Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"nodding" poems
~-English-~ The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I) A field of tulips Is where I laid down to sleep And dream a sweet dream Dew sparkled on the tulips And fell upon my fair cheeks In the shady woods Ladyslipper Orchids grow Near a babbling brook. Yellows and Pinks standing tall With ferns spreading all around. Beside the ocean The hibiscus are blooming Such a sweet perfume Lingers on the salty breeze Such beautiful rainbow hues Snowdrops are the first To appear blooming in frost Pure white heads nodding. Cold hardy and full of life, They offer a hope of Spring. Beside the farmhouse Gardenias are blooming White satin blossoms Their perfume is breathtaking Rain-washed petals of fragrance ~Timothy & Marian~ ~-French-~ La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas je) Un champ de tulipes Est où j'ai prévue de dormir Et un doux rêve Rosée brillait sur les tulipes Et tomba sur mes joues justes Dans les bois ombragés Ladyslipper orchidées poussent Près d'un petit ruisseau. Jaunes et roses debout Avec fougères répand tout autour. À côté de l'océan L'hibiscus sont en fleurs Tel un doux parfum S'attarde sur la brise salée Ces teintes belle arc-en-ciel Perce-neige est les premiers À comparaître fleurissant en gel Têtes blanches pures hochant la tête. Résistantes au froid et pleine de vie, Ils offrent un espoir de printemps. À côté de la ferme Gardénias sont en fleurs Fleurs de satin blancs Leur parfum est à couper le souffle Pétales restés du parfum ~ Timothy et Marian ~
0
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
marian
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I)
~-English-~ The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I) A field of tulips Is where I laid down to sleep And dream a sweet dream Dew sparkled on the tulips And fell upon my fair cheeks In the shady woods Ladyslipper Orchids grow Near a babbling brook. Yellows and Pinks standing tall With ferns spreading all around. Beside the ocean The hibiscus are blooming Such a sweet perfume Lingers on the salty breeze Such beautiful rainbow hues Snowdrops are the first To appear blooming in frost Pure white heads nodding. Cold hardy and full of life, They offer a hope of Spring. Beside the farmhouse Gardenias are blooming White satin blossoms Their perfume is breathtaking Rain-washed petals of fragrance ~Timothy & Marian~ ~-French-~ La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas je) Un champ de tulipes Est où j'ai prévue de dormir Et un doux rêve Rosée brillait sur les tulipes Et tomba sur mes joues justes Dans les bois ombragés Ladyslipper orchidées poussent Près d'un petit ruisseau. Jaunes et roses debout Avec fougères répand tout autour. À côté de l'océan L'hibiscus sont en fleurs Tel un doux parfum S'attarde sur la brise salée Ces teintes belle arc-en-ciel Perce-neige est les premiers À comparaître fleurissant en gel Têtes blanches pures hochant la tête. Résistantes au froid et pleine de vie, Ils offrent un espoir de printemps. À côté de la ferme Gardénias sont en fleurs Fleurs de satin blancs Leur parfum est à couper le souffle Pétales restés du parfum ~ Timothy et Marian ~
Continue reading...
56
I Don't Average Out I remember crying during lunch my senior year — my math teacher's eyebrows colliding, one plane folding into a fractal. He had sat there, nearly four years, watching me struggle through an unreal number of numbers — literally and figuratively — while again and again the test scores whispered: You are less than average. But behind the eyes of a determined man my insecurities never won. He refused to believe the numbers. He was searching for some unspoken meaning — and so was I. I almost found it the day of graduation. I almost found it between his eyebrows, creased like a point of pride — because I was the first of my family to hold something as light as a diploma instead of a heavy head, nodding under the weight of ****** The first to feel like a feather instead of a six-pack, a bad back, the slow grind of manual labor. I was flying. Then college tried to land me. Again I let an institution measure me. Test scores trying to tell me what I was worth — intelligence reduced to something too narrow to understand its own diversity. Less than average, they said. But I wasn't below the line — I was just outside it. An individual above their point of comparison. I could read a room like a text. I could build connection out of nothing. I could debate, move, make people feel something. Gold doesn't average out either. So I learned — it wasn't the diploma I should have chased. Not the thing I'd wave at my little brothers and sisters to show them how to live better, burn brighter, burn longer. Here I am. Red-faced and unafraid. Spoken word was always there — hiding between the creases of my teacher's brow, folded into the question I didn't know I was asking. The answer was never in his book. It was in his look. In his refusal to quit on me. I could have found it sooner if I'd known what I was searching for. I am not stupid. I haven't failed by choosing something the institution doesn't recognize. I am not defined by a score, a line, a rule, a rhyme. I don't average out — and that is not a weakness. Power isn't in a piece of paper. Power is in your words. In your chosen behavior. In the silence you finally break. The answer was never in his textbook — it was in his persistence. In the way he looked at me like the numbers were wrong. He just didn't have the words to say it. But I do.
