"added" poems - Hello Poetry

"added" poems

You are beautiful You are tremendously beautiful You are marvelously beautiful You are astonishingly beautiful You are magnificently beautiful You are breathtakingly beautiful Inner and outer You are beautiful You are the definition of Beauty Or shall I say, what is Beauty compared to you What is Beauty compared to you ? It feels shy and ashamed when I describe you A weak meaning it has when I describe you A meaningless meaning it has when I describe you Never existed it wishes when I describe you You are beautiful For your beauty I searched Every language ever lived And every word ever existed And the romantic era that occurred Could not find a way to describe your beauty Could not find a way to tell the world about your beauty You are beautiful Vocabulary will be invented Words never existed To the dictionaries will be added In the dictionaries will live In the lovers tongues will breath To describe your beauty The one and the only beauty The living and the dead will forget about Cleopatra Because your beauty is ultra A new period will start, The Beauty Era Your era --Hisham Alshaikh

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Jul 20, 2018

Jul 20, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC

You're Beautiful

You are beautiful You are tremendously beautiful You are marvelously beautiful You are astonishingly beautiful You are magnificently beautiful You are breathtakingly beautiful Inner and outer You are beautiful You are the definition of Beauty Or shall I say, what is Beauty compared to you What is Beauty compared to you ? It feels shy and ashamed when I describe you A weak meaning it has when I describe you A meaningless meaning it has when I describe you Never existed it wishes when I describe you You are beautiful For your beauty I searched Every language ever lived And every word ever existed And the romantic era that occurred Could not find a way to describe your beauty Could not find a way to tell the world about your beauty You are beautiful Vocabulary will be invented Words never existed To the dictionaries will be added In the dictionaries will live In the lovers tongues will breath To describe your beauty The one and the only beauty The living and the dead will forget about Cleopatra Because your beauty is ultra A new period will start, The Beauty Era Your era --Hisham Alshaikh

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nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol’s farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my Uncle Sol and started a worm farm)

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Nobody Loses All The Time

nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol’s farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my Uncle Sol and started a worm farm)

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There once was a young man named Feste, and he was not a very good young man. He was a thief, and a sneaky one at that. He would go to all of the stores in the market and steal anything that he pleased. He loved to steal from the baker and the butcher especially. He would go to his hiding place in the forest after his deviousness and eat away his stolen treasures, brooding on what a “clever little boy” he was. The baker and the butcher knew though. They noticed him coming in most days and leaving in quite a hurry. They could not actually catch him in the act, but they knew beyond a doubt what he was doing. They were having drinks together one night though when they devised a clever scheme to stop him from stealing ever again. The butcher carved up a juicy ham, and the baker baked up a delicious pie, but they added a little something extra to it… The butcher made sure to quite a bit of alcohol into the ham, and the baker did the same with his pie. They both set their two traps in the store, right when the spoiled thief Feste came strolling into the market with his eyes gleaming. The baker watched him walk into his shop,the pie disappeared. The butcher watched him walk into his shop, the ham disappeared. They both smiled and went about their work. Feste rushed to his hiding place and devoured his stolen goodies so fast that he didn’t even realize how peculiar it seemed to taste... Not long after, he started to feel strange. Numb and stupid. He ran towards the village, acting a buffoon. The villagers stared and laughed at Feste acting so odd. His mother found him though and brought down the fury. “Feste! Why are you acting like a **** fool?" She demanded. He threw out a few words in a drunken stupor and swayed in place. "Wait.. have you been drinking!?” She screamed. “Noe maum! Allll Ie had todae is pie and haam!” He stammered in a drunken sway. “And where exactly did you get those!?” She inquired. Feste had a look of terror on his face and grew silent. He was found out to be the no good thief and was punished severely, because his mother thought he stole the alcohol as well as the pie and ham, and he couldn’t prove otherwise. Feste never stole again and he even apologized to the butcher and baker, though they still do have a laugh now and then… The End

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Jan 15, 2013

Jan 15, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC

The Steal (A Short Story For Children)

There once was a young man named Feste, and he was not a very good young man. He was a thief, and a sneaky one at that. He would go to all of the stores in the market and steal anything that he pleased. He loved to steal from the baker and the butcher especially. He would go to his hiding place in the forest after his deviousness and eat away his stolen treasures, brooding on what a “clever little boy” he was. The baker and the butcher knew though. They noticed him coming in most days and leaving in quite a hurry. They could not actually catch him in the act, but they knew beyond a doubt what he was doing. They were having drinks together one night though when they devised a clever scheme to stop him from stealing ever again. The butcher carved up a juicy ham, and the baker baked up a delicious pie, but they added a little something extra to it… The butcher made sure to quite a bit of alcohol into the ham, and the baker did the same with his pie. They both set their two traps in the store, right when the spoiled thief Feste came strolling into the market with his eyes gleaming. The baker watched him walk into his shop,the pie disappeared. The butcher watched him walk into his shop, the ham disappeared. They both smiled and went about their work. Feste rushed to his hiding place and devoured his stolen goodies so fast that he didn’t even realize how peculiar it seemed to taste... Not long after, he started to feel strange. Numb and stupid. He ran towards the village, acting a buffoon. The villagers stared and laughed at Feste acting so odd. His mother found him though and brought down the fury. “Feste! Why are you acting like a **** fool?" She demanded. He threw out a few words in a drunken stupor and swayed in place. "Wait.. have you been drinking!?” She screamed. “Noe maum! Allll Ie had todae is pie and haam!” He stammered in a drunken sway. “And where exactly did you get those!?” She inquired. Feste had a look of terror on his face and grew silent. He was found out to be the no good thief and was punished severely, because his mother thought he stole the alcohol as well as the pie and ham, and he couldn’t prove otherwise. Feste never stole again and he even apologized to the butcher and baker, though they still do have a laugh now and then… The End

