He tried to jump, but his feet wouldn’t move
Even in dying he was not able to succeed
He seemed to be inferior at everything
At that moment he realized, he was really competent in being incompetent
His quality was to posses no quality’s at all
With a smile on his face he tried to climb back over the rail
He regained his confidence in life once again
But he should have known that it would go wrong
He slipped and fell, never being allowed to touch the ground
He remained floating in eternity
I am a 26 year old philosopher who lives in the Netherlands. I am interested in anything that makes us humans cultural beings. I like to write, story’s poems and take photo’s. The name of my blog is prevoid – fore the emptiness -. The main subject of my blog is the void that exists in life in modern society.
Joscelyn (8 years old) came home with an assignment to write a poem about Scotland because it was near St Andrew’s day. The instructions on what was required were a bit confusing. She has a piece of paper with SCOTLAND written vertically down the edge so each line began with a letter. She had to write something Scottish on each line with a describing word. It is difficult to do it “properly” but fun if you relax the rules. Here is what dad came up with while cooking tea. We are debating whether to send it to school as Joscelyn’s work.
Serious surfs
Crazy Ceilidhs
Overly audacious
Tartan Traversed
Lochs and Lavies
Atlantic Antlers reach
Nearly to the North Sea
Dundee; Cake of Kings
Surely a poem almost as worthy as those by the great William Topaz McGonagall.
Sweetly, sweetly swirling,
a mass of fluffy seeds,
are drifting through the park
at the whim of windy leads.
Big, thick, black, white tree trunks
seem to walk around
like the legs of zebras
ambling on the ground.
Fountains in the laid out pools
look all so inviting;
I want to dip my feet in them
and swim, it’s quite exciting!
Tulips stand out from the crowd,
they nod to passers by
as smaller flowers blush
rosy red at bare blue sky.
A green stretches youthfully
aside from the path,
waiting for the picnicers,
shining summer’s mirth.
A weeping girl is out of place
on this buzzing day
yet the sadness of the world
is causing her to pray.
The danube tower rises up
at first to our dislike,
but later as a stretched-up ship
floating on a spike,
surveying all that’s down below…
the park, a bridge, a church.
We board ship and enjoy the view,
for landmarks make our search.
A funny purple train
is off on its tour,
showing off this merry land
we haven’t seen before.
The angels guard us overhead
i trust in their protection,
strolling through this wonderland
a heaven-ward direction.
by Emily Nash
The shock when I saw two pink lines,
The tears of confusion, what to do now,
Am I happy or sad, am I ready for this?
Our lives will change, suddenly a future with kids,
There’s no choice the bond is already strong,
Now praying that nothing goes wrong,
Now it’s all exciting, is it a girl or boy?
I cannot wait to meet our little bundle of joy.
Abbe Cutforth
one journeys through life stumbling – blind,
Never knowing what he may find;
He seeks for himself a place in the sun,
But much to his sorrow often finds none.
He asks himself what life is about,
What will happen when his flame flickers out?
Will he have the courage to face the day – –
The day he knows he must go his way,
And leave the world behind?
What will he find?
Will he miss the life he had here on earth?
For then he will know what his life was worth,
Is death really the end of living,
Or for some, is it just the beginning?
Walt Trizna
https://walttriznastories.wordpress.com/
Anne Sexton was a model who became a confessional poet, writing about intimate aspects of her life, after her doctor suggested that she take up poetry as a form of therapy. She studied under Robert Lowell at Boston University, where Sylvia Plath was one of her classmates. Sexton won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1967, but later committed suicide via carbon monoxide poisoning. Topics she covered in her poems included adultery, , despair and suicide.
The Truth the Dead Know
by Anne Sexton
For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOUR’S?
Here comes the Retail Festival
Couched in glossy Christmas cheer
Spend spend spend the shops implore
Their merchandising moves up a gear
Must we overspend at Christmas
On presents that leave us skint
Many people are left in debt
So that shops can make a mint
Christmas time itself I fear
Has lost it’s friendly glow
People vying to see who can
Have the priciest presents on show
A small present to family members
There is no harm in this
But keeping up with the Joneses
Is some folks idea of bliss
Hundreds of pounds they are spent
On presents for all you know
Kids clamouring for the latest
Toy or game that is on show
Hotels and restaurants filled to the brim
Yet their prices are over the top
When shall all this madness end
And prices shall start to drop
Family Christmas’s used to be
A time to visit and chat
Yet to sit around the table
Nowadays is classed old hat
The festivities now I fear
Has nothing to do with Dec 25th
It’s all to do with materialism
Spending money on expensive gifts
In case you think I’m a scrooge
Take time to stop and think
What’s the purpose of all this spending
Other than bringing you to debt’s brink
It’s time for a revolution
A time to say enough’s enough
Resist the all empowering persuasion
Put the retailers in a huff
Celebrate Christmas? Of course we should
Yet let us break the trend
Rather than buy a material gift
Present yourself just as a friend
©Bob Smith 13/11/2009
perhaps
not bad,
but uninspired,
write about
how we’re beautiful
because we’re all made of stars.
And I think,
you stone cold
prodigy.
You marvel.
You bright, shining
son of a bitch.
Only a brilliant genius
could turn the stars ugly.
And if thou not find comforts name
in dew-struck gardens of leaves and flowers unfurled,
know that for thee they have opened and uncurled
and its flowers will accept tears and rain the same.
Yet if thou shall find hands to comfort thee-
hands that not remind thee of mine own,
then my cold enfolding death will have shown
that our love was nothing I thought it be.