0
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Rage
I Don't Average Out
I Don't Average Out I remember crying during lunch my senior year — my math teacher's eyebrows colliding, one plane folding into a fractal. He had sat there, nearly four years, watching me struggle through an unreal number of numbers — literally and figuratively — while again and again the test scores whispered: You are less than average. But behind the eyes of a determined man my insecurities never won. He refused to believe the numbers. He was searching for some unspoken meaning — and so was I. I almost found it the day of graduation. I almost found it between his eyebrows, creased like a point of pride — because I was the first of my family to hold something as light as a diploma instead of a heavy head, nodding under the weight of ****** The first to feel like a feather instead of a six-pack, a bad back, the slow grind of manual labor. I was flying. Then college tried to land me. Again I let an institution measure me. Test scores trying to tell me what I was worth — intelligence reduced to something too narrow to understand its own diversity. Less than average, they said. But I wasn't below the line — I was just outside it. An individual above their point of comparison. I could read a room like a text. I could build connection out of nothing. I could debate, move, make people feel something. Gold doesn't average out either. So I learned — it wasn't the diploma I should have chased. Not the thing I'd wave at my little brothers and sisters to show them how to live better, burn brighter, burn longer. Here I am. Red-faced and unafraid. Spoken word was always there — hiding between the creases of my teacher's brow, folded into the question I didn't know I was asking. The answer was never in his book. It was in his look. In his refusal to quit on me. I could have found it sooner if I'd known what I was searching for. I am not stupid. I haven't failed by choosing something the institution doesn't recognize. I am not defined by a score, a line, a rule, a rhyme. I don't average out — and that is not a weakness. Power isn't in a piece of paper. Power is in your words. In your chosen behavior. In the silence you finally break. The answer was never in his textbook — it was in his persistence. In the way he looked at me like the numbers were wrong. He just didn't have the words to say it. But I do.
Continue reading...
80
Lovely dainty Spanish needle With your yellow flower and white, Dew bedecked and softly sleeping, Do you think of me to-night? Shadowed by the spreading mango, Nodding o'er the rippling stream, Tell me, dear plant of my childhood, Do you of the exile dream? Do you see me by the brook's side Catching crayfish 'neath the stone, As you did the day you whispered: Leave the harmless dears alone? Do you see me in the meadow Coming from the woodland spring With a bamboo on my shoulder And a pail slung from a string? Do you see me all expectant Lying in an orange grove, While the swee-swees sing above me, Waiting for my elf-eyed love? Lovely dainty Spanish needle, Source to me of sweet delight, In your far-off sunny southland Do you dream of me to-night?
0
18.7k
Claude McKay
The Spanish Needle
Lovely dainty Spanish needle With your yellow flower and white, Dew bedecked and softly sleeping, Do you think of me to-night? Shadowed by the spreading mango, Nodding o'er the rippling stream, Tell me, dear plant of my childhood, Do you of the exile dream? Do you see me by the brook's side Catching crayfish 'neath the stone, As you did the day you whispered: Leave the harmless dears alone? Do you see me in the meadow Coming from the woodland spring With a bamboo on my shoulder And a pail slung from a string? Do you see me all expectant Lying in an orange grove, While the swee-swees sing above me, Waiting for my elf-eyed love? Lovely dainty Spanish needle, Source to me of sweet delight, In your far-off sunny southland Do you dream of me to-night?
Continue reading...
24
And just like coffee. Let your aroma tingle and stimulate the smiles of those around. The best source of touch Without cream or sugar. Stir the organic presentation that brings the next minute that much closer. Whether the preference is a mug or a styrofoam cup. Remember, At the end of the day. Coffee fits into any size container And brings to life any size smile. With one quick sip The senses awake to a new day. Swirled in unspoken travel sized rule. It follows, The beautiful ovation that rushes once poured. Beautifully represented by your smile. The tone of your skin. Your hair naturally at ease. Stirred by a finger. Specialism by the majority nodding away, Yet awaken by your essence. Soon extracted and brought to life. Swirling beyond content. And just like coffee, I look forward to a cup of you
0
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
kewayne-wadley
A Cup
And just like coffee. Let your aroma tingle and stimulate the smiles of those around. The best source of touch Without cream or sugar. Stir the organic presentation that brings the next minute that much closer. Whether the preference is a mug or a styrofoam cup. Remember, At the end of the day. Coffee fits into any size container And brings to life any size smile. With one quick sip The senses awake to a new day. Swirled in unspoken travel sized rule. It follows, The beautiful ovation that rushes once poured. Beautifully represented by your smile. The tone of your skin. Your hair naturally at ease. Stirred by a finger. Specialism by the majority nodding away, Yet awaken by your essence. Soon extracted and brought to life. Swirling beyond content. And just like coffee, I look forward to a cup of you
Continue reading...