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‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget

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Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC

david-lewis-paget

To Bed! To Bed!

‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget

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Back in the day, When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds, We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood, For weeks and weeks. Everyone built towering infernos, Ready for November Fifth: Bonfire Night. Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes, Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot” And stood in the street saying “Penny for the Guy”. What a night! Roaring fire on a chill Winter night, Those flames burning your face. A World War Three Of Fireworks: Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers. Bangers to scare the girls. Kids painting pictures in the air With sparklers. And best of all, That yummy gingery Parkin cake: A taste I cannot put Into words. Oh and deep dark Treacle Toffee, Jacket potatoes, Roast chestnuts And Crunchie-like cinder toffee. It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire. Politically correct firework displays Are more the modern thing. Seems strange to burn the effigy Of a man who had the sense To try to blow parliament up – Especially a Yorkshire Man. Ha ha. But then I read that good Religious reasons are behind This bonfire Celebration: Those flames are orange After all. Not wishing to create divisions Anywhere in the world, It’s still good to see traditions Being maintained. Let those fires and fireworks keep rising, Constantly emerging from the shadows Of Halloween. Paul Butters © PB 27\10\2018. Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.

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Oct 27, 2018

Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC

Back in the day, When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds, We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood, For weeks and weeks. Everyone built towering infernos, Ready for November Fifth: Bonfire Night. Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes, Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot” And stood in the street saying “Penny for the Guy”. What a night! Roaring fire on a chill Winter night, Those flames burning your face. A World War Three Of Fireworks: Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers. Bangers to scare the girls. Kids painting pictures in the air With sparklers. And best of all, That yummy gingery Parkin cake: A taste I cannot put Into words. Oh and deep dark Treacle Toffee, Jacket potatoes, Roast chestnuts And Crunchie-like cinder toffee. It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire. Politically correct firework displays Are more the modern thing. Seems strange to burn the effigy Of a man who had the sense To try to blow parliament up – Especially a Yorkshire Man. Ha ha. But then I read that good Religious reasons are behind This bonfire Celebration: Those flames are orange After all. Not wishing to create divisions Anywhere in the world, It’s still good to see traditions Being maintained. Let those fires and fireworks keep rising, Constantly emerging from the shadows Of Halloween. Paul Butters © PB 27\10\2018. Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.

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From where I lingered in a lull in march outside the sugar-house one night for choice, I called the fireman with a careful voice And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch: ‘O fireman, give the fire another stoke, And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.’ I thought a few might tangle, as they did, Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare Hill atmosphere not cease to glow, And so be added to the moon up there. The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show On every tree a bucket with a lid, And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow. The sparks made no attempt to be the moon. They were content to figure in the trees As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades. And that was what the boughs were full of soon.

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Evening In A Sugar Orchard

From where I lingered in a lull in march outside the sugar-house one night for choice, I called the fireman with a careful voice And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch: ‘O fireman, give the fire another stoke, And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.’ I thought a few might tangle, as they did, Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare Hill atmosphere not cease to glow, And so be added to the moon up there. The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show On every tree a bucket with a lid, And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow. The sparks made no attempt to be the moon. They were content to figure in the trees As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades. And that was what the boughs were full of soon.

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Twenty years in the fast lane, speeding was ecstacy at the time. Sweet heady bubbles of coke, buzzing at feeding. No softeners added, lemon or lime. My therapy, my medication. ****** my mind on a long vacation. Knowing this time would one day arrive. My restless legs, my tired insides. My not so central nervous system, twitching fingers, flickering eyes. This to me is no surprise. My therapy, now my reprise. Peotyr by aKydee.

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Jun 26, 2018

Jun 26, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC

My Chemical Romance.

Twenty years in the fast lane, speeding was ecstacy at the time. Sweet heady bubbles of coke, buzzing at feeding. No softeners added, lemon or lime. My therapy, my medication. ****** my mind on a long vacation. Knowing this time would one day arrive. My restless legs, my tired insides. My not so central nervous system, twitching fingers, flickering eyes. This to me is no surprise. My therapy, now my reprise. Peotyr by aKydee.

