Forlorn Riddles
On a piece of brown paper
The wild zinnia splattered
Among the porcelains and silvers
Like an ankle splintered
Of a once feral danseuse
Now embezzled by age
With the sun conquering west
The paper befallen a cage
Where the dribbled ink blots
Dangled like a hapless bait
And the sun punctures in a blotch
Eroding the scar with the faith
And the myths and the spellbound
That has never been found
On a desiccated ink blot
A grotesque silhouette incarnated
Reeking with a sanguinary plot
Of carnage that had sculpted
The stature a gilded sphinx's repose
The head vanished and garroted
Stolen by the vulpine onyx crows
For the chances are unpremeditated
It moored and towed and versified
Inebriated by the undulating patios
Groveling to be rectified
The sage's head rolled with peccadilloes
Of cursive scripts on a thread
Another poem left unsaid
On a hollow poetry
From the concluding drops of life
Rises an eccentric cypress tree
Envisaging the abeyance of strife
With the lacquer barks unsullied
And the bristly leaves gone
A farcical scene of the sapid
Frame of filth under the sun
The wind winnows the emaciated
Boughs and it stirred a tantrum
Darting trough the firmament's spread
Extemporizing in a hum
An enameled juvenile demise
Perched from where the moon pries
On a putrefying cypress tree
Entangles a swollen moon
Crooning with the luminaries
The northeastern winds swoon
In a violent gust of colossus deluge
That stirred the maladroit clock
To gyrate more raucously and fiddle
To send rapids in the perennial rock
Of Luna's frail cradle
Her phosphorescence wobbled
Staggering to be consoled
And the night had toppled
A spectator felt culpable
As she fell on the slithering pebbles
On a shattered Luna
The lights flickered in serrations
Rolling with the aurora
And slivering in the incisions
Of my palette's oppressed hue,
I descried a lily on the fragments
With leaves of laurel in lieu
Of the rowdy cabaret's redolent
Scent that always prevail to cajole
Yet, I plucked it from the concrete,
Threw it in a boiling casserole
And drank the venomous solute
Until there was nonentity
But a riddle on a poetry
On a labyrinthine verse
Was a fraction of brown paper
Banished to Stygian, the effect: adverse,
An origami bloomed in the river
While the looming trees watched
And my poetry skewed piercing
Deep in the burls of their latch
But they are benumbed and stifling
With apathy and nonchalance
And in that moment, the poem was gone
And you don't even lift a muscle in askance
Perhaps, to reckon the lyrics done
And it will never be found
Hands down, you have won
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Brown Paper Bag
Brown paper bag
Squalid incomplete
slumped to the side of the street
Like unwanted sacks of garbage
She left her track her smell
And like the brown paper bag
She had travelled well
She had a whole world in her head
Her first love
The man she wed
And the drink and the smoke
And the four o clock bloke
That returned with a bottle in a brown paper bag
And better days before
When she had carried her first round fruit
When the brown paper bag was waxed new
And he carried his bride to the door
Then the four o clock bloke
Full of stale wine and stale smoke
With a bottle in a brown paper bag
How he called her a hag
And that first punch to the floor
And the brown paper bags fell by her side
Crumpled and stained
And the liquor cans and the four o clock man
Who never spoke
Left her broke
Bones shattered in pieces
Flesh bare to the wind
Body out on the street
Skin tanned dirt brown
Hair matted locks
And two brown paper bags tied with string to her feet
yvette m smith 11.2.09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shards of Oblivion
Haplessly wafting through the pavements
Where the sun sprawled in supercilious entanglement
The mirage somersaulted in a carousal
Whilst my iron eyes thawed in arousal
And there in the vacuous silence of the horizon
Nonchalant of the maelstrom, I exhibited a forlorn
Writer with the garish polar lights as my pen
And the pavement my escritoire, too sullen,
And the paper is a blotted film upon my head
And the story I lace is from a nylon thread
That I found in the jagged fragments of my desk
Whilst mice and men scampered on the fractions and hex
My penmanship in a sodden rapture
I gnashed upon the panging stature
Of myself as I tried to press and swallow
The shards of oblivion, staining my paper with peccadillo
Though, no blood will seep out from my frenzied rivers
The gargoyles will snigger upon the driftwood that I am and slaver
In this farcical poetry effacing incarnation
Devouring the sanguine glowing bastion
Yet I endure, impassioned and despondently
Combing and palming the shards blithely
And gorge upon its piercing kisses
And the blasé of the looming chess pieces.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Paper Boat On A Murky River
on your hand is a paper boat
you made last night
on a rainy day like this
you put on a gray rain coat
the river rises
perfect for your scheme
you put the boat gently
on the brown water
white paper boat
carried by this murkiness
your hands push
the paper boat leaves
tonight you sleep on
the wooden floor
it is mahogany brown and you
become the paper boat
sailing inside your dream
the floor becomes the big river
your thoughts become the wind
your eyes become two moons
the room is as dark as the night
the dream is so alive like a mother's song.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Young Poet
Poetry was something else
written by others
somewhere else
and came from
somewhere else
but the poetry
which he did not know
called one day
in a language he did not know
so he put down words on paper
and threw the paper away
but the words did not go away
and he did not know what poetry should do
until he wrote the words
which told him
what poetry could do
for only poetry can teach you poetry
*
Gertrude Stein stood behind me while I wrote this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon this paper my life is written
Upon this paper my life is written,
a tree doubled over in pain.
