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  • Twi$ha $hah Rookie - 1st Stage (1/23/2014 8:21:00 AM) Post reply | Read 4 replies

    I want to be with you

    Out of the blue you grab my hand and make me dance with you,
    I think to make this moment more mirthful lets add a mocha to the cue,
    Sharing this moment together,
    Is the best time of my life

    I know you are a living dead
    And The moment we have in between
    Is the only thing I have in my head
    You and I both know that I am just a teen
    But being with you makes me feel as if I am the queen

    I can feel your noticeable absence
    And you, are the only one with whom I would spend my entire life
    Without even reconsidering the thought
    Whenever you are beside me I can feel your fragrance
    I see you coming when the fiery sun sets
    And I loose my patience
    To break the silence
    And I know when you'll leave
    I'll be fallen in the mouth of sadness
    Till then I want to be with you

    I would feel so good
    When I would be reminiscing
    About these days
    If ever I could
    And I surely would

    I hear you sing with your velvety voice,
    I want this memory in the future to be rejoiced
    And I want to be with you forever and ever

    By now you would be thinking that I'm a wise fool
    As I am drooling about the wind
    For you to read
    It would be logically illogical
    But for me it's illogically logical

    Replies for this message:
    • Har Srishty (1/29/2014 12:47:00 AM) Post reply

      Hello Respected, REALLY A CLASSICAL LOVE POEM OF FREE VERSE. It reminds of Yeats and longfellow's poems. Moreover, this passionate poem is grammaticall exact. Why nnt publish an edition of the poems?

    • Har Srishty (1/29/2014 12:47:00 AM) Post reply

      Hello Respected, REALLY A CLASSICAL LOVE POEM OF FREE VERSE. It reminds of Yeats and longfellow's poems. Moreover, this passionate poem is grammaticall exact. Why nnt publish an edition of the poems?

    • Har Srishty (1/29/2014 12:46:00 AM) Post reply

      Hello Respected, REALLY A CLASSICAL LOVE POEM OF FREE VERSE. It reminds of Yeats and longfellow's poems. Moreover, this passionate poem is grammaticall exact. Why nnt publish an edition of the poems?

    • Har Srishty (1/25/2014 9:51:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Fantastic, impressive coz it conveys you ... more

  • Gedion Onyango Rookie - 1st Stage (1/22/2014 1:13:00 PM) Post reply

    I'm Sick of Writing Poems


    I live a haunted life of pain and misery.
    A terrible cocktail of love, hate and joy
    Is crawling in my blood and spurting overwhelming energy,
    tearing my veins and biting my skin with a cold venom
    With my pen,
    I carry with me a non-accountable responsibility
    Weighed down, and burdened by an addictive urge to address the hungry, intelligent, disoriented, critical, and ignorant audience of known and unknown worlds.
    The enslavement and tyranny of the pen strains and wears me down.... And I am sincerely tired.
    With it, are the spirits that jerks and swings my head in every corner of the wilderness where weird thoughts are born and executed.
    I am being persecuted by the ghosts who walk in the darkness, waking dark clouds and black, slimy dusts on their path as they make their way into my haunted head to deliver their poetic missives.
    And I hear voices banging my head against the wisdom of strange gods of the poem writing and angels of its prophecy, warnings, celebrations and laughter.
    Strange sounds of drums and devilish feet stamps around my arms and scatters like a stampede of scared faithfuls in a religious pilgrimage of Mecca!
    The devils and angels are struggling and fighting for my consciousness and the strength of my pen. And my soul is restless to deliver their message and un-relentful
    To put this luggage down.
    Yes! I am tired of writing these poems - but I have failed to beat the voices in my head, the crawling centipedes in my veins.
    And the ghosts who drive the engines of my pen
    to incorporate me into writing these poems.

  • Donald Goodside Rookie - 1st Stage (1/22/2014 12:04:00 PM) Post reply

    Night Shift ___

    Each of us has an image of paradise,
    A destinations resting reward, and yet
    I am troubled as my own view is dim.

    Deep down many levels beneath the sun
    Where hand hewn roots of Sequoia support
    the Marble hall of others, I am sweeping
    the dust gatherings and collecting into piles
    The cardboard refuse of gifts not meant for me.

    Toiling the forever among vague others I never knew
    While I was sleepwalking somewhere up there
    I go on, in the certainty that eventually
    I too will rise to the Alabaster Porticos
    Washed by brief sweet showers of rain.

    Till then I accept my role
    As Janitor, this side of the Gate.