25
Hell's demons are everywhere If I could only convince you to see Drinking gin and tonic with style Sipping haughtily on lemon and tea Their distorted evil frightening faces Are masked from human sight As they pass you with indifference Grinning and nodding Moving left to right However Without warning As their vicious appetites call Growing hungry for souls In the silence of the night They gobble up foolish sinners they encounter That disappear forever from sight So the next time you have the desire to dine in the evening Take a  moment or a second or two Remember faces are not all they seem A demon may be sipping a martini, While smiling and sitting right next to you This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
0
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
tammy-m-darby
Demons
Hell's demons are everywhere If I could only convince you to see Drinking gin and tonic with style Sipping haughtily on lemon and tea Their distorted evil frightening faces Are masked from human sight As they pass you with indifference Grinning and nodding Moving left to right However Without warning As their vicious appetites call Growing hungry for souls In the silence of the night They gobble up foolish sinners they encounter That disappear forever from sight So the next time you have the desire to dine in the evening Take a  moment or a second or two Remember faces are not all they seem A demon may be sipping a martini, While smiling and sitting right next to you This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Continue reading...
24
It’s 6:15pm. Peter, Anna, Sophy and I are studying in the common room of our suite. “We need to get serious,” Peter whispered, but there was no subject in the declaration, so I was left confused and uncommitted, “about getting serious,” he clarified. “I’m not sure I can get serious about a guy who doesn’t separate whites and darks in the laundry,” I say, gently. “No,” he said, shaking his head in brief vibration, “we need to get serious about DINNER.” “Oh!” I said, maybe a little too relieved. “Ha!” He chortled, “YOU overthink everything!” He said, nodding his head up and down to prove it was true. “And speaking of laundry,” he continued, seeing me start to open my mouth, “the other night YOU asked me if your pastel purple ******* should go with the whites or darks - so I must be an EXPERT!” I laughed at the idea of his laundry expertise, sailing in from out of the purple like that, it was haywire. “Well,” I said, becoming introspective, “I didn’t know you’d hold onto that question like a grudge,” I said, in quiet, wounded accusation, “from now ON, maybe you should stay as far away from my ******* as possible.” “What are you two grousing about NOW?” Anna asked, looking up from her computer. “You guys are like an old married couple.” “True THAT.” Sophie said, like a judge right before knocking her gavel to finalize a ruling. “We weren’t arguing!” I said, looking around confusedly. I looked at Peter, who was smiling broadly, “Were we?” “Nope,” he said, wrapping his arm around me in a bearhug, “we were flirting.”
0
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 2:43 PM UTC
anaisvionet
pastel purple
It’s 6:15pm. Peter, Anna, Sophy and I are studying in the common room of our suite. “We need to get serious,” Peter whispered, but there was no subject in the declaration, so I was left confused and uncommitted, “about getting serious,” he clarified. “I’m not sure I can get serious about a guy who doesn’t separate whites and darks in the laundry,” I say, gently. “No,” he said, shaking his head in brief vibration, “we need to get serious about DINNER.” “Oh!” I said, maybe a little too relieved. “Ha!” He chortled, “YOU overthink everything!” He said, nodding his head up and down to prove it was true. “And speaking of laundry,” he continued, seeing me start to open my mouth, “the other night YOU asked me if your pastel purple ******* should go with the whites or darks - so I must be an EXPERT!” I laughed at the idea of his laundry expertise, sailing in from out of the purple like that, it was haywire. “Well,” I said, becoming introspective, “I didn’t know you’d hold onto that question like a grudge,” I said, in quiet, wounded accusation, “from now ON, maybe you should stay as far away from my ******* as possible.” “What are you two grousing about NOW?” Anna asked, looking up from her computer. “You guys are like an old married couple.” “True THAT.” Sophie said, like a judge right before knocking her gavel to finalize a ruling. “We weren’t arguing!” I said, looking around confusedly. I looked at Peter, who was smiling broadly, “Were we?” “Nope,” he said, wrapping his arm around me in a bearhug, “we were flirting.”
Continue reading...
11
Eve of Holi A spring eve that’s all different from others Zephyrs blowing away the leaves Orange sky adding the flavours Blooming flowers nodding in a rhythm So Ironical is nature of this evening That all these beauties act as ornaments of Kali On a normal evening man would work They would work appraising weather They know it will not last long, they enjoy Today they as if ignore it, of morning celebrations Morning is gayest morning of the year Every reason to see every man Mankind being unanimous Evening on contrary balancing it to a usual day An unexplainable soundlessness, vacuum of thoughts A day depicting environment without men on work Streets still hold colours on their chest But this colour no more is a sign of happiness People meet each other, everyone has a smile But that doesn’t match with nature suit There smiles have scope within its sight Body of people walking on street enjoy zephyr Their mind stay startled of unusual quietness Standing on my entrance, I observe A swinging litchi tree, missing sound of saw mill Smiling flowers, orange cloudy sky Empty streets, parked wagons, and utterly silence
0
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
random-guy
Holi. The festival of colours?
