"twilght" poems - Hello Poetry

When peace finally comes A softness in the winds The fires are gone The quiet has come Except for the nightbirds which sing their songs The shadows get long Children's egos disintegrate Meltdowns fry the atmosphere The skunks come out Moonlight after twilight Sometimes to linger Call out to the coyotes Get old but stay young.

0

Jan 21, 2018

Jan 21, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC

sjr1000

Moon After Twilght

When peace finally comes A softness in the winds The fires are gone The quiet has come Except for the nightbirds which sing their songs The shadows get long Children's egos disintegrate Meltdowns fry the atmosphere The skunks come out Moonlight after twilight Sometimes to linger Call out to the coyotes Get old but stay young.

14

This just in off the presses Eliot throws in the towel and sells Hello for a pair of front row Jonas Brothers tickets. In other news the pub the oldest group on hello is being forced to close its doors due to noise complaints from the coffee shop who claim they can bareley here there good awful music or read there twilght books. Gary La Buda is very short and writes lots of books so he can use them to see over the steering wheel. Many people have asked and finaly hello has answred to what we do not know. Yesterday a man died of boredom trying to actully read all the poems on the charts at poetry soup. When the owner's were awoken from there nap time there only reply was Is it time to color yet? Poets who get to the top of the charts yet only have two comments my question? who are they blowing. Look for my next report when I let everyone know the poet soon to be leaving this madhouse of a site. Untill next time always seek the truth

0

Aug 13, 2010

Aug 13, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC

scoop-haris-gossip-reporter

People Of Hello

This just in off the presses Eliot throws in the towel and sells Hello for a pair of front row Jonas Brothers tickets. In other news the pub the oldest group on hello is being forced to close its doors due to noise complaints from the coffee shop who claim they can bareley here there good awful music or read there twilght books. Gary La Buda is very short and writes lots of books so he can use them to see over the steering wheel. Many people have asked and finaly hello has answred to what we do not know. Yesterday a man died of boredom trying to actully read all the poems on the charts at poetry soup. When the owner's were awoken from there nap time there only reply was Is it time to color yet? Poets who get to the top of the charts yet only have two comments my question? who are they blowing. Look for my next report when I let everyone know the poet soon to be leaving this madhouse of a site. Untill next time always seek the truth

20

crackers bursting across the earth we heard the loud cries of his birth it was just like yesterday when you made our lives to bright from grey i had the best time with you which i not knew untill days swiftly flew time is very cruel everyone has to go someday,thats life's rule every morning,i wake up gaze at the morning twilght "Isn't this so beutiful or is just my eyesight?" Memories may haunt but still the best shall i highlight chereished moments ere you left was a unforgetable gift recalling our lives together bring back happy and sad a tear we did none be fogotten what together we share They come yonder and leave but thou art special because thou art full of meaning and real which forever shall i belive I shan't see thou ever after I shall tresure your every laughter Now,I say goodbye, 2010 Wish the next is good as you, my dearest friend.

0

Jan 1, 2011

Jan 1, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC

nazmi-mahamood

Farewell 2010

crackers bursting across the earth we heard the loud cries of his birth it was just like yesterday when you made our lives to bright from grey i had the best time with you which i not knew untill days swiftly flew time is very cruel everyone has to go someday,thats life's rule every morning,i wake up gaze at the morning twilght "Isn't this so beutiful or is just my eyesight?" Memories may haunt but still the best shall i highlight chereished moments ere you left was a unforgetable gift recalling our lives together bring back happy and sad a tear we did none be fogotten what together we share They come yonder and leave but thou art special because thou art full of meaning and real which forever shall i belive I shan't see thou ever after I shall tresure your every laughter Now,I say goodbye, 2010 Wish the next is good as you, my dearest friend.

24

(POSTSCRIPT TO AUTHOR'S NOTE: As the bit of my brain which allows me to actually complete a piece of writing seems to have gone on hiatus, this chestnut is re-submitted for your approval) We’d stumbled upon it simply by chance, Playing on a channel heretofore unknown to us, Almost as if the remote, in a final, desperate attempt To escape the CGI-augmented Britneys and Biebers, Had taken matters into its own hands and steered us there (Indeed, when we tried to find that channel later, It had gone a-gleaming, replaced by some lower-case Telemundo) Presenting no outsized and over-decibeled spectacle But a stark, quiet, indeed all but silent black-and-white panorama Where a distinctly un-scrubbed and un-homogenized Santa Delivers no new cars, no cartoon-mouse vacation cavalcade, No million dollar prize from some scripted faux-survival experience, But those things from the realm of the small, the subtle: A sweater, a meal, a bottle for those not overwhelmed by the contents, All courtesy of a purveyor of gifts seeking nothing more Than to provide some measure of comfort and joy For those who were well short on either. It all tends toward the romantic and maudlin a bit, One could contend (And, indeed, did not the teleplay’s progenitor Insist on spending his eternity on a lonely hilltop, In order that he could have an unobstructed view Of the cold, narrow lake For which he’d formed such an improbable and irrational fondness?) And those who take such a position may very well be right, But it is equally likely that we could be better men in a better place If the notion that we could rise above Our tin-can and yowling-tabby tribulations And embrace that within ourselves which is child-like and yet saintly Was submitted for our consideration on more than an annual basis. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: This poem owes a considerable debt to the December 23, 1960 episode of The Twilght Zone. The episode, entitled "The Night of the Meek", features Art Carney as a decidedly down-on-his-luck department store Santa who receives a helping hand courtesy of Messrs. Serling and Claus.)

0

Dec 24, 2019

Dec 24, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC

wk-kortas

the night of the night of the meek

(POSTSCRIPT TO AUTHOR'S NOTE: As the bit of my brain which allows me to actually complete a piece of writing seems to have gone on hiatus, this chestnut is re-submitted for your approval) We’d stumbled upon it simply by chance, Playing on a channel heretofore unknown to us, Almost as if the remote, in a final, desperate attempt To escape the CGI-augmented Britneys and Biebers, Had taken matters into its own hands and steered us there (Indeed, when we tried to find that channel later, It had gone a-gleaming, replaced by some lower-case Telemundo) Presenting no outsized and over-decibeled spectacle But a stark, quiet, indeed all but silent black-and-white panorama Where a distinctly un-scrubbed and un-homogenized Santa Delivers no new cars, no cartoon-mouse vacation cavalcade, No million dollar prize from some scripted faux-survival experience, But those things from the realm of the small, the subtle: A sweater, a meal, a bottle for those not overwhelmed by the contents, All courtesy of a purveyor of gifts seeking nothing more Than to provide some measure of comfort and joy For those who were well short on either. It all tends toward the romantic and maudlin a bit, One could contend (And, indeed, did not the teleplay’s progenitor Insist on spending his eternity on a lonely hilltop, In order that he could have an unobstructed view Of the cold, narrow lake For which he’d formed such an improbable and irrational fondness?) And those who take such a position may very well be right, But it is equally likely that we could be better men in a better place If the notion that we could rise above Our tin-can and yowling-tabby tribulations And embrace that within ourselves which is child-like and yet saintly Was submitted for our consideration on more than an annual basis. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: This poem owes a considerable debt to the December 23, 1960 episode of The Twilght Zone. The episode, entitled "The Night of the Meek", features Art Carney as a decidedly down-on-his-luck department store Santa who receives a helping hand courtesy of Messrs. Serling and Claus.)

32