  • Melissa Ann Parker Rookie - 1st Stage (1/21/2014 9:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    MORE THAN ALL THE WINDOWS IN MANHATTAN:

    The day turned into the city
    and the city turned into the mind
    and the moving trucks trumbled along
    like loud worries speaking over
    the bicycle’s idea
    which wove between
    the more armored vehicles of expression
    and over planks left by the construction workers
    on a dusk of summer morning
    when no work was being done but by the birds,
    and us, because no matter the day,
    we tend towards
    remaking parts of it—what we said
    or did, or how we looked—

    and the buildings were like faces
    lining the banks of a parade
    obstructing and highlighting each other
    defining height and width for each other
    offsetting grace and function,
    and the hearty pigeons collaborate
    with wrought iron fences
    and become recurring choruses of memory
    reassembling around benches lovers sat in once,
    while seagulls wheel like immigrating thoughts,
    and never-leaving chickadees
    hop bared hedges and low trees
    like commas and semicolons,
    landingwhere needed, separating
    subjects from adjectives,
    stringing along the long ideas,
    showing how the cage
    has no door

    and the lights changed
    so the tide of sound ebbed and returned
    like our own breath
    and when I knew everything
    was going to look the same as the mind
    I stopped at a lively corner
    where the signs themselves were like
    perpendicular dialects in conversation and
    I put both my feet on the ground
    took the bag from the basket
    so pleased it had not been crushed
    by the mightiness of all else
    that goes on
    and gave you the sentence inside.

    Replies for this message:
    • Jeannette Lucas (2/3/2014 12:32:00 PM) Post reply

      I love: " the buildings were like faces, lining the banks of the parade." This whole stanza could be a great poem in itself. Alone, it seems more unique. However, another poem could conta ... more

    • Steven Ralph Rookie - 1st Stage (1/21/2014 9:58:00 AM) Post reply

      M, this is terrific! Post it on the " Discussions" and see what the gang thinks. (don't mind Therrie, though) . Fantastic effort here!

  • Mohan M Prasad Rookie - 1st Stage (1/20/2014 1:44:00 AM) Post reply

    Time will tell and ring the bell

    Nice it would be to let ‘that’ alone decide
    While you and I not take easy sides

    On who is right and who is wrong
    On what’s right and what’s wrong

    Till then let’s learn to move along,
    Suspending judgment all along

    That will make life so beautiful to live
    When we to TIME the judgment leave

    ‘Let’s keep the silence’ is the simple appeal
    And wait to hear the soft voice of time peal

  • Fred Nwaozor Rookie - 1st Stage (1/18/2014 12:03:00 AM) Post reply

    Don't pursue a rat as your dream 'cos you dreamt of a rat in the previous night.

  • G A Rookie - 1st Stage (1/17/2014 2:45:00 PM) Post reply

    Memories

    What is to be forgotten?
    To be forgotten is to die,
    and die without dying.

    I myself forget.
    I forget how people smell and look,
    but most of all
    I forget the way they look at me.

    I forget their eyes,
    be them sweet or sad, or both.
    I dread that they'll forget
    me too this way.

    by Job Foster

  • G A Rookie - 1st Stage (1/17/2014 2:44:00 PM) Post reply

    A Man

    I am an immortal.
    I live in the present,
    for me there is no Past
    and the Future is unknown.

    I am not a God
    but something else,
    a man among men.

    My soul is clean
    and my hand untouched,
    people watch me and see themselves
    like the Sun, the Shadow of a Shadow.

    That is not a man I am
    but a man I wish to be.

    by Job Foster

  • Iliya Gotby Rookie - 1st Stage (1/17/2014 2:09:00 PM) Post reply

    I see you somewhere between that broken man, and the wishful thought, somewhere where a time can't live, and a dream is far. What is the distance?I can't tell in light, but every time I close my eyes your only steps away, dancing in the mirages of my mind, teaching me patience.

    For what is real is perfect, and what is broken, the foolish man throws away.

  • Iliya Gotby Rookie - 1st Stage (1/17/2014 2:02:00 PM) Post reply

    Right now my love is a broken Mirror, shattered by my hearts discontent
    I sit by the mirror for now, my own personal moonlight, piercing into the melancholic waves named Misery. I am here, still waiting, waiting for the day to reach your arms, wherever, waiting for the day, to stand in the same moment with you, to walk a million footsteps in the same path, stricken with joy, that every step was mine and yours. Waiting to tease each other with soft spoken words of the eye, because i know your eyes will speak louder to me than any tongue. I am still waiting for the day we hold each other, but I will not only understand you, I will understand me. And they will tell us this love we share is one of loves infractions, but we will only hear each other's voices. Living each day as if time stood still, under the warm untainted shelter of each other's skin, as I kiss you.

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