Eve of Holi A spring eve that’s all different from others Zephyrs blowing away the leaves Orange sky adding the flavours Blooming flowers nodding in a rhythm So Ironical is nature of this evening That all these beauties act as ornaments of Kali On a normal evening man would work They would work appraising weather They know it will not last long, they enjoy Today they as if ignore it, of morning celebrations Morning is gayest morning of the year Every reason to see every man Mankind being unanimous Evening on contrary balancing it to a usual day An unexplainable soundlessness, vacuum of thoughts A day depicting environment without men on work Streets still hold colours on their chest But this colour no more is a sign of happiness People meet each other, everyone has a smile But that doesn’t match with nature suit There smiles have scope within its sight Body of people walking on street enjoy zephyr Their mind stay startled of unusual quietness Standing on my entrance, I observe A swinging litchi tree, missing sound of saw mill Smiling flowers, orange cloudy sky Empty streets, parked wagons, and utterly silence
Continue reading...
28
No-one told the snowdrops that the world is coming to an end that there is no sense in trying anymore that darkness has finally defeated the light And ignorant of the truth they push once more through the mould and grit raising their heads above ground Stopping me in my tracks. Oh yes!  Things used to live here! The wan Scottish sun used to warm us and the endless pounding rain slaked thirst and pumped like blood into new life and hope. How did we forget? And they change everything. They change everything. They return the world to the state they need it to be in, they are nodding heralds of the coming supernova which will happen with us or without us.
0
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 3:13 AM UTC
alan-mcclure
Snowdrops near Susi's House
No-one told the snowdrops that the world is coming to an end that there is no sense in trying anymore that darkness has finally defeated the light And ignorant of the truth they push once more through the mould and grit raising their heads above ground Stopping me in my tracks. Oh yes!  Things used to live here! The wan Scottish sun used to warm us and the endless pounding rain slaked thirst and pumped like blood into new life and hope. How did we forget? And they change everything. They change everything. They return the world to the state they need it to be in, they are nodding heralds of the coming supernova which will happen with us or without us.
Continue reading...
22
I walk down a broken street in search of my Promised Land, I'm on a mission from God and my God's name is ****** In the distance I can hear the gunfire, I'm in a holy war, my sergeant’s named desire. I walk past other junkies nodding out against a wall, We're fighting the same cause, fighting against withdrawal. I reach my destination, I talk with the man, I hand him twenty dollars, he puts my God in my hand. ****** you must be God for everything I do is for you, I'd crawl ten miles on broken glass for you. I'd sell my soul, my family and friends for you, If you asked me to sell myself, I'd do that too, You can see I'm truly nothing, nothing without you. But if you’re really God, you leave me confused, At times I feel like I've really been used. You leave me shivering when it's not really cold, Unable to walk and I'm not even old. You leave me penniless when I'm not even poor, You leave me feeling beaten, aching and sore. You take away my pride, my looks and my health, Make me lie to my family, my friends and myself. Although for you I have dedicated my life, What have you done for me except stabbed me with a knife? I look in the mirror at my own bloodshot eyes, I stare at a man whose world is all lies. I think about my past and start to realize, You’re not a God at all, but the Devil in disguise.
0
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
alan-w-jankowski
My God, The Devil ******
I walk down a broken street in search of my Promised Land, I'm on a mission from God and my God's name is ****** In the distance I can hear the gunfire, I'm in a holy war, my sergeant’s named desire. I walk past other junkies nodding out against a wall, We're fighting the same cause, fighting against withdrawal. I reach my destination, I talk with the man, I hand him twenty dollars, he puts my God in my hand. ****** you must be God for everything I do is for you, I'd crawl ten miles on broken glass for you. I'd sell my soul, my family and friends for you, If you asked me to sell myself, I'd do that too, You can see I'm truly nothing, nothing without you. But if you’re really God, you leave me confused, At times I feel like I've really been used. You leave me shivering when it's not really cold, Unable to walk and I'm not even old. You leave me penniless when I'm not even poor, You leave me feeling beaten, aching and sore. You take away my pride, my looks and my health, Make me lie to my family, my friends and myself. Although for you I have dedicated my life, What have you done for me except stabbed me with a knife? I look in the mirror at my own bloodshot eyes, I stare at a man whose world is all lies. I think about my past and start to realize, You’re not a God at all, but the Devil in disguise.
Continue reading...
