look forward
Not all objects provide some clue
Some birds and natural objects are over due
Seasons and sadness come to my rescue
I think, rethink and make periodical review
Black color fascinates me so much
Not because of its color but quality as such
Its worth is precious and can't be counted in terms
But it provides enormous joy and returns
Such is my love for poetry
I consider it prayer to almighty
As words pour out to strengthen his prayer
I become mere tool and conveyer
At first sight I get enormous signals
The thought floods mind with its arrival
I look at face and it clearly impresses
I find its real worth to write poems
Can any one not read what goes on in her mind?
I certainly do when come across to find
She is certainly extra ordinary and truly gifted
Almost with same views and never shifted
I would love to dwell at length about character
The color may not play an important factor
Yet it leaves ever lasting impression
I write the poems with true confession
She is an every inch poem with message
If you look at her closed eyes in page
You may sum up with final note
Poems and poets certainly relate
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Engage
It is hard to imagine
Starlight that fails
To fall into your eyes
Or moonlight that would hesitate
To caress your hair.
When I remember
Any afternoon we’ve spent
Walking through a garden of flowers,
I give thanks for those moments
So sacrosanct to my soul.
I cherish the Saturday evenings
Walking college streets
Looking for a sacred bar
Where we could drink
And slowly eat something simple
But with reverent hearts
For the palpable joy of existence.
When I’m in love,
Everyone in this city
Becomes as beautiful to me
As St. Francis or Bridget Bardot,
I just smile and look for a hand to shake.
Someone says in front of the nightclub
Doors don’t open until 9 p.m.,
And that’s fine, that’s an hour
We can spend talking to street people
Selling flowers and fruit
And sharing their lovely godliness.
Ah, everyday is the perfect time to engage
Our dreams with happiness
And wherever we stand is a perfect place
To see the world we want to create;
Let’s dance late into the night and kiss somewhere
In front of a small 3 a.m. church and know
We never have to succumb to sorrow.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Be Somebody's Hero
It is never ever easy,
To be somebody's hero.
Oh no no no.
With a living of a life,
That's perfect in someone's eyes.
It is never ever easy,
To be somebody's hero.
Oh no no no.
To one day disappoint.
And become the one criticized.
Those who get a whiff of this,
Try to hide their blemishes.
And flaws they cover to dismiss,
A heart that wishes to please.
And...
Alone they seek to be.
Eventually.
No one is perfect.
No no no.
With this their purpose.
No no no.
To exist on the surface.
No no no.
We all have feelings deep!
No one is perfect.
No no no.
With this their purpose.
No no no.
To exist on the surface.
No no no.
We all have feelings deep!
It is never ever easy,
To be somebody's hero.
Oh no no no.
To one day disappoint.
And become the one criticized.
It is never ever easy,
To be somebody's hero.
Oh no no no.
With a living of a life,
That's perfect in someone's eyes.
No one is perfect.
No no no.
With this their purpose.
No no no.
To exist on the surface.
No no no.
We all have feelings deep!
Yeah.
No one is perfect.
No no no.
With this their purpose.
No no no.
To exist on the surface.
No no no.
We all have feelings deep!
And,
At times they can get deeper.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!