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Originally Posted by LeAnne Gallegos:
Tender and throbbing
so raw
his lines of energy
trace across my thoughts
lighting my mind
rushing with my blood
through my beating heart
collecting oxygen,
every faint vein
shining with love
oozing from eyes
and fingertips
bleeding from lips and tongues
lifting me off the ground
until reality hits,
and im on the floor.
A crumpled, tangled, bitten
mess of a not princess

Its just a matter of time...

nice

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thank you

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Originally Posted by LeAnne Gallegos:

Originally Posted by Maureen Braman-Eckerle:
I like this poem and I have no idea why, LOL

the Bathtub (poetry challenge, bathtub)

in the
middle of a field
in porcelain and white
arms and legs dangle
over the red stained sides


and crows flap
wildly, almost laughing
it seems
at scarecrows
and dead grey eyes


here angels weep on bended knee
singing songs of sorrow
for the crop
a killer does reap

nice gypsy!!!

Mahalo

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I don't read or right poetry... wait write?
I feel so wrong... to many bongs? blurbs?
I I I

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it ate my post...  

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Originally Posted by John Dohnut:

I don't read or right poetry... wait write?
I feel so wrong... to many bongs? blurbs?
I I I

good time to start:}

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untitled

I.

Would you
die for me



Poison
bitter or sweet



Hemlock to bring you
to your knees



Would you die
for me



Impaled with
a mighty blade



Dying helplessly
at my feet



Would you die
for me?



II.



I would die
for you



Though our love
is bitter sweet



It is like none
I have known before



I would die
for you



As your dagger
pierces my flesh



And all becomes hopeless
hear the Nightingale's sing



I would die
for you



Would you die
for me?

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Originally Posted by LeAnne Gallegos:
ha! Nice one Lisa!


You will get your words and your piece of paper
You barefooted child of life
Now you sit alone on the merchant's staircase
and cry so desolate


that guy is good! Thank you!

Glad you like it Lee Anne. The translation might sounds a bit weird in English but what the heck, lol

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This is a poem that is very often is used in the connection with funerals. I think it's incredible beautiful - it breath hope and take away a little bit of the anxiety and the terrible sadness that enclose death.

I read the first verse on my father's funeral.

HÖST

Hur fort blir lönnarna gula
Som lyser vår vandring i parken.
Att dö är att resa en smula
från grenen till fasta marken.

Hur smal blir den gyllene strimman
som bådar att dagen skall randas.
Det klämtar en spårvagn i dimman,
och luften blir tung att andas.

Hur snart blir kinderna vita.
Så kyss dem med läppar av vatten.
Se, måsarna textar med krita
en dikt i den svarta natten

Hur snart står poplarna höga
och nakna med svärta i strecken.
Att dö är helt enkelt att snöga
Som löv i den muntra bäcken

Stig Dagerman.

AUTUMN

How soon will maples yellow
That lights our walk in the park.
To die is to travel a little
from crotch to solid ground.

How narrow is the golden gleam
which augurs that day shall dawn.
It tolls a tram in the fog,
and the air is heavy to breathe.

How soon will the cheeks white.
So kiss those lips with water.
See, seagulls subtitling with chalk
a poem in the black night

How soon are poplar high
and naked by blacks in bars.
To die is simply to Snow
As leaves in the merry brook

Stig Dagerman.

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I'm going to have to change the OP to
Poetry Written By Anyone not just yourselves.

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Oh, I did not see that this thread was only about your own works. Sorry about that.

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I am not very good with poetry I read anything.

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Originally Posted by Lisa Svensson:
Oh, I did not see that this thread was only about your own works. Sorry about that.

no big deal, I'll read anything too, nice btw.

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i got nothin

There's a lady in the park,
who makes her home on a bench
beneath the trees.
Her life kept in an empty shopping cart.
or maybe.....
it's just there keeping her company

lost is her faith in humanity

People passing by
divert their eyes
and quicken the pace of their steps
as if this fate
is some disease.
They have faith in their God
and pray

"may that never happen to me"

A crow draws near
he knows nothing of
faith or God
looking for a bit of food,
he knows she'll always share
her only friend
she thinks he cares.

He just has no fear

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wip

Milk and Eggs in End Times

In end times, helicopters
were to imitate locusts,
but I suggest, instead,
an old maid with smoked
leather skin that beats an egg
for one. A grey drinking glass
awaits her return upon
an iced aluminum table.

No husband comforter.
No sons calling.
No dog that might
enmarble human touch.
She'll  assure all that ask,
"You can go now."

Make them go.

She’ll swear her soul
hasn't aged in eighty-two
years.  While the milk in her
refrigerator expires.