The red ink flows over the skin,
full stops and commas are hair and stars:
eyes of sea left on ships,
destroyed houses, rusting girders.
This paper is as black as the storm,
destroyed villages where there is no fiesta.
This paper burns as reason does,
lightning in the sky flashes in its millions.
This paper is a sky where there is no God,
this paper is alone…
this paper does not fly…
this paper… it is I.
poem by Menotti Lerro from The Poetry of Menotti Lerro (2011), translated by Andrew Mangham, Maria Rosaria La Marca
Submitted by anonym
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Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
~
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
shaded from the heat of the midday sun
yet still free to ride upon the ocean breeze
whenever it chooses to blow from time to time
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
and chirp my own little song aloud to the world
or to fly amongst the clouds so high above
and look down to watch the world below
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
for all my wishes and day bought dreams
I am here and I am still me writing a poem
about that lucky bird perched in the cypress tree
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Illuminated Stone
Once there was a rock
holding onto a Blackened sky
'Twas one night when
moon said to Rock
Let me light you...
'No' said rock
'this can not
for I am but a stone,
that was thrown
and landed in the sky.'
'It frightens me here Moon
for see' said Rock 'I cannot fly'
'A Stone? ' laughed Moon 'You need not fly
for you rock, you are a star'
'NO said Rock
this I'm not
I'm ordinary by far'
Moon shone bright
and shed his light
on Rock
and in no time it appeared
that rock might just be
the star Moon predicted,
so here was Rock
still in shock
for everyone started to stare.
'Moon stop that light'
asked Rock
'for you don't understand
I really am just a stone
and a ugly stone I am'
Rock knew of all the
sharp edges and holes and shreds,
caused by much erosion,
for stones are not pebbles
small and smooth,
that lays in soft riverbeds.
Moon grew fond
of Rock
and spent night after night
talking to Rock,
all the time shining his light.
Rock looked past Luna's flame
and found there something plain
this made Rock feel safe with Luna
and started feeling lighter night by night
and as time passed by
Rock and Luna became one
outshining even Sun.
Moon as all man knows
is a bright shining fellow
full of Romance for lovers
and a light for a traveler's road...
he even turns the tides,
but a little known fact,
is that Luna is the cause,
of mental Lunacy.
If this you doubt,
just walk on a full moon's eve,
into a Looney house,
for there you'll perceive
just what happens,
to many who have
one to many times to much,
by Luna's light been touched.
Ask even the howling wolf
who warns, on full moon nights
his fellow wolverine canine,
not to much at full moon stare.
One day perchance,
Rock found this little factling out
and realised how so many, many
laughed at Rocks illuminated faults,
so Rock tried with all Rocks might
to get out of Luna's pure light,
but everywhere that Rock tried to go,
Luna would send his burning flame
illuminating more and more
of Rock's stone of shame.
Rock tried for the longest time
to get away from the Luna once so dear,
but one day Rock began to fear
that Luna will never stop
and that day by day,
Luna's light was not just
illuminating mistakes,
but eroding even more
ugliness into the already unsightly Rock.
One day after much wiggling and fight
Rock came loose from
the blackened sky
and down to earth
Rock tumbled
Rock back to earth did fly,
a hump of burnt out
starlight stone,
and came to rest within
a selfmade crater.
Rock cried and cried
for Moon she missed
but knew that Moon's light
was deluding, not just everyone else
arround it, but most all
the Lunatic man
living on the moon.
poem by Michelle Melody
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Culprit
You are thunderstorms
And I am the faint drizzle
Pouring to moor by little
In colossal fragments
To be taken away
And you took me away
With your quintessential promises
I am inebriated every time
Betrothed to your sporadic gusts
That winnows the opulent line
I drew in the shuffling sand,
If my heart was a hovel house
It would be your commodious home
Albeit, you recklessly swept
The groveling breadth of walls
Now it has gone with the floors
Is this how you decline
Such a parsimonious offer?
