(12/11/2013 6:20:00 AM)
There hides a serpent in a; damp,
long, moist and venomous,
its known as the
It can kill like a sharpened sword and draw not a drop of blood,
weaves the air of which we depend and spins a silken word,
to ears of another so heard, its venom travels as a wave,
in forms of barbed syllables, it hisses from its cave,
some who have minds unheard,
are to it a traitorous slave,
but no serpents words shall meet a heart,
once ears are put to graves,
Notes are best heard and remembered,
when positive sounds,
a fact as invisible as music,
and apparent as swelling Bells
(12/11/2013 12:52:00 AM)
No one wants to see your feelings. you need to be the master. So people and to have their own feelings moved by reading a good poem. So I like to hitch my wagon of feelings to a star. When I see something in my poem that reminds me of a well known story such as a fairy tale or a well known story or a film I go there and assume some part of the role. Hernan Cortez did this on his conquest of Mexico. When he saw how the Aztecs considered him a god he started acting the part. writers need to act the part as well and begin to conquer the hearts of a the hungry public.
Mark Kevin Piañar
(12/10/2013 6:24:00 AM)
Remember always that poetry is about expressing your feelings and sharing your thoughts, if you write a poem, make sure it comes from your heart. Because poem that comes from your heart will be full of happiness, love and understandable to our fellow readers :)
(12/9/2013 8:35:00 PM)
A honest way to increase your vision in writing to me is reading the bible and appreciating life...just a opinion...no offense to any other religions
Dr Cobra Rahbar
(12/8/2013 6:37:00 PM)
Where are my time to truly love my dear where are indeed times when I wake up in the morning I closed my door to see everything lies open I see a Yellow Leaf open my eyes telling me I am friend of
Dr Cobra Rahbar
(12/8/2013 6:28:00 PM)
People love to have a piece of cloth, others we do not then we're not jealous
(12/8/2013 4:28:00 PM)
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I was walking past a news stand when I saw the headlines that Ted Hughes had died of cancer. The sadness I felt produced this poem.
Drug induced sleep
deceives watching eyes
gathered around the dying bed
that you pass peacefully into oblivion.
No blaze of glory, no glorious end,
No stampeding hooves
over the horizon hammering
clear into history.
You died alone. Each alone
we suffer what we cannot share,
we endure until the moment cracks
and the will slips through.
All that remains is the mourners grief,
the anguish, the vacant loss,
the darkness out side the curtained window,
the cold enduring night.
(12/7/2013 11:03:00 PM)
life's own awareness,
made by its will to survive,
yet survival of the fittest,
not all what paved man kind
For if one is to think
a course of planned divine,
then accident be awareness
given to life in mind,
for whom could survive the chance,
galactic untamed wonder,
that came with out a glance,
killing most found on her,
The fittest can not adapt
to such a timeless blow,
for surviving that death bared hour,
earths fittest, died under such power,
the weakness then grew to strongest,
and then so climbed the trees,
then when climatic changes,
forced apes to ground-ward eves
they dropped their fur and tail,
and stood two legged with hands,
They then seemed undefended, pink and weak compared,
yet brains that grew tremendous,
imagined past the body, over came weakness, and created self-awareness,
then through sounds of meaning
passed in taught, to new
the knowledge age had taught,
through a divine gift of human thought.
SO to be here and aware of it, an accident or luck,
should count the lucky stars above, for we be life's mistook,
of not so luck to be,
aware of all around,
as then you contemplate compared,
when you are in the ground.
(12/7/2013 11:00:00 PM)
The Song of the forest-
The song of the forest is a beauteous verse, it plays at all levels,
from canopies tops, to a streams singing whirls,
middles-to-trunks, down into the sod
and up-to tops of green leafed oaks, ,
including every worm found in the mud,
and the buzzing humdrum of busy bees,
which; stop not to rest to leisurely live,
worrying not of honey and its pedigree's,
all sing a forests song as balanced in sweetest set harmonies,
to make good the verse thats sung, of days and morns when the chorus sings
within a stage when the days sun sits long, temperate in Summers seasonalities,
birds in nest on dawns eastern comings
sing sweet a chorus off feathered wings, from in the bountiful plenty summer brings, and then an edition to numbers sung
from fledging wings as nestlings age,
but not just is the Forests song sung,
in Summers seemed seasonal qualities,
as soon its date course furthered on,
erupt in voice do all the trees,
turning their green leaves as worn,
to a deep crimson, with slashes of degrees,
as though painted to image a blazes licking flames,
they sing in colour, before the last note is taken,
from branches tips ' on the breeze,
the verse seems to turn to sorrow,
and winds hallow through bare trees,
tweets of mirth,
swap to struggling dims,
and like all good verse,
an uplift sits coming, ready to give back what seemed robbed off the trees,
something stirs with in forests dwelling,
spring approaches is what it sings,
though voice, colour, life and deathly things,
New life is coming posterior the chorus,
untrimmed is the song the forest sings
(12/7/2013 10:58:00 PM)
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The Inward Lover
The inward lover,
can love no other.
There mirage of perfection;
hides a non-self affection.
Ashamed to just be,
From pasts of early age long ago,
where true love given just wasn't so.
minds cuts have healed,
but adults scars still show.
They live through the eye and not by feel of the heart.
Seeing their bodies from the soul, apart.
Then using their body as a seducing art.
They make in the mind a ideal self,
and try to project an image of success, beauty and wealth.
All be it if this is destruction of self.
In their worlds love is just a trick.
They seek out a supply of the fuel they need,
admiration of a projection, so the lie can feed.
money for a power to buy what they deserve;
this be the hell in which they serve.
Cold and ruthless no mater how much any pleads,
for there dissolved love of self is the heart that inside bleeds.
It is a life filled with no friends
, so they see,
and the objects around them, seen as ' just there for me'
They appear adult form
but they are a broken child inside,
taught by a non-love style,
their emotions should be put aside.
Love, loyalty, care and passion,
a sum to make an adult life ashen.
all just for them a label,
as no childhood taught,
so they become unable.
people who hearts be red,
just an extension of them instead.
Not even Lover is a protection of another,
you are just an accessory,
in their projection to all other.
Yet their eyes will always see your inferior emotional buttons,
pushing them with all there charms,
so you react to their beckons.
Guilt, Belittle, so others seem small
and perfect self is how they wish to been seen by all.
Ive met a few upon my journey,
and can now spot them early,
The eyes truly are a window to the soul,
and confidence grows in people who are whole.
When you learn to trust your soul and heart,
this dissolves the manipulation art.
I now feel no regret of knowing these kin in hell,
for these lives are still precious and I hope, and wish them well.
There being part of my life journey,
has taught me how lucky I was in my years of early.
I hope one day in the mirror of which no eye can see,
the perfection of imperfection,
there is no wrongs in thee
for their lives are as beautiful and equal as all that be.
Then love them selves for who ever they maybe
and allow them selves to be happy and free.