Category: poem

Read Poem: Yours faithfully, Fazia Tahir

Genre:  Love, Romance

 
You have the patience of a saint. Through your grace and kind nature, I have come to understand and believe that true love exists for some who seek it in their hearts….

I yield to thy heart

So pure and sincere

Who sacrificed all for love

Filled with awe filled with fear…

My soul thee broughtest back

From the clutches of despair…

Reminiscent I of Anna karenina:

“every heart has its own skeleton…”

In reverence…..in prayer

I seek peace….

I seek solace…

From the perils of my anguished soul….

Distant thoughts, heavy heart, deep sigh lingering…

Frightened..desolate…cold..

But thy words of strength

Reached out and released the shackles from my heart tis’ pained….

No more shall thee suffer heartache in silence…

Or love lost again….

Precious this moment be

That I honour thy presence eternally…..

Grateful to thee…

The light that shines brightly

And mine faithfully…..
 

 

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Read Poetry: SOUL, by World Imagined

Genre: Relationship, Love

 
You don’t even know
the power
you don’t realise
the flower
that grows inside
illusioned with pride
guarded by mind
is your might
is your right
to fight
versus premise of life
to know the truth
to be full, not half.

Whilst keeping it a prisoner
in a dark corner of your heart
you can not fathom
you can not know
you can not see
you can not be
who you are.
 

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Read Poetry: Words Runny, by P C K Prem

Genre: Life

 
tiny flakes, noise, echoes
you touch as if
and hymns disturb
as bells wake up gods.
it is you in you
and it walks inside and unconsciousness sticks to keep you buried
a lifetime you waste, somewhere without
an idea
that you carried the burden of nothingness in apparent objective.
it is an artistic scramble to paint an image in darkness
of vacuum
you love to cherish and so indulge in nakedness of words runny.
incessant contest somewhere
a fluky dispersal
of emotions
carries
burden of age you know not and still cry meaning
and boast of scribbling an epitaph on stones half chiseled
a great effort to see light at a burial ground
the testimonial of infinity
calling man to hug.
you are not seen here, not at this moment, and maybe it is not in future
forever it is a struggle to exist in non-entity
you sit and tell.
 

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Read Poetry: The Chilling, by James Coupland

Genre: Thriller, Horror

 
There’s something wretched in an office that’s deathly quiet
The only sound to be heard is the droning of many computers in a room that’s empty
My eyes are growing weary as tiredness takes hold
Struggling to stay awake, I can feel my brain crawling out of my skull

I’m all alone, solitary confinement has taken control of my thoughts
Staring at the screen, wanting to write but nothing is forthcoming
My god I’m so bored doing the same thing over and over again
Suddenly, I feel a cold draft creeping down my spine

My heart starts to pound and perspiration drips from my brow
In the corner of my eye, there’s a glimpse of a shadow dashing across the room
I can’t move as fear grips me, keeping me paralyzed in my chair
“Where the hell is everyone?” the only thought passing through my mind

The lights flicker as if a gentle breeze caresses the flame of a candle
The room starts to shake violently
I can’t breathe, the air is so thin
Everything stops, the lights go out with a BANG, but the clock keeps ticking
Tick tock tick tock tick tock
Yet, time has stopped moving, tick tock tick tock, uncertain madness takes control

My blood starts to boil, the cramps in my stomach, ooh the pain
The pain is surreal, something is taking over me.
I feel that my time has finally been called
Death has come to claim my soul

Two shadowed figures stand before me
Their eyes are raging with fire; a haunting sound fills the room as these spectral beings move rapidly towards me,
I want to run but the floor is gripping me like a child clinging to its mother.
The demons enter my body and a fire burns inside me as I slowly disintegrate in to thin air

All that’s left

Is a chilling presence

In a room that’s been abandoned

© a year ago, James coupland
 

 

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Read Poetry: The day the Moon stood still, by Pino Hova

