Tag Archives: poems

Please Love Me

I am kind.
I am generous.
I am flexible.
I am smart.
I am polite.
I am diligent.
I am a hard worker.
I am cat lover.
I am book lover.
I am good at math.
I am outgoing.
I am cheerful.
I am a good friend.
I am fighting for justice.
I am strong.
I am wise.
I am not fake.
I am not bad-tempered.
I am not wrong.
I am willing to do anything.
So please love me.
Love me.

~ Yoan Mimi Fransiska

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Millions Of Insignificant Feet

And slowly time begins to fade

Slipping through my fingers

Turning to grains of sand

To be stomped on by millions of

Insignificant feet

Aimlessly walking the streets

With no destination

And nowhere to turn back to.

 

Slowly I begin to rot

Layers of my happiness decaying into

Ashes

Like the layers on an old, dead tree

Cursed to be on earth

Way past its years

My face is young but my mind is

Old.

 

And weak.

My brittle bones are shattering

They will join the ashes of my flesh

To make one disintegrated me

Forgotten and lost

To be trodden on by more hated feet

Not knowing where to go.

 

Life is just a vicious cycle

Of ups and downs

Like the scars all over my body

They reflect all the steps I take in my days

Stretched out so thin

Like a piece of cloth

Trying to fit a frame much too big

We never size things just right.

 

We never know what we are doing

Where we are going

Or why we are going there

We are just millions of feet

Making the time pass

Making the scars multiply

We will all end up in ash

And be walked on again

Again

And again

To our deaths…

-found poetry from an old forgotten file.

 

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Peacock Pie

A poor old Widow in her weeds
Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
Not too shallow, and not too deep,
And down came April — drip — drip — drip.

Up shone May, like gold, and soon
Green as an arbour grew leafy June.

And now all summer she sits and sews
Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
Like Oberon’s meadows her garden is
Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.

Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
And all she has is all she needs —
A poor Old Widow in her weeds.

― Walter de la Mare

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Somewhere In Between

I sit beside the fire and think 
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring 
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet 
And voices at the door. 

― J.R.R. Tolkien

 

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The Sweet Sound Of Basil

It must have felt woefully out of place

like the refugee placing a bowl of water safely

on his windowsill, front row seats

the spectacle: the moon reflects a stolen

memory

 

Also peculiar, the soul whose words want

so badly, but don’t answer to the self-portrait of

kings, whilst these fingertips understandably

caress: the land cannot belong, the land longs to be

rooted

 

That’s how we became the gardener and his basil

green power in between

Our sound is loud and clearly

wickedly misplaced.

 

(My only son K, wrote this poem)

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Intermission

My Wife the Gardener

She dug the plot on Monday –
the soil was rich and fine,
She forgot to thaw out dinner –
so we went out to dine…
She planted roses Tuesday –
she says they are a must,
They really are quite lovely
but she quite forgot to dust.
On Wednesday it was daisies –
they opened up with the sun,
All whites and pinks and yellows –
but the laundry wasn’t done…
The poppies came on Thursday –
a bright and cherry red,
I guess she really was engrossed –
she never made the bed…
It was violets on Friday –
in colours she adores,
It never bothered her at all –
all crumbs upon the floors
I hired a maid on Saturday –
my week is now complete,
My wife can garden all she wants –
the house will still be neat!
It’s nearly lunchtime Sunday –
and I cannot find the maid,
Oh no! I don’t believe it!
She’s out there WITH THE SPADE!

~ Peter (poem in an old magazine via Facebook)

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Sunday Morning

“I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organized drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive
or awake
however, you choose to see it
and I live in my own flames
sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
run run run
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please”

― Charlotte Eriksson

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