Poetry Poems

© Copyright individual poets. All Rights Reserved. Add Your Poems | Contact Monique | Terms of Service | Privacy | About | Sign In


poetry2071

A ^CHRISTIAN^


A ^CHRISTIAN^

In their
Life
Living
and
LOVE
with
HEAVENLY
SURRENDER
and
HOLY
TRUST
in
GODS
Almighty,
LOVINGNESS
with
FAITHFULNESS
they
PROULDY
BOLDLY
STAND

For a
^CHRISTIAN^
they
LOVINGLY
SEEK

To
BE
GODLY
LOVINGLY
FAITHFUL
HOLY HOLY HOLY
And
ELITE

For
every
Woman, Child and
MAN

GOD
for US
Each and EVERYONE
has a
GODBLESSED
PLAN

With
LOVE
SURRENDER
and
TRUST
and
HOLY HOLY HOLY
^CHRISTIAN^
COMMITMENT

From the
GLORIOUS
LOVING
heavens
to
Earth
GODS
MIRACULOUS
WONDEROUS
BLESSINGS
shall BE
SENT

For a
^CHRISTIAN^
they
SEEK

To BE
GOD LIKE
P
E
R
F
E
C
T
HOLY HOLY HOLY
and
ELITE

For a
^CHRISTIAN^
their
Mission, Quest, Goal
and
PLAN

Is to
WALK the WALK
is to
TALK the TALK
and
with
our
HOLY HOLY HOLY
FATHER GOD
in
all
they
SAY
DO
and
PRAY
to
PROUDLY BOLDLY
FAITHFULLY
S
T
A
N
D

For we ALL
ONE and ALL
have
Fallen
SHORT
of
GODS
ALMIGHTY
P
E
R
F
E
C
T
N
E
S
S

For a
CHRISTIAN
with
MOTIVATION
COMMITMENT
and
LOVING
RESOLVE
they
SEEK
to BE
GODLIKE
at their
ABSOLUTE
24/7
BEST
of
their
BEST

By JOHN D JUNGERS
11th
of
DECEMBER
2018

...
More



sirricky

Dumb Sheep


Hear the Word of the Lord,
And do not fall asleep;
Being a good shepherd,
Must take care of His sheep.

For the sheep became prey,
For many wild beast;
Sheep are dumb and could stray,
That would become their feast.

No shepherd has been there,
Only a hired hand;
Who did not really care,
Sleeping was in demand.

He did not search for sheep,
That had wandered away;
Because he did not keep,
Watch upon as to stray.

Shepherds must hear the Word,
As the Lord has spoken;
Attentive what is heard,
Remaining unbroken.

He will require sheep,
Continue to be fed;
And not to fall asleep,
That they not become dead.

The shepherds no longer,
Having a lamb to eat;
It makes them not stronger,
For standing on their feet.

The Lord will seek them out,
Where the sheep might have gone;
And go searching about,
Proceed from dusk to dawn.

The shepherd seeks his flock,
That scattered in the land;
He continues to walk,
Each one to find at hand.

For the shepherd is good,
Not to lose anyone;
A watchful eye that would,
Until their time is done.

Copyright © 2018 Richard Newton Sherrer


...
More



dreamweaver

FRIENDS



~FRIENDS~

One grain of sand said
to the other grain of sand,
"In this vastness of the world
I am feeling so insignificant."
The other one smiled and said,
"I heard a star saying to the other
the same thing you just said to me;
you just hang on to me my friend.
Size does not matter at all.
It's the company you keep.
We will be the best of friends
and will make the difference"
They both lived happily ever after.

Kris ~ Dreamweaver
www.poetrypoem.com/dreamweaver



...
More



allseasonsverse

What is a Poem



What is a Poem
Many years ago I asked my Mother what is a poem?
She told me a poem is something from the heart,
It can be words that surface from the soul that can console.
It is up to the writer to see what the art of poetry can be.
On this day I think of her, and remember her wisdom pure
and in my heart, I know that sometimes poetry has been a cure.
The broken hearts that release their pain, the light of hope in the falling rain
A soft breeze in summer's ease or winter's snow*covered trees.
Cure, release, a word, an image that connects us to life, to face our joys or strive.
Poetry is my song, when life is so right or when it goes wrong.
The shimmer of poetry is an art where peace belongs.
Yet, wars have their say in the life of violence and rife.
A word can remove the stronghold of the knife.
What you create with the pen, will be read time and time again.
With every emotion, a poem can spring into motion.
God Bless the pen of love and devotion.