27
*shadows casting forward pastel edges of water colored nebulous scenes once known i fuse with deja vu in its feather-like fringe i beg for the meaning of history reliving perhaps it’s a maze tho’ previously scripted funhouse mirrors silently mock our own carnival or is it a wink? the north star is nodding a slight innuendo we’re not lost at sea perchance it’s a hint it is all an illusion a glitch in the matrix the black cat walks by i grasp for the answer and peer at the ghostly parchment paper dream as it dissolves to thin air ©2018janetaylor
0
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
jane-taylor
paper dreams
*shadows casting forward pastel edges of water colored nebulous scenes once known i fuse with deja vu in its feather-like fringe i beg for the meaning of history reliving perhaps it’s a maze tho’ previously scripted funhouse mirrors silently mock our own carnival or is it a wink? the north star is nodding a slight innuendo we’re not lost at sea perchance it’s a hint it is all an illusion a glitch in the matrix the black cat walks by i grasp for the answer and peer at the ghostly parchment paper dream as it dissolves to thin air ©2018janetaylor
Continue reading...
25
I never got to meet my father... He died when I was nine months old, But his presence, I always felt While I was growing up, Even up to this day... He would often visit me in my dreams, Told me not to worry or despair, Took my hand, Told me I could go with him.. Which I almost did... A few times, in high school I felt a light push on my back When my Home Economics teacher Almost caught me nodding...I was Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons... I was always saved from falling Each time I climbed the guava tree... I feel some kind of force stopping me, Standing ahead of me, Whenever I cross the street, even now... My late aunt said she found me Looking up and giggling When at three or five years old, I played by myself beside My father's tall and sturdy book case... I see his face when I go through His dwindling collection of Edgar Allan Poe books, including his Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left, All, with mottled pages now... The matrimonial bed he shared With my late mother is still in use... His portrait is hung on our wall... Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday, I look through his eyes, and----- In silence, I greet him, "Happy birthday, papa, Happy Father's Day, as well." In my mind, my father lives, And my own stories of him therein dwells... Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
0
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
sally-a-bayan
Lost Days With My Father
I never got to meet my father... He died when I was nine months old, But his presence, I always felt While I was growing up, Even up to this day... He would often visit me in my dreams, Told me not to worry or despair, Took my hand, Told me I could go with him.. Which I almost did... A few times, in high school I felt a light push on my back When my Home Economics teacher Almost caught me nodding...I was Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons... I was always saved from falling Each time I climbed the guava tree... I feel some kind of force stopping me, Standing ahead of me, Whenever I cross the street, even now... My late aunt said she found me Looking up and giggling When at three or five years old, I played by myself beside My father's tall and sturdy book case... I see his face when I go through His dwindling collection of Edgar Allan Poe books, including his Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left, All, with mottled pages now... The matrimonial bed he shared With my late mother is still in use... His portrait is hung on our wall... Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday, I look through his eyes, and----- In silence, I greet him, "Happy birthday, papa, Happy Father's Day, as well." In my mind, my father lives, And my own stories of him therein dwells... Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Continue reading...
43
And in the end, You begin to realize who your true friends are. The ones who stand by your side Through thick and thin Trial, error, and sin. In this day and age, Not many stand the chance In nomination For the sacrificial commencement of honour. Nature plays its part indeed. Because it is only in time The veil is lifted. Root by root, Seed by seed. Humanity reveal their true colors. Next thing you know, You've been cursed by a plague. A whole school of fish Swimming to discover their own island. That is only for thyself. You've been contaminated By the human race. Look at the social media blow up. The narcissistic selfies, The I, me, my's, Gaining daily acceptance All in disguise. The public audience is their show. It's needed for everyday approval. Nobody really cares about you It's all about "Look at me!" "Look what I can do!" "You are so cool." "Thumbs up to you!" I'm going to abuse the word "love." Forget the hoopla Here today Gone tomorrow. Everyone feeding off of Self loathing attention. There is no more room for pitiful sorrow. Truth is Sheep lie among the prey Victims... Don't be another "Nodding Acquaintance" A distortion of the facts. Don't get fooled. Not by social grace Not by exploitation of the face. You'll just be a bargain commodity, For their convenience. Stand true True to yourself Because in the end, Nobody else really cares.
0
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
zigmaz-f
Social Science
And in the end, You begin to realize who your true friends are. The ones who stand by your side Through thick and thin Trial, error, and sin. In this day and age, Not many stand the chance In nomination For the sacrificial commencement of honour. Nature plays its part indeed. Because it is only in time The veil is lifted. Root by root, Seed by seed. Humanity reveal their true colors. Next thing you know, You've been cursed by a plague. A whole school of fish Swimming to discover their own island. That is only for thyself. You've been contaminated By the human race. Look at the social media blow up. The narcissistic selfies, The I, me, my's, Gaining daily acceptance All in disguise. The public audience is their show. It's needed for everyday approval. Nobody really cares about you It's all about "Look at me!" "Look what I can do!" "You are so cool." "Thumbs up to you!" I'm going to abuse the word "love." Forget the hoopla Here today Gone tomorrow. Everyone feeding off of Self loathing attention. There is no more room for pitiful sorrow. Truth is Sheep lie among the prey Victims... Don't be another "Nodding Acquaintance" A distortion of the facts. Don't get fooled. Not by social grace Not by exploitation of the face. You'll just be a bargain commodity, For their convenience. Stand true True to yourself Because in the end, Nobody else really cares.
