art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Ghost That Rocked My Baby
The Ghost That Rocked My Baby Every evening at twilight, before the stars would wake, my baby’s little cradle would gently start to shake. No footsteps crossed the floorboards, no shadow crossed the room, only soft and silent rocking through the gathering gloom.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Poets
QuietLoud
The quiet's gotten loud, and the loud's gone quiet; and change is not allowed, so we don't even try it. It's easier than ever to live and die alone; rehearsing 'till forever, how to lie beneath a stone. Once again I'm here, on the dark side of a portal that's in my hand and head, and shows me the world, all flashing and spinning in and out of control clashing and winning, at the bargain price of a soul. We are dying of this noise, that we cannot live without; We are dying of this noise, that we cannot live without. We tune in to it all, just to tune all of it out. The QuietLoud, the QuietLoud, the QuietLoud.
By Gabriel Huizenga2 months ago in Poets
The Cartography of a Soul
Should ah depart early Ah shall let the cold breeze scatter me where it sees fit Somewhere northern Wild an' serene An' far frae society's Demands an' expectations Look for cabins In remote regions Surrounded by trees An' beside a loch or stream Elder statesmen o' the woods Stand as a testimony Tae the quiet calm O' ma natural fortress Though ye may be tempt'd Tae look for ma name oan a sign Ye willnae fin one But ye will hear me afore ye see me Oan the whispering winds Ye shall hear the tempered call O' Springsteen or Reed. An' the soul o' Simone— oppression, expression, an' freedom. The homely scent o' bread baking Will dance an' delight an' draw ye close As the distant drumming o' a woodpecker Provides the backbeat for yer quest Colours o' green, burnt ochre an' brown Sombre an' vivid Like an auld master's piece Search oot a clearin' in an unlikely spot wae an orchard o' apples an' pears Taste the fruits o' my covenant The craws an' ravens My solemn watchers Bring guidance an' warning Advance wae caution Offer thanks tae the wind. The melodies o' auld hum. As the waters keep time Look for the sketch No sign o' perfection Mair etchings o' feelings Experiences lang gone Fine an' thick lines tell tales But no o' convenience Or easy-won answers O' tragedy an' survival Through darkness an' light Taste the salt in the air As the smoke o' the kindling Claws at yer throat As memories not yet complete Fill yer lungs o' the past An' future twistin' Like the wild willows Tones o' Mogwai an' Davis Collide wae harmonies o' Buckingham an' Nicks Wae cries o' war an' peace Dae ye ken whit ah said So many times afore Solitude be ma elixir Awae frae the noise Lay yer haund oan a log Ye'll ken the one Coarse it'll be but Through it ye'll ken Ah'm near Come empty-handed But no empty-minded Bring yer questions, Ah'll hav mine For when ah depart A covenant ah shall grant Confer wae the woodlands Tae convene wae the trees That's where ah shall be
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
Into Skies
I wish to spring and rise, Up into the infamous skies, To reach heaven of lies; Oh Greats, hear my sighs. I wish to cut circumstantial ties, Experience otherworldly highs, Know this well earned prize, And leave legacy beyond demise. But in spite of all my tries, To be a dreamer that flies, I watch as hope dies, Without mourning cries. Dreams within a cage of eyes, Are weighed by whys, From those who chastise, Every dreamer that defies. I wish to flee before sunrise, From those zealots who demonise, From those wicked who criticise, From those soulless who dehumanise.
By Conor Matthews2 months ago in Poets
Three senses against one
"A picture's worth a thousand words." They see a worm from far away, So why are we not ruled by birds? The words are felt and seen and heard, But pictures still require rays. A picture's worth a thousand words? The written knowledge man transferred Could still destroy the birds of prey. So, why are we not ruled by birds? Clichés can charm while truth gets blurred. It's one whole sketch to show "malaise". A picture's worth a THOUSAND words? With flags and eagles on their shirts, The bird's the boss they seem to say. So why are we not ruled by birds? Though eyes in instants are preferred, It takes too long to draw "cliché". A picture's worth a thousand words So why are we not ruled by birds?
By A. S. Lawrence2 months ago in Poets