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Faces painted with colors that make girl's skin pop out. Eyes large and done up with circles around them Coverup hiding the blemishes that grew out of stress and fear Legs shaved and exposed under the beautiful gowns Smiles grow on their faces when they see their date; dashing in suits and winsome smiles. Small flower pins added to their beautiful dresses The night is ready. Legs spin around and around as they twirl, smiles in motions and hearts race. Sweat lingers down their faces as their laughs grow more. The night is ablaze. Everyone is smiling. But only one question lingers, "May I have this dance?"

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Apr 3, 2014

Apr 3, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC

Faces painted with colors that make girl's skin pop out. Eyes large and done up with circles around them Coverup hiding the blemishes that grew out of stress and fear Legs shaved and exposed under the beautiful gowns Smiles grow on their faces when they see their date; dashing in suits and winsome smiles. Small flower pins added to their beautiful dresses The night is ready. Legs spin around and around as they twirl, smiles in motions and hearts race. Sweat lingers down their faces as their laughs grow more. The night is ablaze. Everyone is smiling. But only one question lingers, "May I have this dance?"

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my tears aren’t forced they flow in that dark tunnel that she dreamed so long ago she wasn’t ready to take her first steps I wasn’t ready to take mine without her. Little things bring her back like empty bowls or the tower of books she’s never going to read. People have been calling this a trauma, but they’ve forgotten the loneliness of life’s journey. She dreamed a tunnel and added bright lights and dusted the floor with powdery snow she traveled far yet I can only see the trails of milk puddling around the lost key that she dropped under blankets of memory and phrases of I-promise and tomorrow. I’m growing up as she falls down. She wasn’t perfect but that’s why it was so easy to love her. My journey’s ongoing, and the deep undercurrents of pain and grief are pulling me through that tunnel. I’m rowing softly by, quietly, quietly, as she is laid to rest. her memories swallow the emptiness she is kneeling at the throne. I follow slowly and leave my tears for her to know that life’s path isn’t paved in water but with sorrow, with endings, and with lost boats on turbid seas.

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Sep 29, 2015

Sep 29, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC

my tears aren’t forced they flow in that dark tunnel that she dreamed so long ago she wasn’t ready to take her first steps I wasn’t ready to take mine without her. Little things bring her back like empty bowls or the tower of books she’s never going to read. People have been calling this a trauma, but they’ve forgotten the loneliness of life’s journey. She dreamed a tunnel and added bright lights and dusted the floor with powdery snow she traveled far yet I can only see the trails of milk puddling around the lost key that she dropped under blankets of memory and phrases of I-promise and tomorrow. I’m growing up as she falls down. She wasn’t perfect but that’s why it was so easy to love her. My journey’s ongoing, and the deep undercurrents of pain and grief are pulling me through that tunnel. I’m rowing softly by, quietly, quietly, as she is laid to rest. her memories swallow the emptiness she is kneeling at the throne. I follow slowly and leave my tears for her to know that life’s path isn’t paved in water but with sorrow, with endings, and with lost boats on turbid seas.

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This world was built on a foundation of perfection No weight lies upon our shoulders Each person needs no other to survive No others need to be added to this perfect world For perfection is perfect But the storm rips us apart I huddle by myself Covering my eyes to make it not true The pieces of the world cut through the air Not just the air, but my flesh, my soul The others cower alone as well We all hide our sobs And muffle our cries of pain For Perfection is not weak The storm moves on And the world is now dull gray The wounded tend to themselves And the children cry alone We do not reach for the pieces we have lost But instead begin to build a new world For Perfection knows no past This new world is perfect Each person takes care of only their needs Nothing can be added or lost to make it less perfect But the perfection weighs upon my shoulders And slices into me like glass It hurts so much I cry But no help is given when I reach out For Perfection does not care Doors close Windows slam shut The people scatter as they hear my rage They do not want to talk of or hear about the terrible past The future is what matters, they say For Perfection does not know pain But I find another who shows pain The other and I, we search for the pieces of the lost world The other and I, we lay them out But the pieces do not fit What has been ripped apart cannot be fixed For Perfection is not in the pieces The other and I, we show the pieces To the citizens of the new perfect world The past stands before them Some faces are masked Some are in tears Worse are the cries of anguish But each person does not acknowledge any other's pain For Perfection is self-sufficient The other and I now realize what Perfection is It is covering what's inside And pretending emotions do not exist It is showing your faults to no one And not caring for another It is thinking only of the pain you are in And being swallowed by your own misery So much that you forget that you can heal another's pain Just as they can heal your own For Perfection is a mask for those too selfish and weak to show the pain inside For Perfection is forgetting there are others like yourself For Perfections is not knowing That Perfection is not real The other and I, we stop putting together the pieces The other and I, we leave that perfect world The other and I, we begin to make a new world Full of imperfections The other and I, we do not hide our pain We show it to our imperfect world And because it is shown It drifts towards the heavens And because the other and I, we show our imperfection The imperfections fill our world And the other and I, we begin to mend For imperfection is healing They all begin to see The happiness that is brought to the other and I The other and I, we teach them How to show their pain To display their imperfections To heal the wounds inside For imperfection makes our world beautiful When new pain is found We display it to the world We help others as they help us We are dependent on each other Losing a person fills us with sorrow A person being added fills us with joy For imperfection connects us all To say our world is perfect is far from true Perfection and imperfection should never be compared Pain is in our world, but there is also happiness Loss, but also gain Every pain we feel is matched with joy for something else For imperfection means to have emotion For imperfection means to live