Continue reading...
57
WHERE has Maid Quiet gone to, Nodding her russet hood? The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood. O how could I be so calm When she rose up to depart? Now words that called up the lightning Are hurtling through my heart.
0
7.2k
William Butler Yeats
Maid Quiet
WHERE has Maid Quiet gone to, Nodding her russet hood? The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood. O how could I be so calm When she rose up to depart? Now words that called up the lightning Are hurtling through my heart.
Continue reading...
8
“You’re overweight,” he says, tapping his finger against his chart of heights and measurements, thighs too big and fingers too plump. I already know. I nod, and continue nodding, listening to the word echo and then fall onto the ground, bouncing and bounding, restrictions that have surrounded my whole life, my whole curvy figure. If I could be like the girls with the flesh wrapped tight and the bones loose and caving in on one another, I would grab the chance before it had a chance to flutter away from my desperately aching hands. When I look in the mirror, I try to remind myself that flaws are flaws and yet they were made to be beautiful, but I see what I see and what I see makes me want to ***** makes me want to close my eyes, makes me want to pull and tug and rip until there is nothing left but a pile of rotting decay. I am stuck, I am back on the playground in sixth grade where the boys would taunt and laugh, point and gasp, as I tried to pretend I looked like everyone else, every other small, petite little girl who didn’t have to worry about these types of things. My clothes don’t fit, I’ve gone through seven pairs of jeans in the last month alone, I look back at the pictures when I thought I was fat, but I wasn’t, I was fine then, why did I think that? I lay in bed beside the man I’m supposed to be with, fully clothed and pushing his hands away from my hips, away from my lips, don’t touch me then if you can’t handle all that I have to give. I’m not her, and she never wished to be me.
0
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
kelly-landis
curvy
“You’re overweight,” he says, tapping his finger against his chart of heights and measurements, thighs too big and fingers too plump. I already know. I nod, and continue nodding, listening to the word echo and then fall onto the ground, bouncing and bounding, restrictions that have surrounded my whole life, my whole curvy figure. If I could be like the girls with the flesh wrapped tight and the bones loose and caving in on one another, I would grab the chance before it had a chance to flutter away from my desperately aching hands. When I look in the mirror, I try to remind myself that flaws are flaws and yet they were made to be beautiful, but I see what I see and what I see makes me want to ***** makes me want to close my eyes, makes me want to pull and tug and rip until there is nothing left but a pile of rotting decay. I am stuck, I am back on the playground in sixth grade where the boys would taunt and laugh, point and gasp, as I tried to pretend I looked like everyone else, every other small, petite little girl who didn’t have to worry about these types of things. My clothes don’t fit, I’ve gone through seven pairs of jeans in the last month alone, I look back at the pictures when I thought I was fat, but I wasn’t, I was fine then, why did I think that? I lay in bed beside the man I’m supposed to be with, fully clothed and pushing his hands away from my hips, away from my lips, don’t touch me then if you can’t handle all that I have to give. I’m not her, and she never wished to be me.
Continue reading...
1
They will tell you there is a right way. They will hand you a torch and call it the sun. They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper: "This is what poetry is meant to be." And you will nod. Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy. But listen— the ink does not check your credentials. The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic. A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled. They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching— as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit. They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins, preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent. Good poets are cult leaders, and the first rule of the cult is that they are not one. So write the sonnet, carve the sestina, sculpt the page in iambic steel. Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones— but let no one call your wreckage untrue. And if they do, smile. Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
0
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 2:11 AM UTC
badwords
Good Poets Are Cult Leaders
They will tell you there is a right way. They will hand you a torch and call it the sun. They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper: "This is what poetry is meant to be." And you will nod. Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy. But listen— the ink does not check your credentials. The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic. A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled. They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching— as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit. They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins, preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent. Good poets are cult leaders, and the first rule of the cult is that they are not one. So write the sonnet, carve the sestina, sculpt the page in iambic steel. Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones— but let no one call your wreckage untrue. And if they do, smile. Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
Continue reading...
24
Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors. Holy cows bought government ***** and ate suicides grown by ***** Kubla Khan gospels. Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast. Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues in the belly of an infant— and yesterday, Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.
0
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
Black SuperHero Music (for Chicago)
Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors. Holy cows bought government ***** and ate suicides grown by ***** Kubla Khan gospels. Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast. Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues in the belly of an infant— and yesterday, Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.
