Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Old men sit
in plastic pink lawn chairs,
smoking cigarettes
halfway down our street.

Counting the cop cars that drive by,
One. Two. Three.

They laugh
with heads thrown back
and missing teeth

at little boys who
roll and play in shopping carts,
crashing-
One, Two, Three!

Little boys lay
in the space between
grey gravel road
and thirsty green grasses.

They laugh
with heads thrown back
and tiny white teeth.
Down the hall
Back and to the right
Past a broken neon sign
Through an unlocked door
Then down four flights
A hole in the wall
In a room on the left
Follow it down
Through dirt and rock
After more than a while
You'll see a faint light
A oil lamp hanging
Kept by those who travel
So bring some won't you
The oil that is
Not much further past
You'll  find what you seek
The city beneath the city
The world and the way
That we abandoned long ago
The past they made us forget
And the future that might still be
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks



I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing

one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"

maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!

love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments


when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself

something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you

ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem

but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep


but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,

his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Ohhh she was desperate to meet her
To run her fingers through her silvered hair
And cherish the memories and wrinkles scatter around her eyes
How she would ask a hundred question
Like if her dreams were meant
Not just a fews kids and a husband
But was the book written and cherished
Did she move next to the ocean and become its best friend
Was she able to voice the words that were kept so deep within her lips
Did she jump and sing at every opportunity
Did she learn sign language and attend those stain glass classes
She would love to sit next to her and memorize the clothes she wore
The way she lifted her chin a little higher
Steady in her being
She couldnt wait to sit next to this her
Sit next to her peace
And just a little awe
Nigdaw 7d
we encourage them
to carry on
as though the party
isn't over and everyone
that matters hasn't
already gone
Robert Jun 4
Deep within Virginia's desolate wood, stands a hobble shack, where no shack should be stood. Its roof tattered and door cracked and crinkled, and in it lives old man hue with all his wrinkles. Some say he's old, by old I mean a hundred and two, but for me I know it's not true. Many say he's ornery, but to me he's been nothing but kind, you could say hes a dear friend of mine. See I've spent many days with old man hue, and if one thing for certain, if one thing is true. Is that in the hobble shack which stood true, was the closest thing to a father, that old man hue.
Leya May 26
Winds roared from north to south,
As the compass of life lost its aim.
For her groom had already lost his way—
Now, her farewell softly came.

---

While charcoal smothered the maiden's hair,
Yet the dame looked like the winter moon—
Pale; the night was unfair,
Once and for all, her final path illumed.

---

Time rewinds, present intertwines,
A gathered crowd—unique in meaning.
Only she in the portrait could gather the tears,
But never did they care for the old woman buried.

---

Family now bedecked with flowing crystals,
Living eyes weeping loving lies.
Time teaches the weeping crowd:
What’s lost always feels truly precious.

---

Lying above the mantel is the portrait of a girl,
Entertaining the sorrowed crowd.
Ignoring the diamonds over the stage,
As she knows they too will dissipate.

---

No one would shed for the granny,
She ponders while gathering the crystals lost.
The girl in the portrait recalled her theory:
Love is only for the dead at a cost.

---

Justice’s scale now overweighs,
Its back turned against the dead.
What goes around, comes around—
It’s the cycle of birth and death.

---

The old woman now awaits
For the girl in the portrait.
Heaven rings—mirror reflections,
As she now holds hands with her twin.

---

The pain she carried, being lonely,
Finally meets its end-worthy.

And with the following words,
She smiles eternally—

"How could they ever forget you, my older self?
You are beautiful—
For you, heaven awaits everlastingly."
Do share some love.
The poem is about an elderly woman who was ignored untill the day she died. Her death was a reminder to her family that she exists thus they gather at the funeral. The girl in the portrait they shed tears for is the old woman's younger self. Her younger-self portrait conveys the message of how she never was taken care of, let alone have a picture of her clicked when she grew older. The younger girl in the portrait(the old woman herself) reunites with her older version in heaven .
Next page