"contributors" poems
Friends, there are many(I think, I hope). So, to be fair, I will respond with this.
"Stricly an Opinion"
October 20, 2014 8:40a.m.
On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did. Why?
Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!
But that is the core of the HP Family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, with the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.
One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.
We will keep trying.
Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
~
April 2023
HP Poet: Sarita Aditya Verma
Age: 47
Country: India
Question 1: We are so happy you could be a part of this, Sarita. Tell us how long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Sarita Aditya Verma: "I have been writing for the last six years (19th October 2016), that was the first time ever I wrote to express myself. I have been a member and have posting here at Hello Poetry since December 2016. This is the only place where I share my words, sometimes a copy of the same with friends who are willing to read. Hello Poetry has been my sacred space, I feel blessed to be here."
Question 2: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Sarita Aditya Verma: "Nature has inspired me forever, be it rain, sunshine, trees or the blooming flowers. The length and breadth of vivid times and emotions. I usually write about the experiences in life, as I lightly observe around. Sometimes it could be a photograph, a painting or even my morning walk. In general, the geometry of life and the rainbow that shines. That’s how poetry happens to me."
Question 3: What does poetry mean to you?
Sarita Aditya Verma: "Poetry is one of the best experiences in my life. It has given me a sense of belonging, a space which is totally mine, brought in a lot of clarity, and words have set me free. 'Sometimes poetry, mostly life, unwritten quotes destiny shall write'- is what I believe in."
Question 4: Who are your favorite poets?
Sarita Aditya Verma: "I have been a science student, and haven’t had much exposure to literature/poetry in my graduation years. So it would be unfair to quote any of the greats here! Robert Frost and Mark Twain are the ones whose works I have enjoyed reading in school. The rest, most of my reading and learning experience, has been at Hello Poetry - from the many great poets and poetesses who share their wonderful work here, and I am grateful for that."
Question 5: What other interests do you have?
Sarita Aditya Verma: "One of my other interests is photography, I love the geometry of the subject- it’s all about angles and curves, and right moments to capture. I am drawn to nature and street photography. I am still into the process of exploring and acquiring the skills. I also enjoy listening to upbeat music :)"
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much, Sarita! We are really excited to add you to this spotlight series.”
Sarita Aditya Verma: "Thank you so much Carlo, for interviewing me here. I truly enjoyed the questions and am eager to know about and read from other contributors at Hello Poetry :)"
Again thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Sarita a little bit better.
– Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #3 in May!
~
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 8:09 AM UTC
These city lights look for all the world to me
like some spellbound amnesty
but in reality
they are the building blocks that bring the nights
so I can see
what is to come and what will be.
Like ships at sea that head to port
we're caught
and cast upon the waves like bread to be dispersed
saved ,reborn and nursed by those well versed
in maritime and chandler's stores and sending those back through revolving doors to drown again,
and how the night pours down on me
slipping quickly through the city light where the building blocks become another knock,a twist of fate,and being cruel would stand and wait,while I, the traveller stand and hesitate
to go on
to stay?
an end to an end or a beginning that would send me some hope,no pope here to bless me or you,just another city night to fight and fit tightly through until the morning comes and runs my fears away.
I stay and am obliged to those contributors,interlocutors who saw me,spoke, and watched me as I broke upon the morning shore,
score one to me and city nil
until tonight
when we will fight again.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Through voracious eyes devotees, peruse writings, clever literature all styled to thoughtful poetic ways
eloquently, exposing wounds of body and soul, discovered distrust, anger much regret, sadly even fear,
thereto shortcomings in life, of people, their actions, loves and lies promulgated in illuminating phrase.
Technology endows contributors with outlets for venting suchlike occasions using artistry is here.
Passionate poignant experiences most well written, some not are duly shared to attracted communal eyes.
declarations of 'I have cared so much I'm wounded mortally', some bask in lost or unrequited loves last kiss,
several employ inner strength 'whatever happened, I don't care, I'm resilient, I survive', shared with poetic pride
concise verses rework obvious reminders, may motivate suggestion that opportunity shouldn't be missed.
Modest words abundantly profound begin remarks that reassures, with the - I'm here for yous'- symbolic embrace,
in support it is written, 'I know what you mean' and from a great distance - empathise, but I have little to say.
Health issues aren't fixed by artistic pennings, only face to face professional advice forms the strongest base,
Writings from the poetic inner self may become positive steps, for futures not, staring in depressions face.
Much is written with sensitivity oft-times is judged by content, overlooked is why and how it is composed.
For instance suicide educes fear however. dubiety invites, is it fiction or truly despair?
Writing as an art observes, describes, creates imagery, of sadness and joy, escapism, fictional or no.
Poetic creators who web-wide commune through stories, thoughts, secrets, ideas, dreams, let the poetry be shared .
