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  • Erin Thomas (10/3/2013 4:18:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    How do I withdraw my poem from your silly little popularity contest?

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    • Thomas Vaughan Jones (3/9/2014 3:04:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Very minimalistic. Obviously the scansion has been affected by the brevity of this piece, but it carries the message clearly and shows some promise.

  • Kristina Dee (9/17/2013 5:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    A surprise in familiarity
    from this soothing command
    in the realm of eccentricities
    beauty chases liberty
    provoke not paranoia
    of expensive insanity
    escape fear undoubtedly
    abandoning relief of normality.

    Discreetly Bold
    Kristina

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  • Kristina Dee (9/16/2013 11:39:00 AM) Post reply

    Dawn at Sunset

    Feed in comfort of extremity
    tame the aches of a rebel
    harbor a child of pretension
    impossibility of acceptance indulge
    distorting tendencies tempt the weak
    return home colors within
    excite laughter in purity
    storm in command chill the bare
    grace may blur in blackish hue
    each tearful strand commits in truth
    an ear to the silence of symphonies
    faithful clock awaits hope to marry
    a surprise in familiarity.

  • Sharni Mcmaster (8/30/2013 2:46:00 AM) Post reply

    i call this poem " ghosts" i hope you like it.

    in the daunting light of the moon,
    a spirit stands in my room.
    his story lies within the past,
    just outer reach of my grasp.

    another soul stands in my room,
    her face is covered by the gloom.
    i hear her cry while i sleep,
    her tears slip in to all my dreams

    there's one more ghost i mustn't forget,
    and she is me in all my regret..

  • Charles Monroe (8/9/2013 3:51:00 PM) Post reply

    My Freeform is expensive
    Its lengthy and extensive
    It is a formless matter
    A manner that's offensive.

    Of drug Parafanelia
    Or Hamlet and Ophelia
    Or Michael or Mahalia
    L.A. or Transylvania.

    My freeform is quite pricy
    Its heated or its Icy
    It comes in mild or spicy
    It mixes well with Hi-C.

    Its ironic as can be
    But my freeform aint for free.
    P.X
    8.9.13

  • Edgar Stevens (8/6/2013 3:47:00 AM) Post reply

    Poem Hunter Poetry Contest has officially started. You can enter with your favorite poem now or write a new one and submit it before August 31st,2013.

    Prize is $1,000 for the winner and $250 for the 2nd and 3rd place..

    You can write in any poetic style and on any subject.

    Entering the contest is free.

    Details: http://www.poemhunter.com/contest/

  • Steve Downes (8/5/2013 4:22:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Darren’s Room (2010)



    A window to a wall
    a dull council grey that exists nowhere in nature
    a few square feet of glass
    dividing what is inside from the wider world
    retina thin and translucent
    letting in the march gloom
    half-illuminating his mind
    a forty watt light not enough to set a fire
    but yet too much for ignorance
    too much for quiet blissful darkness
    the embers are smouldering
    burning black holes
    in his face
    in his brain
    in his soul
    he feels that soul move
    a half-hearted heart beat
    a foetus kick in the belly of the self
    that is why he broke
    that is why he beat
    that is why he scream
    that is why he drank the poison
    that is why he snorted the dust
    that is why
    he can not articulate
    he can not voice the pain in whispers or words
    he can not imagine the images in colours
    the smoke from the ash is too thick
    chokes his eyes
    makes blind the metaphors he would
    sing from his sore cut throat
    and deafens the song he would paint on the wall
    in brilliant screams
    a window in a wall to a wall
    he can only see through it
    to what is really there
    he can not see past it
    not today
    on his own
    not ever


    [comments welcome...S.]

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  • Okot Innocent Angeeyo (7/20/2013 5:54:00 AM) Post reply

    THANK YOU
    The feeling has no name
    And yet saying, thank you,
    Express a bit of it.
    I am, and will forever be grateful
    Yet all I can say is,
    Thank you.

    Noble was the deed, and relieved was me,
    The victim.
    It’s just a deed in my struggle, just a hand,
    But without it, other hands would mean
    Nothing.

    Madam! Yes I call you.
    Whatever made you do it,
    I may not know, but can guess.
    And is what I would teach myself every other day,
    That I shall have a chance of living.
    Yes I will try everyday.

    You have directed me to future’s home,
    Yes, I will go
    And here I say,
    When am there, you will be grateful,
    Isn’t it?
    Am talking too much, I know.
    But saying thank you would and will never repay your deed.
    All I can say, humanly is
    Thank you again,
    God will guide your steps.
    I know it’s late, but now is the best time.
    OKOT INNOCENT ANGEEYO

  • Mark Dunn (7/6/2013 5:40:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    My Darling Helen.
    Do not weep
    Do not dream as if in fright
    For where I am is not far
    I'm in the sky in every star
    I'm every wind and blade of grass

    My Darling Helen.
    I'm watching you
    Don't fear the dark
    Or any noise
    I'm in the moon looking down on you

    My Darling Helen.
    Don't be scared
    I never sleep
    No never fear
    I'm with you always
    My Darling Dear

    Replies for this message:
    • ..... W@king Up..... (7/12/2013 11:45:00 PM) Post reply

      Brilliant :) if I were Helen, I would slowly relax, loosening the tension in my shoulders and back. I would be able to feel myself sinking down into my chair after a sigh of relief... ;) -W

  • Mosaic Poet (5/21/2013 6:02:00 PM) Post reply

    Steps to Losing Normal

    1

    “I don’t want to be here again.”
    She gazes through the floor-to-ceiling window,
    Her mind wandering the stone paths
    Of the Meditation Garden—collecting
    New spring blossoms—until the pager buzzes,
    An urgent summons: Go through the double doors;
    Submit to the humiliation of surgery preparation.

    2

    “I don’t know if I can fix this.”
    The words follow her, chasing her
    Down into the darkness—baying hounds
    Threatening her destruction—as her
    Lifeblood pours from her body,
    An ulcer draining her away,
    Plunging her into nothingness.

    3

    “You are not healed yet.”
    One by one his words fall
    Into her lap like rocks—
    A landslide of hard gray balls
    Crushing her beneath the weight
    Of the inescapable name
    “Patient.”

    ©The Mosaic Poet

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