When are your hands going to talk again?
Holding the pen dipped in blue waters,
Allowing soft tickles, to dance on my brain
Your words, are like your sons, and your daughters...
When you will plant the red paper fields
With words made of silver and gold?
The ones, that makes me smile or shed tears,
The ones, that to my heart, I can hold...
When will you pick me a bouquet of rhymes,
Wrapped in white rhythmic stanzas?
When I will pick your brains from the vines,
So I can collect your thoughts in organzas?
I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
I am the last line
Here sits a poet,
A constellation of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending tapestry of poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
I want to be a Black verse
Living off the society’s expectations,
I want to be a Free verse
Redefine this hypocrisy called democracy.
When I grow up,
I will be an exposed poem, with stanzas like a book of secrete.
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.
Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.
There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.
When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.
Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
by Hannah Lee
A forest needs rain,
to flourish and thrive.
A human needs pain,
to learn and move on.
A sunset needs to be bruised,
to produce the colors you see.
An athlete needs to learn to lose,
before learning to shoot their goals.
A child needs to be curious,
to learn about her surroundings.
To love, you must be experienced,
for how can you love others when you can't love yourself?
put words into
and lines into
arranged on the
verses of my
to make you
for some reason i can't put up poems ??? i have so much stored already :^(
I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace
be but penance for my past, a silver
sinew-thread wrapping 'round old
wrongs, gray hair for the
I've naught but want for sweet release
from this history. The bombs ignored,
repeating in gramophone static
as wet bamboo. I remember someone
once sang here, once strung together
chords so sweet they rang like peace-
bells beneath cloudless sky. They've
rang the bell upon my jaw and
done no wrong.
It's not so much unlike one's curiously
cold reception at a funeral. The cold
and rain ****** at the skin
during graveside hymnal.
As long as the earth continues
its stony breathing I will breathe.
That which I cannot help but do.
Stuck between boulders, I sing.
When it stops, I will shatter back
into gravity. Into quartz.
"Rimrock" is a poem from Kaveh Akbar's 2017 collection "Calling a Wolf a Wolf." Akbar's lines are in standard type; my lines are in italics.