"shortest" poems
i want you if
even for the
shortest moment
of time
even if knowing
our hellos
will also be
goodbye.
i want
you
to hold me.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
The pigeons are sad
The pigeons saw that
The future comes with bad
The pigeons were telling that
The prophets born here
The prophet know that
It is the land of kind
, welfare and tied
The religions at that land
The assembly of religions
The peace between nations
Were established there
Here was the prophet David
Who the mounts the trees ,
The stones and the birds,
Repeated his prays
He governed with justice
After him ,Solomon was gotten
He governed with justice
The welfare had increased
And the peace with there
The Romans occupied it
And the injustice appeared
The killing and the theft
Were actually increased
Here was born Jesus
Who invited to peace
At shortest and clear
That was not admired
By Romans or Jewish
Who were there
They planned to **** him
The land became unfair
The decreasing of welfare
The increasing of fear
Till the new nation appeared
The new religion increased
It called for justice
It led to peace
The Muslims achieved a victory
As they built a great glory
And they blockaded the land
The patriarch man said,"
We didn’t give the keys
Except to your leader
Who is justice’s famous"
They wore one of soldiers
The smartest cloth
They introduced him
As the prince of Insurers
as the caliph of Muslims
The greatest patriarchs said,"
That is not the man we did
Actually knew and have red
At our book that mentioned
Him actually as we saw awake."
The leader of soldiers ordered
To sent a letter to the caliph
At bright city wide distance
As he wanted to keep blood
Out of bleeding
He wanted not to ****
The innocent people
He didn’t want to bore
His name over death
His religion ordered them
To save the innocent people
To the caliph to came
The caliph and a servant moved
The leader of the greatest land
At that time, at that moment
From the kind and light city
He read the yassin of holy
Quran that equals twenty
Minutes
For riding the donkey
And his servants walks only
Then the caliph got off only
And the servant rode the donkey
And they read the yassin for away
To count and know time
And mention the God only
Then the caliph and servant also
Walked with their donkey
To rest it also
They keep reading yassin only
Till they reached near the holy
City that mentioned with holy
In Quran with great respect
The turn is on the servant
To get that donkey rode
And the caliph would walk
He said," my prince! I must
Get down and you must
Ride that donkey"
He said," then I will be called
Injustice caliph led the insurers
To be injustice at every talkers
And it is your turn
If the air came to me smelt
With good smell than yours
If the water I drink
Have more delicious than yours
If I created from mud
Made of silver and gold
I will rode that animal
And you must go walker
Ride it my good insurer"
The soldiers saw him
They did great clutter
They wanted to salute him
The patriarch said with amazed,"
See what is that noise?
He looked and said
That is him , that is him!"
The patriarch went and looked
He counted patch in his
The cloth of the greatest prince
Of the greatest Nation motioned
At the ancient, at the present
He said," you are who is mentined!
You are the caliph
"Omar" was the caliph
He gave them the safe deal
That mentioned by his name
The patriarch gave him the keys
Of Jerusalem to him
The time for afternoon pray came
The caliph prayed out the church
The patriarch said
Why you didn’t pray at that
Place at the inner of the church
Omar said if I prayed here
The Muslims after that
Say "Omar" prayed here
And they took it
To be a mosque indeed
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 4:38 AM UTC
Waiting my turn in
----------------------------- line
for the golden star
from Self-Gratification.
Now to find the shortest aisle.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
The shortest distance between two points of travel.
The fastest method for achieving a result.
Quickest answer for a resolution.
Marrying equals.
All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.
No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.
We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.
The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.
Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.
Ask yourself;
"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"
And,
"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"
Also,
We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.
Problem solved...
...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
I count the seconds till the clock strikes twelve,
The only thing I can count on.
No cakes, no candles, no presents,
No friends expected.
Another year and day about to pass,
The loneliest day of the year.
I know no-one will knock,
But I sit close to the door.
I know no-one will call,
But I have my phone ready.
It is the longest day,
As I wait for them.
