"poety" poems
***For a sweet friend to me,
A better friend she could not be,
I give her my friendship and love;
As she is my gift from above.
She is a friend sweet,
I am glad we both did meet,
Here on HP;
And I look forward to reading her poety.
I love you,
For my friend in the sky of blue,
I shall love you forever;
And we love one another!***
~Marian~
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
I do not write poetry
because
Great dead men on my shelves
have done it
I must be busy with
something that's mine.
I do not write poetry
because
Birds by the millions fly
north to their own preachers
I must fly to my own east.
I do not write poetry
because
The sun dances in the sky
on a flower-filled day
I must be there to watch it.
I do not write poetry
because
Though the dogs in the yard
Have not bathed for ages
They ask for a hug
and I must give it.
I do not write poetry
because
The wounds of my past
fester now and then
I must be there to bind them.
I do not write poetry
because
The father of my children
is the best cook in the world
I must be there to love him.
I do not write poetry
because
The child wants boots
to scale his own mountain
I must be there to free him.
I do not write poety
at all--
because I live it.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
I want to write fantasy
I keep writing poety
I want to write something bigger than the truth
I write things small but heart felt
I want to write fantasy
teach lessons elusive
I want to write a story that lasts
and find these simple words
I want to write fiction holding secrets
buried links for the dedicated
This is what I write
I want to write poety?
No, no I want to write fantasy
Right?
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
Sikorki tchnienie w locie musnęło ziemię,
Kresy, wrzosy, suche liście też na wietrze.
Na sykomorze dalekiej Arabii ustała,
skulonego u jej korzeni tego, co sonety
o Aleppo układał, wysłuchała,
i przeto myślami po raz pierwszy
swe osmolone smogiem skrzydełka przetarła:
"Ku czemu się wykluwałam? Ku czemu latałam?
Swym trelem, uwagi skinieniem, czego mam być wyrażeniem?"
Nagle poczuła w każdej małej kości:
"Odpowiedź jest jedna: Miłości"
Że ma ona twarz wszystkiego, niczego, spojrzenia naszego:
Dwóch samców złączonych łabędzia czarnego,
Smutku dla szczęścia innego znoszonego,
Sekretu czule z łzami deszczowi wyznanego
I drzewa z grzyba korzeniem splątanego.
Że ku temu radość innym daje, że tego jest formą,
Wszystkich uczuć, chwil i wrażeń zmową.
"Dziękuję", na tą myśl światu odpowiedziała,
z wdzięczności dla poety z dołu
korę drzewa pocałowała,
i z nową tęsknotą, ku niebu Syrii,
odleciała.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 6:03 AM UTC
First the sky
lets loose a cloud,
suddenly I'm drowning
in the emptiness of shadows,
the silence of alone.
Vacant now
but revisited often,
the space within
once occupied by you.
The love we shared,
a beautiful mess
of memories
I can't forget.
A grievance of time,
I waste days and nights on you,
pen of black ink running,
writing poety
to express how much
you meant to me.
Truly
words fall short,
a fraction of these feelings
of love,
fragments of heart
devoid of you
yet hopelessly devoted to you.
It is an odd thing
to fall in love with Winter,
the realization
moments are now memories,
a beautiful tragedy.
In the end
what was once freshly beginning
is now rotten and stale.
I stink of regret,
an ache with a desperate wish
I could forget you.
As the night drags on,
the hole within me deepens,
a hollowing sound,
the echo of the moonlight
disappearing into the sea.
Chill wraps around me
an avalanche of snow,
like all flowers destined to decay
without light,
I sink into cold shoulders
of midnight blues.
Missing you.
Is there no fate worse
than death,
except in the suffering
of the living left
grieving the loss of what was
or what will never be?
Perhaps
someday
the sun will see it fit
to shine again,
revive the dead,
wither the pain
within me;
place my heart
on the pedastal
of love's elusive bloom.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 8:36 AM UTC
Too introspective
to write novels; pondering
self takes too much time.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
Out of the depths I cry to thee...
wake into difficulty
from lovely sleep
of night's negation
to news from the
bird world sung
and insects that know
what finds its way
early into this
familiar room
two of gloom mornings
in glued sequence
sunrise of grey
clouds scudding
of light opaline
through windows
diffused
are windows only
worlds of open
is rain a form
of loss
and truth but
power moving
all melts and
can be replaced
the soul sinks
a day of grey
makes a day
of blues
death spiral
of the spirit
when did I
become so weak
against the intractable
what is of daybreak
cruel the new has
become
and terrifying
and
continual effort
time not a friend
as clocks threaten
actions untaken
the mereness
of mortality
disappoints
sand mostly gone
to the final
hourglass' bottom
distance incomprehensible
away a way which way
each day a fainter path
fading notes of
unstruck chords
save me from
this cruel unwritten
poem of morning
this syntax of unbidden
meteorology
oh lift me up
and desire
make young
break my human fall
beauty and joy
cannot be sundered
we live by grace
or not at all
allow me survive
what must arrive
for every broken
poety fool
that famous final
Day of Decide
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I hate to say it
But reading his poety
Breaks my very heart
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC