art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

What Feels Like the End
Motorcycle chain broke made him go to work 1 hour late on the first day He was fired from his job on the first day No way out, went back to the country
By Test2 years ago in Poets
ART IS LIFE & A GIFT. Content Warning.
I wrote this earlier in 2025. Today I decided to create a video that I had in my brain. I am studying the new formats of AI. I use AI as a tool. Really getting bored with peeps who do not even want to learn the first concept of using AI as a tool. They go through pages of their colleague’s material and discard the material as they assume was created by AI. However, I used one of my poems I wrote in 1967. The result was it was 100% AI. In 1967 there was no AI, no computers, no cell phones, and no digital. So, peepers’ creepers of paranoia over AI research, write the author, ask them if they used AI to write. That is courteous to your colleague. I am 75 with degrees in nursing, business, and journalism. I studied real journalism not FOX yellow journalism. WE NEED TO BE KIND, SEARCH FOR TRUTH, RESEARCH BEFORE ACCUSATIONS TOWARDS YOUR COLLEAGUES.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 years ago in Poets
"Keep up the good work, Karma."
It's only real when it happens to THEM. They victim blame, and victim shame, when society's most vulnerable hit bottom. Conversely, they're the first to cry foul, pass the buck, and play the victim each time they're hoisted by their own self-centered, self-serving, and self-destructive, petards.
By Chris Z2 years ago in Poets
The Graffiti Prophet. AI-Generated.
He paints in the dead of night, spray-can sermons on brick skin— a woman with galaxies in her braids, a train that bleeds wildflowers,
By PrimeHorizon2 years ago in Poets
Soul Foods Market
"We are stardust / Billion-year-old carbon... Caught in the devil's bargain. And, we've got to get ourselves / Back to the garden."
By Chris Z2 years ago in Poets
Inheritance
They say I have your eyes— but I think I inherited your silence. The kind that blooms in doorways and lingers in the sigh before a sentence. I watched you wash the same dish until it forgot it was glass. You said it was better this way— to be useful, than to be known. Now I’m here, mothering in the margins, folding myself into baby blankets and breastmilk, trying to remember what I used to want. Some days I don’t speak except in lullabies. And on the best days— that is enough. But I still look in the mirror for the girl who once believed she could fill pages instead of plates. And maybe she’s still there, humming under my breath while I do the dishes.
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
Anti-Septic. Top Story - April 2025.
so often when I feel like the dog I am I let my hair grow avoid the shower my convalescence is more like my reluctance
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
back seat
backseat walking among brochured floral periods hills upward & verbose in copious patina the plentitude of rays mid summers stench
By Benjamin David Cunningham2 years ago in Poets
Sorrow and Death
When I am gone, wear black with grace, Let tears fall freely, trace your face. Come softly weeping, slow and true— My last goodbye belongs to you.
By Klauslafo2 years ago in Poets
Poetry
A Fairy Song Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire! I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green; The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours; In those freckles live their savours; I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
By Favour Nyimbili2 years ago in Poets
Stay focused - A poem by Edina Jackson
City's drone a persistent sound trying to pull you outward. Thoughts like scattered leaves swirling in a sudden gust distracting your vision.
By Edina Jackson-Yussif --personal growth 2 years ago in Poets
The Sound Stood Still
What's beautiful will transport you every time To project into a well and expect an answer will leave you wondering Not I
By Canuck Scriber Lisa Lachapelle2 years ago in Poets