The Stage is Set
This whirlwind romance
has lasted through
the years and all the sex
we’ve had,
Between the imagery
of our thoughts
Converged
by the seductive poetry, And,
by-the-way, you’re always great
Even for a minute
when we escaped
Among the verses and stanzas
And the proverbial path twists
Searching every square inch
Ever blind in the mist
Slowly rounding curves
Softly, whispering lips
Reciting visions of you
unforgettably
your swirling scenes
have encompassed me
After all,
you are, my allegory
poem by Marcus McKinley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Flower Blooms As The Universe
a million years for a flower
to unveil the art of divine creation
to us - fragrance, shades, curves,
texture and minute ingenious designs
- filamens, pistils, stagmens, pollen..
orchids, roses, crocuses, geraniums
petal by petal, inch by inch,
second by second,
sun and moon, moon and sun
a million other universes
accompany the bloom
as it slowly, surely
digests the world
to show us its beauty
as the bloom crowns us all
at the apex of its wonder
- a million other universes
too have been born and
move inch by inch
towards achieving
a full bloom in the heavens
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Wisp Of Mist
Was that a wisp of mist I saw, swirling across the lawn,
Drifting through the shrubbery, this early November’s dawn.
Frost had gathered on the grass, making it all crisp and white,
And so a chilly day has shown a vision of delight.
Winter’s fingers are moving and the land begins to freeze,
Dressed in a silver blanket by nature’s great expertise.
Icy world of sparkle, a unique transformation seen,
As a wisp of mist goes swirling slowly across the green.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Appreciating Free Style Poetry, From The Loose Poet
for EVO e.i.c and his staff
poetic seeds germinate
above the 5 poetical quilts:
mood, imagery, thought
melody, rhythm
regardless of twigs sprouting -
matured poet reaps twists and surprises
immatured one duplicates
poetry is not a sole reflection of man's
damn imagination thru rhyme and metrical phrases
poetry is not a tone of
monotonous lines of ala-classical tounges of greatness
and hackneyed syllables, homonymous end-words
poetry is but a variation of
mute voices from artistic loose mind
puzzling emotions spill out in any wad of papers
in unlyrical odes, or sober sonnets
in rhyme or wild verses
then what makes my poetry
when read
to make my critics weep
they feed to every reader's mind
as they know -
my poetry has magic
most of us keep so well hidden
sometimes narrow
sometimes deep
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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What's the real meaning of Poetry
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
what is the real meaning of you?
is it the sonnets, the haiku's the imagery
no one will ever know.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
I know the real meaning of you
to express my feelings and thoughts on paper
to be able to publish you.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
you tell me the meaning of you.
poem by Nadia Potenza
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A Whimper
Hear softly rising
A single breath made of many sighs
Clay finished stroke mind and heart
Searching searching
Seeing with those eyes
The forest mist lifting our breath
Right beneath the horizon
Where standing between our own eyebrows
Spreading the smile at the dawn
Cut within the wrinkles of our thoughts
Hands shivering in handshakes moving
Eternally forward
Skipping millennia in a sec
Hear softly rising
Behind the storms in passion
Sealed through a meticulous sky
Though we have never done it right
How do we come
How do we go
How do we seal
The water seals of caves
Rushing into the darkness
Blind with hands only to touch
The surfaces rough
Stampede lights eye piercing
It will be the holes cracking
For a waterfall to splash
The face of the earth
Clay made whispered
Hear softly rising
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Drops Of Poetry
Drops of Poetry,
on my mind,
soaking in memories,
of things I remember,
of long ago.
Pouring down drops
on to my heart, releasing
my inner thoughts,
from this soul I have,
to write things that
must be told,
love that escaped
from my life, never
more to be seen.
Hurt, tears, broken
dreams torn away
from me, like a falling
star that becomes
just dust in the air.
Drops of Poetry so
clear is it now,
my body so wet,
from these drops
of poetry that stands,
all around me,
in the mist that
i now see,
my whole body
has been cleansed,
from all of these
drops of poetry.
wrote 3-15-07
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
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Excellent Path
A path of excellence flows through the life,
An infant asks what we learn for the path;
One man is better at the task than another
For all have tasks that are arduous, that back break.
Infancy is a prize and we carefully count
Their years for all to hear; the hearing is complete.
Excel for them, each will gain their respite,
One man is better at the task than another.
May we fluently speak for our throats,
The throat enables our deliberate thoughts of precision.
The real sages recite the verses of poetry
And write their own prose for all infants to read.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Romance Bore Seduction
Hand blessed hand, caressed.
A blushing rose, her face;
Her breast alive;
The elfin nose, a diamond set -
A kiss upon perfection
Bore a rise of pulse
To coach a sultry moan
Across a mellow breath of wine.
He knew; he sensed,
And easing loose a clasp of lace,
Another sign of her relenting:
Wild the play of eyes,
A fuller glide of skin;
He felt the now begin -
Her swell, intention in the sigh.
And so to hedge his move upon the cue -
The cry of deep anticipation,
Waxing all he saw -
Tho' not for us to view -
Arrived, emotion raw.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Now render to caressing waves of romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
Romance romance romance romance
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Divine Poetry
Poet never ceases to be poet
He can't remain quiet
He is not dependant on fate
He is with the scene and never late
Poetry is my food
I have completely understood
If I fail to write anytime in a day
That is enough cause for me to be taken away
I shall be no more
If thoughts compel me to feel bore
Thoughts just emerge from the idle store
Pen gets strength to write more and more
Poetry is dear to me like wife
It is also like an edge of knife
It may compel you to write tough
And land you in trouble to pass through rough
But you got to be fearless
As that may be tough situation to face
Many readers may try to pull your legs
When your are reciting it on the stage
It is easy to swim in imagery
Float in dreams with lines silvery
Moon may seem very near
To enjoy its beauty without fear
Poetry as such is divine gift
It may never allow having shift
He is the one who instills thought
When with peaceful mind they are sought
It is divinity that makes home
Pen must write always to welcome
Readers must enjoy skill and talent
Swim with melody and enjoy the moment
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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Billy Breathes
Tumbling greens, a pick-up screams alone above the square
Whoa, sing softly
Above the trees where billy breathes we float upon the air
Whoa, oh
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Ooooh ooooh
Silent scenes in motion means, Ill wake you when were there
Whoa, sing softly
Time, it seems, in broken dreams, to sleep beside the stair
Whoa, oh
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Ooooh ooooh
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
Softly sing sweet songs
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Barathrum At Night
When pyknic tendrils of sweat rack faces
And inebriated lips crack into sobriety,
Obscure night prophecies; life-forecast dreams
Insinuate images of imploding hopefulness;
The lonely pebble encased in a cacoon of vanity
Encompassed by an opaque mist of damning disparity
One sole solution:
Staring heavy into the black firmament,
Obstructing visions, hence concluding futurity.
We are acquiring the might to prevail then
Through the hecatomb of bloody day.
poem by Mark Challenger
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This minute
I melt this minute
to a candle
and light it with my poetry.
I will give a new colour to darkness
and make a new path
for the stream of poetry to flow.
That minute,
i will burn history
and write a new history
glorifying the power of labours
and the guts of soldiers.
I will spread peace
and love with that light
and construct a bridge
from reality to dreamland.
Then i again solidify the minute
and let the time
pass by...
Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
Poetry! Yes!
P. The Purple
P. The Pink
Poetry! Be a mix of emotions,
Poetry! The different kinds of expressions,
Poetry! The different kinds of experiments
Poetry! The Corners of exploration
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The Vague Of Emphasise.
Though be the same thoughts and emotions, he solves the different vexed questions of equations
Poetry! My blue sky!
Poetry! My brown skin
Poetry! My White clown
Poetry! My green grass
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Expressed and impressed,
applied and implied
thrown and blown
pen with a book,
a vein of a blood
Poetry! the visions of missions,
build in all kinds of potions,
Poetry! the zeal of joy,
it being in zone
I Learn!
I Observe
I Like
But! I Love!
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whirlwind
Orbison/dees
Youre the figure of a woman
Youre the mind of a child
A pretty whirlwind
You dont know just what youre doing
When you love me with your smile
A lovely whirlwind
A whirlwind of warm desire
Whirlwind, burning fire woman, realize
That the devil in disguise, is a whirlwind
Born to be running wild and free
Whirlwind
Born to make fools of guys like me
You pick me up like a whirlwind
You put me down like a whirlwind
Each time you touch me Im trouble-bound
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirlwind
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Moving and Dreaming:
Fast moving down, up, rounding curves, as
Astonishing morning scatters glow
And joy throughout and blue overflow
Bushes huddling and whistling wind upsetting
Chatting chickadees and ruffling feathers, they scatter.
Still, heel and toe slowly rocking and leaning into curves
asserting my pace against the wind, becomes winded.
Have to relax my pace.
So still are feathered friends strung along
the nearly bare limbs. Relaxed.
They ruffle feathers and wing.
Relaxed. I stretch my limbs and my dream flew.
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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To a Friend
With a Volume of Verses.
TO you who dwell withdrawn, above
The world's tumultuous strife,
And, in an atmosphere of love,
Have triumphed over life;
To you whose heart has kept so young
Beneath the weight of years,
I give these passion flowers of song,
Still wet with undried tears.
You too have trod that stony path
Which steeply winds afar,
And seen, through nights of storm and wrath,
The bright and Morning Star;
Where, shining o'er the Alps of time
On valleys full of mist,
It beckons us to peaks sublime,
Oh, brave Idealist.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Death of Poetry
Poetry is dead and God is alive.
I heard these words and began to cry.
Without poetry what would become of me,
Drowning in a sea of Christianity?
Poetry is dead and long let it lie
With its Thee and its Thy and its Thou and its Thine
May we never see another line
Of iambic pentameter with end-stopped rhymes.
Poetry is dead, and so it shall lay,
Mouldering at the pit of its shallow grave.
And no longer will they give a hoot
For the quatrain stanzas or the metered foot!
Poetry is dead at the bottom of the sea
With its anapests, dithyrambs, dactyls and spondees.
And also eight to sixteen lines
On your innermost feelings or the meaning of life.
Poetry is dead but how long will it stay
Before they resurrect it for another day?
Has it not been just a few years time
Since they said it was God who was dead—
-and poetry alive?
poem by Theresa Haffner
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