#pragmatism - Hello Poetry

A wish in a coal mine Rainbows yell at each other... When darkness comes to shine Certainly, suddenly knows when we bother Subtle echoes of feelings A heart has for few, a sense oft due Made from silent charisma, a ruse in the dealings? Of our vanity, who'se business is in adding love? Rainbows know when to cry... Like better asking, we already have? Do their birds of a feather, have wishes to fly? Wings in love, encourage mercy to save... Integrity has taken a step... Many and a marvel, keeping a peace Like the sun, worshipped a lip With a night's simplicity; is our ease...? Each of a smile If not the shied but true kiss, of respect And its weary way, to another tear of denial? Letting hope see our knowing, we know what to expect...

0

Oct 23, 2024

Oct 23, 2024 at 11:43 PM UTC

david-hilburn

Diamonds That Grant You Wishes, Isn't Selfish

A wish in a coal mine Rainbows yell at each other... When darkness comes to shine Certainly, suddenly knows when we bother Subtle echoes of feelings A heart has for few, a sense oft due Made from silent charisma, a ruse in the dealings? Of our vanity, who'se business is in adding love? Rainbows know when to cry... Like better asking, we already have? Do their birds of a feather, have wishes to fly? Wings in love, encourage mercy to save... Integrity has taken a step... Many and a marvel, keeping a peace Like the sun, worshipped a lip With a night's simplicity; is our ease...? Each of a smile If not the shied but true kiss, of respect And its weary way, to another tear of denial? Letting hope see our knowing, we know what to expect...

20

he walked away with the sting of youth burning a halo noted by those who know that the passage of the years as time makes its relentless march is simply because we got up and retired to bed as he did every day of every year and one day daffodils were covered by falling leaves with mulled wine in mourning as frost waits knowing it will soon succeed in bringing lasting shadows to all living breathing creatures including the man who saunters on by

0

Feb 20, 2021

Feb 20, 2021 at 4:38 PM UTC

eleanor-prince

falling leaves

he walked away with the sting of youth burning a halo noted by those who know that the passage of the years as time makes its relentless march is simply because we got up and retired to bed as he did every day of every year and one day daffodils were covered by falling leaves with mulled wine in mourning as frost waits knowing it will soon succeed in bringing lasting shadows to all living breathing creatures including the man who saunters on by

23

"I will beat this," I swear. No one else has, as there is no end, but there must be an end. I'll find it. Watching everyone spin on their axis, touting their progress, there must be a someone or some thing! Watch me spin. Spin and fidget. Watch me spin, spin and fidget. Spin the blades to your right. Now you're loading. Now you're spinning. "I will beat this," rings obsolete. Now, "I will secede," seems pragmatic. Is it romantic to be at one with nothing? Cross legged on the floor, I whisper, to myself, "Oh, you bet."

0

Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC

Simillacrum

Fidget

"I will beat this," I swear. No one else has, as there is no end, but there must be an end. I'll find it. Watching everyone spin on their axis, touting their progress, there must be a someone or some thing! Watch me spin. Spin and fidget. Watch me spin, spin and fidget. Spin the blades to your right. Now you're loading. Now you're spinning. "I will beat this," rings obsolete. Now, "I will secede," seems pragmatic. Is it romantic to be at one with nothing? Cross legged on the floor, I whisper, to myself, "Oh, you bet."

29

what is a poet but a stymied wind stamping the same soil seen through polished lens firing the bugle sound to reach across some distant mountain pass not echo the same ignite fire stand strong find north refresh for old paths yield grey packages more stale subterfuge but honed solidity is found in structures built sound a new song of old notes rearranged to yield perspective deep

0

Apr 28, 2018

Apr 28, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC

eleanor-prince

what is a poet

what is a poet but a stymied wind stamping the same soil seen through polished lens firing the bugle sound to reach across some distant mountain pass not echo the same ignite fire stand strong find north refresh for old paths yield grey packages more stale subterfuge but honed solidity is found in structures built sound a new song of old notes rearranged to yield perspective deep

24

When I was young, I would steal the old cassette tapes my parents never listened to and record messages for the stars. At night, I would sneak into the yard and play the recording back, hoping someone was up there, listening. It was a silly thing, really, wishing the stars a good night as though they could hear. After you died I thought that maybe the messages had been for you all along. It takes years, after all, for things to travel between earth and the heavens. Perhaps I was getting a headstart on missing you. Now, I know the truth. That I was a kid with nowhere to turn to. That space is a soundless vacuum. That you are gone, reachable only in the moments I press rewind.

0

Aug 29, 2017

Aug 29, 2017 at 2:05 AM UTC

vermilliontoad

Cassette Tapes

When I was young, I would steal the old cassette tapes my parents never listened to and record messages for the stars. At night, I would sneak into the yard and play the recording back, hoping someone was up there, listening. It was a silly thing, really, wishing the stars a good night as though they could hear. After you died I thought that maybe the messages had been for you all along. It takes years, after all, for things to travel between earth and the heavens. Perhaps I was getting a headstart on missing you. Now, I know the truth. That I was a kid with nowhere to turn to. That space is a soundless vacuum. That you are gone, reachable only in the moments I press rewind.

3