Genre: Suspense

 
Restless my heart goes deep down,
I search to answer the unvoiced questions,
that got my marrows trembling from within.
Out of the window was these bright light,
that I lost track of time yet the grind piece
Was running late, I don’t know who to trust
my heart or the grand piece.
I found myself talking to the voices in my head,
up to the roof my eyes caught these
Ball giving light to the whole earth,
very beautiful, It cannot be compared to anything in the night,
I sat for hours staring at it, it didn’t make a move and my grand piece is running ahead.
My eyes grow stronger in curiosity to apprehend the inevitable firmament suspension,
I glued my eyes to the ball that I could feel my unvoiced words echoed back at me,
then surprisingly another ball brighter than the lights appeared from a distance
I thought I was crazy, until I noticed lives on rooftops looking at the same thing ,
we were terrified, but yet curious.
The bright light rouse higher and higher crashing into the previous,
“THE WORLD HAS COME TO AN END”
lives screamed as it changes its color giving birth to ECLIPSE
 

 

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Read Poetry: Aspirations, by Felicia Smith

Genre: Hope

 
When you have aspirations
There’s something you hope to achieve
With confidence in your abilities
These things you expect to receive.

When you have aspirations
You wish that your dreams come true
And then you set your plans in motion
So you can do what you have to do.

When you have aspirations
You have a target goal in mind
And with determination to purse it
You go out and get on your grind.

When you have aspirations
And they set your soul on fire
You strive to live out your purpose
And fulfilling your heart’s desire.

~Felicia L. Smith~
 

 

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Read Poetry: MAY, by Emma Holden

Genre: Free verse, hurt, personality, mental illness, borderline personality disorder, dark, life, sad, pressure, unstructured poetry

 
But words are just words, and lies will always be lies.

Maybe summer will reveal the truth, and the phrases that sit beneath my scars

I bare myself before them, and welcome my feelings; they’re tougher then that, and stronger then me. So I break apart, their ignorance leaving bruises on the back of my hands; hands that I don’t even recognize anymore.

Who am I supposed to be? Because i am never enough. But I am all that I know. And if they tell me to be softer, I will remind them I am jaded, and sharp. That each piece of me has carved a hole in someone else. So if you want me to change, you mustn’t stay.

And I’ll walk the shores alone and collect shells instead of these reasons to run.
 

 

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Read Poetry: IMMACULATE! PROMISED BOY, by James E. D. Keating

Genre: Family

 Some never make it to see another spring! 6 Degrees with my pitching arm worn out; the man child awakes! The kid came to town on A Sunday and a week later he was dead! Give me hope, give me strength, give me peace, give me love, patience and in grace, abandonment. Give me youth, give me beauty, give me wisdom, give me enlightenment and in happiness; brief contentment in savoring those seldom small things that we all take for granted. The groans in joy and pain and the realizations of nothing being down there: The low rider running cold and high roller running hot; the creative flex away from the hustle and bustle towards peace and quiet, dry docked and contemplative, how it saves my ass. Grabbing at straws for the wind-up and the pitch in baseball. But in my business it is the Pitch that Winds-up in the pitching arm, blown out! The Art that purifies me is incidental; funny stuff trickling down underground that I wrestle with for years. Visual, picture and sound, three turning to thirty; then sixty-four frames per second! Contrast and horizontal shifts no longer exist; giving way to Density and Saturation, baffling the most delusional of directors of photography. 100 some odd years gone by with the making of an imagination that sparks others to re-imagine; and give audiences an act of organic re-invention Towards a New Amsterdam, A Holland or Hell’s Kitchen; handling all with care & cruise control, surfing the net and the planets alike, aligned within 6 degrees of separation. The shows are great in the Keystone State but the business stinks in Denmark thrown from empty cubicles all over the globe in a new age of misery and grief as wrestlers showcase it. Politicians perform and we have the right to say when it is over. The populace documented by the filmmaker as a single person, being all things to all people. So who is the real king of rank in these Williams, Hanks and Beatty? The Prime Minister of Canada or Italy decide. A rich country, promised boy to the poor; but a free-thinker and lancer, enlightened and standing at the door. So beautiful he is, careful and wishing, while society treats him like a stranger. What have you gained but for so precious little; these small truths so evident in jest! Very little has been dropped in your ear to sway the Queen’s language. Written on paper for an audience, bubbling up from the brooks, filled with energy and floating wet as dead leaves, towards stream. The Massive Oceans rise from the Picture in throng’s from the music’s child! You were a child once…now an adult; still wrestling with those feelings of being a child. It is a child that will lead them because God knows they are lost; and God so loves the children, animals and especially dogs; he has returned… but this time he is not alone refusing to sit for long periods anxious to perform feats most strenuous. He is the Overlord, the under lord, the War lord and the Landlord. He is the Real Lord and he isn’t alone this time; but is willing to speak to anyone who claims to be “The Actor”.
-Thank You Mother, for the Dream; and you Father, for being in it! The stream of Violence ever excels as I lay under this Tree…. unencumbered….! My work is done! God’s Speeds me along! My scriptures need not be repeated; but just pictures in my head that I hope will never have to be made. I have found your voice and have fulfilled all of my passions. I lived the Dream and loved the pursuit, with no impression left but calm and comely inspirations by someone or something…anything! Resentment even but not jealousy…who needs it.