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Jul 3, 2013

Jul 3, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC

This world was built on a foundation of perfection No weight lies upon our shoulders Each person needs no other to survive No others need to be added to this perfect world For perfection is perfect But the storm rips us apart I huddle by myself Covering my eyes to make it not true The pieces of the world cut through the air Not just the air, but my flesh, my soul The others cower alone as well We all hide our sobs And muffle our cries of pain For Perfection is not weak The storm moves on And the world is now dull gray The wounded tend to themselves And the children cry alone We do not reach for the pieces we have lost But instead begin to build a new world For Perfection knows no past This new world is perfect Each person takes care of only their needs Nothing can be added or lost to make it less perfect But the perfection weighs upon my shoulders And slices into me like glass It hurts so much I cry But no help is given when I reach out For Perfection does not care Doors close Windows slam shut The people scatter as they hear my rage They do not want to talk of or hear about the terrible past The future is what matters, they say For Perfection does not know pain But I find another who shows pain The other and I, we search for the pieces of the lost world The other and I, we lay them out But the pieces do not fit What has been ripped apart cannot be fixed For Perfection is not in the pieces The other and I, we show the pieces To the citizens of the new perfect world The past stands before them Some faces are masked Some are in tears Worse are the cries of anguish But each person does not acknowledge any other's pain For Perfection is self-sufficient The other and I now realize what Perfection is It is covering what's inside And pretending emotions do not exist It is showing your faults to no one And not caring for another It is thinking only of the pain you are in And being swallowed by your own misery So much that you forget that you can heal another's pain Just as they can heal your own For Perfection is a mask for those too selfish and weak to show the pain inside For Perfection is forgetting there are others like yourself For Perfections is not knowing That Perfection is not real The other and I, we stop putting together the pieces The other and I, we leave that perfect world The other and I, we begin to make a new world Full of imperfections The other and I, we do not hide our pain We show it to our imperfect world And because it is shown It drifts towards the heavens And because the other and I, we show our imperfection The imperfections fill our world And the other and I, we begin to mend For imperfection is healing They all begin to see The happiness that is brought to the other and I The other and I, we teach them How to show their pain To display their imperfections To heal the wounds inside For imperfection makes our world beautiful When new pain is found We display it to the world We help others as they help us We are dependent on each other Losing a person fills us with sorrow A person being added fills us with joy For imperfection connects us all To say our world is perfect is far from true Perfection and imperfection should never be compared Pain is in our world, but there is also happiness Loss, but also gain Every pain we feel is matched with joy for something else For imperfection means to have emotion For imperfection means to live

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The snowman to the scarecrow, “Hahahaha you’re just a stick figure…. and your hair’s straw.” The scarecrow to the snowman, “Watch who you talk about whenever you open your mouth, for all the coldness in your words will still melt to the ground along with you as soon as the sun comes out.” Owned! “You’re such a chump…” the snowman said… “…two words for your ancestry, tree stump.” the snowman said “You’re fat… you have a carrot for a nose, and what’s up with that stupid green and red coloured hat?” said the scarecrow Well played “I work all year round… you’re here for a season, did you really think you could hold your ground against someone that is here for a reason?” the scarecrow added The snowman cringed, but then had a comeback “At least I don’t wear the same filthy clothes every day of the year… what? Are you trying to bring ‘brown’ back?” Point for Snowman “It’s better than being fat and going naked.” Scarecrow brought it back Scarecrow is consistently winning right? I know… I know man! If he made you a fan, stick around for an autograph… I will throw in mine too For more on the war of words between these two Watch this space for round two.

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Jan 18, 2013

Jan 18, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC

Scarecrow owns Snowman. (Diss... skill level, Chuck Norris)

The snowman to the scarecrow, “Hahahaha you’re just a stick figure…. and your hair’s straw.” The scarecrow to the snowman, “Watch who you talk about whenever you open your mouth, for all the coldness in your words will still melt to the ground along with you as soon as the sun comes out.” Owned! “You’re such a chump…” the snowman said… “…two words for your ancestry, tree stump.” the snowman said “You’re fat… you have a carrot for a nose, and what’s up with that stupid green and red coloured hat?” said the scarecrow Well played “I work all year round… you’re here for a season, did you really think you could hold your ground against someone that is here for a reason?” the scarecrow added The snowman cringed, but then had a comeback “At least I don’t wear the same filthy clothes every day of the year… what? Are you trying to bring ‘brown’ back?” Point for Snowman “It’s better than being fat and going naked.” Scarecrow brought it back Scarecrow is consistently winning right? I know… I know man! If he made you a fan, stick around for an autograph… I will throw in mine too For more on the war of words between these two Watch this space for round two.

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The angels' harps play a sacred tune, while planets dance around the moon; In subtle strains our spirits rise, and leave us grateful and starry-eyed. Recalling life as it once seemed, this vision floated inside a dream; In many days of endless chants, the angels' harps cause us to dance. When voices touch each other's hearts, there's always a sign creating sparks; And with that strong secure emotion, then lives connect with pure devotion. No longer chilled in fears of life, all folks fly far away from strife; The added wealth of kinship stands, as children sing while holding hands.

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Aug 8, 2019

Aug 8, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC

frances-e-mcclelland

The angels' harps play a sacred tune, while planets dance around the moon; In subtle strains our spirits rise, and leave us grateful and starry-eyed. Recalling life as it once seemed, this vision floated inside a dream; In many days of endless chants, the angels' harps cause us to dance. When voices touch each other's hearts, there's always a sign creating sparks; And with that strong secure emotion, then lives connect with pure devotion. No longer chilled in fears of life, all folks fly far away from strife; The added wealth of kinship stands, as children sing while holding hands.

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By rgpage The cool evening breeze filled with a scent of approaching rain. Caught by playful window shears as it passes through an open pane, to reach their length and breadth toward the waiting bed. He was a lover of music and his woman, a passionate man with a sensitive heart. She was in love with the melodic way his gentle fingers moved with sensual touch over her soft silk like skin of art. He started gently around her ears softly prying them open with the quiet richness of her melodies. Each note of his gentle kisses leading her to a sensual abyss, easing her down from the edge, controlling her descent, to her goal. Down the swirling dark and light blends of the music rendered from her soul. She was his instrument on which he placed his soft loving fingers, moving them effortlessly, caressing her most sensual delicate keys…Each body part smoothly rubbed added richness to her sensual sound driven by lust and loving trust. Her ******* he fondled, licking and kissing, squeezing and rubbing. Silently giving thanks, to her creator for such an amazing instrument. Both of her hands with long slender fingers tangled in the long dark locks of his hair as she eases her maestro’s head up tighter against her soft beautiful mounds. The loving melody continues with his touch now joined with the sound of raindrops splashing into uncovered metal buckets and cans. The drops carried on the breeze through the playful dancing shears came through the other end as nothing more than refreshing cooling mist. Her body was his loving piano, and as with the 88 keys of his magnificent Baldwin, the sensual areas of her equally magnificent body, when properly stroked, filled not only the bedroom but the whole house with the most glorious ****** notes known to man. After a while the symphonic ****** builds as he masterfully impales her with his instrument of love coming into constant contact with the one special key of keys. Its special sound as his strokes came harder and faster brought the whole master piece to a beautiful melodic end as the two lovers bath in the rain’s gentle mist…

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Aug 6, 2013

Aug 6, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC

By rgpage The cool evening breeze filled with a scent of approaching rain. Caught by playful window shears as it passes through an open pane, to reach their length and breadth toward the waiting bed. He was a lover of music and his woman, a passionate man with a sensitive heart. She was in love with the melodic way his gentle fingers moved with sensual touch over her soft silk like skin of art. He started gently around her ears softly prying them open with the quiet richness of her melodies. Each note of his gentle kisses leading her to a sensual abyss, easing her down from the edge, controlling her descent, to her goal. Down the swirling dark and light blends of the music rendered from her soul. She was his instrument on which he placed his soft loving fingers, moving them effortlessly, caressing her most sensual delicate keys…Each body part smoothly rubbed added richness to her sensual sound driven by lust and loving trust. Her ******* he fondled, licking and kissing, squeezing and rubbing. Silently giving thanks, to her creator for such an amazing instrument. Both of her hands with long slender fingers tangled in the long dark locks of his hair as she eases her maestro’s head up tighter against her soft beautiful mounds. The loving melody continues with his touch now joined with the sound of raindrops splashing into uncovered metal buckets and cans. The drops carried on the breeze through the playful dancing shears came through the other end as nothing more than refreshing cooling mist. Her body was his loving piano, and as with the 88 keys of his magnificent Baldwin, the sensual areas of her equally magnificent body, when properly stroked, filled not only the bedroom but the whole house with the most glorious ****** notes known to man. After a while the symphonic ****** builds as he masterfully impales her with his instrument of love coming into constant contact with the one special key of keys. Its special sound as his strokes came harder and faster brought the whole master piece to a beautiful melodic end as the two lovers bath in the rain’s gentle mist…

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(a tribute; if mere words could be enough) ~ the life of this River, 'tis an unending stream; is an unpublished book, its current fast at flood; a flow that washes clean, all the gathered debris; its words like diamonds, sparkling neath its lapping waters at its river bank; a sound refreshing, hushes the rush in my mind, calling to my soul. where does the river go at night, and whence flows its waters when hidden, out of sight? its flow is eternal to the sea; a place of waters gathering, of floods heaping, of reflection's seeking, where still waters lie, where the hand of friendship holds and lifts all who venture to its depth where feet can touch no longer the point where most would flounder become a place of calm of peaceable retreat without and deep within a flow of tears for thee! ~ *post script. a heart on sleeve composure, for he who knows the River best! who's breath is water deep,... who's heart beat its very current! added 12-13-16 my dearest HP friends, i want to thank you for this Daily and for your generous words, though i cannot truly claim this credit for my own. those of you who have walked these halls with me for a few years will read between the lines and will know precisely for whom this tribute is written. he is become to me one of a small handful of poetry mentors and it was a moment of great appreciation for his artistic talent that inspired these words... words that tumbled from this pen as a rush, and in mere minutes. such is he, that he inspired this spill of words; a flood that i would not claim for my own. to he who knows, thank you, my friend... this River... these and this belongs to you!!*

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Dec 4, 2016

Dec 4, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC

(a tribute; if mere words could be enough) ~ the life of this River, 'tis an unending stream; is an unpublished book, its current fast at flood; a flow that washes clean, all the gathered debris; its words like diamonds, sparkling neath its lapping waters at its river bank; a sound refreshing, hushes the rush in my mind, calling to my soul. where does the river go at night, and whence flows its waters when hidden, out of sight? its flow is eternal to the sea; a place of waters gathering, of floods heaping, of reflection's seeking, where still waters lie, where the hand of friendship holds and lifts all who venture to its depth where feet can touch no longer the point where most would flounder become a place of calm of peaceable retreat without and deep within a flow of tears for thee! ~ *post script. a heart on sleeve composure, for he who knows the River best! who's breath is water deep,... who's heart beat its very current! added 12-13-16 my dearest HP friends, i want to thank you for this Daily and for your generous words, though i cannot truly claim this credit for my own. those of you who have walked these halls with me for a few years will read between the lines and will know precisely for whom this tribute is written. he is become to me one of a small handful of poetry mentors and it was a moment of great appreciation for his artistic talent that inspired these words... words that tumbled from this pen as a rush, and in mere minutes. such is he, that he inspired this spill of words; a flood that i would not claim for my own. to he who knows, thank you, my friend... this River... these and this belongs to you!!*

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Once more the ancient feast returns, And the bright hearth domestic burns With Yuletide's added blaze; So, too, may all your joys increase Midst floods of mem'ry, love, and peace, And dreams of Halcyon days.

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10.7k

Once more the ancient feast returns, And the bright hearth domestic burns With Yuletide's added blaze; So, too, may all your joys increase Midst floods of mem'ry, love, and peace, And dreams of Halcyon days.

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Is there an order? In there an approximation of pi circling our first awkward flirtations? Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I caress the curvature of your spine? Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the first time our lips met? Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate love making? A quadratic formula for the shameful discarding of punched in picture frames? Is there a golden ratio that best expresses hurried apologies and frantic entanglements between our sheets? I know for certain there was a simple subtraction on the day your tears added up everything and finally said goodbye. Some would say there is order in this chaos disguised as order disguised as chaos Continually debating pattern recognition or butterfly effects But I’d like to think We were more subtle than that

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May 1, 2014

May 1, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC

Simple Mathematics

Is there an order? In there an approximation of pi circling our first awkward flirtations? Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I caress the curvature of your spine? Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the first time our lips met? Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate love making? A quadratic formula for the shameful discarding of punched in picture frames? Is there a golden ratio that best expresses hurried apologies and frantic entanglements between our sheets? I know for certain there was a simple subtraction on the day your tears added up everything and finally said goodbye. Some would say there is order in this chaos disguised as order disguised as chaos Continually debating pattern recognition or butterfly effects But I’d like to think We were more subtle than that

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“T'was the night before Christmas ...” and Santa was busy. The reindeer were antsy the elves in a tizzy. The missus was tending the ovens like mad And turning out cookies to make children glad. The wood chips were flying the sawdust was thick The workshop was bulging with toys from St. Nick. Contractors from Sega, Nintendo and Sony Were working on games (and a robotic pony). Iphones and Ipads (with virus removal) Were packed in their boxes and stamped "Elf Approval". Last minute touches were added with flair While elf stylists tended to Santa's white hair. Elf tailors were making some last alterations To Santa's red coat and his waist tribulations. The weather was fair as the weather-elf stated The routes were approved and departure was slated. Bells had been polished and harnesses buffed While repairs were addressed for the hoofs that were scuffed. The antlers were festooned with ribbons and bells And the reindeer were covered with elf flying spells. The clock approached midnight as Santa was seated. The countdown began as the flight crew was greeted. H-hour neared and the tension was growing. Outside it grew cloudy and then, began snowing. But Santa just grinned as the weather-elf winced. "Don't worry, my friend. Our time has commenced." For the weather was nothing to Santa's conveyance. His reindeer and sleigh were immune to"delay-ance". With a whirl of his whiskers and a flick of his wrist The reindeer were launched in a flash of white mist. And I heard him exclaim through his teleport ray: "ALERT TSA. Tell 'em I'm on my WAY!"

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Dec 22, 2017

Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC

T’was The Night Before Christmas

“T'was the night before Christmas ...” and Santa was busy. The reindeer were antsy the elves in a tizzy. The missus was tending the ovens like mad And turning out cookies to make children glad. The wood chips were flying the sawdust was thick The workshop was bulging with toys from St. Nick. Contractors from Sega, Nintendo and Sony Were working on games (and a robotic pony). Iphones and Ipads (with virus removal) Were packed in their boxes and stamped "Elf Approval". Last minute touches were added with flair While elf stylists tended to Santa's white hair. Elf tailors were making some last alterations To Santa's red coat and his waist tribulations. The weather was fair as the weather-elf stated The routes were approved and departure was slated. Bells had been polished and harnesses buffed While repairs were addressed for the hoofs that were scuffed. The antlers were festooned with ribbons and bells And the reindeer were covered with elf flying spells. The clock approached midnight as Santa was seated. The countdown began as the flight crew was greeted. H-hour neared and the tension was growing. Outside it grew cloudy and then, began snowing. But Santa just grinned as the weather-elf winced. "Don't worry, my friend. Our time has commenced." For the weather was nothing to Santa's conveyance. His reindeer and sleigh were immune to"delay-ance". With a whirl of his whiskers and a flick of his wrist The reindeer were launched in a flash of white mist. And I heard him exclaim through his teleport ray: "ALERT TSA. Tell 'em I'm on my WAY!"

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So last night, I stopped by Santa's workshop And I met his team of eight tiny reindeer His sweet little wife and all of his elves AND do you know, they whispered in my ear some members of Hello Poetry are very naughty So Santa's added their names to his list, my dear AND Santa declared with a very saddened heart they will be blessed with nothing this year

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Nov 23, 2016

Nov 23, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC

Hello Poetry Members placed on Santa's Naughty List

So last night, I stopped by Santa's workshop And I met his team of eight tiny reindeer His sweet little wife and all of his elves AND do you know, they whispered in my ear some members of Hello Poetry are very naughty So Santa's added their names to his list, my dear AND Santa declared with a very saddened heart they will be blessed with nothing this year

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*oh, these messages, you send, invitations to a gala, a black tie affair, but only if willingly pay the exorbitant fare, your money's no good, you must dare, find and write the poem hid within how cold are the carpenter's hands, the weather, but an added obstacle, this heat, makes dying different difficult, the wood bearing cross requires additional nails and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing, when it snows blood in Jerusalem the whole world can transition when one man dies and another is risen, where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition? there is none, for man is man, his divine spark, embedded, to his maker's mark, wedded, neither snow or sun, can ever, either, extinguish* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ any message you send can and will be turned into a poem

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Mar 14, 2017

Mar 14, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC

"cold are the carpenter's hands"

*oh, these messages, you send, invitations to a gala, a black tie affair, but only if willingly pay the exorbitant fare, your money's no good, you must dare, find and write the poem hid within how cold are the carpenter's hands, the weather, but an added obstacle, this heat, makes dying different difficult, the wood bearing cross requires additional nails and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing, when it snows blood in Jerusalem the whole world can transition when one man dies and another is risen, where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition? there is none, for man is man, his divine spark, embedded, to his maker's mark, wedded, neither snow or sun, can ever, either, extinguish* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ any message you send can and will be turned into a poem

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¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿. ¿ ¿. ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ a cup of poetic tea now becomes ready when emotions simmer on a flame dimmer @ with subtle swirls @ twirls and whirls @ added with words @ the aroma spreads @ strained out the waste @ the perfect taste and here it's ready the poetry ...the tea!

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Jul 25, 2018

Jul 25, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC

The tea of poetry

¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿. ¿ ¿. ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ a cup of poetic tea now becomes ready when emotions simmer on a flame dimmer @ with subtle swirls @ twirls and whirls @ added with words @ the aroma spreads @ strained out the waste @ the perfect taste and here it's ready the poetry ...the tea!

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Her soul was a candle flickering in the palm of his hand Slowly eating away at the wax until it was only the faint murmur of a flame He ran across deserts and over mountains to try to find a safe place for this little candle He constantly added wax, trying to rebuild it so it could feel powerful again He cupped his hands together tightly, trying not to let the breeze slip between the cracks his fingers made He tried his best, and so the story goes, his best happened to be just enough The flame of the little candle grew under his protecting watch It grew large enough to stand on its own, to fight the wind and the rain and the storms all by itself The candle still needed him though He provided more wax whenever it was needed, and stuck around to make sure his candle was alright And she was. Forever indebted to him, she stood as a beacon of hope for the hopeless, and a symbol of love for the lonely Forevermore.