– John Boome
Blog: johnboomepoetry.wordpress.com
_______________________________________
I live in the United States, WA
Greatest influences for my poetry are Sylvia Plath, Walt Whitman, John Donne, Lang Leav, and Robert Frost.
No means to afford the psychotropic medications
The wheel is turning
A plot off course
Keel without rudder
Braving storms in circles
Tossed about taking hits
Warm hand in hand
Tender Voice Speaking…
But can’t hear a thing above the roar of a fierce wind
Firm grip
held close
Yet still…
Beyond reach
The breaking heart
Suffering in silence
Pain without violence
No bruises
perforations
lacerations
broken bones
Seen from afar
In wheelchairs
On crutches
Countenances belying
Being gripped in anguish’s clutches
Becomes known
The torn garments
The stained Filthy rags
The weathered jeans
Too tender on the skin
To want to exchange for new
The physical threats
The pushes and shoves
The jostling about
Fitful night dreams
Night sweats
Tossed and turned
The fill
The agitation
The cleansing cycle
The spin
The rinse
The tumbling dry
The ironing
The sorting
The hanging
The storing
When all is said and done
Still picking lint from each other’s clothes
And Bloodstains remain…
On brand new dress shirts
From a few pins left in it
And if it doesn’t fit
Once removed…
How can one ever get it to go back
Neatly folded
Into a clear protective sleeve?
Once made aware of
The only freedom
Freely given
At great cost
We find fault in others
While history blaringly declares
We have burned, beheaded, hung, tortured
Marched against
Slain our own…
Time and again
Just as we do now
Infiltrated by treachery
Closeness…
Closing the gap of striking distance
Betrayed with a kiss
Eagles, hawks and owls ever vigil
Observe in silence
On fence-posts
Anthony Gomaz
Rain falling
Spilling
Like the ink of a pen
That needs refilling
Covers everything
That needs to be said
But the words have run dry
The conversation is dead
The elephant
Fills the entire room
Doesn’t leave enough air
Only impending doom
Strangles those wanting
To let words out
But the big, hulking spider
Went up the waterspout
Nothing with meaning
is left for anyone to say
Only hot air coming in
And the debt no one wants to pay
Hatred coats tongues
Along with fire and despair
The debate seems to have ended
Has no hope of going anywhere
Let the people talk
Let the words flow
If you start with one sound
You might reap what you sow
Alex Hite
My name is Alex. I write on a blog called Writing With Rhythm, at https://acriticinthecrowd.wordpress.com/ . Your blog was brought to my attention when you all favorited a few of my poems. It would be an honor to be featured on your blog with some of my poetry. I would love to get feedback and more views, and your blog seems like the perfect place to do it. I am going to share one of my favorite poems of mine
Thank you for the opportunity to possibly get read on your blog. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
A candles flame,
Dances in dark,
Casting shadows upon a wall,
That seem to tell a story,
From end to start.
I lit this candle for you
And whispered a prayer.
By the candle’s glow,
Prayed for your soul.
Just like you’d want me to,
Just as…
For others’
I’d seen you do.
But I’m not you
And I must now reject,
Most of the things,
You taught me to do,
When your thinking,
had gone askew.
I’ll keep the best from you
And leave the rest to die,
Along with you.
I couldn’t bear to look at you,
Laid out,
With the painful smile,
They imposed on you.
I didn’t cry,
You wouldn’t want me to.
You weren’t there,
Just a shell,
But your spirit,
hovered over my head.
I thought it strange,
That then and there,
I showed no emotion.
One dead fish,
Floating upon a vast sea,
Still a part,
Of a mysterious,
Deep ocean.
I choose to remember the best,
Like how you taught me,
To tie a tie,
Or tie my shoes.
How we walked,
Hand in hand…
Or the first time I heard you weep.
On an island all alone,
trapped in a castle’s keep,
Your fear became my own,
By proximity,
infused,
absorbed.
What inheritance?
What dna?
What genetic signature?
Now…
To display?
Your pseudo strength,
and machismo,
behind a mask of fears.
I absorbed them well,
but there was something more,
something you knew deep inside,
but you rarely showed
and I barely saw.
You always said,
Something changed,
The day I was born.
Held me to a higher standard,
Set your hopes on me.
Placed me on a pedestal,
Of which I’d not felt worthy.
The burden was too great for me,
content to be happily,
ordinary.
tried my best,
to stay out of sight,
below the radar,
of God’s shimmering Light.
The damned,
only come out at night.
As a child
you became blind in both eyes,
And a miracle surgery,
Before it’s time…
Restored your sight.
Raised in an orphanage when your father died,
In a hurricane threw his body over your’s to shield you,
And lost his own life, to save you.
You grew bitter and resentful,
Jekly and Hyde,
I saw both sides,
We all did.
Sometimes the Jekyl,
seemed well worth the Hyde.
You were extremely hard on me,
On all of us,
Sometimes seemed,
Merciless.
But I learned in time,
Where true Mercy rests’,
Learned through trials,
Learned through tests,
That God always knows best.
And things are never as they seem,
In the reality,
Of the Living Realm unseen.
It was,
What it was,
I’m freed to Love,
By Love,
Freed to forgive.
Solely because,
Of what Jesus did on the Cross.
Healing the rift,
Bemoan the past?
Or freely accept,
A most freely given,
Precious Gift!
I choose Jesus,
I choose Life.
In the end,
You embraced the Lord,
Took some time for me
to be of the same accord,
Christ embracing you,
In Our Father’s arms,
My Father,
Is now my brother,
In Christ.
The candle flickers,
Blinks out,
A fragrant,
wisp of smoke gently rises.
Rest in Peace Father/brother
God Bless.
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