Continue reading...
9
probly a few minutes and i was done writing wasn't feeling the same i stood on top like bricks around disaster i was looking up i took my shoes off threw them aside still laced   i wasn't being funny i know where this is going where i write   where i see cracks in perfect paths   where blood taste like metals of purity with every year burning where these flowers like to live die on vines from inside allowing ivy to climb my back i am a length of fence in a yard with no dog on a gate without reason sitting on a post during live events i am a fool for giving into seasons romancing everything like a poet following every inch of broken glass nodding to my friends that i'm willing to mend but waiting for them to laugh outlined with chalk on the sidewalk where blood stains concrete my convictions flowing from the curb to the overpass in the night like candles floating water under tree branches ready to crack formatting clouds to sky write, come with me a man in the park on his back
0
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
lifes-jump
from writing from within
probly a few minutes and i was done writing wasn't feeling the same i stood on top like bricks around disaster i was looking up i took my shoes off threw them aside still laced   i wasn't being funny i know where this is going where i write   where i see cracks in perfect paths   where blood taste like metals of purity with every year burning where these flowers like to live die on vines from inside allowing ivy to climb my back i am a length of fence in a yard with no dog on a gate without reason sitting on a post during live events i am a fool for giving into seasons romancing everything like a poet following every inch of broken glass nodding to my friends that i'm willing to mend but waiting for them to laugh outlined with chalk on the sidewalk where blood stains concrete my convictions flowing from the curb to the overpass in the night like candles floating water under tree branches ready to crack formatting clouds to sky write, come with me a man in the park on his back
Continue reading...
33
847 Finite—to fail, but infinite to Venture— For the one ship that struts the shore Many’s the gallant—overwhelmed Creature Nodding in Navies nevermore—
0
6.3k
Emily Dickinson
Finite—to fail, but infinite to Venture
847 Finite—to fail, but infinite to Venture— For the one ship that struts the shore Many’s the gallant—overwhelmed Creature Nodding in Navies nevermore—
Continue reading...
5
"Funny, I don't remember no good dope days. I remember walking for miles in a dope fiend haze. I remember sleeping in houses that had no electric. I remember being called a ****** but I couldn't accept it. I remember hanging out in abandos that were empty and dark. I remember shooting up in the bathroom and falling out at the park. I remember nodding out in front of my sisters kid. I remember not remembering half of the things that I did. I remember the dope man's time frame, just ten more minutes. I remember those days being so sick that I just wanted to end it. I remember the birthdays and holiday celebrations. All the things I missed during my incarceration. I remember overdosing on my bedroom floor. I remember my sisters cry and my dad having to break down the door. I remember the look on his face when I opened my eyes, thinking today was the day that his baby had died. I remember blaming myself when my mom decided to leave. I remember the guilt I felt in my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember caring so much but not knowing how to show it. and I know to this day that she probably don't even know it. I remember feeling like I lost all hope. I remember giving up my body for the next bag of dope. I remember only causing pain, destruction and harm. I remember the track marks the needles left on my arm. I remember watching the slow break up of my home. I remember thinking my family would be better off if I just left them alone. I remember looking in the mirror at my sickly completion. I remember not recognizing myself in my own **** reflection. I remember constantly obsessing over my next score but what I remember most is getting down on my knees and asking God to save me cuz I don't want to do this no more !!!" - Delaney Farrell
0
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
Empty-Girl
“No Good Dope Days” By Delaney Farrell (2017)
"Funny, I don't remember no good dope days. I remember walking for miles in a dope fiend haze. I remember sleeping in houses that had no electric. I remember being called a ****** but I couldn't accept it. I remember hanging out in abandos that were empty and dark. I remember shooting up in the bathroom and falling out at the park. I remember nodding out in front of my sisters kid. I remember not remembering half of the things that I did. I remember the dope man's time frame, just ten more minutes. I remember those days being so sick that I just wanted to end it. I remember the birthdays and holiday celebrations. All the things I missed during my incarceration. I remember overdosing on my bedroom floor. I remember my sisters cry and my dad having to break down the door. I remember the look on his face when I opened my eyes, thinking today was the day that his baby had died. I remember blaming myself when my mom decided to leave. I remember the guilt I felt in my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember caring so much but not knowing how to show it. and I know to this day that she probably don't even know it. I remember feeling like I lost all hope. I remember giving up my body for the next bag of dope. I remember only causing pain, destruction and harm. I remember the track marks the needles left on my arm. I remember watching the slow break up of my home. I remember thinking my family would be better off if I just left them alone. I remember looking in the mirror at my sickly completion. I remember not recognizing myself in my own **** reflection. I remember constantly obsessing over my next score but what I remember most is getting down on my knees and asking God to save me cuz I don't want to do this no more !!!" - Delaney Farrell
Continue reading...