Poetry www Michael C Crowder 12th January 2019 @scorsby
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 9:16 AM UTC
October 20, 2014 8:40a.m.
On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did. Why?
Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!
But that is the core of the HP family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, and the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.
One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.
We will keep trying.
Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
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Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
The fall of Rome is upon us.
I have spied it from my window,
i dare not intrude.
venimus
vidimus
vicimus
(ourselves)
The slaves are in revolt;
the Colliseum burns,
flames tenderly licking
destruction and freedom,
a beacon in the
dark autumn night;
Carthage has embraced
its high sodium diet,
it now seeks equality;
the Senate lies in ruin,
much as it always has,
now bereft of contributors.
Ego autem relictus solus devius,
faciamus nobis effugium.
Come, fair plebian lady,
get in my chariot,
i will 'Billy Ocean' you
all the way
to the end of the world,
because some things never change.
veni
vidi
vici
NOTHING
per memet
ita reliqui,
empty-handed
my new fair plebian in tow.
Roma victa.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
He could write only perhaps a page at a time so scarred was he of losing the brilliance that he had somehow found again. After a few minutes of writing he was haunted by introspection reading back on what he had just written he couldn't escape the notion his words had been penned by some greater man and if he were to continue, to add to it, he would only be lessening a beautiful portrait. The effect was that each page he wrote looked like a biography with each chapter recorded by a different writer giving his work the disjointed feeling of having many contributors all compiling their experiences to tell this one story. He had never bothered to understand Durkheim's theory of alienation, but he imagined it was something close to this – not recognising himself in every story he wrote, only knowing that it was somehow someone different each time and that they were all trapped somewhere deep inside him.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
"Pettiness, and jealousy, go together.
But, there is not a place for it here on HP. We write what we wish, what we feel, how we feel; about our lives, loves, adventures; our spirituality; we write because it's a beautiful hobby for many of us, and not to begin a competition as to who can do better.
There are so many on this site whose talent I so admire since I joined the site 2 years ago. Because of this nonsense, we recently lost a great writer and friend, whom I will miss terribly. Those that participate in the pettiness, jealousy, hatred, and discontent, are in a minority. Hopefully, the other contributors, writers, poets, essayists, old and new alike, also realize this. Let us not give up our seats on this "Poet's Train!"
copyright: richard riddle-August 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'.
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
October 20, 2014 8:40a.m.
On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did. Why?
Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!
But that is the core of the HP family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, and the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.
One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.
We will keep trying.
Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'.
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Let's have a gathering.
I'm inviting all readers and contributors of HP
To my house for New Year's Eve.
Ring in the new and all that stuff.
We'll have a bonfire.
Bring your worst poems
(not the ones published here)
I'll keep the fire going for the first hour.
All our tinder will get free light.
Bring your inkless pens, blank paper,
Keypads, phones, laptops,
And we'll toss them all on the heap.
We'll drink, and smoke, and curse;
May even use some bad Trump words
As we quaff, inhale, and turn the air blue.
We'll feed the metaphoric coals with odes,
Watch them rise to heaven in simile sparks,
Smell the figurative smoke,
Hear the onomatopoeic couplets sizzle.
We could burn an effigy of Elliot,
That's with a Y not a T.S.
(Just for fun...)
Several pinatas, one Pence for sure,
You can bring your favorite to beat on.
Can you imagine the fun we'll have?
And when the evening comes to a close
In the early morning,
And the fire has died down,
We can read our best aloud
To put everyone to sleep,
To alleviate the hangover.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
For all of the newcomers to the site, and you 'old comers', too.)
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Mothers. Possibly one of the significant contributors of the phrase “Empowered Women, Empower Women.” They overcome adversities, challenge social norms and break down barriers – rising and raising their child with them.
They plant flowers in the garden of their children, so they can bloom. They pour love out like a waterfall and nurture those who drink from it. They enflame hearts with compassion. They orchestrate and create harmony amongst their children creating a beautiful symphony. They pave roads and liberate. They voice out and amplify the ones of their own.
Here is to their depths of love that supports and caresses. To their cheers that uplifts. To how they raise and confront the world. To their softness. To their boldness. To their resilience. To their sacrifices. To them bringing out the best in us.
Here is to their ability to create an insurmountable power that only grows. Here is to them to being driven and passionate in their own authentic way. To them carrying out their integrity. To them setting examples, aspiring us to emulate.
