Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.
I swerved to avoid the black clowder of cats that paraded across 13th street, And my car plowed right into a mirror factory,
By Sara Little4 years ago in Poets
When the blood moon shines high in All Hallows' Eve sky be ye ware of the witch's hex her cauldron a-bubble she stirs up her trouble
Faded days of youth flicker like a silent movie Memories weakened from replays, over and over Sanguine, happy times — wild swimming
By Rosy Gee4 years ago in Poets
It must be morning The darkness must’ve fled For I was dreaming dreams But now they’ve disappeared A victim of the light
By L4 years ago in Poets
I stepped from out the open door Into my hallway, dark and long, Then down the way of the pitch staircase, Lantern in hand, I hummed a song.
By Erica Nicolay4 years ago in Poets
I am going to do this as a double Haibun which is a prose poem followed by a Haiku My prose poem is just descriptive prose , so here goes , Oh and a Haiku doesn't have to rhyme.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 4 years ago in Poets
I am not a poet My brain does not work in rhyme Very rarely am I inspired to write a poem So many do it so much better than I
By Hadayai Majeed aka Dora Spencer4 years ago in Poets
Looking over the horizon Glide toward a destination linked up like Verizon Finding true shape in focus threw view That set the tone for so many to pursue
By Blake Robert4 years ago in Poets
Revisiting Memories of my first home once, Not suppressed, But no longer prominent Within my hippocampus, Bring me sepia summers
By Kelsey Clement4 years ago in Poets
For a long time my home was haunted. My bones, I mean, were haunted. Inside of my bones drips the story of my great grandfather, a ghost of a man I never met.
By Darby4 years ago in Poets
There’s a fine line between surrender and submersion while gliding through the bluest of skies. The elevation from sea level to the empty space above the clouds slips with the slow descent into the green valley between the slate grey and blue mountains, confusing the experience of being high.
By Jenna W.4 years ago in Poets
Two Years Old: Bliss and confusion Five Years Old: The wonder of a Lilliputian Ten Years Old: A cheery illusion Fifteen Years Old: Apathetic seclusion
By Stu Haack4 years ago in Poets