It is the shortest day,
As I hope they make it in time.
Nobody knocks,
And nobody calls.
On this day,
I blow out imaginary candles, and wish
With all my heart,
That I didn’t have a birthday.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Black sugar you say
Black as the night
Sweet as your lips
Caressing my senses
Touching me deep
I felt it running through me
Warming me up
from the inside
Leaving a glow
of heat and energy
Oh God what have you done
What have I become
Black sugar
in the longest of days
Black sugar
in the shortest of nights
Black sugar
with a friend
or without
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
Last night I had an Indian,
And today I have the runs,
It struck me in an instant,
Now unable to sit on my buns
I told them I want a dopiaza,
With some chicken tikka on the side,
Now my pants are brown and moist,
From society I'll have to hide
I'm stranded inside my bathroom,
Fearing even the shortest walk,
Knowing if I pass a person outside,
About my stench they'll start to talk
I advise you stay clear of this cuisine,
For the sake of all your hineys,
I know that next time I venture out,
I'll be opting for a Chinese.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
He breaks her, and degrades her,
Her pain makes him smile.
Though only for the shortest while,
For he isn't sure that she won't get up,
And it's his job to make her feel stuck
To this feeling, she's worth nothing.
You're a ***** you're a *****
And you're always wanting more.
You get what you deserve.
Girl, you've got some nerve.
You live, you eat, you breathe my air.
You know **** well it isn't fair,
Cause it's all mine. You've had your share.
Take one more breath, if you dare.
I'll choke you with your own **** hair
And toss your corpse, right over there.
You're not worth the time to burry,
In fact, I'll forget you in a hurry.
The main thing I never gave;
Was a **** for you, or what you could do.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
She was the shortest poem I ever knew
She was five foot two with eyes of blue
And while we had just met,
I felt as if I knew her my whole life
She was the shortest poem I ever tasted
I drank her in like the summer sun
And while I was intoxicated after one sip,
I can still remember the taste of her kiss
She was the shortest poem I ever heard
Her voice sang the correct combination to my heart
And while her song has long since ended
I can still feel the beat within my heart
She was the shortest poem I ever felt
My finger tips traced her body under the light of the moon
And while I can't read braille,
I could feel her skin say I need you
And in that moment I whispered the shortest poem i ever knew...
"Danika I love you"
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
this
poem
started off
intending to be the shortest poem in the world
nay,
more aptly
in the whole wide, wide open uni-verse
but ambition overtook it
and it aimed to stretch far and wide
an Aristotelian hubris, you know
like the ambition of Macbeth
going beyond what Mrs Macbeth intended
and so this ambitious little poem of ours expanded
starting meek as grass
growing zealous
and went beyond itself and its kind
this
poem
that
had such humble beginnings
that dared to want to be the shortest poem in the world
but turned out loquacious
and it could go on, it said,
beating all length, breadth and dimension
and would have -
but it got into convulsions and fits
and shock
when it had gone beyond its shortness
and it couldn’t even spell
couldn't even get words right
floating in a soup of red lines in Word or in Mac’s Pages
and so it took its own life
or someone stabbed it like they did to o’erweening Macbeth
or to our poor, poor misunderstood Rasputin who being a Saint was thought a Devil
but was all humble
as the shortest poem in the uni-verse
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
A few months I haven't called him
At the beck and call at any hour
And the shortest notice
A dial to him has saved many an emergency
Last night a broken female voice
On the other side of the wire
Mumbled he died on May 13
Left her with three daughters
At forty at short notice
The plumber is dead
Now who would clear
My choked wash basin
The plumber is dead
And I've no other number to call
I couldn't see her face
Gauge the faceless sorrow
At the other side of the wire
The plumber is dead
I must find another
And then rejoice
Forgetting the widow's choked voice
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
Today my long tall tulip fell
His pearl-pink bulb had dared to swell
But blushen hung now like a bell
His slim and slender stem once towering
Arced to earth with posture cowering
Burdened by his glory flowering
How quickly he had seemed to climb
To bask in sudden sunlit prime
The longest flower, the shortest time
His adolescent orb once closed
With youthful promise, then exposed
More beauty than we all supposed
And eager straight he stretched to see
The furtive squirrels’ revelry
And blue jays jostling high in tree
His handsome head became a hand
Outstretched to welcome wide and grand
We who’d pale beside him stand
But now his palm points to the ground
Where loyal subjects once were found
A fallen king with withering crown
I saw you flower – be sure of this
Your scented cheeks I bent to kiss
Nor did a day of beauty miss
Though brief your waxing and your wane
Your colours left the purest stain
That in my mind’s eye does remain
In all the world where flowers grow
We sallow souls rush to and fro
Preoccupied, we miss the show
But when we pause to smell the blooms
Held captive by arresting plumes
Forget the sundry that consumes
Thus precious harried minutes take
Our reverie to gaily break
I noticed you -- make no mistake
I studied you that rare of gift
You gave my care-worn spirit lift
Then cut its soaring hopes adrift
Today my long tall tulip fell
Surrendering to Nature’s knell
And left us where he deigned to dwell
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
If I die tonight, there is so much to be said that will be left unsaid.
