Treasure Island

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  • Ed Nigma (1/9/2014 8:25:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    This Selfish Question.


    It seems as though you lost your way home

    So where was it anyways?

    I followed the lights that flew in this direction

    Until a varying distraction of shapes displayed

    In a haze became a magnificent glow of

    violent displeasure.



    So abrupt was this vanishing treasure

    As was the taste, erased.

    Lost in the silence of sound

    Above me was a reflection

    That mirrored a sort of map on the ground



    Inside of myself I screamed, I must find a way out!

    Now each step is a trap, but this pain beckons me

    to push past the words that follow



    As I run my finger down the center of this page

    I remember the beginning was the future from which I came

    Overwhelmed by the quest in the connection

    Dissecting the end was in question



    Then in a wave of relief it all made sense

    As the lights formed in a linear array

    That my addiction to placebos led me to this runway

    Where I alone had faith I'd catch this plane that I had chased

    Allan Gerard

  • Mary Amrutha (1/9/2014 6:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    I am not lost

    My mind being empty
    and it is hard to write something
    from an empty mind.
    Where did all the letters go?
    where did all the words go?
    what I can find inside me is nothing
    but an empty soul

    who stole the things
    that I had in my mind,
    I don't know!
    but it is all gone,
    that is what I thought
    I thought it is gone for ever
    but it is not.

    I can,
    I still can
    write something
    I can talk about things
    which I thought that I'll never remember
    I can still speak up my mind.
    I still can write from my mind.
    I am happy that I am not lost...
    Mary Amrutha

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    • Martin Yeboah (1/12/2014 2:34:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      I love the contradiction in this poem. The title i am not lost even though the first stanza clearly reveals that the poet is lost! ! (empty mind, hard to write, empty soul) . But in the end, the poet ... more

  • Amudipe Opeyemi Marcus (1/9/2014 12:18:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Insatiable Minds
    Stories long gone of wonders untold
    Tales ages gone of blunders unfold
    Lost memories of beauty centuries gone
    Different pages of mysteries unravelled
    Through years of diverse evolution
    From man's ever continuing journey
    From homo Eretus to his homo sapien
    Diverse species of ideas hath he gathered
    Leaving so much to be refined
    As the numbers of years keeps growing
    Seasoned ideas blessed with seasoned
    brains
    Hath doth emerged, all to our marvel
    Rooted to the ground are we at their fruits
    But thirsty are we for new glories
    Leaving so much ground to be covered.
    Call the inner man in us OLIVER TWIST
    'nd i will bring in an enclyclopedia of fact to
    support it
    A never ending well hath he to keep his
    laurels
    A life long task which must be pursued
    Only to be left behind at the Owls call.

  • Anish Chouhan (1/8/2014 5:04:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    watch out for my recent poems.... u will love reading...

  • Anish Chouhan (1/8/2014 4:49:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Title: My Wife

    When I felt I had won,
    I lost something to her,

    It was a battle of love,
    Where I luckily got her,

    She defeated me with her lively smile,
    Entangled me in my lonely heart by mile,

    Her eyes when engulfed my soul,
    I stood entwined to my heart as a whole,

    Myself was not me anymore,
    Looking for her in mirror for the days of sore,

    Her lips could say very little to me,
    It showed her love is undefined in words for me,

    Sometimes I wonder but could just only smile,
    It was all happening and everything was mine,

    Stubborn and subconscious was the state of mind,
    Moving ahead I felt her behind,

    She woke up a lovely person in me,
    Her memories were so embedded in me,

    God gave me a chance though distant but nothing,
    I forgot my past and remember one thing,

    Her love was a need for me in my life,
    I can just breathe only for my wife.

    Replies for this message:
  • Abhishek Sharma (1/6/2014 5:28:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    read my poem heer ranjha.. thankss

  • Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon (1/6/2014 5:14:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    A HUNDRED YEARS.
    A hundred years
    On the road
    Crooked and bend
    within the severe cold
    On a journey for a new trend

    On the road
    where we crest- quest for freedom
    and left battered by the storm
    of persecution and staggered.


    On the road
    Where life hits so bad
    And we live so hard
    On a journey for freedom
    In our own kingdom

    A hundred years
    Where we lived crippled
    by the menacles of segregation
    and the chains of discrimination

    A hundred years
    we live on a lonely island of poverty
    in the midst
    of vast ocean material prosperity

    A hundred years
    On the road
    with no heart of symphathy
    for our daily weeping

    For a hundred years
    Our mouth
    sing the song of our groan
    of freedom at last
    until justice rolls like river
    and rigteousness like a mighty stream
    from every mountains side
    to our inner heart

    we shall continue to ring
    and solemly sing
    for peace within our midst
    with no segregation of races
    For an hundred years to come.


    @ copyright 2013
    Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon.

  • Terrance Tracy (1/5/2014 4:42:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Writing Poetry

    A poem is born of the inspiration
    and filled with perspiration
    and sometimes precipitation.

    Those who don't understand
    precipitation in the poem I am
    referring to tears that comes
    from writing from ones heart.

    Those who don't understand perspiration
    It is the hard work that's put into verse.

    You have brought nothing new to the table; if you
    keep writing these verses, they are rehearsed
    and won't contribute to your purse.

    I thought it best to get it off my chest,
    before I am put to rest with repeated rhymes
    used too many times.

    Writing poetry is like painting a picture
    using words instead of charcoal, oil, water color,
    or pastel.

    It seems that they prefer words used by muse,
    divine inspiration has no room they may have met
    their fate. It is a supernatural discourse
    that is preferred.

    I don't care if it rhymes too much or has
    been well rehearsed; either you like it
    are you dislike it, it really doesn't matter,
    we all have our own style that will be with
    us for a while.

    I do not mind constructive criticism
    so let's not call for a poetical exorcism.
    I think it's fair to say it appears poets
    have no sense of humor when you try
    to amuse a muse.

    If you are still reading this poem
    and it does not meet your expectations,
    or qualifications I apologize for
    using the wrong media to relay the frustrations.

    I have read beautiful poems in this forum
    however some of the poems are downright weird,
    such as this one.
    Terrence Tracy

  • Shirin Kaul (1/5/2014 10:56:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    a poem written by me about gender inequality in India:

    When I was inside my mother,
    I heard my parents talk to one another.

    They thought I was a baby boy
    And gifted my mother fruits and a toy.
    For me to use when I would come out;
    Where I could play and I could shout.

    But when they came to know the pearl,
    Was actually a little girl.
    My father became sad;
    And after a few minutes, mad.

    He beat my mother very much
    But I was inside her safer clutch.

    As I came out I looked around,
    My mother was silent I found.

    As I grew up my parents hated me more.
    What my brother got, I never bore.
    Where he went I could never see;
    This was the world for me.

    And I thought about it too much.
    I could neither sleep nor have my lunch.

    Why don’t you realize:
    Even I feel hurt, I sleep, I cry
    I am also a living being, tender and mild.
    What if a girl I am also a child?

    Replies for this message:
  • Stephen Mateus (1/5/2014 12:34:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Everybody check out my poems they're not bad I'm very young and need a different view on things

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