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Jenny Gordon Oct 2018
...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.


Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence
Ne words for aught.  To be suffices.  Pale
Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail,
As I wish to be out there listning, whence
Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense
Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail.
And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl,
I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense.
We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir.
Wash dishes after, while the dark night to
Effect is black, so very black.  Who tour
Upon these roads are like the fireflies through
Warm August twilight.  Oh!  What is't as twere?
Why's writing such a chore?  Will being just do?

Please dinna waste your time trying to correct supposed spelling errors since I deliberately penned it thus for ease of reading.
Grant Dickson Oct 2018
Bit of a scruffy scoundrel sometimes isn't it
around ones face like a lions mane it will sit,
Varied lengths shapes and colours
the growers are all like brothers.

It's not just ****** hair
some dont just stop and stare,
others want to touch the beard
maybe reading this you think that's weird.

Taking pride of place upon ones face
designer stubble there's not a trace,
like giving your pet a comb and groom
to some a shave would spell doom.

Though this may sound perverse
to touch it would be no curse,
pogonophiliacs want to give it a stroke
to others they sound like crazy folk.

Cooks we may not all be it's true
we love our women like our beards too,
adding in a little oil and sometimes butter
served to make their hearts flutter.

( C ) Grant Dickson 04/10/2018
I decided to write this random poem today national poetry day, I hope you all enjoy
ChikuShanae Apr 2018
I hate returning to that,
Dark corner in my heart.
There is so much so say,
And I don't know where to start.
All the issues I have,
Is beginning with me.
Issues I never wanted,
The worlds to see.
I've done a great job,
Hiding them perfectly.
The more I write,
The truth comes out forcefully.
I swear i never wanted to be the girl who.
Cripples myself in jealousy,
Always watching them before me.
I know its wrong,
But i cant help envy quietly.
I cant be happy for your blessing,
Because I'm comparing myself and it gets depressing.
That's only the top layer of my truth,
I let hate grab me of my youth.
The deeper secret is I had hate in my heart,
Everything around me was falling apart.
I put the blame on everything else except me.
But the real reason is me.
A lesson I had to learn,
Is people's love and respect is something i had to earn.
How was I could I expect people to be on my level,
When I was walking so close to the devil.
The desperate need for attention,
Was causing the constant rejection.
I had to realize I'll always be misunderstood,
I will always be judged and that's something  that needed to be understood.
Josie Sep 2017
Twitter says it's National Poetry Day
But no words come to me today
My inspiration will come back on another day
Adrian Sep 2017
Her lips
S t a r s

When I
Kiss them
B u r n e d
Tommy Randell Oct 2016
I am the Poet Refugee
Now living in a world of Prose
Accepted yes to some degree
But never quite sure of my role.

Should I be the way I was made
Speaking in metaphor and rhyme
Or must I give in to the page
Ruled by its adherence to lines?

May I speak out in an attempt
To urge us to be reconciled?
We Poets offer no dissent
To justify being so defiled

Always to be read with a sneer
Not given the due we are owed
That whenever a Poet is near
Truth will be camouflaged with code.

Ever to be judged out of turn
An object of pity and fun
Looked down at with frequent concern
Poems may be suicide bombs.

You want Poets locked up in books
Kept in churches not out of doors
But that is where logic gets stuck
In the fight of rhythm and words.

We're the same Poets and Writers
We both say what needs to be said
Both to ourselves and to others
Without us meaning would be dead

Without us there would be no songs
Graffiti to make Peace not War
And it really wouldn't take long
To wonder what Language was for.
I wanted to write about refugees and immigrants, although I am not one. I wanted to write about being a poet who isn't mainstream or modern, on the outside? Why is poetry still a novelty in this world?
Darren Oct 2016
Etched in his mind,
The internal war,
Haemorrhaging blood,
Hidden once more,

Slowly he’s dying,
His body too weak,
Paralysed lips,
Unable to speak,

Traumatic life,
Slipping away,
His heavy soul,
Aching today.

He witnessed it all,
The burden unseen,
Screaming their names,
Tortured in dream,

His cries settle,
His memory fades,
Wiping the tears,
For former comrades.

Amanda Oct 2015
Oftentimes I find myself
staring at the sky,
drifting away
on clouds
and daydreaming of
your cerulean eyes.

I get lost in the memories,
and find myself in a daze.
Reality often seems futile
when I'm adrift
in this lustful haze.

My heart is
broken and bruised;
I know you want me too,
but how will I ever find you
while we're lost
in this maze.

And how am I supposed to stop missing you
when the cerulean sky
is consistently reminding me
of your cerulean eyes
and the bittersweet memories
that we held on
beautiful, nostalgic days.
Dreams of Sepia Oct 2015
Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers on my mind

that haunts the drunken moon
that lovers whisper in the shadows

Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that rescues us from sorrows & ourselves

that the Sea sings in it's lullabies
& that the oppressor fears

Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers after death has tolled

it's dark, dark bell
Richer than the gift of any king-

Sweet Poetry!
It's National Poetry day today in the UK so I thought I'd celebrate by writing this poem!

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