Treasure Island

Writing Poetry

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  • Kaylin Ruth Adarne (10/30/2013 5:40:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    I really want to improve my poems. Please help me :) Thank you and I hope to read more from you guys.

  • Lanuja Viknarajah (10/28/2013 9:34:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    The past you cannot forget or undo,
    The future is all we can look forward too.

    I wish I could have been there by your side...
    For all the times you've weeped and cried

    Replies for this message:
  • Liyaqat Ali (10/28/2013 4:58:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    one day i said to rain come &
    overcome my pain,
    the clouds were dancing like
    as they are sane
    some were wondering
    giving me happy in chain, , , , , , , , , ,
    by shallow chum,

  • Abubakar Abdulkadir (10/26/2013 4:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Has he not been beared
    From seas to streams
    Marked with cutlasses and ashes
    Forced to swallow cowries
    Why would he not wear down his face?

    Has he not been living
    On his choiceless delicacy
    Concoction of gmelina roots
    And garlic sap
    Why then would he smile?

    Why would he dance?
    The voilent drummers in his skull
    Were pounding thier drums
    Like groups of carpenters
    Driving pieces of nails
    Into a hardwood

    Has he not been marched
    Round the village on pant
    Bearing a pot stained with dry hen's blood
    And rotten bones and stenching earth
    Why would he not dash out his wealth
    To seek a neater heath?

    Replies for this message:
    • Wojciech Kolesnikov (11/7/2013 12:41:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      That's very good. " ...drummers in his skull/pounding their drums leave out the Were. " Driving pieces of nails into hardwood" leave out a good luck...from Canada

  • Wasim Umar (10/25/2013 10:58:00 PM) Post reply Stage


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  • Shalini Samuel (10/25/2013 11:23:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    If you love this poem vote for it
    A fishy day at bay

    Blue wave, white foam, washing the long shore
    with its tender soothing hands, brushing away
    my fading memories, polishing men's rock heart, at bay
    -akin to the pebbles, the bubbly kids search to store

    on a solitary rock, by the shore, a young man sits
    dreaming his untold future, the spluttering sprays
    banging the rock, returns back, filling water in pits
    sea retreats in agony, striking again angrily on her prey

    the candy man rings the bell, people run behind for a bite
    the balloons sway in his hands- bright red, blue and pink
    the shells, hiding an unknown craftsman, rests at the sales site,
    the groundnut covers, mango peels, the leftover snacks, stink

    sinking legs, wander aimlessly across the shore, holding hand
    sometimes alone, like two creepers intertwined, joy and sorrow guise
    the breaking dawn, sun rises, to the silent command of magic wand
    I look upon through the net, the arid faces, ripping hungry and fiery eyes

    enjoying weepily my solo day on shore; few hours afore, from the cold sea bed
    waving my friends, I had gone astray into the net, envisioning the shore gleam;
    suicidal I have been, caught in men's glitters of a wonder world afar, held
    by cruel hands, I knew not, this isn't my place; travelling back alive- just a daydream.

  • Nicholas Garcia (10/22/2013 9:24:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Take a look at my poetry! Poet name " Nicholas Peter" . Hope you guys dig it!

  • Cherret Leakey (10/17/2013 1:09:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies Stage

    please vote for my poem,

    Thank you

    Replies for this message:
    • ... Dog God 8hate (10/23/2013 3:03:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      ] The parallel between a blase ambition for gleaning views, and that critical mystique, is of paramount concern... the familiar is... way too... familiar.... .

    • Angie Foxx (10/17/2013 1:20:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      It was a great write...

  • Gulsher John (10/16/2013 10:23:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Born to die

    In a white night
    After a dark day,
    I was jogging around the busy streets.
    When got a glance. Of stale
    and weary creature:
    Bare footed and dressed
    in tattered threads.
    Dirt's shrouded his white stinky skin
    That hosted dust and flies' wings,
    Had chapped lips and sore eyes.
    For an onlooker he was:
    A walking dead.
    (Was ripped off by mercy of an angry god)

    For him life is nothing but
    wound uncured.Like a bird
    engulfed by storm or a butterfly:
    for a child's charm.
    So was he: fettered and bound.
    A roving vagabonds.
    (pity that mocks our handicapped world)
    In response to my childish quarries.
    He smiled and voiced:
    Our life story ends in words two:
    'Born to die'
    (An irony of the cultured being)

  • Jack Growden (10/10/2013 4:06:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Feel free to read, rate and comment on my work. Thanks:

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