#does
for what profit does a man make a poetry site?
it is a puzzlement for me, for I would rather wrest away those viable hours writing poetry itself!
this is not a trifling matter, for if anything, the poems are the trifles and the truffles!
I thank God for fools such as these whose many thousand by them are pleased, and take and give my pleasures freely, but never forgetting
the ones who are the facilitators
————————————-======
À quoi bon créer un site de poésie ?
Cela me laisse perplexe, car je préférerais consacrer ces précieuses heures à écrire de la poésie !
Ce n'est pas une mince affaire, car, au contraire, les poèmes sont un véritable trésor !
Je remercie Dieu pour ces fous qui, par leurs versets, plaisent à des milliers de personnes et partagent généreusement mon plaisir, sans jamais oublier
ceux qui rendent tout cela possible.
nml. f i n i
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 4:23 AM UTC
I asked the dervish,
“Why does the heart tremble
at the curve beneath her robe?”
He smiled and said,
“Because man was made from dust,
but longs always for warmth.
And in the breast of a woman
God hid a secret:
mercy dressed as temptation.”
So when her shirt strains against longing,
do not think the lover seeks flesh alone.
No…
He wishes to return
to the first shelter
he ever knew.
And every kiss upon her chest
is merely a confused prayer
from a soul
trying to touch tenderness
before it dies.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 10:16 PM UTC
bulletcookie writes:
does anybody know where do the poets go?
the answer, to my question/my poem
======
Good question:
when poets go to pasture,
their words form mist-a-morning dew,
and hair
grows long and grassy
Their vision spr-ings like
morning sun and every
sinew bends to song heard,
not by the ear, but in that
soul of music; then fades
into the evening star,
syllable by
syllable.
/bc
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
For God, everything is possible.
He will free us from every trouble.
You will conceive, an angel Gabriel tells Mary.
To be brave and not to worry
Hearing this, Mary will be humble.
For humans It's impossible
For God, everything is unstoppable.
Faith and love are a lovely couple.
God does wonders
God provides, for his plans are visible.
This verse is a source of hope that is credible.
The real God is with us; let's be merry.
In the cake, He is like a cherry.
With God, nothing is impossible.
God does wonders
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 3:59 AM UTC
dreaming
someone does something
i will defend myself hard
hospital for all
Jul 16, 2021
Jul 16, 2021 at 1:01 AM UTC
Humpty Trumpty
sat on his wall
bleating and blathering,
condemning us all.
"I know the way,
I'm better than you,"
Tweeted he every night
over his golf course view.
"I don't care for
Mexicans,
Muslims,
and not so much
Jews...
Well, at least not the Dems and
those on the
'news'.
I prefer instead
those painted orange,
like me,
in fine Italian shoes.
I'm the President now,
I decide
if the sky stays blue...
not the the artists or the scientists...
and certainly not
you.
I'll make this Country great again!
You'll see,
I know what to do!
Put your faith in me,
a 'Billionaire'!
I promise,
I'll tell you true!"
Hollered he up high,
his chubby fingers crossed,
as his great jowels blubbered,
and his voice quaked with frost.
"I wonder," thought I,
reading his alternate 'facts' of the day,
"Maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy
if his daddy had loved him more,
or at all,
or maybe,
just maybe,
if his fat greedy hands
weren't so
*********
small."
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 7:54 AM UTC
I have no desire to eat,
When the dollar keeps
getting higher,
Another night of fighting sleep,
Father, my eyes are so tired,
So much time I've wasted,
I haven't done enough,
enough to make my life count.
Dear Jesus, I can feel your pain,
Does this ink bleed in vain,
I don't understand...
why I can't let go,
if it's all in your hands,
I'm not complaining,
Yet I can't explain it.
Before I could careless,
if tomorrow never came,
Now it's different,
I worry if I close my eyes,
that they won't open to see another
blue sky,
Oh Jesus, does it even matter at all,
since you already know who will & who won't fall.
Will my soul still breathe,
if my body, it should leave.
I can't breathe in,
My thoughts are spinning,
I need a bite to eat,
I need some sleep,
But I'm afraid I'll miss a chance
to fix what I broke in the past.
Father, my eyes are too tired,
too weak to weep,
I won't risk losing a chance,
by closing these eyes tonight,
Don't let this ink bleed in vain,
show me how to do it right,
and I will this time.