©Allseasonsverse 2018/11/12
All Rights Reserved
SC



...
More



afallinrose

Wreck


Sprawled out on a street, my eyes flutter open. Wiggle my toes, yep I can feel my feet. I'm starting to hurt, there's searing heat and at the same time I'm so cold. Lying on my back my body has gone lame, where am I & what happened? I was in a wreck, did I break my neck? No, I don't think so but, I feel something warm flowing down my arm and cheek. Thinking about my son I start to pray, Oh dear God get me through this day. I've got to live for my baby, no failure, no maybe. The train track is under my neck and back, I've got to remember to be still, oh but everything I can surely feel. Should I move, I don't know, but this radiating pain is starting to grow.
Oh wait, voices I can start to hear, they seem to be coming near. I know that one, a firefighter I used to date. Using my name and grabbing my arm tighter and tighter, he says I'm not alone. LET ME GO! I scream as I feel the stabbing pain caused by my firefighter. I'm so sorry, he says the bleeding won't stop if I hold any lighter. In and out I drift in this agonizing haze, am I going to live I asked kinda miffed. Yes, he said with a smile, recovery just might take a while.
To the hospital I go, sirens blaring and every light seems to blaze. Glaring at the light, I hear words that make me fight. Fearful I listen, talk of amputation and my arm shake my heart. I jumped up and screamed with a start, NO YOUR NOT! Tearful, the room seemed to glisten and spin, suddenly I felt impending doom. Listen to me said a nurse, you're not going to lose your arm or worse. I don't believe you, and I started to curse. He proved it was true, my arm still pink, then I was out like a wink.
When I finally awoke, on the sight of my arm I nearly choke. I'm a flipping robot?! My buddy drew near, nothing to fear, that will come off within a year.

...
More



tomallen

"The Fare"


“The Fare”

He could tell
right away
her night
hadn’t been a
good one
struggling to keep
her composure
as she gave
him
an address in
the Hollywood Hills,
her face showing
signs
of a new
scar
left on her
heart
fresh tears
that haven’t yet
carved a path
of least resistance
down her cheeks,
he wanted to
offer her
some kind words
but he always
tripped over his
good intentions
a heart full
of compassion
but a mouth
that didn’t know
how to spit
it out
so instead
he tried to
think of her
as just another
fare
a fifteen minute
cab ride
and she would
be
out of his
life forever,
her face hidden
now
in the back
of a shadow
as she sat
in the cab
the bright Hollywood
lights
drawing it out
of seclusion
one frame
at a time
each colored flash
of neon light
revealing a woman
slowly drowning
in her own
emotions,
she begins to
whimper
her hands folded
in her lap
sitting up straight
no longer trying
to hide her
feelings
mucus running from
her nose
while stoically posed
on the taxi’s
backseat
accepting her fate
as if staring
down
a firing squad,
he watches her
in the rearview
mirror
each intersection
he passes through
briefly illuminates
her face
from a new
angle
a thousand
different faces
of pain
each one
tearing at his
insides
before slipping back
into the dark,
her upper lip
quivering
uncontrollably
she makes no
attempt
to wipe away
her tears
or snot
both running over
her mouth
in streams
her eyes
never once
meeting his
in the rearview
mirror
staring at some
imaginary fixed point
straight ahead,
he pulls off
the larger surface
streets
driving now
through the darker
residential roads
her crying becomes
more vocal
her body
starting to shake
as they get
closer to her
home,
he leans to
the right
to check traffic
his eyes catching
her folded hands
on her lap
each tightly squeezing
the other one
her way of
bracing herself
against the
on coming waves
of torment
sweeping through
her,
he turns left
onto her street
her composure
rapidly deteriorating
he pulls up
in front of
her house
but before he
can tell her
the amount of
the fare
she holds out
a wad of
tangled up bills
unable to steady
her out stretched
hand
the bills fall
on to the
front seat
when he tries
to grab them,
as soon as
she gets out
of the cab
she breaks wide
open
crying hysterically
as she walks
to her front
door
he just sits
there
watching her try
and work the
lock
slamming her fist
against the cold
polished wood
of the door
when she can’t
get it open
he waits till
she is finally
able to slide
her key into
the lock
then closing the
door behind her,
he pauses a
minute more
as his shame
washes over him
then starts to
drive off
a scattering of
worn out bills
still on the
seat
besides him,
he only makes
it a block
before pulling over
turning off his
lights
opening up the
driver’s side door
he leans out
into the night
and starts throwing
up his evening
meal
all over a
manhole cover
on a dark
Hollywood Hills
street
before wiping his
mouth
with his sleeve
and heading for
his next fare
on the 8300
hundred block
of Santa Monica
Boulevard…

