Tag: poem

YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW, Poetry by Eve Noel

Genre:    DARK, PAINFUL, HOPE

YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW by Eve Noel

His eyes are ocean blue, wide with excitement. He loved me. He cherished me. He laughed with me.

Wanting to touch his new friend. I hunger for him. His companionship. His warmth. Know me he not.

I revisit today with anticipation. The stares piercing. His eyes, the color of night. The long gaze sends a volt of lightning into my heart. The knife dipped in poison is thrust deep into my heart. The aim is to
kill. But I survived. I retreat. I am a clam.

To bring my soul back to life is tomorrow’s journey, which is now today.

Eve Noel

WGAE

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DREAMS AND REALITY, Poetry by Natalia Gorbunova, Spain.

Genre: Rhyme, Inspirational

DREAMS AND REALITY

At last! From the heaven some sounds touch your ears:

Like a rapid stream is my fluent speech,
My words are mixed with your gentle tears.
Of course, I’ve made my option which
Helped me to defeat this cruel world.
Do understand, my little bird
All the melodies of my daring mind
(It was difficult to do so far).
We can create a lustrous star
To illuminate the humankind.
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Oh, God! A bell is ringing on
And an ignis fatuus falls upon.
Natalia Gorbunova, Spain.

 

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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I am, Poetry by Allyson Olivia

Genre: Inspirational

I am
By
Allyson Olivia

Clear droplets falling from a gray sky,
making you beg for the sun.
Pouring hot into fine china, tea bag dipped to sip.
Shooting out of a hose, clearing the cluttered path,
powerful with every spray.
Turned off.
Torrential, ruining parades.
A mist, danced in.
Flowers flourish.
Falling from faces in pain.
Steaming, I whistle.
Ice, I clunk.
Contain, yet contained.
Towels soak me up.
Tongues lift high.
Kool-Aid stirred in, kids gulp.
Buckets of me put out fires.
You swim.
You drown.
I am still, reflecting the sun.

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Society Poetry: I WAS FINE AS MARGARITA by Gloria D. Gonsalves

I WAS FINE AS MARGARITA by Gloria D. Gonsalves

I was fine as a wallflower
creating words
in apolitical world.

I rhymed innocence
of my dwellings.
I weaved songs
of many sunnier smiles.

I was love blended
with verses of sunny centres
and new beginnings.

I had no race.
I had no religion.
I had no status.

I was simply Margarita, or
Daisy.

Then I was plucked
and got flung
into a political world.

Now I am something else.

I am slogans.
I am hashtags.
I am protests.

Sometimes
I recall old self
and wave with love.

Most times
I wish they saw me
as day’s eye, or
the beginning of hope.

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: Social Fretwork by Dermott Hayes

I posted a thought,
it flew away
down through dark,
cavernous cyberways,
to bump and grind
with other lonesome thoughts
in the hotbeds of social fretworks.

And worried then
where it might go
unguided, misunderstood
to liaise, frolic and fret
argue, debate
opinionate
in a world of posts,
untethered,
away from me,
gone, awaiting its return,
alone

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Society Poetry: Consumer by Jeremy Duhart

Consumer

I want it all, goods and services. Money’s not a problem, I’m excited when purchasing. On the internet stores I stay surfing looking for the product to make my life perfect. There’s always something to buy to fix all of my prefects and defects, just need a 16 digit card number and an address for FedEx. I’m looking for value not trying to give it. I want it in seconds, too long is a minute. Sacrifice my rent payment for some reckless spending. Can’t get my mind off that new product, it’s addicting. That ad I just saw definitely has me influenced. Can’t wait to exchange this old thing for the newest. The coolest gadgets and fashion are waiting in my wish list. I’m in line online looking for my next wish. Spent hours shopping from home. Don’t cook, don’t clean, the DIY movement is wrong. I have a life full of improvement via products I’m consuming.

Too hot
Language has transformed from spoken to virtual.
Words now less spoken than texted with emojis.
Smiling faces looking at screens not seeing
what lies underneath their walking feet.
Dirt roads made into concrete constructing
freeways until they are complete.
Skyscrapers and buildings our ancestors wouldn’t recognize.
Mass creation on a scale not imagined by past lives.
Simulation of all things moving closer to perfection.
Or an illusion so good we delude ourselves into satisfaction.
The drive for knowledge and relaxation is the sponsor for robotics.
Creativity advocated by heavy usage of hallucinogens and narcotics. Development is going so fast the future can’t brace enough.
Are we coming in too hot?
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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: Pocket Sized Wreath by Cassandra Swan

The elephant-grey, cracked walkway clacks with alacrity:  
as the tedious, stiff facades in a talentless circus of mediocrity  
plod, and trek to their typical, mechanical homage – a life my   
insurrection rejects!  Instead, at a lowly, junk-ridden, rickety   
desk – on sixteen-hour, voluntary shifts – I regurgitate injustice.  
  
Will I ever switch my rabble-rousing, misanthropic existence  
for a steady salary, car and otiose days off at Christmas?  
Swivel chairs – in an unholy, goldfish bowl – with chains!  
Pub jaunts, cream cakes with petty, civilian saints,  
and dreary, clock-watching years, with lottery syndicates.  
  