The memories your only company of me.
Time and nature making me one with dirt.
Out of all the people whom I thought I loved or said I did, one has remained the closest to my heart always.
19 years seems far too little a time to have made an impact on the world.
But I hope I may have made a difference in the lives of the few I knew and cherished.
I ask those whom I have hurt to forgive my misdoings.
For no one, not even I could understand the emotional conflicts of this young teenage heart.
I thank the friends who have stayed by my side through the sands of time.
Through every test, every crush and every fight.
For their unfathomable faith in me and their love gave me the strength I needed.
I also thank those who did not stay for long.
Your presence even for the shortest minute in my whirlwind drama of a life was a gift.
You certainly made a difference no matter how short your stay.
The memories of you have stayed with me even though your physical presence could not.
My parents, whom I have blamed, cursed and hated for countless reasons on occasions, I am glad you gave birth to me.
Them adopting me into their family of love, eccentricity and laughter is a gift I can never stop thanking for.
I don't blame them for their faults after all; we humans are all flawed to the core of our souls.
This was not the way I had planned on leaving.
The hopes and dreams and ideas of my young self now lay in the dust beside my cold body.
Nothing but shattered thoughts of what could have been.
The journey ahead is unknown and terrifying to me.
To walk into the tunnel alone is definitely not what I wished for.
To leave those precious without another word or kiss pains me.
I float away into an adventure or oblivion I know not.
Yet I float away all the same.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
1366
Brother of Ingots—Ah Peru—
Empty the Hearts that purchased you—
—
Sister of Ophir—
Ah, Peru—
Subtle the Sum
That purchase you—
—
Brother of Ophir
Bright Adieu,
Honor, the shortest route
To you.
3.5k
When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?
How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,
cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?
The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.
So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:
when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—
or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—
or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?
© BT
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
On this shortest day,
the dark has risen,
a black cloak
covers creation.
The light,
reduced to spark,
awaits its time.
The earth turns,
the trees remember,
the flowers,
in imagination,
dare to hope
and blossom.
On this shortest day
the darkness falters.
Smoldering embers
flare again.
Soon, the world
will turn once more
from cold to warmth.
The light of the east
will not be denied.
Death, rebirth, new life.
On this shortest day,
darkness defeated.
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
The shortest poems can bring the biggest changes
So have the courage, take your pen and write.
Don't worry, it doesn't has to be perfect, it is alright.
Just put your feelings and thoughts into it.
Figure out your writing style and don't quit!
Maybe you will understand how much fun it could be
Maybe your poetry can even bring someone glee.
Thus my dearest of children, write to your hearts content
Perhaps you can make a change, even if it is just small
~ Umi
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
First it was fright,
Then there was courage.
I took a step then there was I,
Pretty...
Confident...
Unsure...
Scared?
