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whispers of sea
where the cold storm
gathers in the grey
sky, and the waves
pound the shore
running back
pushing down
arching like
fiery cats,
the ache of the storm
a tearful cloud
the song of
a poem.
thank you to all my friends at this website for their continued support of one of the things i love in this world which is poetry. i've only just realised this is the daily today and i just wish i had more spare time at the moment to write and review. thank you again to everyone.
I used to flip through my pages
        Scanning
There were some interesting points
  Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
       Skimmed by,

         Until I met you,

                 You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through

     You deserve attention, you deserve time,

       And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.

                *I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
It was more than love -
A love beyond limits...
They were the first to discover
This newfound emotion,

It wasn't from this world,
It was divine - It must have fallen
From the heavens
When the skies opened;
There must have been
A titanic galactic explosion.

This newfound emotion
Rained down upon them,
That very first night
That their eyes met,
As they both gazed up
To the brilliant pure-white stars,

They were pulled together
By a magnetic energy,
They saw more than love light-up
In each other's eyes -
This was when
Their two worlds collided;
This was when
Venus fell for Mars.

By Lady R.F ©2016
brian odongo Nov 2016
Iam a poet
I pull the stars with a string
I shoot the moon with a sling
I form an hurricane with an ink
I make roses stink

Iam a poet
My pen is my favourite toy
With it I prevent Homer's troy
I sell hope through humour
Even when all you have is a tumour

Iam a poet
Reality is my latest fiction
Not forgetting my diction
Mostly I write my mind
Though some find it not kind
brian odongo Oct 2016
What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?
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