Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.
Twas a late night of writing in this quaint little house My pen was not stirring, as I nibbled my souse; Writer's block hung heavily, I was pulling my hair,
By Pam Reeder4 years ago in Poets
I watched the meat grinder, as little curls toppled into bowls, waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper, then deftly primped and patted
By Michèle Nardelli4 years ago in Poets
Her blood is in my veins, Pounding through my arteries With words and dreams unfulfilled Like an undercurrent of poison Determined not to fade into the expanse
By Silver Daux4 years ago in Poets
What do I want to have left behind after my soul has flitted out of this world? What mark will be stamped by my act of living so my children and their children and their children after can be proud of their DNA?
By Bugsy Watts4 years ago in Poets
There are a few who just brings happiness and laughter to life. ****** Keep them close. ****** Long distance… call them.
By Sheila L. Chingwa4 years ago in Poets
People in the world are often down bad Because of the fact that their pockets are empty, this makes them mad Hard workers stay elaborate, while all the scammers go desperate
By Jaacoolbee Alston4 years ago in Poets
Deflect Learn to recognize And deflect all the arrows That are coming your way. Train yourself so well, That you deflect them deftly.
By a*k² (a times k-squared)4 years ago in Poets
Rose Dew-dipped shiny glow, you reach upwards to the clouds. Here the sun comes, grow. Commitment I want to know you.
By Apogee4 years ago in Poets
Dark, Dickensian matters daydream. Sub was consciously tipping the scale towards Muyons. “The laws that attract are inevitably beautiful”.
By Paul Beckett4 years ago in Poets
Improbable meetings freed - ones watches set into shaking time - each guy his Hallo ! Rattles get them into Far West that is their first stopping spot of their quest
By Francis L4 years ago in Poets
It was early in the season Yet all the leaves lay dying. We thought we’d have more time With the plume and finery of the season;
By L4 years ago in Poets
The rain has stopped, but the shells have not. The sergeant was here, he took a bullet and knows no fear. The mud is cold, and four inch thick.
By John Woz Jr,4 years ago in Poets
