Free Verse
Oh Captain
Oh captain my captain our fearful trip is done the ship has weathered every rack the prize we sought his won the port is near the bells I hear the people all exulting while follow eyes the steady keel the vessel grim and daring but all heart art art o the bleeding drops of red where on the deck my captain lies fallen cold and dead Oh captain my captain rise up and hear the bells rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills for you bouquets and ribbon wreaths or you the shores a-crowding or you they call the Swaying mass their eager faces turning here captain dear father this arm beneath your head it is some dream that on the deck you’ve fallen cold and dead [Music] my captain does not answer his lips are pale and still my father does not feel my arm he has no pulse nor will the ship is anchor’d safe and sound its voyage closed and done from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object one exult o shores and ring o bells but I with mournful tread walk the deck my captain lies fallen cold and dead.
By Sabiu Tobiabout a year ago in Poets
How the river flows
How the River Flows Lately…. Consciousness under the thunder, blundered horizon takes the fire away from the sin, ‘what’s today?’ Ladder to her window typing fast so the rungs don’t break from the weight. To satiate the caged ape pauses must by ignore, self-floored to soften the welcome mat, hold tight, The Hostage Taker would like a word. Dutiful road map for where the lightning claps too soon on the record. Nothing to notice outside the—Don’t re-read the crux of this misdeed. Can’t to bring the listeners to the cliff, lemon juice in the slash marks to make them long for the rocky sea bottom. Won't to get a chuckle. Is your savior on high yet? Diver without a pile—Limbo of boredom hint of citrus if you squint daemon slow chases for all the hip the rip still leaves nothing in between us. Loose lips remain airtight. Death in a fashion, weak color, cool shades, flat tones, no faces, banned by a round of applause. A jaded cause without existing—Fit to a fault, primed to revolt, ‘the strays will eat fucking cake!’ Shaking in an earthquake since the Wachovia hold up of ’92. Rewritten by corrupt journalists, police have too many contrivances in their reports, and the gun-toting loudmouth recruited loyalty in under an hour. What an ordeal to carry for the one taking pistol kisses every time they say her name. Hostage Taker….
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Poets
Whispers in the Tapestry: A Journey Through the Uncharted Mind
Fragments of morning light seep through slits in the blinds, a splayed spiderweb of daybreak that dances upon the walls, like shadows murmuring secrets to the flickering dust—each particle a universe of forgotten dreams, where fingers once touched upon the surface of an uncertain world, where time stretched and contracted, and memories tripped over their own echoes, laughing silently, stumbling over the remnants of yesterday’s promises.
By Eladeo Mallettabout a year ago in Poets
