Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
polka Nov 17
if I peel back the skin on your face,
will I see a television screen
tuned to a channel that recently went down?

the tone of colorful bars and absent cables fills your head.

does my voice blend in with the noise, love?
i miss the times when I can tell you're listening to my nonsense.

it's nonsense baked special for you.
im writing this as the big bang theory plays nonstop in the other room

yes, it is driving me insane

no, it is not a very good show

but the intro song is pretty catchy
AvengingPoet Oct 15
Oh the glorious content
And the endless 1’s and 0’s
Lord I can barely breathe

I’m asking for some relaxation
But all I’m getting is a more stressful equation
Oh the infinite content

A shame that we want to entertain us all
Without asking what the **** we’re even doing
Make sure you follow all the news
It’s too late, I have new content I must obtain
From timelines and feeds
That are constantly calling
This silly amount of selfish content
Oh, I feel it has given me so much
But has it given me anything at all
Except a static reaction
That gives a cold sense of empathy

For only a brief moment...
For only a brief moment...
Sara Kellie Sep 14
Starting with coverage from BBC2.

Brushing calm shadows into
pastel hills.
A rhythm paints terrain a
sugary brown.
Flicks of green create
fauliage serene.
The clean tasteless air is
cotton soft.
A effortless stream runs
cobalt clear.
Where salmon gymnastics begin
each year.
Squirrels practice dance routines a
glamorous red.
The doormice dressed and ready
for bed.

Continuing coverage on Ch4.

The perch, the tench sat together on an underwater bench.
Discussing bait and hooks whilst flicking through some fishing books.
What's he eating? Mr Mole,
it looks like cheese and ham
on a soft brown roll.
There's a chicken and a fox that
live round here.
Seriously, they've been dating each other for about a year.
Now, if you take the next left,
then over the stye.
There's a duck lives there and he's got a glass eye.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Poetry by Kaydee present what is believed to be a creative first.
One story, one habitat, one poem giving you the viewer, two different narratives.
Now here's another twist because instead of you, the reader, reading a poem in the traditional way. We handed our work straight to two television broadcasters and they have each made a program exactly as they wanted with no constraints.
Showcasing two well known broadcasters with polar opposite styles.
Poetry by Kaydee presents to you 'The Meadow'. We take up the story with BBC2 before switching over to CH4.
Will you notice a change of style as we go from the 'high brow' production of the BBC to a more laid back, social media type of production from Channel 4.
Randy Johnson Sep 11
There is something that I hate, and it's something I won't deny.
I hate the new Doctor Who TV show, I'd rather watch paint dry.
I even complained to the BBC, and told them that I hate their show.
If you're wondering if I'll ever watch it again, the answer is **** no.
I've written several poems about Doctor Who, and you may wonder why.
It's because I hate it with all of my heart and soul, I'd rather watch paint dry.
I hate it because the BBC uses it to cram political correctness down people's throats.
I'd rather watch a show about a man who is married to a goat.
I loved the classic Doctor Who TV show, but I hate the new, and that's not a lie.
I wish they would cancel the new Doctor Who because I'd rather watch paint dry.
Aa Harvey Sep 3
Sleepy


I’m counting sheep because there’s nothing for me to do,
Except watch repeats on TV of nothing new.
It’s the same old ****, but I still watch all of it,
Between the fifteen million adverts I’m forced to see.


Dreams are made of memories,
Premonitions and science fiction,
Fantasies and broken thoughts;
All the things you have been taught.