Then the music came so loud,
It made me deaf of myself
It was a loud as the silence in my room,
The only difference is I'm not alone.
In a room full of people,
I saw you.
You and your ignorance.
You and the memories you left me with.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
Solstice stirs my Druid roots.
Those roots entangle with my dreams.
A language, strange and musical,
celebrates the world unseen.
The druids issue from the grove,
solemn in their robes of white.
The doors of time are open wide
on this, the long year’s shortest night.
Ovates divine and bards will speak,
Singing in the Cambric tongue,
The Druid raises arms on high
to praise the power of the Sun.
She lies upon the altar stone.
The victim of the gods’ caprice
Sunlight pours between the stones
where blood was shed and breath has ceased.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
- Dear lover,
I finally found the foundation I thought I’ve lost at your grandmother’s house during the summer,
It was where you told me it was,
Inside my luggage indeed.
Along with many other things that I haven’t seen in a while such as
My guitar pick,
My jewelry,
My camera,
Your hoodie,
My hoodie really.
My hair brush,
My seashells from Revere beach,
And a bunch of pictures from us that I never wanted to throw away and I never will.
I put them all in a drawer next to my bed,
The drawer closest to my head,
The drawer that I never open because there is a valentines day card turned upside down,
I refuse to see the massage.
- Dear friend,
I haven’t called you in a while and I’m sorry I disappeared,
I don’t want to bring you down with my depression,
I just don’t think I should add anything else to your plate,
And I’m sorry if I did.
I think I made a mistake,
And I need your help,
But I don’t want your help,
Because I don’t deserve it.
I hid the keys from my drawer and I forgot where I put them.
Now I don’t have access to my most valuable items,
They’re not lost,
I never lost them,
I never threw them away,
And never will,
I just can’t reach them.
I can’t reach to you either,
That’s funny.
- Dear guy that follows me on Instagram,
Your pictures really attract me,
I know that beautiful things can start with just one like,
So I liked all your pictures,
And you liked all mines back,
Is this going somewhere?
Should I slide to through the DMs
A simple "hello?"
A concerning “How are you?”
A heartbreaking “Hey”
A disappointing “I’m sorry”
And that’s why I never wrote back,
And never answered the calls,
And made sure that you knew that I wasn’t going to,
And I didn’t
But now I am.
- Dear stranger,
I love how we vibed for the shortest
And I think that’s a sign for us to vibe longer.
Wanna hang some time?
And if you don’t want to that’s fine,
I get it…
I don’t.
I don’t get it.
I want to hang out with you,
I want to be with you,
I want to be able to like your pictures and not feel that I’m annoying you,
And I want to be able to feel something beautiful when you upload a new picture.
Instead of feeling a sinking hole form right in the middle of my rib cage
,
Swallowing my heart and my bones,
Feeling that they're poking my lungs,
And ripping them apart.
I can’t breath because you’re gone,
You’re not the guy that follows me on instagram anymore,
So I can’t call you that,
And you don’t want me to reach out to you,
And I want your help,
And just your help,
Because you’re the cause of my mistake.
I can’t call you a friend,
Because friends don’t let other friends cry on their own,
And they’re not cold when they go to the hospital for attempted suicide,
They’re not cold when they beg them to not hang up the phone,
They’re just not cold.
And you are,
And it’s my fault.
- Dear stranger,
I found the keys to my drawer.
I’ll send you back your hoodie.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
If I wrote you the shortest poem,
a word, or less
that said as much as any
poem, or more;
worked through this night, and the next;
by sunlight, lamp light
head bent over every word I've ever written
and all the words I haven't learned;
if sometimes I cried, and thought I'd never stop,
and sometimes I found a word
that was not the right word
but it was a good word,
a perfectly sweet word
so I held it to my chest for a while;
curled up in bed with it,
stood there, waving
long after it was gone;
if I wrote you the shortest poem
and rode my bike to your house
because I wanted to give it to you
while it was still warm,
would your door be open?
Would you smile for days?
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC