Bad ass good poems - Hello Poetry

Feb 2018

Jasmine

I don’t know how to write

I only know how to feel, how to bleed

The red seeps into the page

Then somehow sentences are formed

Someone finds it, in a dusty wooden chest

In the back of the room

It’s been hidden, untouched, for years, and I didn’t know there was anyone else left

Somehow my heart isn’t the only one beating

#poem #poems #poetry #words #writing #write #writer #thoughts #thought #quote

Feb 2018

Pagan Paul

Lyenna of Cressed (Part 1)

.
I travelled the lands out to the West,
of all the cities I am most impressed,
with Melk, by mountains and sea it rests,
ruled by the Queen, Lyenna of Cressed.

Her beauty is famed throughout the land,
with many suitors for her vacant hand,
none of whom will ever understand,
she will marry only her own hearts plan.

I met Lyenna in her Palace of Green,
and my eyes saw beauty they had never seen,
so mysterious and delicate this foreign Queen,
seductive and distant with charms unseen.

Invited to an audience within the walls,
how could I not reply to this royal call,
these affairs tend towards a chaotic squall,
a chance to meet a Queen in her Great Hall.

“Lord Pagan of Poetica, I'm pleased to meet you,
its so nice for me to personally greet you”.
Her soft voice designed just to defeat you,
her ravishing beauty on show to unseat you.

With reddened cheeks I was able to say
“Its my pleasure indeed to meet you this day,
though the ground is cold and the sky is grey,
your presence brings the warm sun my way”.

My charm raised a blush and a smile,
she was happy to tarry with me awhile,
in the gardens we must have walked a mile,
her suitors barely concealing jealousy and bile.

Then Queen Lyenna whispered a secret to me,
she was waiting for a man from across the sea,
until he came she would hold on with assurity,
to her chastity, her love and her purity.

Her confidence in me was by no means assuaged,
but her secret I keep dear like an animal caged,
as deep within a raw and primal fire still raged,
I felt this moment could not have been better staged.

Her shy request to become my lover,
gifting to me what she would give no other,
my desire and lust I could no longer cover,
my heart was hers, no longer for another.

Disillusioned with the men in her land,
refusing them all she had made her stand,
not acquiescing to what her father planned,
the smile in her eyes said “I've got my man”.

From 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica

© Pagan Paul (08/02/18)

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#poetry #adventure #love #romance

Feb 2018

Poetic T

The Wolf & The Sheep

When the wolf saw the sheep
             the sheep asked why me,
why not those over there.

The wolf replied I have no need
          of explanation for your worries,
they are short lived as is your breath.

The sheep asked again as the wolfs
         teeth caressed it throat,
Loosing gently it replied.

*"Death is a petal on a flower of life,
               and yours has fallen to me,

#death #life #circle #petal

Feb 2018

r

Table of contents of what it is

If a person is quiet
enough inside,
they might just be
able to catch on to
the table of contents
of what it is
I’m trying to say, to
get to, to put away
before it's way
too late, and I don't
mean to
confuse you,
like before men
could speak,
they enjoyed confusing
one another
with signs,
they enjoyed this
as much as
a mirror enjoys
an image shine,
or the evening,
like a ship, enjoys
a sapphire grave,
but that's not what
I'm trying to do,
I only want you
to hear what I have
to say one more time,
just one more day
before it's weight
becomes way too great.

Feb 2018

John Edward Smallshaw

Tough lodgings

The rough sleepers
keeping diaries of
near misses and
misadventures
staying alone and alive
living on their wits
eschewing assistance
except
from the social and
the occasional good
Samaritan.

Jesus plays his part,
free tea in the park
meals at the mission
seems god is fishing
for converts,
but
It's hard to believe
in a better life
when you have no life
and you gave your last smoke
to someone poorer than you.

I imagine me
outside
the British library
reading Burns
and who's to say
We
could be that rough sleeper
you passed today
reading
Burns
taking turns
to write in the diary.

Feb 2018

Traveler

IT ONLY

There’s no running from it
It stays right by your side
Every time it starts to knock
It stirs you deep inside
We can’t live without it
It sustains our need to breathe
No need to separate from It
It simply wants to be...
Of coure I speak of poetry
...

Traveler Tim

Feb 2018

Wk kortas

A Young Woman At Colleville-Sur-Mer, C. 1956

She slumped by the archway of the Chapel,
Forlorn, beaten in fact;
She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh,
(Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings)
To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux
Purchased from a women at a small shop table,
Who’d had the grace not to haggle over-much,
Knowing full well why someone would make such a purchase.
She’d hoped to lay it at her brother’s marker;
He’d been lost at Omaha, likely before he’d set foot on the sand
(She’d no ideas of such things at the time,
Death being a thing that happened to rabbits
Their old shepherd chased down in the back yard,
Or dolls beheaded courtesy of her younger brother)
But the plot number given to her with such confidence
By the young adjutant from the War Department
Had a name wholly unknown to her
(Where the information was bollixed she had no way of knowing,
Not that officialdom would be any more help to her,
With so many sons in Scranton,
So many husbands in Hamtramck,
So many fathers and brothers in the same boat)
And so she sat, overwhelmed with the distance she’d come,
The magnitude of her failure and its implications,
And the whole **** burden of simple humanity
When she was approached by an older man,
Who clearly resided nearby
(Why he was here less evident—the hush of the venue, perhaps,
Possibly some corporal he was indebted to).
He’d understood her predicament in an instant,
No doubt a scene he’d witnessed scores of times before,
Laissez-le sur un monument funéraire,
He crooned, patting her forearm
Ce n’est pas important, and he sauntered away.
She’d considered heeding his advice,
But she remained hostage
To some vestige of latter-day Babbitesque can-do,
And so she soldiered back toward the endless rows of marble,
Stretching out in endless parallel lines
As in some middle-school perspective perspective drawing
Without borders, without end.

#sameasiteverwasonereckons