To the ones who give birth, adopt, educate and raise. To the ones who devote their lives to their families care, to the ones who balance. Here is to them creating ripples carried over generation. To them shaping us and thereby shaping the world after them.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Wouldn't it be an extraordinary event to hold an "HP" convention at some point in time, having the opportunity to come "face to face" with those poets, writers, and contributors, whom we so admire. Only to discover that those profile photos and information from whom we receive notifications and messages, are all "FAKE." That no one is who they purport to be! That, alone, would be one "hell of a story!"
richard riddle: 11-30-2015
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Viva our Anarchist, viva our Revolutionaries
those magnificent dudes in their underwhelming cabral
with shining mad grins showing unwashed brown teeth
they devised another supernova anarchical dastard deed
Here comrade
we anchor his neighbour to his parked car outside
remember the neighbour is same national as the Mata Hari girl
we make the neighbour engage him about the car
just casual enquires and info about the car and knowing a possible
buyer for the car
off course there's no buyer
all this is just the anchoring bit
Then
We steal the car,yes we steal the ****** car
No one's gonna talk, we have them all in our pockets
we already told them he's loaded and a parasite
a leech bleeding us the working classes
everybody hates him, there are all on our side
Bingo.......!
He's gonna go spare, that will do his ****** head in
he's gonna think neighbour has something to do with the theft
he gonna hate that neighbour, he may even go confront him
but not only that, he's also gonna hate the Mata hari girl
because neighbour and Mata hari come from the same country
so that's his love life ruined and no friend for our man
Isolation quickens mental breakdown plus all the grief and stress
Ahh....is that devious or what ........
we're not anarchist for nothing
we create emotional hurt and pain for the man
we give him grief and stress, we frustrate the ******
we foil his plan to go meet the Mata hari gal
it's all suffering and depression all the way......
( But we know he's not meeting the Mata Hari girl,
we know there's nothing going on in that end )
( Yes, we know that, silly, but the punters we are using
as gang stalking perpetrators, don't know that)
(Keep up with things, we manipulate them and all the other
foot soldiers with lies, delusions, distortions and make them all think, they are controlling the man, do you want further training
we are rogues and con-artists, that's what we do, silly!)
Our intrepid leftist Anarchist have foiled a non-event again
The used and manipulated crowds are all smiling in satisfaction
A car has been stolen with community approval, another Tax they say.
The man has not hated or blamed his neighbour he is not an emotionally immature or unintelligent fool
the man has not anchored any of this to Mata Hari, who is also
just a pawn as are all the other contributors to this saga
This is how the Anarchist Leftist divide people and infect communities with Hate, division, unrest and ill wills all round
This is the politics of Hate and Division
This is how things roll in Modern britain today......!
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
Sometimes, I wonder, if it's just me.
Who question many thing ministers of the world speak?
Or give a sermon upon.
Like, how can you say you love God?
But despises family's members you see daily.
But wait!
If the message is love.
Then why we attack others members life style.
If you into the same *** you aware that you preached against.
But in various churches, you are the biggest contributors.
And we know churches barely turn down contributions of tithes and offering.
Sometimes, I wonder about many of things.
Like women treated in secondary roles in serving the lord.
Yes, many aren't allowed to even preach.
But quickly can be consider an usher.
Back in the day, many true ministers was called by God.
Today, they learn theirs trade from universities and colleges.
And seem more invested in fame and riches.
Sometimes, I wonder.
Then this is just an opinion.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'.
On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You", was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!
copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014
Edit poem
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
I’m sorry that I don’t want kids
I’m still a kid myself.
July 2022 was my birth.
Age 25 and flung into blinding light.
Ripped from the suffocating womb that I had been shoved into
And incubated.
Squished, pushed, moulded,
Deprived of nutrients
From my mother,
From him,
And also him,
And my dad,
And the list of contributors is extensive.
I’m sorry I can’t commit to giving you the grandchild/ren
That you so desperately want.
But I’ve only just been born,
Yet I’ve already done my time.
I have two sisters.
Two kids.
Two souls I’ve grown, nurtured, sheltered, loved, taught.
But didn’t birth.
I’ve already been a parent.
And I’m sorry it’s not in the correct way.
I didn’t choose it.
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 8:24 AM UTC
Your tomorrow comes today now,
you created today yesterday,
you create your tomorrow today,
it's interestingly always in circles,
ever coming,
you can be in it now,
And if you can see it in your mind,
it's yours,
because you own the world.
If you make yourself
available and useful,
if you become relevant,
and sow into it,
you'll reap plenty.
Tomorrow does not give
anything to anyone who
doesn't contribute to it,
it will unwittingly
abandons the ones
who are not useful.
The ones who so
sorely complains didn't
know they have been bypassed,
they can't see their tomorrow
because they are no
longer contributors,
they are dropped and thrown out.
They are no longer relevant
until they upgrade themselves.
they so became bitter
without knowing that they
can return to greatness if only they can
work on themselves to
reclaim their groove back.
They can then come
from that position of
strength to win in their tomorrow.
© 2017, Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC