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Of Light and Of LifeLight plays on rooftops, life plays below A desperate race for an ending unknown. Light runs unfettered, haloing clouds, An immortal childhood since the ages of old.Of Light and Of Life
Life thinks too little, too little too loud Watches light who says all without a sound Over Himalayan snow-tops and city grime, Caressing the children, white, red, brown.
And life breeds philosophers, artists who try To capture the colors and spirits of light. But rules and paints and wise words, much loved Can never hold light fr
by ~Windling
We, InchoateWe, inchoate, have yet to see The truth of what it is to live. Scorn we may but age we must And keep on hoping as is our lot-- Hope that we are doing right Hope that we've not wasted life Hope our vision is precise and clear And brush away all lightings of fear With hope that time and knowledge are Indeed the sought for elixirs of life.We, Inchoate
by ~Windling
Suburban DreamThree children and a friend Vigilant besides a lemonade stand. Not for want of money but for want of play On a cloudless late-August summer day.Suburban Dream
Through window blinds the neighbors smile At this lovely way the undefiled Move with youthful energy Through the still and drowsy dream.
This, after all, was how their childhoods went This was as perfect as creation gets. This, the advertised American scene The trimmed and kempt Suburban dream.
When all is the same there's harmony All hedges and rabbits and butterfly wings. With no room for change
by ~Windling
ItAn intoxicating mist has settled Our hearts turned amethyst, our eyes verdant. In a flash we’ve forgotten all we’ve held As ourselves, our future, all important. Time is too slow, and it goes past too fast When one is playing with their heart in hand Hide and seek where the seeker comes last And all is hidden till the very end. And when we finally let our hearts break We see, eyes open, we’ve been blinded fake.It
by ~Windling
Random Favourites
This PoemThis poem is lame;This poem is strange. It's boring; It's stupid; It wont get me fame.This Poem
This poem is red; This poem is green. This poem is all of the colours not in-between.
Thispoemisshort; T h i s p o e m i s l o n g. It's entertaining; It's weak; It's strong.
Why are you reading?; Why don't you write? Why not put pen to paper; Make it dark!; Make it bright!
Were my words that important that you'd continue to read as I
by ~Garasu-hidokei
Guardians of the NightBe not afraid to the shadows of Night For Shadows can come only with light. The Guardians of the Night Protect every child As they sleep quiet, calm and mild. The stars in the sky shine bright overhead, Protecting you softly asleep in your bed. The moon glows brightly, lighting the way With softer radiance that light of the day. The Wind outside blows a quiet, solemn prayer, Asking the Lord to protect you with care. The Sea by the cliffs rings a soft lullaby, Singing to you as you silently lie. So when you are afraid of the Shadows oGuardians of the Night
by =HobbitPunk
So Long I lived it IIthis blood so long I live it as birds pass through the veins of sun whorls grip onto youSo Long I lived it II
and you open my fist and wonder why blood trails from half moon ditches forever and so many evers that this world dies before the tide stops and everything is red with the blood so long I live it.
These nails have earth beneath them earth on the beds of my flesh and dirt deep in the alveoli my lymphnodes are squire to it and voice has a mind
sings and sings and never stops to breathe tries to trap you tries to
by ~xandrique
Crimson SunDeep crimson sun shattering, Clouds streak the blood red sky. Birds scream into the emptiness, Shrouded in dark black lies.Crimson Sun
Trees whisper but no one hears, Their lonely sorrow filled song. Leaves fall onto over grown paths, The weary traveller long gone.
Nature howls into the moonlight, Life comes, blossoms and dies. Game, can't stop until checkmate. Without questions, answers or why.
by ~hatetheending
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Five middle fingers, on one motherfucking hand.
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Art is imagination....so open your imagination to art
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your own choice....
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Poor picker-pockets, bring them in
Come join the Youth and Beauty Brigade
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I'm a guy who writes poetry. I write 70% sad 30% love poems/songs. I want to inspire people and change the world.
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Only when the last tree has died
and the last river has been poisoned
and the last fish has been caught
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