excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
November 30th.
I am sat by my favorite tree again, 13 days later. The ground beneath me is still familiar, and so is the smell of smoke, but I am trying to get used to the ache in my lungs. I try not to ruminate on these next three weeks, my least favorite of the year, but it is futile. I feel stuck. I am unsure if I have it in me to turn my pain into some glorious metaphor tonight. The sun sets too early now; they’re each different, sure, but in this moment, it feels all the same. Blue and yellow and orange muddled together until the canvas becomes dark again, like I am used to. I like being used to things. My roommates’ conversations sound foreign, the girl in the mirror is a stranger, I have this weird pain in my left shoulder, maybe I should have gone to my weekly yoga class after all. For 13 days, I was someone different, and 13 days later, I don’t want to know her anymore. I feel stagnant. My to-do list is a mountain and I have no plan for when to climb it, much less how. I am sat outside, on the golf course that has become my second home, hoping desperately to find the place in which my remains are buried, but I’m not even trying. I see no grave and there was never a tombstone to look for, all that I am met with is a rabbit hopping by, that’s new. I don’t like new. The next three weeks shouldn’t feel new, I’ve been through them before and I’ll do so again next year. New, new, new, everything feels new. The girl I once knew would know what to do, but these 13 days have killed her, and funnily enough, there’s still no tombstone to look for. Last week was warm but tonight the weather chills me to my bone; my hands are always cold but I worry my thumbs might actually freeze. These sweatpants were given to me yesterday and my comically large coat has finally made its debut. The growl from my stomach is almost comforting, if only it didn’t pain me in a way I wasn’t used to. I twirl my hair, the same piece I always do, but I just found out it might make it shorter than the rest, that’s new. Everything seems so close, but when I reach out my arms, it is only a gust of wind that greets me, and a magnifying glass falls out of my hands. I didn’t know I was holding that. I don’t know a lot anymore, apparently, and, worst of all, I don’t know if I have it in me to learn again.
daphne grayPublished 6 months ago in PoetsChildhood
that change in my day! that changed my way! It's when innocent waves of laughter were born Giggles echoed in the afternoons
Smooth
In the realm of gentle grace, where touch meets silk, A symphony of softness, a whisper of milk. Smooth, the river's dance on polished stone,
Becalmed
Introduction I'm in another of those periods where I am unable to write. It is slightly weird because there are lots of things going through my head but I just don't know how to put the things together. I was thinking of maybe doing a piece on words, or a story with the theme of being becalmed, and the Brian Eno piece came on the player so that may have influenced me, then there are the two current Vocal challenges "Smooth" and "Identity".
Mike Singleton - MikeydredPublished 7 months ago in PoetsArid: The Crypteia’s Aftermath
Engulfed in the desert's parched silence I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind We knew how it would begin But didn’t foresee the end
Atomic HistorianPublished 7 months ago in PoetsMixed Feeling
Mixed Feeling Mixed Feelings mixing my living I am still in the dreams of you not knowing what to do stuck in the cobwebs too
The Silk Web
A delicate mirage of transparent silk withered in the breeze. Weather worn wholes tore the artwork hung amongst the trees.
Haggar BenPublished 7 months ago in PoetsWhen My Good Friend, Sadness, Comes For Tea.
When he comes to visit, he doesn’t take off his shoes. Dragging and tracking mud from the outside to every room in the house. Doesn’t even wipe his feet at the welcome mat before entering. With every visit, his clothes become shabbier and his hands filthier. He always apologizes and says he can’t stay for long, he has others to visit. I always suggest water, but he prefers tea. Taking longer to make and prolonging his stay. We always listen to Etta while the tea is being made. I’m not ever sure when he’ll leave, some visits are longer than others. No matter how long the stay, you can always tell he was here. The longer he stays, the more dirt and mud build up on the floor. The more smudges and streaks upon the wall. Sometimes even long after he’s gone and I’ve purified the walls and polished the floorboards, there’s still stains he left behind. Forget-me-nots proving he was once here. Before he goes, he always turns to me and says I should be grateful I’ve only got to scrub mud from the floors and trail a rag against the walls. If he was to take his shoes off, it would be far more mess to clean.
Scribble Writing #3
Making progress daily Has me fading In this waiting Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
Atomic HistorianPublished 7 months ago in PoetsScribble Writing #2
Oh the shenanigans But what about the banana guns? You’re overthinking it Who cares if anyone likes it Just have some fun
Atomic HistorianPublished 7 months ago in PoetsScribble Writing #1
Look at that lamp Ahhh I got a cramp What’s up with the ampersand? I like beef But my friend’s a ham person Does any of this make sense?
Atomic HistorianPublished 7 months ago in PoetsHouse of Glass
We are the foundation Of their house of glass Against us They cast all their stones Driving us from our homes Not with bullets and clubs
Atomic HistorianPublished 7 months ago in Poets