This rantipole poet re-mortgaged her lifeblood to repossess time:  
decrypting the tangled-web of a tortured mind’s production lines.  
My supernatural re-incarnation – as a poetic, psychic surgeon –   
pledges petroglyphs of Donatistic lyrics, and complex lamentations.  
I survive by devouring plentiful plenilunes in valiant dimensions.  
Jekyll and Hyde’s allotment cultivates fine verbs and nouns.   
  
Fifty years devout, sterling service awards and android-head,  
with an ingot watch, a pension and an orthopaedic bed!  
Yet, starving lyricists live eternally in folios: their cicatrices  
flood like wordy blood, as knife-edged, quality-controlled rectos  
cut into eternal ebbs and flows of etymological, mystagogic tides.  
  
An android’s watch – rasped by retirement, coronary and death –   
ticks on as a by-passed heart, gasping for breath:  
under a charity shop counter, it flops; limp as an amaranth,  
in a swiftly-decomposing, demoralised, pocket-sized wreath.  
  
This wage-less wordsmith’s spine-chilling lines will outlive  
the hands and face of mechanised life and time; by sculpting  
denticulate epistles – with a scalpel – into epidermis then epitaph. 

Copyright Cassandra Swan

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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April Past, Poetry by Slowmoto

April Past

A devil in my calendar
He eats, lives, and breathes
Pour in happiness
To exhale disgust
Do you see that me?
To this demon I remain hostage
No amnesia,
Or Armor,
Or Alternate belief
I hate this month
Being torn apart
By the devil it revives in me

Poet: Slowmoto

@slowmoto
Genre: relent

 

 

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Society Poetry: 1918 Sanctuary by T. Hopper

1918 Sanctuary by T. Hopper

For as I lay in your embrace,

My breath be shallow..heart doth race

The trench ,the bugle ,the distant drum

Fight for country …defeat the Hun

So protected in your cocoon

Daybreak looming behind the moon

Sleep it cowers and it creeps…

Tears of mine ..i gently weep

Not tonight …well not for me …

Safe and sound for that I be

The dark …its cold …a killers friend

The night flame flickers ..Bows and bends

The shadows dance to a pipers tune

As we did …that day in June

The day I marched..with head held high

For king and country ..live or die

Young men together … comrades in fear

Maidens calling hip hip three cheers

The front …the gas ..ahead barbwire…

The stink ..the stench of gods hell fire

Bully beef …and rationed stew ..

.Last letters home from me to you

Dearest sweetheart …love of my life

Dearest mother …precious wife

Signing off with yours devoted …

All my love and sugar coated

Kisses sent ….a thousand score …

Each one delivered when at your door

Just let me live please god I pray …

To see my love ..just one more day

So here we lay …safe and sound …

Hearts entwined …emotions bound

And as the eve does turn to light …

My candle salutes…. its last goodnight.

T.Hopper

Copyright2015

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Khwajah Piruz, Poetry by Renkian Barrymore

Genre: Religion

Khwajah Piruz by Renkian Barrymore

Many of you don’t know me.
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Mazdayasnian Fire Keeper,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

Cleanness rebuffs all evil.
Purge the home, paint the walls, spruce the garden.
‘Khane Tekani’ is essential –
And annual visitations common.

They nourish the growth of your sabzeh,
That slept during cold winter days.
Now lentils, barley and wheat abounding,
Your ancestors’ wishes purveyed.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Many of you don’t know me,
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Khwajah is Lord, Piruz victorious,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

I probably came from Mogadishu,
Though this is not the mainstream view.
Marauding Arabs conquered the Persians,
Then changed my name to ‘Hajji Firuz.’

Don’t confuse me with Bilal al Rabah,
The Meccan, the black muzzein.
My origins are rooted in Persia,
The ‘Tepe’ bears testament to my name.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Blackface is soot from the fire,
Or when I ascend from the dead.
Even a slave from Zanzibar –
But why not Prince Siyavash instead?

Status demeaned I no longer am
Considered ‘Victorious Lord’.
They converted me into a minstrel,
To play ‘saz’ and sing silly songs.

Look at me Lord, it’s been a while.
Do me a favour,
My very own Lord, the billy goat –
Why don’t you smile my Lord?

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

The children adore me, adults laugh,
Shiny coins swell my felted hat –
No more than a raucous spectacle –
How I yearn for the distant past.

A Fire Priest hostile to Daevas –
Zartosht’s appointed muzzein.
Homage bellowed through Asha-filled streets,
Reciting from memory, praying for the Dīn.

Dank areas lit up by the magi flame,
People of all ages came,
Confessing debts, rejecting authority,
The lawless, the wicked, the foulest beings.

Now look at me now Lord, it’s been a while.
Do me a favour,
My very own Lord, the billy goat –
Why don’t’ you smile my Lord?

https://renkian.wordpress.com/

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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http://www.wildsoundfestival.com/may_2015_poetry_readings.html

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