If I could fly,
Then I would try.
If I could try,
Then I would not fail.
And when I do not fail,
I can escape
And I will be free
Hey this is what I used to get in, plz no copying
Once I type a poem,
It's out of my hands.
It might be recited
By a poet
On top of a Pile of Garbage
In Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.
It might be used
To incite a Revolution in Moldova.
It might be combined
With a Nude Photograph
Of a Russian Chick
By a young man in Soweto
To make a multimedia presentation
To show his Grandpa.
In any case,
Whatever the Hell I'm typing
At the Byers Branch Library
In the Santa Fe Drive Arts District
Of Denver, Colorado
Is Out of My Hands
Once I post it online.
I don't have any control.
I don't know how to follow the Rules in Tumblr contests. However, my inability to follow rules inspired this poem, which I composed, here, at the Byers Branch Library, in the Santa Fe Drive Arts District of Denver
Song Filled Hour ....
*A song from the bush , a cry at the prequel to dusk ,                               Agents of change that ride mercurial winds through evenings golden hour
Sing to me* ...
WiltingMoon Mar 2017
em>We fall for a reason
We rise for a purpose
WiltingMoon Mar 2017
strong>Love that is seen in the smallest of moments, is what makes life livable
em>stealing other poet's poems
is so rampant and rife
looters will attest to the works
being of their original life

with a swag of online poetry sites
used by plagiarists plundering
no poet's heart and soul efforts
are dismissed from the sundering

pilfers of verse ever busy themselves
they're such industrious thieving elves

should they take a fond liking
for what you've written
they'll stow your wonderful lines
in a crook's mitten

copyright and true possession
of materials you've produced
get no attention from they who've
a penchant for something re-produced

under our radar they
do the wicked deed
could be said they are
so unethical of creed
DET Jan 2017
"It's easy to die but it's not easy to live."
Wayne H Colegate Nov 2016
I wander aimlessly around my tiny world, cringing at the pain
I worry about tomorrow’s plan and curse at today’s rain.
Joints of hell and fire make every step a burden,
yet no end in sight and more of the same is certain.
I want to stand as tall as a little man and breathe fire,
not be known as a poet without words or a liar.
I want to battle through the agony and avoid the tears
I need to dig a little deeper to make sure I hide my fears.
Older may be better when discussing the fine wines
But in the body of an old man it’s a world of wrinkles and lines
I recall the early days as many writers do, words flowed like beer
music never stopped and there was always more to hear.
Looking in a morning mirror is a terror in itself
I see the face of a statue that belongs on someone’s shelf.
Where is the smile and all the character that made me young
where is all the harmony for the songs I’ve always sung?
Will this happen to everyone as years slip through their hands
Will all my friends and family watch the sifting sands?
Time will tell I have been told as I wither and fight on
I hope the best of me is coming.... but not gone.
For all those battling tomorrow!
DET Nov 2016

Faith belongs to those who are not blind
To sight the light and darkness
When the light's fade
All you are left is with darkness
Because 'tween the light there was always the darkness
Copyright © 2016 D.E.T All Rights Reserved.
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