Whilst the lilies blaze
In the summer rays
The butterflies dance
In their summer romance
The robin awaits
The fresh worms to escape
From the ground
They tease, until they are found
Where gardeners sow
Fresh veg to grow
Potatoes, leeks and marrow
The scarecrow stands so proud
Thankful for the sunshine now
He watches with an evil eye
When the birds reluctantly pass by
Roses parade along the fence
Flirting with the bees,
Soaking up their heavy scent
Capturing the moment
Of this summer scene
Send your poetry to firstname.lastname@example.org
What are the world’s most popular poems?
Between May 15th 2007, and March 21st, 2008, Classic Poetry Aloud had some half a million downloads from across the globe. This shows the most downloaded poems, and so the world’s most popular poems, to be:
People gather often alone. There are
Separate moments taking place
Everywhere. Yet it all seems close
In each interaction a choice is made
To say hello with our eyes or just
Toss our glance back to a computer
We all have a façade that we
Work really hard to contain
Now if we can let go the negative
Connotation – façade, fake, pretend
We might recognize value in each individual
Unmuted favorite song
– and now listen –
We don’t have to be different
We can all love and laugh
We can avoid the insecure scrutiny
That makes pretend our reality
By being present, we do exist
Long enough for the person nearby
To recognize a feature of your identity
So, that isolation might be in vain
Unless, of course
If we take a long walk in the forest
Continue going forward over brush and tree root and rocks
Come upon the edge of a cliff after miles of hiking
Without looking back
We then do find ourselves alone without anyone seemingly …
Nature’s grasp upon our soul
Allows our physicality to interact
As human beings God’s peace exists
What happens when listening walks away?
Thom Amundsen 2013
At the back of those high trees in junior school.
That never ever seemed to grow gold in autumn.
It’s still there I bet – petrified. Old. stone skin.
Knees supporting a chin somehow still held high.
With a muddy arse on blooded school trousers.
Just still lacking whatever that place kept
Telling me I lacked.
We are different people him and I
He is my Bukowski’s bluebird
The boy I nurture and protect. As me and my own.
No one sees him – no one hurts him.
Only problem is –
He tells me what he used to tell everybody
“I’m fine, nothing to worry about, I just fell over”
I wish I didn’t know any different.
YOU’VE MET folks, and will still welcome
the mankind, then, now, forthcoming;
you’ve been stabbing them, neither getting
exhausted of it, over, over, and over again.
You’ll leave them bleeding in love, bruised
with ache, vested with solitude, frozen
grief in their faces, remorse within
their vacuous eyes; death within their soul.
You’ve met folks incapable of defending their
so-called self, competent of wasting their so-called
life, you’ll be stabbing them with your
sin-sharpened sword; heart pierced with vagueness.
You’ll abandon them like a butt of cigarette smoked
by several lips, a butt of cigarette gradually
engulfing by the vanishing fire, a but of cigarette,
stomped by hundreds of shoes; and they’ll die a little death.
Sword of Love what a sovereignty
in your possession’s, don’t you ever get dull?
Sword of Love all of us will encounter your
cold-blooded skin, and when we do, bury us!
Sword of Love you’ll have more than a lifetime,
to witness all the aftermath, entirely all! Everything!
Sword of Love stab me once, by your weapon, with
all your force, with all that’s left; and never retreat –ever.
Oh Sword of Love –
Good day! I’m Andy Dimayuga, from Philippines (:
I just want to share my poem (:
I’m still studying and now in my senior year in college. I’m fond of reading poems and I wonder how writers/poets write such and now I find myself writing poems as well.
Twenty poets went to rhyme all on a summer’s day,
But two fell down a rabbit hole whilst going out to play.
Eighteen poets went to rhyme one rainy afternoon.
But ten fell down a wishing well whilst trying to rhyme with a spoon.
Eight brave poets went to rhyme one sunny day in May,
But six were drafted off to war and couldn’t have their say.
Two fair poets went to rhyme that fateful eventide,
But one was eaten by a wolf and ended up inside.