You are a mockingbird
The expanse of your wings
Is a continental conquest;
A singsong poetry in a cage
And the entire globe is your confinement
So I had cried for your liberty
And you took away my cry.
Your subterfuge decried
All my caterwauling to the moon
And poured down the southern lights.
I was my poetry once
But you corrupted every line
And with all that was lost
Who then am I?
But a man who was once defined
By the vulnerability of a diaphanous cry
And now defiled in a trifle
By a non sequitur gamble
You are a culprit
With supercilious pliant hands
Of an alluring gilded serpent
Slithering with the echoes
Of a wishing well's
Unrequited promises,
You are a sapid abandon,
My royal usurper,
My connoisseur conqueror,
In a peremptory crossroad.
I may not have jewelries
But I had once a tall hat
Brimful with shabby shards of paradise
And I am culpable for permitting you
To take it away from me
As you take me away from me
And take me away from you.
I knew how you would become
Cold as the frost mourning
Amongst the morning dew
I knew how you would be
If I cease and withdraw
From licking the verdigris of your wounds
Albeit, the creed beleaguer that I kneel
Abut you as I dab the blood of malaise
Of my servile tongue
Because the nights would be
Just the same culprit
When I am too far from you
Farther than the stars
That you took away
From the nights craning neck;
The stellar beads that I mused
Upon your absence, that you surrogated
With the swaying of your feet.
You took away the heart
And the beauty
Because you are the beauty
In every tragedy
And the heart
Of the beautiful tragedy.
But you will never seize me again
Even if the night forfeits
Even if the clockwork
Would swallow its gears
Because I have gone already
To a place where you have taken me
To abandon imprudently.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry
Poetry.......
Poetry defines me
Poetry.......
A place where you be you and I'll be me.
Poetry.......
We are best friends for eternity.
My Poetry.......
Is the daughter of my emotion,
There I've said it, no need to interpret the connection.
Poetry.......
Where my pen and paper are sealed with a kiss,
So easy to write for my mind is a bliss.
Poetry.......
Poetry has multiple meanings,
An indescribable feeling when I realize others understand them.
My Poetry.......
It just comes natural to me.
My Poetry.......
Is out there, , , , , away from exile,
And style of writing is very versatile.
Poetry.......Poetry.......
P oetry.......
It speaks out to me.
poem by Anita Khelawan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Poetry
1
poetry can be
like a sky filled with wrangling clouds
or as a sky without a wisp
2
in poetry there are no
clichés in thought and phrase;
and what is left there is
the resplendent and the living
3
poetry leaves one
rich inside
and ordinary outside
4
the fool defines poetry
and poetry defies all definitions
5
poetry entertains, inspires;
poetry tickles, distracts, and shapes and frees -
but its true intent, no one knows
6
many lines, and countless lines
many pages, and thick volumes
don’t make poetry
7
if one had no coins
one cannot buy bread;
but not all the world’s wealth
can bring you poetry
8
Oh no!
Not another love poem!
Oh no!
Not another poem about oneself!
9
rhyme, technique and meter
and tricks of prosody
don’t make poetry: passion does
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem Without A First Line
for no real poem has a first line
any more than a real book
has a first page
it comes out of a dark lost forest
or a bright unknowing cloud
or an unbearable pain
so unbearable that even
if you wrote the poem on a piece of paper
and threw the paper away
it would ease the pain
or a childhood so miserable
that only a complete change of life
could recognise one single beautiful thought
or an astonishing moment
when you knelt and prayed
for the first time in your life
to a god you did not know
with words you did not understand
for they were not even words
or the moment when all the horror of the world
faced all the love and beauty in the world
and both were so taken aback
that they could only embrace
and later, speak
or a nowhere and a nothing
so stark that only poetry
without a first line
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Disconnect
and if the server crashed
would I still be a poet?
and if the Internet crashed suddenly
in the whole wide world,
who’s going to ever hear of me?
I would like a law
to forbid poetry in public,
to have to go in specially designed places
with a pencil and a piece of paper
to write only for myself
as if my poem were
an engagement ring
a vow for love.
I’ve been hurting my soul
on a piece of paper
in a puddle of words
you call it clichee
a hole
or a whole lot of nothing
while poetry is
a crosswalk
between life and death
or a wild boar chased by bullets
in a pristine forest
My writing is not
a simple pastime
but a dedication for God
Who sometimes puts his palm
on your forehead
Woman
even if Life is a hospital
where people treat you
with drops of Indifference
while Death counts souls
if the Internet crashed
I would walk barefeet in the dust
to feel the cold body of my ancestors
or I would shave my head
so that nobody notices
how beautifully it snows
I would stop this talking
(a whole lot of nothing)
and I would kick you
where it hurts the most
to prove you
how much I love you
I was born on Google
everybody knows
and I endlessly seek
a place
to confess
poem by Ionuţ Caragea from M-am născut pe Google (2007), translated by Ioana Tirtirau
Submitted by Ionuţ Caragea
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Freedom Bound
Beneath my fingers I feel the smooth silky paper.