I don't know how to let go
of things I don't own, of thing's
I didn't know,
I don't know how to let go
of what thing's that I have,
I don't know how to let go
of the thing's I know.
I know You are in control,
Oh God, I'm in debt,
Make me pay what I owe
before from my body,
it's time for my soul to go.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
When did I learn somewhere,
That Capitalism does not care,
Should have realized when I was young,
Economies flourish best with guns,
Over here in Oz, you see,
Iron ore and uranium, basically,
These fund our economy,
Is the human race naive?
Depends on what you believe,
Uncle Sam will want you and you,
Take care, young chicks and dudes,
Armed conflict soon everywhere,
When the Covid antidote is here,
Capitalism does not even care....
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 8:04 PM UTC
what does her true voice sound like?
going on seven, maybe eight years,
know the thumbprint of her stylish,
at twenty paces, her tower recognizable,
leaning in, she is the garden, can’t tell
where the garden ends and she begins
she opens the pages and lets slip out the
exposed flora+fauna of of her heart’s eyes observatory,
revelation unintended but wanted, she can’t be helped,
for she, both a revealer, reveler, party girl, beat poet
know her
in the bursting: of the spring welcoming festival
in the bursting: of the season of loves busted unhappiness,
I know her well enough but not at all
in the sparse, frozen soil, and in the contra-blooming,
in every season, she warps my judgement,
with words unheard, unknown, the dictionary my accompanist,
what she says is a language purportedly in common, maybe not,
she takes me on a tour of her symphonic insights,
as my foreign tour guide
enwrapped, entrapped, I am, as she crooks her hair, in the
curved shape of a question mark top,
unknowing what does her voice sound like?
try different versions, a tasting menu of mellifluous, and
imagine myself to sleep, wondering and wandering,
what does her voice sound like?**
off to sleep,
smiling, frowning
upside downing
11:51pm Tue May 5
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 12:10 AM UTC
covid -19
a killer unseen, without uttering a threat
it has the world pulling at every nerve, it has them down on their knees.
It has people creating songs about going crazy in quarantine
While Trump is really going crazy,
he cant throw money at it
for someone like him, this is unseen,
now his true colours shows
his fake, while the world bleeds
he is still trying to save his stake.
he has ample, yet he still pulls at every last cent.
If you cant see this, he must have stolen your eyes
he keeps it with all his supporters minds,
it's in his refridgerator, he keeps it on ice.
locked in a safe
now they all mindless, so they play by his rules
yet he control the outcome of dice.
he dont care about the human race
you can clearly see it on his unsympathetic face.
Why dint he react in haste,
maybe his just slow?
He is worth 8 billoin dollers, i really dont think thats the case
he cares more about the economy,and losing face
he knows if the US economy drops
at the table in the whitehouse, he has to set china a plate.
give them the morning paper run their bath
and under his breath, he would have to quietly hate.
He would rather let the world burn,
They miscalculated this whole situation
they thought they were unleashing an attack
they forgot to disable the homing pigeon
it did a 180, knocked at their door, politely disclaimed Hi , I'm back.
Talking about money he has to track, that they paid to create this monster
is it just me or has the whole world been smoking crack.
we glossed over that, i get it
He can even in song confess, our hands will still be tied
money is power, an intoxicating lust
the jury has already been bought, the justice system unjust.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
When the universe gently pushes these songs into your life.... Child, you got to survive.
Eat your lettuce with salt and pepper.
Die die die inside!
Swallow swallow swallow all of your pride!
Spread your legs.
And lay those eggs.
No regrets cause you gotta make them proud and glad.
Your little naked chubby body on the bed.
Cute cute cuty.
Rare crazy beauty.
Pout your lips and touch your skin.
You are so tender, just surrender.
You will never really win!
Spread your arms.
Cling on to these charms.
And no resting your head.
You gotta find ways till you're dead.
When the universe gently pushes these songs into your life.
Child, you got to survive.
Eat your bread with salt and pepper.
Dead dead dead inside!
Stare stare stare at your dissaster left behind!
Ah ah ah. That does not feel right!