Arguments and contradictions,
Lies, deceit, truth, corruption.
Crazy thoughts inside my head.
Goodbye now, I’m tired, let me lay down to rest.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Oil was struck on my land and 100 million is what I was paid.
My nephew has a great education, he graduated the 6th grade.
Granny makes her own whiskey, and she makes lye soap.
But if you're wondering if the neighbors are happy, nope.
Mrs. Drysdale doesn't like us, she constantly complains.
She says living next to us is going to drive her insane.
Elly May is my daughter, and she's awful fond of critters.
But now she has rabies because her raccoon bit her.
My sister Pearl insisted that I move here from the South.
Elly May won't drink water, and she's foaming at the mouth.
Jethro does some cyphering, he can count up to ten.
If you've met somebody smarter, I'd like to know when.
I love my mansion, especially the billy yard room.
If you get too close to Granny's still, you'll be knocked out by the fumes.
The people of Beverly Hills wants us to move away.
But they'd better get used to us, we're here to stay.
This poem was inspired by 'The Beverly Hillbillies' TV show.
That's the good thing about possum innards, just as good the second day.
But whjen our dinner guests see what Granny is cooking, they run away.
These city fols have the weirdest reactions that I've ever seen.
When we serve buzzard eggs, they puke after their faces turn green.
Jethro is my nephew, and I need to have a long talk with that boy.
Mister rysdale loves our money but his wife is always annoyed.
Whenever we hear music, somebody is always at the door.
Even though Jethro is bigger, Elly May pins him to the floor.
People tend to catch on fire if they smoke after drinking from Granny's still.
As long as we have 100 million, MR. Drysdale won't let us leave Beverly Hills.
This poem was inspired by 'The Beverly Hillbillies' TV show.
Madison Aug 17
Staying still
I try to drain
Every last
Little drop.
Tilting back, I
Grip the neck but
Don't break it, *** forbid
I'm in no shape to clean up a mess
Though I'm an expert at making them,
I tell you what, I hate the television, all
those shiny happy people like in that
song I don't know the words to, but it's
obviously true, watching these shiny
happy lives with all of these beautiful
people who are probably **** on the
inside, just like me, going home to sit
in their expensive new recliners and
grip the neck but don't break it, don't
make a mess that you can't clean up
drain every last drop even if you don't
really want it, 'cause it used to make
you feel much better, and now it's just
routine, like brushing your teeth and
trying to sleep and telling old friends
that you're fine, fine, just tired, so very
tired and I'm trying to stare through the
television to see these ****** phonies at
home in their own chairs, drinking from
a bottle like this one as if it might save
their sorry lives, like I'm trying to do
right now, tilting it back for just one
more drop, ****** there is no more
and I'm not done drinking but the neck
is slipping from my hands and I'm trying
to drink it down, **** it up when I let go
of the neck and drop it and there is a mess
for me to clean up, I tell you what, all that
broken glass and those elusive little drops
that could've made everything so much better,
could've fixed me but oh well, guess I can't
watch TV anymore, 'cause I've got a mess to
try to clean up right now, yes siree, guess
that even the shiny happy people have to
**** it up and fix it every now and then
just like me and you and everyone else.
My first attempt at shape poetry. Probably messed up a bit, but oh well.
girl gonzo Aug 16
you used to bring me a blueberry muffin in a white paper bag every day from a bakery near your work
when i would bite into it
the blueberries would burst like little stars dying
i am ordinary, barefoot and head sunken in a fluid mountain of mousy hair
there was a day when the heaven's gate closed but i can't recall
a disheveled plastic container that held all of my belongings on the side of the curb
i held my bladder until the infection stood in front of me that sunny morning and told me to spit in the neighborhood's eye
when you kissed me i couldn't see anything but a mustache that felt like a sharp toothed comb in the bathroom i would sometimes bite when my compulsions got out of hand
my hand in the pocket of a jean jacket that smelled of old newspapers
that's how it is, you spend hours watching Bonanza and i never memorized their names but i knew your favorite was the one in all black
the back of my head being crushed because the guns would shoot but there was never any blood
and when the train station took me along with the wind
i knew that i loved you but it was just the kinda love that gets insects bites so you put lemon balm and never call them only think of them softly so as not to disturb your small body anymore
this is turpentine in a blender
Next page