Tom Allen…12*08*2018…


...
More



melissaahowells

Two Better Pasttimes. ( A Bit O' Rant)


my watercolors are bright
the people and the animals
painted in improbable hues
some folks say to me
why would you do
THAT?
(pointing at my color choices.)
so then I reply by stating:
WHY the hay not?
Magical Realism is way under*rated
and more joyful.
and reality, well, is overly done
is quite overly*wrought.

I try to ply my brushes
in ways that make my heart
and mind soar
to places I'd like to dream of.
Rendered in Technicolor
they literally fly off the page
on my magic carpet ride
of possibilities.

I paint where my imagination takes me.
to purple wolves and cats with polka dots
crows with hearts emblazoned across their chests
and all sorts of creatures grinning widely
or thinking their deeper thoughts
looking straight out into the viewer's eyes
from off the paper.

My people also stare out with soulful, emotion*laden eyes
The pupils pulse and are often swirling orbs of multiple tint.

its important to leave multiple teasing hints
and to suggest there's much more to be seen
than what's in one's immediate point of view.
And the advice is for you,
the viewer and reviewer
to look just a little bit closer in.

My art puts out the invitation
to one's inner*most child,
to that part in all of us that's still waiting and wild
but lies dormant hoping to be re*discovered.

my paintings are an unknown world where
Glitter Hearts jig with their arms
reaching up for the full harvest moon.
and fried eggs fall from the sky like rain onto toast
and cats and dogs and horses come in more colors
and patterns than most.
and humans really show what it means to be Beings
and exhibit full well on their faces, their feelings.
and grim monsters look out of the canvasses
to display their frail human vanities.

you may say
my writing is often too somber
repeating its sentiments
gathering up the same oft*familiar dust
and how I aver and avow too much
with too much blunder*bluster and and feisty*fuss
and grit*to*the*grind
too much weighed down with the
daily dawdle of the chomp
and the bit and the dregs and drag
of the daily life of the mind.

oft*filled with tales of daily woes n' wonderings
cataloging my all of my unhappinesses
and most unharmonious of extemporary *feelings
dire*dour observances all seem to be my self*decrees.
yet,
let me advise you dear readers
I write so that I can sleep
at night
with some greater ease.
(sigh)

I paint
so I can dream
I paint
so I can believe
there is a dream
and that one day
I will arrive.

Between my writing
and my painting
the two keep me going
sustain me.
Two better past*times
I could not better recommend
nor surmise.

Legal copyright for this rant/poem
12/11/2018
3:44pm PST time date stamped
and also for this writer/poet Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title:
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt*a*World

thank you for reading.if you don't understand, ask.

written directly to the page, will come back for editing later.

MAGICAL REALSISM IS MY OWN DEFINTION, WHEN ONCE ASKED, TO DESCRIBE
HOW I PAINT. IT WAS, QUITE LITERALLY STUCK. ITS MY COINAGE.

...
More



seevision

The Halo


Where I go
makes the morning stretch
in the yester*moons
to the place where the bow
is being made.
And yester*moons
of this material
in the space of movers
immaterial sum
with the bow that
brought a halo
has percieved the moon as one.
Over the field
in which moon as moon
that moving left done
I go
with an arrow streak.
Tied with a timeless niche.
The halo just glided with me.
I go.
Were it to be
abroad with a steam bed
or as immaterial gushed forth with material
were it ponderous or not
the halo were with these.



...
More


© Copyright individual poets. All Rights Reserved. Add Your Poems | Contact Monique | Terms of Service | Privacy | About | Sign In