Bee
She sat nibbling
Perched on a flat pinnacle between forays
Strangely small silvery wings rode precariously upon her yellow back
Tethered in place with twine
And by her side was her bucket treasure trove
Of a thousand small shiny drops of generosity
Carefully collected
The harvest of a thousand excuse me’s
Then lunch was over
Antennae bobbed above her head as she stepped down
And buzzed away into the shopping crowd
poem by Mike Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Different Sunset.
Kempton was one of your
Best friends at school he
Was a year older than you
And having had polio it left
Him with a limp and when
He ran it seemed as if he was
Riding an imaginary horse
And to keep up with him
You had to ride one too.
Your horse was brown
And ordinary but his was
White like the one the Lone
Ranger rode and when you
Both came out of the movies
You rode off into the sunset
Together you trying to keep
Up with him as he rode ahead.
You envied his small collection
Of knives. His father brought
Them back from the WW2 taken
From dead Germans and they
Were laid out in his bedroom
Like a small treasure trove big
And small ones and your eyes
Ran over them bound down
With an inner envy. All you had
Was a small penknife which you
Bought out of pocket money
You’d earned running errands
And kept in the loop of your jeans
Where the belt went through.
Kempton rode off into another
Bright sunset from you in 1961.
You think of him now and then
Riding into a different sunset
A young boy amongst old men.
poem by Terry Collett
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One Hundred Thousand Marching
One hundred thousand marching
One hundred thousand men
One hundred thousand heading
To a place and a time when
One hundred thousand dying
One hundred thousand cold
One hundred thousand praying
Forever young and never old
One hundred thousand lives were lost
One hundred thousand felt the pain
One hundred thousand maimed and slaughtered
And yet those armies march again.
poem by David Keig
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Magical Mystery Tour
I am in this low-slung sports car
painted a deep, rich yellow
driving under an Italian sun.
I have a British accent.
I'm wearing dark shades
an expensive silk shirt.
there's no dirt under my
fingernails.
the radio plays Vivaldi
and there are two women with
me
one with raven hair
the other a blonde.
they have small breasts and
beautiful legs
and they laugh at everything I
say.
as we drive up a steep road
the blonde squeezes my leg
and nestles closer
while raven hair
leans across and nibbles my
ear.
we stop for lunch at a quaint
rustic inn.
there is more laughter
before lunch
during lunch and after
lunch.
after lunch we will have a
flat tire on the other side of
the mountain
and the blonde will change the
tire
while
raven hair
photographs me
lighting my pipe
leaning against a tree
the perfect background
perfectly at peace
with
sunlight
flowers
clouds
birds
everywhere.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Another World
I was so low
People almost made me give up trying
Always said no
The I turned around saw someone smiling
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another world
There was no light
I was going to all the wrong places
Like day from night
Suddenly I saw a thousand faces
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another
I stepped into
I stepped into
Into another
Into another world
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red BMX Bicycle
There was a small boy
In the countryside
Who had a small red BMX bicycle
Kept in the store besides the herbicides
Every evening like a cycle
He would ride down the dusty road
The sun a yellow ball
on the west side
Glittering under the sun`s rays
Was that small
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
Who had nothing…
Totally nothing
He was a friend to the small boy
Every evening like a cycle
He would wait by the dusty road
To have a chance
On the small red BMX bicycle
His face would be all smiles
Even after falling off that
RED BMX BICYCLE
One day at dusk
The smaller boy
Stood next to the small boy
And asked
“When you grow up, would you give me this bike? ”
The small boy without thinking
Said YES..
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
One night
He had a bad stomach ache
His mum wiping the tiny streams of tears
That fell from his small face
That was pale…
Due to dust from the dusty road
As he played with his the small boy
And rode on that
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a small boy
In the countryside…
Now HE is all grown
And in the university
Far away in the city
That RED BMX BICYCLE
Now long gone
Given to some relative, I guess
If I could go back
To those days…
Those days with beautiful sunsets
Back in the countryside
Waiting for my chance
On my red BMX bicycle
Watching that smaller boy fall off
I would give him…
I would hand him that bicycle
And never expect it back
And watch him ride
Towards the beautiful sunset
On my red BMX bicycle
But if I can go back
All will be in vain
Because on that night…in the dark
He struggled with pain
His small heart couldn`t keep on
Outside there was rain
The gods possibly wanted to cleanse
All the evil that night
That took him away
Now I reminisce
As I keep moving on
About that smaller boy
And our small
RED BMX BICYCLE…
poem by Paul Oguda
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A Small Cigar
A small cigar can change the world
I know, Ive done it frequently at parties
Where Ive won all the guests attention
With my generosity and suave gentlemanly bearing
A little flat tin case is all you need
Breast-pocket conversation opener
And one of those ciggie lighters that look rather good
You can throw away when empty
Must be declared a great success
My small cigars all vanish within minutes
Excuse me, mine host, that I may visit
A nearby tobacconist
To replenish my supply of small cigars
And make the party swing again
I know my clothes seem shabby
And dont fit this hampstead soiree
Where unread copies of rolling stone
Well-thumbed playboys
Decorate the hi-fi stereo record shelves
If you ask me theyre on their way
To upper-middle-class oblivion
The stupid twits, they roll their only
One cigarette between them
My small cigars redundant now
In the haze of smoking pleasure
Call it a day
Get the hell away
Go down the cafe
For a cup of real tea
By the tube station, theres a drunk old fool
Who sells papers in the rush hour
I hand to him ten small cigars
He smiles, says, ''son, God bless you
A small cigar
Has changed his world, my friend
A small cigar
Has changed the world again
A small cigar . . .
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Low Down
Mother; remember I am small
a little over two feet tall
My view from here is limited
the shopping mall a place of dread.
Boots and shoes are all I see
as people rush impatiently.
You have forgotten how it feels
to see only toes and heels.
You hold me firmly by the hand
but I don’t think you understand
Just how it feels to be so small
and dragged around a shopping Mall.
If you ere small and couldn’t see
then you would know what frightens me.
16-May-08
http: //blog.myspace.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Bucket T
Bucket bucket t t, bucket t bucket t,
Bucket bucket t t, bucket t bucket t,
Bucket bucket t t, bucket t bucket t,
Found her in a barn in tennessee
I paid five bucks for my bucket t
Took me three years of sweat and blood
To clean off all that tennessee mud
Chorus:
My bucket t (bucket t)
Bucket t (bucket t)
My bucket t (bucket t)
My bucket t (bucket t)
T t t... bucket bucket bucket...
Cruise down the street in front of school
I wanna rev it up but I gotta be cool
Drivin down the road Ill get my kicks
Apoppin the clutch and aslippin the sticks
[chorus]
I was right, too, shes first in her class
Theres nothing on the freeway she dont pass
All the girls want to take a ride with me
But theres only one seat in my bucket t
[chorus]
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting For The Spider
how many small deaths?
nickels and dimes in dust filled pockets...
are we drifting off to sleep?
out to sea?
or further from the core?
we die in circles,
circles within circles.
with small short breaths hurled
on the hairy plate of eternity.
a thousand tiny fires,
built by unseen hands
on darkened roads...
a thousand tiny deaths!
or a thousand stop the world kisses,
when names and identities are forgotten,
if but for an eternal moment.
how many times must i be the butterfly?
the snail? the hummingbird flying backwards?
or just stagnant water in a cast aside tire...
waiting for the spider?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Girl Like You
You go to sleep, I want to sail in your hair
And when you speak, you know you got to make sense
You want to say that it's me you know less
I say a girl like you, she was born to be blessed
My hands are yours, and you can take them from me
And take my mouth, I have nothing to say
I want to fly to some other place
I say a girl like you, she was born to be kissed
Born to be kissed
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
You're gonna say that you want to be free
But when you fall, you'll know you'll fall back to me
You want to fly, and there's no disgrace
I say a girl like you, she was born to be blessed
My hands are yours cause I don't know how to pray
Take my mouth, I have nothing to say
I lift my heart up to a higher place
Up to a girl like you, who was born to be kissed
Oh, born to be kissed
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your mother too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
Aw-w-w-w, yeahhhh
And your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
Ooooh, one thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, I said a girl like you
Ooooh, one thousand times and your sisters too.
song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life
Pastel? don't even know what that means
Pastel? Hell! rhymes any way
My color of life?
Don't even know where I'm from,
Let alone anything else.
Don't know where I'm from
Don't know where I'm at
Don't know where I'm going
Yes I do...I'm going back to small
My favorite place, small pebbles, smooth and shiny
Small lakes and sacred woods
And tiny dreams that come true in sunsets
And porch swings on warm summer nights
And he who would continue to labor this life forever
Would be forever poorer
For all loss is only gain
poem by Midnights Voice
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Happy The Times Were
Happy the times were when we were free of our troubles
Happy the times were when we rode around in the car with the wind in our hair.
Dancing in the rain in the middle of the street
Running in the sprinklers at the football field at night
We were happy knowing that we weren't going anywhere
Who knew our fun would end sooner than we thought.
Winter came and all of our fun disappeared into the snow and dead leaves.
Happy the times were when everything was in our hands
But now things hang by a loose thread, not making any sense at all
Looking back at the small town with a couple of thousand to keep us company
Looking back as we drive away to the 'supposed' new great life
Happy the times were when we lived in the small town we loved so dear
Happy the times were when we had Sonora.
poem by Kamilla Davila
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A Death In The Morning...!
A single solitary sun ray
Dashing through the morning dew
Touched the side of the little yellow flower
Trying to wake up spredding yellow petals
A top the green grassy hill...
The birds washing their faces
Whistling little tunes
Glanced at the flower
With a delight in their eyes...
Like the blade of a fencing sword
Racing through the wind
The sharp edge of the grass cutters cutter
Caught the little flower
Chopping it into thousand yellow specks...
