Tag: poem

GOD’S Pursuit, Poetry by BW 4 Christ

My prayers need answers

Answers that I seek

For a strong soul that is often meek

That pursuit doesn’t always take me to YOUR book

Genre: Rhyme, Spiritual

GOD’S Pursuit by BW 4 Christ

 

My prayers need answers

Answers that I seek

For a strong soul that is often meek

That pursuit doesn’t always take me to YOUR book

For I never know where to look

Sometimes it’s in the course of a day

That the answers come across my way

Other times it’s in YOUR pursuit of me

That you use the things I see

For YOU created me visually

It’s in the trees so strong and tall

It’s written on walls

Maybe a program on TV

Music that strikes the very heart of me

YOUR pursuit, YOUR woo, YOUR courtship, OUR relationship

All depends on the answers that I seek

For that soul that’s strong but often meek

That sometimes needs a wake up call

The cause for that fall

Just so I have no choice but to look up before the ground swallows me whole

And I lose that strong soul

That YOU created from the beginning

Set in a fallen world of free will

That keeps on sinning

Answers that it continuously seeks

A soul forced to be made weak

YOUR pursuit to capture just so YOU can make it free

Looks into the very heart of me

Patiently silently knocks at the door

With hope once more

Expecting just once chance

To break down the walls with no romance

Strongholds that were built in more than one night

Gave the devil his delight

Holding on to the lock and key

Swallowed up everything

No peace, self-control, hope or joy

Permanently scarred grown humans that used to be girls and boys

But that pursuit that YOU do

If we allow ourselves to be captured

We’ll be stuck to YOU

Living life more abundantly

Made whole and free

Strongholds washed away

Peace, joy, hope and all the other good fruit here to stay

No matter if it rains wet

But YOU dry with just YOUR breathe

Cause YOUR pursuit means we have met

That pursuit means the thrill is never gone

Away goes those sad songs

Cause YOU have reached and mended the very heart of me

YOUR pursuit, woo, courtship, relationship says

 

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WHIMSICAL PIMP, Poetry by Maria Lopez

When i see him in the morning
Reminds me of an old song,
Sinatra and gipsy kings
And motown
And rock n’ roll.

Genre: Life

WHIMSICAL PIMP by Maria Lopez

When i see him in the morning

Reminds me of an old song,
Sinatra and gipsy kings
And motown
And rock n’ roll.

Strange mixture of a man
I could call him retro freak,
With his broad wing hat
And red shoes,
Off he goes with his rythm stick.

You should see him
Through my eyes…

My neighbourhood is soo boring,
So bloody traditional,
so mass sunday mornings,
So gossip and hypocritical,
So old ladies with their trolleys
And their god blessed doggies.

That im so grateful for his colours,
His raven black hair,
At 70 something
His tight jeans, his big head.

Every morning
As I pass by,
He will sing me a tune
Mixture of flamenco and jazz.
… and he doesnt know it
But he paints me a smile.
For when i am old
As old as this woman will be,
I want to be outrageous

Just like the whimsical pimp.

 

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http://festivalforpoetry.com

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AinmosnInsomniA, Poetry by Obi Martin

Monuments of tired eyes

wall up before my face.

collapsing ranks of sane and civil thought

leave violence in their place.

Genres: #dark #macabre #existence #life #insomnia

AinmosnInsomniA by Obi Martin

 

Monuments of tired eyes

wall up before my face.

collapsing ranks of sane and civil thought

leave violence in their place.

 

Drying wells of bitter peace

keep crying for my gaze

and clamor round my clanking cell

demanding rest from days.

 

My visions red and gray and

seven shades of stricken screaming black.

my thoughts are kiting high and taut

stretched useless on the rack.

 

Why have you forsaken

and whats left for me to say

apart from turning short and faceless purpose

towards the silent withered day.