One last poet went to rhyme as the evening sky grew dark,
But then he spied a bonny lass and snogged her in the park.
to go on
by tracing back
among hills and backfields
along muddy streets
beneath electric wires
spun like spider webs
coated with bird dropping
to be and become again
in that moment
before our eyes
locked each other
shoreline and sea
with crashing ocean waves
countless leaves have fallen,
even the year already changed her names
since our journey began
from those long seasons of waiting
for armors and chains
to be softened and broken
casted off and replaced
with warmth rivaled
only by first fire
forged from long sad ages
those pieces are still there
buried, and waiting
i have to find them
even as i no longer
remember their finals forms
but what remains of their shape
eaten by the delicious mouth
of when you first arrived
might ignite certain memories
allow me to smith them
to new forms
stronger, sharper edges
to serve as shelter and home
from what howls and roams
even under the light of day
from those with silent feet
arriving in the night and cold
held off at bay before
by your own arms
is a shorter journey, as they say:
long this road may be
but i know the bends
their twist and turns
even dark alleys
no longer hide fear
under the light of memories
coming even without my call
and in their worthy company
i could take my time
—it was here, on this
wide field where hunger
of the flesh enjoyed the feast
of siomai, lumpia, pancakes;
where the thirst of my soul
drank from the cup filled
with the intoxicating wine
of your smiles…
—there, on that very spot
where we abruptly stopped
to look up and gaze
upon the moon and stars
deep in the belly of the city
we laughed when others
curiously followed our eyes
and yet nothing
of what we did see…
the memories are many…
…but they are all that i have.
and yet i will go on
with my face and my shadow
even as i wonder
where are you now?!
i know we share the same sky
but not the same clouds.
in between rest stops
after I close my eyes
but before I go to sleep
i will delve and seek out
for that secret province
in the country of my soul
where stands a simple house
an ordinary wooden box
within whose halls
waits a simple map
that charts the path
not for me nor for you
My name is Denny B. Reese. I am a poet of Canada who graduated from Nipissing University with a Bachelor of English degree and am now working to be a self published author. Here is the poem “The Colours of Summer” that I would like to showcase on your site. I am thankful for the wonderful opportunity you offer.
The colours of summer
Come walk beside me on a summer day
See the children tossing sand
As they run across the beach with red pails in hand
Flashing smiles like the sun
And laughing with the gulls
See the white sails on the blue tinted horizon
Bobbing in the water like toy boats
In an overflowing bathtub
As the rush of water fills your ears
See the ball go up
Spinning away into the blue skies
Into the eye of the sun
Over the heads of children
Into the shining blue
Days start to get shorter as the seasons change
Each has what they feel is their favorite time
Whether Spring or Fall, Winter or Summer
Voicing that preference is not any real crime.
Winter has to be my least favorite season
The sun can be pretty reflecting on fresh snow
Drinking hot cocoa and cuddling, curled by a fire
But unfortunately I can’t stay in 3 months, I know.
Spring and Fall give a change that is welcome
But they don’t seem to last long enough for me
The gentle rains on the roof as you try to sleep
Just hope there is no damaging weather to see.
Summer will always be my favorite time of year
Sure it gets hot, but so much better on my bones
Lay by the pool or straddle the bike for a day trip
Not to mention bodies in all those tanning tones.
I recognize others have their reasons for a choice
Whatever season they prefer that differs from mine
Guess that us just another example of personality traits
Enjoy what you will, let me have months of sunshine
Rainer Maria Rilke was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.. Bohemian-Austrian poetRilke was the only child of a German-speaking family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His father was a retired officer in the Austrian army who worked as a railroad official; his mother, a socially ambitious and possessive woman. At age eleven Rilke began his formal schooling at a military boarding academy, and in 1891, less than a year after transferring to a secondary military school, he was discharged due to health problems, from which he would suffer throughout his life. He immediately returned to Prague, to find that his parents had divorced in his absence. Shortly thereafter he began receiving private instruction toward passing the entrance exams for Prague’s Charles-Ferdinand University. In 1894 his first book of verse,Leben und Lieder: Bilder und Tagebuchblatter, was published.
