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Cupid's Stupid

A poet is born from a loving man,
A poem is born for every woman,
published in paper are just mere,
off record on heart so many here,
written on with a mysterious ink,
a mixture of love and a missing link,
a painful smile and a joyful cry,
a silent shout or a truthful lie,
blooming hell and a heavenly agony,
wow! what an irony!
a blood emptied heart is filled with love,
a simple word becomes a beatific verse,
yearning for someone is a blissful curse,
darling, sweetheart, my sweet angel Cinderella,
so many names for someone's inamorata,
a lover's chaste is the poem's charity,
like a rain kissed window glass without a clarity,
life goes on beautiful without a warranty,
a newborn lover's heart is the dead poet's society.

poem by Vimal Kumar N
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poet To Be

A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.

I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.

I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.

I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.

But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.

I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.

I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.

I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.

A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.

I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.

I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.

It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.

A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.

But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.

How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.

As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.

poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poetry Sweetheart named T

There is a young lady
who calls everyone sweetheart,
who gives the impression
she is Wonder Woman,
in a way she is.

A wonderful poet
who gives us a glimpse
deep into her life.
Reading her poems
is like peeking into her diary.

She can be coy, candid,
and great friend as well.
She can be fun to be with
I know that so well
for I met her at Stratford.

She pleaded with me
to go along.
I’m glad I did
for a great time
was had by all.

Now she is in love
and all of us know
it’s a match made in heaven.
He is her soul mate,
her lover
and soon she’ll be his wife.

Love for our poetry sweetheart
has never been so grand
and I’m hoping
all the best for them.
I’ll write a special poem
nearer the time.

In the meantime,
this poem goes to the poet
who loves to call everyone sweetheart,
and who is everyone’s sweetheart.
Our one and only
Tara McHale.

To end this
I would like to say.
T this for you
from your friend always
DD

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The First Poem

The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
The words I love you
written by this beauty's tongue
turned a heart rosy red from a somber blue
and made me burn for my heart was wrung.
The first poem I ever read
is the first poem I ever said.
On her poetic lips love words refined
and shaped a sonnet on her flesh defined
On those lips I read a poet's song
And knew it was there my lips belonged.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I love you, I love you
What does it mean?
These words said, to start anew
something pure and something serene.
The first words I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
Those first words she whispered into my ear
And in my heart, her poem stood near
Those are the most beautiful words one ever said
I love you, I love you, will live till its dead.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I read her lips, I love you, I love you..
now to sleep I go in love's sweet bed.

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing..

This poem is not about love..
This poem is not about pain..
This poem is not about the things i have learned...

This poem is not for the broken hearted..
This poem is not for the ones seeking help..
This poem is not for the depressed...
This poem is for no one,
Because no one can contain nothing...

This poem is not filled with wisdom..
This poem was not written with love...
This poem was not written for a lover nor a brother...

This poem was nothing special...
Not quite remarkable....
But it is nothing because that what it was...
Nothing and it will never be anything...

poem by Jenna Marie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poet vs Poem

Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?

Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.

Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.

Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.

poem by Saurav Karki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Stitch In Time, Saves Mine

A few have lost their minds to love
I am one of them
I've lost my mind to my heart
I've loved in summer
And cried in the rain
I've always felt I'd die young
Forget not this humble poet
Who made words dance like none
Who held hope as a neon light
That all mankind may someday say
She lived and loved richly
A love creature
Born of love, for love, to love
Now if you see me strolling your garden
Fifty years from this poem
Do know God loves the way
This poet puts a smile upon his face
I found my purpose in poetry and love
Pain is gain to those whose patience remain
Love is hurt then love again to those who love purely
The world had fought two wars then bore me
My life's been the third world war
A war that's promised to leave the world a rose
Keep forever Jenim, the lass scarred by life's trimmings
Pray remember Scarcast, the child born of God's graces
Time did marry chance and invited me to dinner
I met his sun who'd refused to shine my whole life
'Shine let her see your glory', his dad said
Sun rolled from east to west
Not to shine or burn
But to stretch and yawn
'Its cold dad, its rain's turn'
The earth which drinks the rain
Brings forth flowers after the sun kisses her
Chance did stand and took her stand
I've lived a life whose plot was simple
And God's been all my heart could take
Though hurt's been all my heart could get
Love's been all my heart could give
The sun and earth kissed
And here I am... the rose you could have missed. 

poem by Jenim Dibie
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This Poem Should Have Been Written Long Ago By Someone Else

This poem should have been written long ago by someone else
They should have said what needs to be said
Clearly and yet beautifully
They should have known what to do with their words and their intimations -
But instead I old I tired old I I with the I I I always I’ing
Have to write it again-
This poem should have been written by someone else
The way I was when I was young
But even then probably it should have been written by someone else
Younger happier stronger wiser more courageous able to give and inspire others to love life more and make it more good and more beautiful
A real poet a great poet should have written this poem
And then it would be one
Even I would try not to forget.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am A Poet

Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me

poem by Metin Sahin
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By Night The muses told me.

By night the muses snatched me away, in to their
loveliest
Abode where the gods grow fond of. But poor I am in word to describe
The heavenly refinement of this humble paradise.
Laying me helplessly on this sour grass and looking into the early skies as a lover
On the tour of painful love and yet whispering in my ears as my ears quiver for answers
My dear poet the fairest of them all, whose heart is as loveliest as a thousand bouquets of roses laid by the lover's bed.
Grow within your thought the learning of love and let the world be indeed a beautiful place for you.