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 7:53 AM UTC
what does the W stand for
my 2:00am friend?
left feet touching and yet I am clueless, unsure in what language I should compile the possibilities and
reread my poem and shotgun taken aback
you make my urgency feel so trifling
and I read your are back but you are more gone for,
love’s misfortune has you, graced,
like a hole in the barbed wire fence,
had bled you dry and let the seeds for
the next planting go astray;
this is comprehended for my fences
are so busted in so many places that
all the animals escaped only to return
at feeding time, their curiosity of the outside world
limited
and W has limited infinite answers
for there are no names that begin with W
for farmers in our native tongues
suspect if you are reading this it must be after 2:00,
indeed it’s 4:07am, and the puzzlement is face flushing,
annoying and curiously intriguing...
and i remain,
“sincerely” yours
L.F. Poet
p.s. thanks for reading my stuff
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
People do like mischief and chatter,
Really, what does it all matter?
It is only about chaff and stuff,
In 100 years, we shall all be dust,
This is what makes me meaner,
As I empty more dust from the vacuum cleaner,
We shall all be a little pile of dust,
And our pets, a tiny heap of fluff!
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
In your mouth lies a graveyard of broken hearts.
Your tounge has stolen words once spoken by other tortured lovers.
Its wraps itself around them, sends them through your lips as if they themselves carry kisses.
These words you never understood. They are empty when you speak, like the only love you know how to give.
Selfish, superficial. A vacuum set to devour anyone who strays to close.
And like the nights sky, I still see your soul is littered with stars.
Ill sit in the cold and wait.
Wait for the sun to rise again, to warm your heart or envolop my own.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 8:48 AM UTC
Does your heart still flutter every time you think of me?
Do you think of me every time you see a couple holding hands?
Does your stomach drop at the thought of us never being in each other’s lives?
Do you miss me?
Does your mind still race like a track star when you think about how we ended up like this?
Do you want me back?
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 7:22 AM UTC
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Between the highs,
And the low,
In the times
When I’m alone,
That’s what love does.
It comforts,
And hides
In the corners
Of your mind,
Yet surprises
Just in time.
That’s what love does.
It takes
The chance
The percentage
Of circumstance,
The sacrifice
In glance,
And does what love does.
It conquers,
And pays
The cost,
Without delays,
As if it’s not much,
To stay,
Because that’s what love does.
It hugs,
It kisses,
It sees you
And misses,
Yer true love,
Rarely disses,
Because that’s what love does.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 3:05 AM UTC
can't imagine it ranks high up
on any list of any deity,
*** and God ******
probably don't make the cut,
on a relative basis,
but ya never know...
looked around,
couldn't be found
any mention of who he roots for,
or if it's ok to ask for intervention
**but
if you ******
if you behead...
claiming with perfect
human vanity
his name as your own
for justification
in ignoring
Thou Shall Not ****
know this
you're a commandment breaker,
having taken god's name in vain,
vain like vanity,
the sin unique to only humans
we cannot divine the divine,
sure wish it was my NY Giants
were today bowl-occupied,
why he chooses me to suffer
someday will surely be explained
or not
but you murderers,
easy rest assured,
taking his name in vain,
you won't be forgotten,
cause and effect
spelled out clearly**
“the LORD will not hold him guiltless
who takes his name in vain”
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
does the moon get tired?
***~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~***
<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky
We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!
tell me moon, do you ever tire?
the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.
He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed
so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!
Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!
*Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y*
head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)
we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....
with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted
*yes, I tire
and though here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?*
*yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I, so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?*
*yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them*
*how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary
how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*
<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?
silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard
we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
My hands across your chest.
Down your stomach.
Grazing your every inch.
Listing off the things I love about you in my head:
Your smile, Your laugh, Your words, Your ,
[(stop)]
But it’s okay.
You've found another.
And they will never stay,
But my need for you will remain.
Just maybe, one day, this will definitely go away.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:28 AM UTC
Would now the grudge,
ever smudge ?
What kind of kohl has smeared the eyes ?
Blindfolded now,who once was wise.
Which of its version,
Is wiser in person ?
The world has you into dilution,
Or has eradicated the illusions ?
Why do you all look alike,pallor,
all deficiet in any valour?
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC
Before the day when my mind flickers
Before the night when fear grabs my wrist
Before the moment of emancipation
When I lose my sanity,
To the courageous fear beneath the beds of my heart.
When the flood comes in dark,
And the moon ditches without leaving a mark.
I sink and sink.
The way I feel possessed,
The way mad I am,
The way I know not about my constancy.
I know I shall stumble,
I know I may fall,
Amid this,
This which is no revelry.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 8:07 AM UTC