Diversity must lead to tolerance, not contempt; and the fire in our bellies only lead us into vice. Dexterity gives way to these mental gymnastics leading us to wisdom and passion in the challenge of a dream, a movement from the promised boy. You will know him by his animal grace, like the June bug in summer and the bison in winter. He is not a work of fiction but is made whole. He is not a God and he is not a daemon or a hermit. He doesn’t practice resentment, jealousy or envy. He runs hot and cold under his tree; witnessing, in silence with her, the busyness and noise under this sun; the only thing that is working right. He was born from Industry in electronics and digital-pixilated posture.
Dogs and babies pray for Him from their gardens, making it seem unordinary that all anxieties have grown past regret.
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Read Poetry: A Mother’s Gritty Wisdom, by Janny C

 Genre: Family, Motherhood

 You meet your child for the first time, so much love abounds. You are so proud to be a mother now.
Next, there is:
2 am feedings
Colic is reeling
Tantrums and screaming
Patience at an ending…
Night time comes happily to say goodbye to the sun.
Tuck them in bed sweet and tight. You then pause watching them sleep.
At that moment love swells up inside you overwhelmingly. Lumping in your throat so you can’t speak.
It is then you remember why you became a Mother.

 

 

Freelance writer@ Indie Book Promotions/ Author of Angelic Confessions
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Read Poetry: Time Passing So Quickly, by Kayla Krilove

Genre: Inspirational, Society

 
Youth was there with baby teeth
the teeth then left and left me be
I walked into this smaller place
I was so small so little much grace
And there they were
blue, red, and brightly colored walls
they want us all to feel as tall.
We shared in circles and sang in groups
Dressed in our costumes we walked in loops
The wooden playground that once stood strong
Now a distant memory
We must move on

Yet then I grew and matched the goal
I reached the top
I jumped, I rolled
All the way past Margos bench
Until there was no where left
I really wanted to go.

I left the small rooms with fake happy trees
for there were no more lies that I could not see
I was smarter, louder, and bigger now
The trees that once clouded me were shaken down.
We were the oldest ones now leading the pack
Yet embarking on a journey in which courage we could not lack.
The song we once sang when five years of age
Now helping us turn a completely new page.

For here I stand, youth tinted but clear
and seeing the things I once had feared
Exploring the art I never knew was there
witnessing the life that hadn’t been shared.
Admiring the kids I’d one day be
A day so distant back then
A day I never thought I’d see.

For here I stand, youth growing but still
Now bigger than I have ever been
yet smaller than I will ever be.
Surrounded by love and growing compassion
I begin to grow up in a fast pace fashion.
For once again we lead the pack
Still searching for courage we know not to lack.
It took thirteen years to truly know to say
The impact these walls have had on our days.

For there I stand, youth clear through memories
I walk into this bigger place
I am so big, so tall, still so much grace
and there they are
white, black, grey dull colored walls,
that I won’t let– make me feel small.
For what I know and will stay with me forever
Is that truly we are all in this together.

 

 

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