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.
Andra Aug 1
my boyfriend
talks to me about

having babies.
with me.

i asked him
how would he name (our) his children.

he said one name
i cried.

Tilda Jul 7
She was born at 3.41am,
Neon lamps,
And mouth masks,
From a place of great peace,  
To loud,
Shambolic fuss,
Open wounds,
Not immune,
Drugs forming spirals of inaudible sounds,
Drowning and gargling,
Naked and cold,
Turning blue,
Being wrung out,
Mum crying out,
Wanting to feel flesh upon flesh,
Tear upon head,
Hands clasped in prayer,      
Hoping the girl,
Innocent and young,
Was lying cradled in heaven,
By 11.41.
Vexren4000 Jul 22
A garden planted at the height of spring,
Growing aching for sunlight,
The sun blesses the crops,
The farmer harvests,
The world goes round,
And society sits,
Forgetting the arts that fed them so well,
Now being reduced to babes being bottle fed.

Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)

written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Haiku Donna Aug 6
I love my children
They always inspire me
I'm a proud mummy

<3 <3 xxx
Inspired :)
English Jam May 2
Envisioning the dripping clock waving each second goodbye
Well, I could've travelled all round the globe, could've lived to die
Perhaps I've saved the lives of many a suffering man
Seen grandiose elephants knighted to rule their land

Found a new word in a new language per day
If only I could afford to behave
But when I get told what I'm not supposed to say
Do you expect me to make a change?

How can I give an answer if it's something I can't explain?

Babies were born in my life, I waved as they moved away from me
The flat expanse of sand drowned out by the wailing sea
Wars blew up and cities fell down to the flick of a careless wrist
The world's on outside, and what will I have missed?

Passing time, watching myself drown in sure-blue ink
Reading isn't believing, speaking is unheard
I wanna find true love but I'm being taught how to think
From an overwritten, overheard, overrated textbook word

Will I still be wondering if I'm wondering if I'm sane?

Can I escape this single room that surely brings on doom

Can I find an answer, or will I be met with laughter

If I'm all alone, then why do I hear screeching

Would my own hand be the one felt on my back, creeping

When I've paid my sentence, then can I go out and play?

Well I'm gonna go save the world...
Written about boredom in detention. Of course, I've never been in detention but I can imagine this is what it's like.
Next page