2
I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead detritus from the yard and put to match some old wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame with greed, as if surprised by need of it, and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire. For a time the world is all ablaze, all red and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire. Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless; let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me, ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe is cold; the space between the stars blank. The bodies of the universe are all ash. As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place. I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light, soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length all that can burn has burned, refined to its last remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied all becomes at last what does endure.
0
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
paul-s-eifert
Speaking Tongues
I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead detritus from the yard and put to match some old wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame with greed, as if surprised by need of it, and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire. For a time the world is all ablaze, all red and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire. Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless; let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me, ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe is cold; the space between the stars blank. The bodies of the universe are all ash. As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place. I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light, soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length all that can burn has burned, refined to its last remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied all becomes at last what does endure.
Continue reading...
27
Hearing the endless, silent train, Looking back, seeing myself hop aboard. Looking back, he, in turn, Nodding, like brothers, goodbye for now, Quickening, out of sight forever, Sharing only the sound of the silent train.
0
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
aaron-goold
The sound of the silent train
Hearing the endless, silent train, Looking back, seeing myself hop aboard. Looking back, he, in turn, Nodding, like brothers, goodbye for now, Quickening, out of sight forever, Sharing only the sound of the silent train.
Continue reading...
6
Night is for the hours Cowards, Let a man of God speak or night Will continue to burn flowers It's been said napkins are the greatest currency For it holds the food spittle of man Like how ambulances sit waiting To clean up after misfortunes And make fortunes for the fortun- Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag Let a man of God speak or night Will continue to burn flowers For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
0
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
Breakfast for a 31st century genius
Night is for the hours Cowards, Let a man of God speak or night Will continue to burn flowers It's been said napkins are the greatest currency For it holds the food spittle of man Like how ambulances sit waiting To clean up after misfortunes And make fortunes for the fortun- Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag Let a man of God speak or night Will continue to burn flowers For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
Continue reading...
16
stars hang out at night linen left to dry red geraniums along the balconies nodding, nodding willing to agree to anything just to keep their color a gang of kids running through the streets faceless pranksters the moon a plate held before each face who am i? saying who am i running through the streets saying who am i the shadows of the buildings becoming cats that move away the trees immobilized left to stand alone in the dark rubbing their bark from regret like cicadas oranges have more delicacy softly falling, falling in the groves on the hills softly eaten, eaten by the earth swallowed whole as if by a snake not earth as if by millions slithering in the groves at night millions stalking the oranges that fall softly softly to the earth hunting there in the groves that form a ring around each town
0
5.7k
Pablo Picasso
oranges from the south of spain
stars hang out at night linen left to dry red geraniums along the balconies nodding, nodding willing to agree to anything just to keep their color a gang of kids running through the streets faceless pranksters the moon a plate held before each face who am i? saying who am i running through the streets saying who am i the shadows of the buildings becoming cats that move away the trees immobilized left to stand alone in the dark rubbing their bark from regret like cicadas oranges have more delicacy softly falling, falling in the groves on the hills softly eaten, eaten by the earth swallowed whole as if by a snake not earth as if by millions slithering in the groves at night millions stalking the oranges that fall softly softly to the earth hunting there in the groves that form a ring around each town
Continue reading...
33
Stars shine on in a night sky so black you can see the truth. What is that light but an interruption to progress so blinding the sun blushes– as if another light vandalized our ever darkening sky. Closing out on reality, opening up to ideals, it’s the rays piercing through the layers and the yea-sayers nodding off to sleep in a darkness so deep. When the genius strips off the latent, flexes its manifest intelligence, and puts down thoughts that flare into the darkness. No effort from a sun fibbing eternal. The end might come but the hand who writes eternity can’t see the end coming. Who are the geniuses expelling the light and who are the receivers not likely to admit their stupor for fear of fantastic phantasms. Fleeing from their folly, straying into strange, insipid serials, unending, not rerunning– only growing obese with weight Of chances not spent.
0
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:35 AM UTC
paul-r-mott
Flares from a Dying Sun
Stars shine on in a night sky so black you can see the truth. What is that light but an interruption to progress so blinding the sun blushes– as if another light vandalized our ever darkening sky. Closing out on reality, opening up to ideals, it’s the rays piercing through the layers and the yea-sayers nodding off to sleep in a darkness so deep. When the genius strips off the latent, flexes its manifest intelligence, and puts down thoughts that flare into the darkness. No effort from a sun fibbing eternal. The end might come but the hand who writes eternity can’t see the end coming. Who are the geniuses expelling the light and who are the receivers not likely to admit their stupor for fear of fantastic phantasms. Fleeing from their folly, straying into strange, insipid serials, unending, not rerunning– only growing obese with weight Of chances not spent.
Continue reading...
30