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Apr 14, 2014

Apr 14, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC

Her soul was a candle flickering in the palm of his hand Slowly eating away at the wax until it was only the faint murmur of a flame He ran across deserts and over mountains to try to find a safe place for this little candle He constantly added wax, trying to rebuild it so it could feel powerful again He cupped his hands together tightly, trying not to let the breeze slip between the cracks his fingers made He tried his best, and so the story goes, his best happened to be just enough The flame of the little candle grew under his protecting watch It grew large enough to stand on its own, to fight the wind and the rain and the storms all by itself The candle still needed him though He provided more wax whenever it was needed, and stuck around to make sure his candle was alright And she was. Forever indebted to him, she stood as a beacon of hope for the hopeless, and a symbol of love for the lonely Forevermore.

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Dr. F. Wilhem discovered it by accident you see? The first man downloaded was no longer man. He suffered dearly until the plug was pulled, and we started over again; with biologists. Geneticists, Embryonticians, TransEugenecists, all celebrated the new fast-growing body. No more deaths at old age expiry, on battlefields. for a price all would live eternally; eternity here. It did not work. The bodies worked, the software recorded but the people were insanely bi-polar. Insane in fact. Until we switched the torso and genetics in tandem. then somehow the surviving person retained all memories! They were in fact; themselves! Just in a different gendered body? Unfortunately for everyone this was a major psychological shock. Unexplainable, sure, evolution took four billion years so... ...more time, more time, more experimentation is all we need. Wilhelm changed it all. When he added the shock, added the <human> response, turning the machines into Humans. They are truly A.I. ...verily human in fact. Animal-ish, peaceful then angry, terrible or violent. Artificially Intelligent; Humans. *"What good is it to change a person, ...merely into someone else?"* -Al Abd Azaz *To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes.* *

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Jan 21, 2018

Jan 21, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC

david-john-mowers

Wilhelm's Widget

Dr. F. Wilhem discovered it by accident you see? The first man downloaded was no longer man. He suffered dearly until the plug was pulled, and we started over again; with biologists. Geneticists, Embryonticians, TransEugenecists, all celebrated the new fast-growing body. No more deaths at old age expiry, on battlefields. for a price all would live eternally; eternity here. It did not work. The bodies worked, the software recorded but the people were insanely bi-polar. Insane in fact. Until we switched the torso and genetics in tandem. then somehow the surviving person retained all memories! They were in fact; themselves! Just in a different gendered body? Unfortunately for everyone this was a major psychological shock. Unexplainable, sure, evolution took four billion years so... ...more time, more time, more experimentation is all we need. Wilhelm changed it all. When he added the shock, added the <human> response, turning the machines into Humans. They are truly A.I. ...verily human in fact. Animal-ish, peaceful then angry, terrible or violent. Artificially Intelligent; Humans. *"What good is it to change a person, ...merely into someone else?"* -Al Abd Azaz *To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes.* *

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Dead in the center of her heart I found a minotaur. Of all things a frigging minotaur. I stood puzzled as we locked eyes. When I stumbled upon him he was sleep with today's newspaper drenched across his lap. He bounced up in full guard. Me being me I asked him for simple directions. Telling him that I thought I was lost. I planned on seeing heart shapes maybe a butterfly or two. A big bunny shape thing or two but you, just wow. He grinned slightly and said yeah that's the first time I've heard that one. One step further, I added. I take it from the amount of drool on the side of your lip you've been sleep for quite a while. Now I don't mean to intrude on your guarding the labyrinth thing but, How about you let me *** a smoke and we'll talk about it at the nearest dinner. After all who can be mad over breakfast

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Nov 26, 2016

Nov 26, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC

Breakfast With A Minotaur

Dead in the center of her heart I found a minotaur. Of all things a frigging minotaur. I stood puzzled as we locked eyes. When I stumbled upon him he was sleep with today's newspaper drenched across his lap. He bounced up in full guard. Me being me I asked him for simple directions. Telling him that I thought I was lost. I planned on seeing heart shapes maybe a butterfly or two. A big bunny shape thing or two but you, just wow. He grinned slightly and said yeah that's the first time I've heard that one. One step further, I added. I take it from the amount of drool on the side of your lip you've been sleep for quite a while. Now I don't mean to intrude on your guarding the labyrinth thing but, How about you let me *** a smoke and we'll talk about it at the nearest dinner. After all who can be mad over breakfast

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1334 How soft this Prison is How sweet these sullen bars No Despot but the King of Down Invented this repose Of Fate if this is All Has he no added Realm A Dungeon but a Kinsman is Incarceration—Home.

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8.6k

Emily Dickinson

How soft this Prison is

1334 How soft this Prison is How sweet these sullen bars No Despot but the King of Down Invented this repose Of Fate if this is All Has he no added Realm A Dungeon but a Kinsman is Incarceration—Home.

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