Among the green slivers
That showered back on to the grass
Little golden yellow specks
Smiled sadly a last smile
Shattered dew drops
Lazily settled down
Kissing the yellow dust
Trying to feel the flower
Trying to kiss its face...!
poem by Rowving Smith
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The Flight Of a Bird
Wings stretched, eyes wide
As the nest wobbles side to side
The small bird sits on it's edge
His heart racing as he looks off the ledge
A little lumo in his throat keeps his beak tight
And he swallows and takes in the sight
His small heart pounding, his tallons spread
Thoughts racing through his head
He bounces once, twice, his first try
He lands on his back, back in the nest, and lets out a sigh
He gets back on the edge for another try at flight
He watches, determined to fly before night.
He bounces again and rises into the sky
His eyesclenched closed, he gulps, and hopes he won't die.
A little squeak omes from his beack
He flops his wings with fury and he takes a peak
His eyes now wide with joy with pride,
He flies so gracefully, as a human may stirde
Through the endless daylight
He flies like a small childs kite.
His heart slows as he swoops
And he preforms a loppy- loop
Then he sees the light dim and he swoops like a jet,
As he flies into the sunset.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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One
One thousand voices
But not one heard
One thousand thoughts
But not one word
One thousand troubles
But no one will know it
Unless I decide to
Finally show it
One thousand cuts
Run down my arm
A tribute to my
Life of self-harm
One thousand scars
That will not heal
One thousand people
Who will not feel
One thousand but no more
I finally decide
There will be one less person
And one more suicide
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Big Time
(ian hunter)
One more town on the merry-go-round
One more room with no view
One more punk eatin nothing but junk
Trin to make a phone call to you
Well maybe Ill never, get myself together
But somethings in the back of my mid
It only takes one call-you can laugh at em all
Youre never too small to hit the big time
One more slob feeling sick as a dog
After one more night on the booze
One more dive more dead that alive
Tryin to get my message through
Now, maybe Ill never get my self together
Maybe its the end of the line
But Im having a ball-bouncin off the walls
Youre never too small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never too small
Youre never to small to hit the big time
They can make you crawl, they can make you fall
But youre never to small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never to small
Youre never too small to hit the big time
If youre fat, if youre bald it dont matter at all
cos youre never to small-i said youre never to small
To hit the big time (yes indeed)
(the big time(- limousines)
(the big time)-you can have it all
(the big time)- I say youre never too small
One more crowd shoutin-turn it up loud
One more rose at my feet
One more ring from that cute little thing
One more reason to cheat
Well, maybe Ill never get myself together
Maybe its the end of the line...
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Thousand Words
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD TELL YOU MY FEELINGS.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD TELL YOU I'M WILLING.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD EXPLAIN MY PERSONA.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD TALK LIKE MY MAMA.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD SING YOU A LYRIC.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD SELL YOU A GIMMICK.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD TELL YOU IT ALL.
IN A THOUSAND WORDS I COULD SAY NOTHING AT ALL.
poem by LaQuandra Baskin
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Beachcombing
As the tide retreats, it leaves behind
Once hidden treasures, for folk to find.
Left revealed, is a long strip of shiny, wet sand,
Where treasures, now at their journey’s end, will land.
By the sea, small pieces of glass have been ground,
Leaving their once sharp edges, smooth and round.
There are a few fallen feathers from visiting gulls.
Smooth, egg-shaped pebbles – both shiny and dull.
Shells of all shapes, such as cones, conches, and scallops,
Are washed ashore by the powerful sea, as it gallops.
There are lions’ paws, kings’ crowns, tulips, angel wings,
Slipper shells, jewel boxes, moon snails and other things.
Sugar Kelp, Bladderwrack and Dead Man’s Fingers,
Are some of the seaweeds which, on the shore, linger.
The sight of numerous pieces of discarded litter,
Leaves behind a taste, in my mouth, that is bitter.
Pieces of driftwood, many with interesting shapes,
From the endlessly shifting sea, make their escape.
If, along a sandy beach, you take a relaxing wander,
There are many treasures on which you can ponder.
Folk can while away many an hour of pleasure,
Sifting amongst all the newly arrived treasure.
An hour or two spent exploring a sandy cove,
Can potentially reveal a whole treasure trove.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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History
Focused on burgundy palms
as the age blinks,
you start distressing on a unipolar
pinnacle, biting the nails.
The road absorbs the horizon.
Perched on a controversial tree
the birds break into small events
to reach the grass roots. A transparent question
always chases you about the consequence
of a war with troubled priests.
Do we need nitrous oxide to offset the gloom
of hovering religion? One enchanted
crowd spills in copycats to bring about
a revolution in ranks who were busy
in translating the epics of past.
poem by Satish Verma
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Aiming Back
I have seen up;
I have seen down
I have been sideways
crammed into my room;
felt small
in small places;
cried dry tears
and lay face down
from embarrasments
earned and not earned;
crept into places too small for me
and feel a thousand tiny cuts a day.
Today I leave and aim my self home
where there are people who love me.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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