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. 7/4/2019
I can see
in the way that you move alluring seductive and so pure that for me you will be big trouble I can feel when you move in that way the demon take over gracefully he sways me enchanted towards you For the way that you move so freely I can't help but to stare you seen it and I knew how you moved was for me
I did do
a tricube of tricubes 3x3x3 = 27 2+7 = 9 3+3+3 = 9 9/9 = 1 coincidence? (no, it's maths)
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 lines and lines into stanzas delicately arranged on the ground-- verses of my design; but what words, lines, and stanzas must i string together to make you mine?
for some reason i can't put up poems ??? i have so much stored already :^(
Cosmetics cloud constellations far and near,
Tonight the mattress is solo once again, My little dipper was a leader to cheer. Heir to Isle of Gones, she's a gust of wind, Scabs from toenails scratching restless legs to bed, Seems fit for the darkness to promptly kick in. "Where is my Mind" loops loud circles in my head, The trigger and pills are held cautious at bay, Our egos lie in white sheets born in blood red. My window pane's silhouette was ****** and fed, With curtain's wide eyes, nosey neighbors could see, Followed by the morning after's tire tread. While scrubbing the makeup, down on one knee, Today's astounding grin crept up on my cheek.
syllable = 3
I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace as wet bamboo. I remember someone be but penance for my past, a silver sinew-thread wrapping 'round old wrongs, gray hair for the fickle. I've naught but want for sweet release from this history. The bombs ignored, repeating in gramophone static dripping stiff once sang here, once strung together As long as the earth continues 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. its stony breathing I will breathe. When it stops, I will shatter back That which I cannot help but do. Stuck between boulders, I sing. 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.
Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat Missing their color like a ghost Just shadows of what once had grown. Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost, Covered in twigs and withered moss, Never been loved, never been found, Just lonely bones above the ground. Dead petals dance with ghostly plants To frozen wind and silent chants, A requiem of crumbling skulls, A hymn for all their decayed hulls. Silvery mists of countless lies, Swallows all of the forest's cries, Fog masks the guilt of countless sin That brush and grass carry within. Amidst all of this hopeless mold, A shed stands strong against the cold, A house so lonely yet so warm, Held in the forest's dying arm. The place where I once hid myself, 'tween ****** books in rotten shelves, The place where I live on my own, Made of my flesh and crimson bone.