inspirational
Inspirational poetry is just the thing to lift your spirits or rejuvenate your creativity.
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In the mirror's glint, a soft whisper calls, "Are you there?" it hums, as shadows dance, Echoes of yesterday linger in small stalls— Where dreams once bloomed in a tentative glance. Fingers trace the lines on a weathered face, Each wrinkle a story inked by time’s deft hand; Moments lost and found in this fragile space, An ephemeral map of where we stand. The ticking clock sighs with each fleeting beat, A metronome marking the pulse of the heart; Between breaths taken and words left to greet— There lies an invitation to play our part. Silence swells like tide pools beneath my skin, Eager for connection but wary of the storm; I check in with myself—beneath chaos’ din, To embrace all that’s broken yet still warm. With open palms I gather fragmented light, Turning shards into art with tender care; What was once chaotic is now painted bright— Each piece reflecting love’s intricate flare. So let us pause amidst our hurried spins, A moment seized where vulnerability wins; In this check-in of souls beneath vast skies— We find ourselves anew through heartfelt ties.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Fires Within
In the quiet dawn where dreams take flight, A whisper stirs, igniting the night. Ambition dances on the edge of sight, With every heartbeat, it burns so bright. Through valleys deep and mountains high, I’ve felt the weight of time slip by. Yet in my soul, a fervent cry— “Rise up! Reach for the endless sky!” Each step I take upon this path, Is forged through fire and tempered wrath. With every challenge that I unmask, I find my strength within each task. The shadows loom; they dare to bind, But I refuse to leave hope behind. For in the struggle, wisdom’s mined— In each misstep, new paths designed. So let them doubt; let silence reign; For I have danced with joy and pain. My heart beats loud—a wild refrain— “I got that ambition,” a fierce hurricane! With vision clear and spirit bold, I chase the dreams that won’t grow old. For life’s not measured in silver or gold— It’s passion's spark that can’t be controlled.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
An Aeolian Harp
Introduction A line inspired this in the Tony Wilson book "Twenty Four Hour Party People" While Tony Wilson was sometimes mad and way out, he was also an intellectual, and either I didn't know or had forgotten the story of the Aeolian Harp. Don't you think Aeolian is a strange and beautiful word?
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a month ago in Poets
To Find It
Are you still trying to find it? To hold it, to place it? Are you still trying to make it? To own it, to take it? Are you still trying to be it To live it, and to see it? When did you last feel it? ...the true it, ...the real it? Do you ever worry you missed it? Or that, perhaps ...it never existed? Is it easier to act as though you never wanted it at all? Do you dwell on it again each year, when lovely leaves begin to fall? Do you find yourself seeking it anew in every aching piece of art? And does hope for it yet smolder in a corner of your heart? Yes - do you still wonder if you will find it before your time is through? And do you wonder if, perhaps it looks to find and hold you, too?
By Gabriel Huizengaabout a month ago in Poets
