art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
tiny shards
He put me on a pedestal And I pompously perched upon it, High and vacuous until He skipped away. I was defeated The pedestal fell What a shock I endured, and I shattered, tiny shards scattering Where did he go? What am I not - to him? What did I do to make him turn his back, not caring to look as I shattered, tiny shards scattering The world twirled day after day Earth rotated purposefully in its orbit The moon waxed and waned until My existence eventually brightened And there were Sunbeams striking hanging crystals, Shining rainbows onto me, and when I shattered, tiny shards scattering, They were multi-colored, scintillating, Revealing my new love standing silently in front of me
By Andrea Corwin 3 months ago in Poets
Death becomes him
Worry not if I Give thought to when I might die Lots more time to live I am in the process of republishing some of my lost works on love and death. Please don't think me morbid, or be concerned that I am contemplating my own demise (more than may be expected of an author and poet). I am simply putting back some of the stories that became suspended following a minor (for all but me) glitch in my hosting service (Vocal Media). I am told it was an unfortunate human error that won't happen again. In putting stories back, I will sometimes do so on a thematic basis. Death is one of my themes, so death is what you may see a lot of, from me, in the coming days. As I say, no cause for alarm.
By Raymond G Taylor3 months ago in Poets
More of Self
The words they call Shakespeare Where is my pound of flesh In the darker side of humanity I expelled it across My ledger of creation From behind and below From the inside out I could use Damocles I guess That has stuck with me All my life It To proliferate My art In the shadow of the perilous sword My want Is to feel the Steinbeck In me, the understanding, beauty But the horror Without hiding Behind a ledger of Anything grey or black Was almost always more intriguing Or made the pure and good Even more impressive Forth with Jekyll My doctor my captain They The bastard I am doubt And cannot ignore All my Degraded egos And My own Disintegration In spite of Victor I am more Of self And dare each and every one Of you Out there To question validity And artistry As if communing with Those who came before Hemingway or Joyce Who echoed the halls Of history Through their fingers And felt the pains Of humanity In their hearts
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Clues to solve the riddle
As yet few entries Try to understand what's asked Look to first four lines Here is the riddle I am no expert in solving riddles but… surely the first step to solving the riddle, is to understand the question. Read it again, if you are not sure what you are being asked to do. As the verse above suggests, reading the first four lines (ending in a "?") might help. Think about the question.
By Raymond G Taylor3 months ago in Poets
