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THE BEST POEM IN THE WORLD! – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM


heavens_door

 

I was shocked, confused, bewildered
as I entered Heaven’s door,
Not by the beauty of it all,
by the lights or its decor.

But it was the folks in Heaven
who made me sputter and gasp–
the thieves, the liars, the sinners,
the alcoholics, the trash.

There stood the kid from seventh grade
who swiped my lunch money twice.
Next to him was my old neighbor
who never said anything nice.

Herb, who I always thought
was rotting away in hell,
was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
looking incredibly well.

I nudged Jesus, “What’s the deal?
I would love to hear Your take.
How’d all these sinners get up here?
God must’ve made a mistake.

And why’s everyone so quiet,
so somber? Give me a clue.”
“Hush, child,” said He “They’re all in shock.
No one thought they’d see you.”

Judge NOT.

Author Unknown
(Though possibly written by either the worst sinner or 
the most thankful person in heaven, or both!)

YOUR  FAVOURITE POEM  SENT IN BY YOU WHATS YOURS

Mystery of Death

mystery-death
When you lose some one to spirit,
Whether expected or not,
At first everything is in turmoil,
Everything just goes to pot.

The disbelief it’s happened,
The anger and despair,
To be taken away is a mystery,
For the grief is hard to bear.

Turning it over in your mind,
Of the things that were said,
I am living in an unreal world,
Now that you are dead.

If only I could touch you,
To feel the warm of your heart,
It would ease the pain I am feeling,
Now that we are far apart.

If there are answers to these feelings,
Then I would like to know,
Does life end within the grave,
If not, were do our loved ones go.

My child you are feeling,
The pain from the bond of love,
You are experiencing the separation,
To the spirit world above.

You have only lost the material,
The bond of love will remain,
Nothing can separate what you created,
For you will be together again.

It will take time for you to settle,
For the hurt and pain to cease,
Remember I shall always be near you,
To give you everlasting peace.

I am not all that far away,
We are not that far apart,
Look in a different direction,
Send your feeling from within your heart.

All the thoughts you have sent I’ve received,
I will see you through darkness and despair,
I shall watch over you and the family,
And join in the experience that you share.

We shall all have a joyful reunion,
The moment you receive that call,
In the mean time enjoy your life,
As a place I shall prepare for you all,

Malcolm G Bradshaw

Diary of a Church Mouse – Famous Poet

ChurchMouse.291150751_std

 Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looks
I nibble through old service books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind this Church of England baize.
I share my dark forgotten room
With two oil-lamps and half a broom.
The cleaner never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
My bread is sawdust mixed with straw;
My jam is polish for the floor.
Christmas and Easter may be feasts
For congregations and for priests,
And so may Whitsun. All the same,
They do not fill my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn's Harvest Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With ears of corn around the font.
I climb the eagle's brazen head
To burrow through a loaf of bread.
I scramble up the pulpit stair
And gnaw the marrows hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These items ere they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That other mice with pagan minds
Come into church my food to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two field mice who have no desire
To be baptized, invade the choir.
A large and most unfriendly rat
Comes in to see what we are at.
He says he thinks there is no God
And yet he comes ... it's rather odd.
This year he stole a sheaf of wheat
(It screened our special preacher's seat),
And prosperous mice from fields away
Come in to hear our organ play,
And under cover of its notes
Ate through the altar's sheaf of oats.
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I
Am too papistical, and High,
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong
To munch through Harvest Evensong,
While I, who starve the whole year through,
Must share my food with rodents who
Except at this time of the year
Not once inside the church appear.
Within the human world I know
Such goings-on could not be so,
For human beings only do
What their religion tells them to.
They read the Bible every day
And always, night and morning, pray,
And just like me, the good church mouse,
Worship each week in God's own house,
But all the same it's strange to me
How very full the church can be
With people I don't see at all
Except at Harvest Festival.

Written by: John Betjeman

Mermaid – Promote Yourself

coral

A flash of pearlescent blush
Shimmering just below the becalmed surface.
A brush of silken sandpaper
Against the exposed skin of my leg;
An electric eels love touch.
Then, nothing, a still as if the world paused.
The ocean lay millpond before me.
I scanned the water, as I struggled to stay afloat.
It was not panic, more suspense,
As the water lifted before me and
Water like oil in a slick, oozed over human form.
Skin of purest aquamarine, glinted in the sun.
Hair of seaweed, emerald of hue,
Cascaded about an elfin face.
And her eyes! What can I say?
If the bounties of the ocean were to meld
Into two shining pools of coral wonder
It would still never describe the flickering
Marvel of those transparent orbs.
She smiled, as her perfect body lifted from the sea,
Seashell teeth glinting a welcome.
The missing jewel from Neptune’s crown appeared before me.
My heart melted into the ocean;
I was hers for all eternity.
She put a lightly scaled finger to her mouth
And shushed my writhing form.
Then, she enveloped me gently in her arms,
And dragged me intoxicated to my doom.

Richard Ankers

MAGIC LOST – Promote Yourself


watercolourxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

A watercolor sunset that leaves pixels, prisms of color in the mind,
Luminous green giants, waves lifting after a winter tempest,
Spider-like branches reaching for the sun, roots creaking and twined;
Softened shells and eroded rocks, sandy granules without rest.

Comforting darkness; noiseless, interrupted only by coyotes’ baying,
Avian darters drifting with the spiraling wind, displaying their own story,
Hermit crabs struggling to climb lofty mountains, etched walls awash and decaying,
Silken, black or gray companions, popping up and down amidst the sea in days of glory.

Faces, newly-shapened or rutted with wrinkles, sharing smiles with surprise,
Wind-thrown hair atop rattled figures, pushing their way toward the spit,
Awakened love bringing cherished hopes, laughing with wonder and reprise,
Hands, bodies clenched in simple pleasure, making light of daily flits.

Then, wrapped in winter’s cellophane, we hide away; seek to stay;
Wonders and smiles that nature brings are tempered ‘til Spring;
Living portraits now muted cacophonies, humans; animals resist the day,
And kindled love connected to future promise, lies in embers; a broken string.

Wendy Shreve

Saturday night – Promote Yourself

rosesssssssssssssssssssssssssss
 
I hope I see you Saturday night.
You’d be dressed in your best clothes,
You’d smile shyly when you see me see you,
and you’d smell the red thorn-less rose.
You wouldn’t wear heels,
‘Cause you don’t like being taller than me.
But I’m cool with it, honestly.
I feel lucky.
You’d sit across the table and quietly say
“Don’t look at me like that”
I’d keep looking, straight in your eyes,
and you’d say again “Stop that”
You’d forget about your studies,
I’d forget about work.
You’d kiss me deeply,
& I’d try to hide my smirk.
I hope I see you Saturday night.
I have thought about it a lot.
I really want to try,
This time, I think we have a shot.
Jidvish Ruparel

Heavy – Promote Yourself

bags

Your baggage is too heavy, if I told you I’d have to charge you overweight fees, you would take it personally.
I was never raised to be sensitive.
You complain about my detachment but I’m just doing what I’m the most comfortable with.
Spread your emotion like poison, but stronger, all you are doing is killing yourself with insecurity.

And you wanted me to love that about you.
I’ve told you for a while now that I’m incapable of loving anything.
You wanted to test that, like how a child finds a loophole, slick but obvious;
I warned you that I do not cave in, I am made of war stories that began in love.

I was born during peace time, but even I knew to avoid the land mines the best I knew how, and I knew how to sit before I could crawl.
That’s why I am sitting now, and you have the audacity to tell me it’s bothering you.
You will never survive trying to manipulate other people’s feelings.
You will step on all of their triggers and wonder why they all blow up on you.

This friendship is not toggle switch that fits in your back pocket.
There is a reason why I am either hot or cold, I am reflection of your own extremities;
Is that why you’re afraid to look in the mirror?

You’ve pushed me into bushes when an attractive man comes along,
Still wanted me to be there when whiskey-breath Marlboro man offers you his invitation.
You never understood how to say no to either.
I grew lonely of your fluctuations, I guess I can say that you taught me emotion.
I guess you can say that I taught you rejection, and I will leave your baggage at the door.

Bucket Manyweather

Does Dark Matter? – Promote Yourself

darkmatterdarklightexper01

Does Dark Matter?

So if there was an explosion

What is the commotion

Does dark matter?

If it proves to be the latter

There may be some clearing up to do

I thought I was free

But I am not

Depraved followings

Can’t let me stop

Does dark matter?

All inane chatter

Foreboding about a hole in a hill

©John de Gruyther 2013

Thru The Rain – Promote Yourself

Rainy_Days    

Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route 
Splashing masses, polliwogs

Precipitation, cascade 
The alley or everglade 
Plebeians and horny toads 
Wetlands, winding back roads 
Holding brolly or sunshade

Mobs, croaker in the wallow 
Soggy marsh, path to follow 
A sprinkle, pitter-patter Parasol doesn’t matter 
Your bullfrog and average Joe

Bernadette Rivera 
USA

Wonderland – Promote Yourself

fairyland

She ran away to a place in her dreams
Suspended and twirling, gravity escaped
Expecting nothing, satisfaction unsought
Weightless, swimming through space and no thought
Deep blue seas and empty black skies
Far-flung horizons painted by light;

She ran away from real life’s grey mist
Floating alone not needing to trust
To a place bursting with colour so bright
Not wishing or yearning- entranced by the sight
Grand willow trees that moved with the wind
Somehow they sashayed despite their form;

She didn’t have questions she wasn’t confused
Savouring sensations and feeling so free
Timeless space’s arms held her close
Overcame her sweetly– warm and so safe
Stars in her eyes and dew on her skin
This is the place she dreamed she was in;

So she ran and ran far to a place in her dreams
Suspended and twirling, gravity escaped
Expecting nothing, satisfaction unsought
Weightless, swimming through space and no thought
And when she awoke her heart sadly fell
She was far from the place she yearned to be in —

 

-Nuella Onyilofor
nuellaswords.wordpress.com

Colours – Promote Yourself

descriptio... 

In my medicine cabinet,
the things the help are orange:
acne soap, lotions, eye glass cleaners.
Simple.
Things that suppress are blue:
NyQuil, nasal strips, mouth wash.
Pink things are tools for beauty:
cotton pads, nail polish remover, perfume.

These colors are flipped in my room.

My lamp is pink, like the walls that enclose me.
My sheets and curtains are blue and block the world from sneaking in at night.
There are no orange things.

Outside,
the sky is blue sometimes, like men, oxygen-filled and carries the weight of the orange sun.
Pink flowers typically enhance beauty.
Like women.

Wrong.

Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Like people.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.

If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.

______
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.wordpress.com

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