Somewhere within my head, a poem’s carefully strung.
Then one will be committed to join with the other,
When it has been carefully sprung.
Beneath my fingers I see the strong tough paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s shining through.
Then one will be exhibited, joined with the other,
Where they will be seen, shining new.
Beneath my fingers I hear the crisp firm paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s freedom bound.
When one will be entrusted to join with the other,
Then freedom will at last be found.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Creation of the Moon
The man cut his throat and left his head there.
The others went to get it.
When they got there they put the head in a sack.
Farther on the head fell out onto the ground.
They put the head back in the sack.
Farther on the head fell out again.
Around the first sack they put a second one that
was thicker.
But the head fell out just the same.
It should be explained that they were taking the head
to show to the others.
They did not put the head back in the sack.
They left it in the middle of the road.
They went away.
They crossed the river.
But the head followed them.
They climbed up a tree full of fruit
to see whether it would go past.
The head stopped at the foot of the tree
and asked them for some fruit.
So the men shook the tree.
The head went to get the fruit.
Then it asked for some more.
So the men shook the tree
so that the fruit fell into the water.
The head said it couldn't get the fruit from there.
So the men threw the fruit a long way
to make the head go a long way to get it so they could go.
While the head was getting the fruit
the men got down from the tree and went on.
The head came back and looked at the tree
and didn't see anybody
so went on rolling down the road.
The men had stopped to wait
to see whether the head would follow them.
They saw the head come rolling.
They ran.
They got to their hut they told the others that the head
was rolling after them and to shut the door.
All the huts were closed tight.
When it got there the head commanded them to open the doors.
The owners would not open them because they were afraid.
So the head started to think what it would turn into.
If it turned into water they would drink it.
If it turned into earth they would walk on it.
If it turned into a house they would live in it.
If it turned into a steer they would kill it and eat it.
If it turned into a cow they would milk it.
If it turned into a bean they would cook it.
If it turned into the sun
When men were cold it would heat them.
If it turned into rain the grass would grow and the
animals would crop it.
So it thought, and it said, "I will turn into the moon."
It called, "Open the doors, I want to get my things."
They would not open them.
The head cried. It called out, "At least give me
my two balls of twine."
They threw out the two balls of twine through a hole.
It took them and threw them into the sky.
It asked them to throw it a little stick too
to roll the thread around so it could climb up.
Then it said, "I can climb, I am going to the sky."
It started to climb.
The men opened the doors right away.
The head went on climbing.
The men shouted, "You going to the sky, head?"
It didn't answer.
As soon as it got to the Sun
it turned into the Moon.
Toward evening the Moon was white, it was beautiful.
And the men were surprised
to see that the head had turned into the Moon.
Paper Thin
Rich and wealthy canvas
Clustered up in jewels
Finding all your heavyweights
Are featherweights and fools
Broken all your promises
Broken all your paper plates
Clustered in gold
Crusted in gold
Heavy and hollow
Look at the shape were in
Find us here
Paper thin
Heavy and humble
Look at the shape were in
Find us here
Paper thin
In origami cities
In nations build on sand
Love got bend right outta shape
Things got outta hand
Polystyrene skylines
Papier mch smiles
Rusted and bruised
Tarnished and frail
Heavy and hollow
Look at the shape were in
Find us here
Paper thin
Heavy and humble
Look at the shape were in
Find us here
Paper thin
Stars scrape the moon
And the moon scrapes the sky
We stand beneath
Wondering why
Stars scrape the moon
And the moon scrapes the sky
We stand beneath
Wondering, wondering why
Paper buys the men
The men that make the bomb
The bomb that makes this world
Paper thin!
Money markets crumble
Gentle as a drum
But if you see me stumble, im
Paper thin!
Life is but a fragile thing
So delicate and pure
An accolade bestowed on us
Paper thin!
So contemplate the skull
The skull beneath the skin
One day we all die, were
Paper thin
Bury your destruction
In your last battle hymn
The barriers between us, make em all
Paper thin! paper thin!
Paper thin! paper thin!
Underneath the paper moon
The sky is paper thin
Torn into a thousand shreds
So let the solar system in
Rich and wealthy canvas
Clustered up in jewels
Finding all your heavyweights
Are featherweights and fools
In origami cities
In nations build on sand
Love got bend right outta shape
Nothing ends as planned
And its all-paper thin
Paper thin. paper thin
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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