 

 

 

 

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Aspiration, Poetry by Carrie Barnes

I try not to feel this way about you,

but I can’t help it

My mind knows I’ll get hurt,

but my heart doesn’t care

Genre:Romance

Aspiration by Carrie Barnes

I try not to feel this way about you,

but I can’t help it

My mind knows I’ll get hurt,

but my heart doesn’t care

I tell myself to listen to my head

instead of my heart,

but when you look at me,

I’m like putty in your hands

You have such power over me

and you don’t even know it

You think we’re just friends,

but little do you know

that I dream about us being

together one of these days

That’s all it is though,

a dream

I see the way you look at other girls,

ones that are fitter than me,

ones that a funnier than me,

ones that are prettier than me

The way you look at them,

is the same way I look at you

I know I don’t have a chance,

but I can only hope that

one day you’ll feel the same way

about me,

that I do about you

 

 

 

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Whistling Dunes, Poetry by Somali K Chakrabarti

Lustrous

Grains of sand

Lured away by gust

Form “whistling” dunes

Genre: Nature

Whistling Dunes by Somali K Chakrabarti

Lustrous

Grains of sand

Lured away by gust

Form “whistling” dunes

They bounce and roll,

They roar and boom,

Blasting the land

Ripples

shift and drift

form ridges and cribs;

Over vastness of desert

Under the cerulean sky

They cast curvy shadows

Beneath the gleaming

Moon; Inexorable,

Loony waves

Pirouette to the Gale’s Tunes !!

© Somali K Chakrabarti

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DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE, Poetry by Charli Day

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

By the muddy bank he stood with bloody hands and ruined suit

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

His reflection locked and murky is not the prince in her fairy story

Genre: Rhyme, Society, Life

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE by Charli Day

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

By the muddy bank he stood with bloody hands and ruined suit

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

His reflection locked and murky is not the prince in her fairy story

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

For in amongst the weeds and lilies is clasped a ring inscribed forever

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

A cotton shirt with a scent like summer is buried in the earth forever

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

A strand of blonde so pale and gentle, swallowed by the black forever

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

Hands are held in passing water, the crimson slick disperses further

Down by the riverside, hides all the white lies

No reflection, nothing more, just trodden grass by a silent shore

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The Resistance, Poetry by Tierra Martin

Why can’t I move? Being enclosed by your infidelity no air for me to breathe. Why won’t you just let me live!

Genre: Hurt, Pain, Relationship

The Resistance by Tierra Martin

Why can’t I move? Being enclosed by your infidelity no air for me to breathe. Why won’t you just let me live!
Being caught in your wrongs isn’t what I pictured our relationship to be. Not being able to be set free me falling damn on my knees in a searing plead. You took quit advantage of my kindness.

 

Therefore, me pushing away from all this hurt in the end would help me mend things on my own two feet. While my heart is beating defeating your indecisive mindset I’ll also be set free to fly away too a place where I can finally love me for me..

 

 

 

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C, Poem by Natalie Henderson

she was the kind of girl people wrote poetry about. wild heart , wild soul , wild hair. she couldn’t be tamed. she shifted the universe. the sun followed her smile and the moon was slave to her pain. she wanted to be nothing but free , leaving her mark on everything and everyone she touched. she commanded attention wherever she went , a vibrant rose with more thorns than she should have. she had the intensity of a waterfall , flowing with rage and demanding to be heard.

Genre: Inspiration, Light, Art

C by Natalie Henderson

she was the kind of girl people wrote poetry about. wild heart , wild soul , wild hair. she couldn’t be tamed. she shifted the universe. the sun followed her smile and the moon was slave to her pain. she wanted to be nothing but free , leaving her mark on everything and everyone she touched. she commanded attention wherever she went , a vibrant rose with more thorns than she should have. she had the intensity of a waterfall , flowing with rage and demanding to be heard.

she was the kind of girl people wrote poetry about. soft heart , soft love , soft soul. she radiated every beautiful color in the spectrum. blues , pinks , greens , and indigos. her bones had flowers growing from them , planting seeds in the ground with every step. she was the manifestation of everything she found beautiful. her love lived infinitely in the stars.

she was the kind of girl that people wrote poetry about. so destructively damaged and so beautifully broken. she could make the brightest of days dark , and the darkest of days light. she lived in the moment. breaking herself on purpose to remember how to appreciate the sun when it came back. you couldn’t hold on to her. you couldn’t contain her. she is poetry.

n.h

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To my future significant other, Poem by Morgan Fasanelli

if we ever actually end up finding each other

i hope that, whoever you are – you love me as much as i hope i love you

and i hope that you hate snow, but you’ll appreciate that i love it

you’ll let me shovel alone because you know i don’t mind being alone

you’ll just have coffee ready for me when i come inside

Genre: sad, romantic, hopeful, love

To my future significant other by Morgan Fasanelli

if we ever actually end up finding each other

i hope that, whoever you are – you love me as much as i hope i love you

and i hope that you hate snow, but you’ll appreciate that i love it

you’ll let me shovel alone because you know i don’t mind being alone

you’ll just have coffee ready for me when i come inside

and i hope you know that when i get sad, which i will, it probably won’t be you

and i hope you’ll let me spew out my dramatic thoughts and feelings and i hope you’ll be okay with the fact that i don’t need you to tell me it’s okay, i just need you to let me tell you what’s on my mind

I hope that you have these idiosyncrasies about yourself because let me tell you, i notice everything

and i will notice if you pull the cuffs of your sleeves when you’re uncomfortable because it’s a natural reflex from grade school when someone would say something about what used to be a touchy subject for you, even though the scars are almost fully faded

And i hope that you’ll understand that i’m sorry for everything all the time, and that i’m really trying not to be

And i hope that you have lots of little stories that you remember from your past that you’re comfortable sharing with me

but most of all i hope you don’t fit every detail i just said

because that is to say that i saw you coming, and i saw us coming

and i don’t want to see this coming

i want to be so completely blindsided by your love that it knocks the air right out of my lungs

and i hope that, whoever you are – you love me as much as i hope i love you

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MISERY’S DISPENSARY, Poem by Nick Meridionale

emotions have always meant the most to me
I mean, really
do you think there’s anything in life
not worth feeling?
words slither through our skin
and enter our bodies
like my brain emits T.H.C. ;

Genre: depression, addiction, sad, suicidal, dark, drugs, confused, empty, bitter

Misery’s Dispensary
by Nick Meridionale

emotions have always meant the most to me
I mean, really
do you think there’s anything in life
not worth feeling?
words slither through our skin
and enter our bodies
like my brain emits T.H.C. ;

T.
H.
C.

this
head
can’t
take
hell’s
campaign;
the
hanging
chord,
the
hop
from the chair
this. head. can’t. take! hell’s campaign!
the hanging chord, the hop from the chair…
the hanging corpse!

common symptoms include:
blotched eyes and dry sweat
depending on what high you’re aiming for;
joy or sadness
I cough and I choke,
trying to fill my lungs
up the most,
but my throat becomes a waterfall
layered out in smoke
and I ponder if my mother will witness
my ghost
after she lowers my body into an eternal and
earthy comatose.

I think the most miserable types of people
are one’s whose bodies have become
empty and dried up rivers
where even dead fish can’t deliver
satisfaction to the bellies of vultures
our hearts can’t get
accepted by society’s norms or cultures
we are different types of people
who feel much deeper than others
we hear words heavily,
and we listen with keen ears

so I had my first high
and suddenly
my empathy was at an all time high,
I was able to see my
own desires and dreams
physically by my side
and I could smell the future’s meadow
but after a few hours
I returned to my past’s shadow

now that I’ve had my last hit
it’s hard for me to feel it;
the emotion.
the passion.
I’ve fallen in love with the fashion
that withdrawal dresses me in
instead of clothes I wear my skeletons!

“save that hit for
a rainy day.
and if your head
feels like a hurricane
then take as many as you may.
if your vice keeps you dreaming
at least it mutes the sounds
of your demons screaming.”

lately I’ve been stuck in my creative ocean
I used to row a boat and feel the motion
of the waves;
typing words down on a cracked phone screen
just to feel solace
under the hot summer sun
but I’ve lost a paddle,
I’ve broken a few wings

so when these sharks circle me
and they start to sing
I fear that I may die.
I feel death in my tiny stone soul
consuming my heart
and continuing to grow;
so when the sun screams at me
and my skin starts to crow
I long for the colder climates
of the coffins down below

I love feelings
I love feeling sad, even miserable
I love feeling happy and joyous
jubilance is a fruitfulness that I rarely emit
and morbidity has scrutiny when it fishes
for the bigger catches inside of me
once the sun dries me up, and
depression devours all that I have to give,
my river will become the trench
that murderers bury the victims
they deemed unworthy to live

my soil can’t decay, it actually
grows wealthy at the taste of lifeless skin
I kiss the corpses of young women and children
to feel a sustenance
that beautiful women
and children’s eyes
once poured into my soul,
I once held an abundance of substance
now I’m a bag of blood,
abusing myself by using substances.
I’m a bag of bones
amusing others, swearing I know what substance is…

but as the days go on,
and the sun’s volumes become more and more immense
I will decay and feast on whatever
the devil can dispense
this sobriety is painfully subsiding,
it’s fastening the blade to my wrists
how many cadavers does a dying man have to kiss,
to confirm he has a pulse,
and swear he’s not one of them?

(n.j.m.)

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