Though I do not challenge your words great muses, whose radiate skin bring light in darkness, whose word flow from your mouth as you were present when the world came to being, my great and wonderful muses, whose song feels the heart of the faint lover and bring to tame the proudest heart of the lion on a mid day hunt.
Your beauty I as a mortal i dare not compare any beauty with.
How should I love, how should I give my heart and not get pain in return,
You trained my heart and though I am weak, spirit me away in to your humble blossom
And let me rest my head on your golden lap.
For my lips are so moisten with words from my heart, I am not in control of my self.
If I, a lover of a thousand women, how then should I, a god like me
In mortal flesh prevent my pleasures for over taking me.
Hence my muse answered,

my dear poet and god, who I bestow my graces upon, who
Are the hands I write my songs and poem with, do no despair, write what ever I tell you through your heart and understand my plight, but if still you do not comprehend go and listen to my dear god Ovid, it was him Venus thought the art of love

But oh my dear lord and love muses, your words grace my heart, but my mind is not at peace
Ovid my great and wonderful love teacher, who none compares not even Shakespeare with his renown wits and words' sit with open eyes and heart applaud when he delivers the speech of love. But still I am a lover of thousand women.

My dearest, whom I endowed with the riches of words, hear me, your heart though full of wonder love, it is with it I deliver the power of love through, learn to live with it my young poet.
Tell the loveliest women how you feel and if she does not comprehend, craft them into words on paper, go my young poet and tell the ladies of the world through your words how elegant they seem in there natural beauty, how beauty grows and fade. Tell them to grace there appearance with inner beauty for the goddess and muses shall be with you.
You are my handy work, the man of a thousand lover, forgive cupid for his jealous looks my dear poet live and enjoy your fruitful days as young, soon old age comes fleeting in a chariot.

poem by Samuel Donkor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem

THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-

I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-

A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Marry A Poet

The great seasgull is now in the sky! !
Fantasy;
But, you are at the seaside waiting for your lover because,
You want to marry a poet.

Arts and nature!
Love is in the air;
Because, everything around us are part of the beauty of nature! !
And like the sweet muse of love to educate the mind.

Imagination,
Life,
Peace and love;
But you are ready to learn from everybody and,
You want ot marry a poet!
And, this poem is for you my love.

How lovely is your heart?
How lovely is your muse?
How lovely is your mind?
For, the great seagull in now in the sky! !
And, you are at the seaside waiting for your lover because,
You want to marry a poet.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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God is the creator

God is the creator
poem is a creation
Poet is not God.

I am a lover of poem
Poet is my hero
God is hero's hero.

I just read poem
I just enjoy reading poem
I shall continue to read poem
As long as I enjoy poem.

At times
Poems are being written by me.
The credit goes to God
God direct me to write poem
And I write.

God only can explain the meaning
I am just an instrument
And nothing.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Is Like A Beautiful Work Of Art

A poem has no write or
wrong,
How to write your poem
is up to you,
Visualize a perfect poem
That readers will love,
Adjust a poem as much as
you want,
Remember a poem is like
art,
You write it with meaning
and passion,
Add as much as your heart
desires,
Short or long it does not
matter,
Add a picture with your
poem,
Add a quote or a verse,
it is a poet's decision,
Always be proud of your poem,
Let the words flow when you
write,
A poem expresses a feeling,
thought and emotion,
Add a frame and hang it up
on a wall,
share your talents with the
world,
Poetry is like a beautiful
work of art.

poem by Derek James
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again

THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’

‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?

Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’

The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Most Famous I Am Poem

The most famous I Am poem was penned by John Clare
When he was in Northampton mental asylum and burdened by care
A poem from all others that set him apart
For life's poor and forsaken a cry from the heart,
A poem by an aged poet lost in the lost years
The most famous I Am poem move many to tears
A poem written by one who knew about despair
That poem his reality such poems are rare
The most famous I Am poem tells of an Earthly Hell
Known by the fringe dwellers the mentally unwell
The song of an old poet forsaken and gray
The truth in his words is still living today
And though the renowned old wordsmith to the reaper long gone
His famous I Am poem it is living on.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Women And Poems

With as much pain as a human being becomes a woman,
That much pain makes a woman a poet.
A word takes a long year to be made,
a poem an entire life.

When woman becomes a poet, she is totally a woman.
Then she is mature enough to give birth from her suffering heart,
Then she knows how to care for a word.

You have to be a woman first if you want to give birth to a poem.
A word without any pain is fragile, breaks when touched.
Who knows more than a woman all the lanes and alleys of pain!

poem by Taslima Nasrin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Is The Poet

THE POEM IS THE POET

The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-

The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-

The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-

It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-

When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Empty

. .Who shall measure the heat and
violence of the poet's heart when caught
and tangled in a woman's body?
-Virginia Woolf

Every month,
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingers
of the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.

Who was she?
Someone I invented
for this poem,
someone I imagined. . .

Never mind,
she is me, you-

tied to that bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood,
moving to the metronome-
empty, empty, empty.

No use.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky above the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.

Try to run:
the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quiet room
to practice your preludes & fugues.
Under the piano,
the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.

Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.

poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Glass

Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.

A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.

Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.

If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.

poem by Robert Francis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Got Many Names And Meanings

Love got many names and meanings
Sing by lover hearts
My love has other meaning
Not in the dictionary or glossary
My love isn’t story or a novel
My love isn’t a poem of pendants seven
My love is more affections then Laila and Qais
My love is stronger than Antar and Abla
Greater than the love of Romeo and Juliet
Love you my heart princess
New love, renewed every moment
Love would never grow old
Immortal love
I love my love

This poem is gift for my sweet wife for her brithday, best and sweet wish Umri, love you

poem by Mohammed AlBalushi
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