Ode

Tiny Dog
oil paint peeling slowly over time thoughts of a distant artist work sublime one piece of art amongst many loss, a crime
By C.Z.about a year ago in Poets
The Quiet Closing of Days Past
The hands, worn and weathered by the weight of countless days, grip the earth—familiar and foreign in the same breath.
By Taylor Wardabout a year ago in Poets
Lost World
Lost directions in the unknown phenomena, a cliff in the dusk of sirens drifting the life into shadowless creatures into the hollow world
By Anket Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
Where Life Meets Colors
O h! Mighty Heavens. Another Portal to the Mysteries C aress bumps of a mother with her little ones E thereal feels of colors never seen— Eyes never witnessed
By Maryam Batoolabout a year ago in Poets
Sibling Love
Nobody could give me a noogie Nobody but you Nobody could call you a booby Nobody but me Nobody could make fun of my clothes
By Andrew C McDonaldabout a year ago in Poets
Six Ways of Looking at a Spider
I. It jumps upon the couch And a scream erupts The spider hops away in fear. II. . Weaving and twirling In the air
By Muchtar Suryawanabout a year ago in Poets
Waiting for What’s True
Most women now stand firm, alone, Choosing peace over the unknown. Dating today feels hollow, unkind, A fleeting spark, a shallow bind.
By Shwet Prabha Baiswarabout a year ago in Poets
The Concern They Choose
It’s strange, isn’t it, how they’ll worry so, When a woman finds her solo glow— Living alone, traveling far and wide, Claiming joy with no one by her side.
By Shwet Prabha Baiswarabout a year ago in Poets
Whispers of Dawn. AI-Generated.
Beneath the veil of morning’s haze, A brook meanders, humbly plays. Its voice, a hymn both soft and clear, Speaks truths that only hearts can hear.
By Luciaabout a year ago in Poets
Cruel
Isn’t it cruel My stomach’s empty But my head is full Full of foolish ideas Of freedom Of peace We’re all out here Just trying to get a piece
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
The Dolly Llama, Raggedy Anne, and Chucky
Baby Sayso had buttons on her shirt and if you pushed her she would say "I love you" and "Mama" until her batteries died on a sad day.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Poets
A Quiet Christmas
Sometimes, I watch the snow fall and wonder if it remembers every hand it touches. Each flake feels like a whispered prayer, soft and fleeting, melting before it can tell me its secrets. The air is thick with pine and cinnamon, smells that wrap themselves around memories I thought I had forgotten—
By Melanieabout a year ago in Poets