Before Summer Rain something-you don't know what-has disappeared; you feel it creeping closer to the window in total silence. From the nearby wood you hear the urgent whistling of a plover reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome: so much solitude and passion come from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour will grant. The walls with their ancient portraits glide away from us cautiously as though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying. And reflected on the faded tapestries now: the chill uncertain sunlight of those long childhood hours when you were so afraid by: Rainer Maria Rilke YOUR FAVOURITE POEM sent in by you, what's yours ?
What if I said no,
What if I didn’t go?
Why won’t you leave me,
Go by yourself to see.
I haven’t lost one thing,
Nothing needed I can bring.
I know I’ll be annoyed,
Not once have I enjoyed.
Cart always pulls to right,
Never another one in sight.
Change carts and yet still,
Always get the bad wheel.
Items needed not in stock,
Empty shelves me they’ll mock.
Most list items once found,
Then the registers go down.
Didn’t want to be here,
After this I’ll need beer.
Hope you know I’m irritated,
By now you probably anticipated.
Shopping is such a chore,
Hate it more and more.
Worst part of my day,
Please, why can’t I stay?
By iamfunny2 and posted on okaywhatif.com. I’m from the U.S. and I hadn’t written any poetry since I was in school over 20 years ago until I started my blog in July of this year.
I’d like to submit this poem mine to, “Promote Myself”. http://ampitheaterwords.wordpress.com/
Of what may become of this rose
only fate will know.
Its life’s string can be just as frail as our own.
Somehow much more beautiful in its sun touched petals.
The perfect drop of water hanging off its bent red cloth,
asking for just a little bit more time on the velvety smooth surface.
The rose is nothing exceptionally unusual
that it would have men and women glorifying its presence
more than their gods.
The rose calls, and it is heard.
Tainted with pain, painted with chivalry.
The rose is what stands above the rest;
without knowing why.
They say you can drown
In just a few inches of water
Well I drowned that night
As naked as the day
That I wish I wasn’t born on
In the tepid water
Of what looked like a bathtub to you,
But was Panthalassa for me.
It was our last night together –
You’d lost your warmth towards me –
I sat there.
Water circling iceberg knees.
In your arms
Violently weeping for an hour and a half.
No body or being
And the hope that you would lower me
Into that tepid water.
I drowned that night.
Or at least wished that I had.
It rolls over the hills,
A mystic splendour to transform,
Like a mantle of gossamer beauty,
As the night gives way to the dawn.
It engulfs the spider’s web,
Glistening in the morning cold,
Jewels of exquisite beauty,
Bedecked with silver and gold.
It creeps along the greenery,
Then freezers in the night,
Jack Frost pays a visit,
To create a carpet of white.
It moves in ghostly silence,
To swallow everything around,
Like a phantom possessed,
I t visits without a sound.
Its one of natures many gifts,
That bedecks this world of ours,
She spins a web of beauty,
That covers the trees and flowers.
It creates a blanket of secrecy,
Of everything it has kissed,
Clings to Mother Nature,
That’s the toil of the mist.
Malcolm G Bradshaw
She watched her oppressor
Every move he made was important to her
As she planned her escape, his demise
Freedom, finally, from the emptiness in her eyes.
Drunk on lust and whiskey, he attacked
She bore the pain and performed the unthinkable acts.
No longer afraid,
She attacked him as he stumbled away.
His anger erupted, the vicious swings came
Without fear, she picks up his gun – takes aim
Bullets pierced the night and his blood rained.
He was dead in an instant,
But she paused only to wipe off her fingerprints.
She walked away from that place
Renewed hope, and for the first time in years, a smile on her face.
Thank you for this opportunity. For the last few years, all of my poems have been written, and put on my hard-drive, never to be seen by anyone but me. I realize now, that although protecting myself from critique, I was also violating the basics of being a writer – we write for ourselves, but we also write for others.
Trysh L Thompson
I pick up the phone
I dial a number; unimportant
I talk to myself and wait for the tone
No one is ever in
Do I want them to be – I don’t know?
I pray they answer, but they never do
It’s always the same whenever I call
I could be in hospital after a fall
I could be younger with a broken heart
In need of advice from the man at the mini-mart
But I’m not – I’m old
I sit at bus queues and talk of the past
About the cost of today and the life – how fast
I can only afford the single phone
I have no family
The answer machines are my only friends
I’m just old, tired…and mostly alone
By Tom Dearden