list
Lists of the best poems and poets from every genre; collections of poetry from the romantic to the reflective, dark, satirical, nostalgic and more.
APES
All-American amnesiac Power prowling profiteers Exceptionally enthusiastic eccentric Simpletons 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.
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
The Earth Walks With Me
have traveled paths, waded through the thick dust of the land, my hands marked by the burdens of labor. The sun spills over my shoulders, its crown breaking in gold. I stop, lean into the wind’s breath, and listen. The open fields—untamed, endless— call out with a deep, constant hunger. I kneel. The earth speaks back, its voice laden with the sweat of those who came before. Elders—long gone— still whisper through the soil, still shaping the air with the rhythm of their breath, as if they never left. I speak as one who works, rising from the ground, returning to it in time. Child of laborers, kin to those who toil, a future father to those yet to be. Beneath me, I feel the heartbeat— the steady thrum of the working soul, the lifeblood of the world no ruler can claim, no law can trap. It beats. It calls. I see the sweep of life— the green fields, brown soil, vast skies, and gray storms. Dirt lines my fingers. Sweat beads my brow. In the trees, in the flowing rivers, in the cries for what is right, in the songs born of love— I see myself. I speak the names of many. I carry wounds deep inside. Hope lives in my bones. I move forward. I fall. I rise. I keep walking. And the earth walks beside me. ---
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
Beneath the Willow Tree
The first time Noah saw the girl beneath the willow tree, she was sketching the sky like it might disappear any second. It was the middle of July, and the park was hot and green, full of kids screaming and sprinklers spinning in suburban rhythm. But under the oldest willow, a girl sat alone with a pencil, a notebook, and a thousand-yard stare that looked right through time.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
The Clockmaker’s Gift
In the heart of a fog-drenched town nestled between the mountains and the sea, stood a little clock shop that defied the passing of time. It was not a place most people noticed, even if they walked by it every day. The wood-paneled sign simply read: Avery's Timepieces, and in the dust-speckled window sat a curious array of ticking machines—some no larger than a coin, others towering like soldiers frozen in brass.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
I am whoever you want
May 15, 2:20am So I’ll be the friend who proofreads your emails, and the one to mediate an argument to which I have no ties, and the one who makes a present instead of buying it. I’ll be somebody you like, you invite to everything but don’t expect to show up, and I’ll be there if the crackling in my legs hasn’t gone through vessels and veins. I’ll be the friend who takes photos from different angles and deletes the bad ones, and I won’t tell you that the sun makes your skin look like sorbet, or how I never wanted to write your resignation or give away that necklace for your special occasion. I’ll be someone who adores you for the time spent together, wishes you happy birthday and tries to mean it, and I’ll be the one to give you advice that needs deciphering when all you wanted was enablement. You’ll keep me around because you like how my brain works, and I’ll keep you around because I don’t have a desire to change in any real way. We’ll keep each other for future reference and reach out with a blessing once a month, and I won’t answer your calls because I’m massaging the muscles in my thighs and trying to remember how to walk again.
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
