Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.
For the love that retreats throughout time I find Whispers of atomic importance Reminding I to guide Yourself to put aside
By G Radd5 years ago in Poets
I am like a thistle amongst roses Standing out a like a sore pulsing purple thumb The green stem is ugly and spiny Compared to the roses’ complex woody green bark
By Ambyr Bean5 years ago in Poets
I run fast like a gazelle Feeling unbridled Under the blue sky The sun tinges my light brown hair In shades of gold reflections
By Ana Nezol5 years ago in Poets
I am a collection of memories that I will never remember, of stories that are not mine to tell, of languages whose grammar I have not mastered,
By Amanda Rodrigues5 years ago in Poets
Red entry to a black and white world Red laughter round my mother’s pearls Red dream of stairs descending down Recurring from a tender age
By Bec Gardner5 years ago in Poets
BLUE and his various shades Relate so much to me that Here i stand, Ready to create. From midnight, to navy and the tried depths of despair he takes,
By CH∆D.5 years ago in Poets
Grey until we find a way Look for the rainbow in every storm they say Never let the darkness cover your rays
By Randa Ray5 years ago in Poets
Today I will wear tartan. I will square the circle of colour in my heart. I will wear the colours of the rainbow with pride. Through the prism
By Robert Duncan5 years ago in Poets
The daughter that once was stubborn as a mule. Grew up to be quite a jewel. She bore a son and raised another one. Even if it was not part of her plan.
By Claire Saldivar5 years ago in Poets
human host of blue frosted finger tips if i touched you i think youd turn blue not to exaggerate but if i could sing i think id sing the blues
By Estevan Jorge5 years ago in Poets
Glittery . Shimmer Sparkles my darling. At 21 the first glimpse caused a sheik. At 33, a glimpse down there … no one tells you about that.
By Victoria5 years ago in Poets
I am possessed by the spirit of Poe He writes the poems I could never write Like a raven on a dreary midnight Everywhere I go, he quoth, “Nevermore.”
By Alexander Bentley5 years ago in Poets
