Consentration poems bring the best collection of short and long consentration poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great consentration rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these consentration poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on consentration are here for you.
Conjunction, a simultaneous junction. A mouth with only one function. Complete and utter destruction. Grown up in a black holed suction. No protection. A personal reconstruction through words and action. Put an end to all distractions. Fixation. Concentration. Hate that
Music lost, recovered, lost Love lost, recovered, lost Poetry lost, lost, lost even if found Lost in words, words in loss, lost voice Lost embittered passion, seething with lost memories Alzheimer’s child, poetry’s kind upbringing Parentage questioned, orphan of regrets
The deceased has 2 cusps of lid Not quite drawn down over the eyes – I wonder if they are peering askant Into the afterlife! Pale rouge belies The flaccid cheeks; pertinaciously hid The 90+ years he once was ambulant
The hot, impartial, clean rays of the sun are falling on all things, equally. Their impartiality is questioned by the small shrubs and grasses, growing freely in the dark homey shade of the big, proud trees. Who are soaking up
A brick window, your name in between the cracks that light doesn’t dare to touch It’s fitting really, that you should be immortalized in secret like the hush of thunder; they hear but do not see you you have your
They can’t resist the Calligraphy, Like the Disney movies, all eyes & ears glued there, Yeah, they fathom the science behind it, But No! Listen to the hits they make, like boom! Can’t help but break dance, The comfort my!
If you come to me, I will show you my cupboard…….. photographs, paintings of old days, dead butterfly, dried snake skin, old is never gold, pain and anger…… broken leaves, dust around dead grasshopper, dead caterpillar, owl and mice. moon
I’ve always prided myself in being eloquent with the English language. Present perfect tense, Present Perfect Progressive I never did get around to understanding what the present tense was Or rather, being in the present. Most of the time I
In an unfamiliar thorny place, My grandparents’ home stood. Gone were the sounds of voices Sign of life swallowed up. The spot where we played, Path where the grass faded trampled on by footsteps, gone. So were my childhood references.
The weeping of a mother The hard, cold face of a heartless father Poor little you, barely kicking inside Mama is about to throw you aside Let’s not blame mama, good beautiful mama Let’s blame papa, for his empty promises,
call to duty tears him from his family, fighting war he causes not separate him from society he loves best, defending indefensible most times disconnect him from the loved ones maintaining imaginary “peace” elsewhere creates void at home at sea
Of all the simplest of things. Sometimes love is a lot like socks. Some are long, some are short. Hell some even come up to the height of knees. Some are bland. Some are colorful. Baring the fruit of comforting
The house is quiet Now you’ve gone No more music No love song Emptiness rings out loud Where we would dance Without a crowd The house is quiet No more laughter Just memories Gathering dust Shadows that used to be
Amidst nondescript quarters way beyond past their prime Still weaving nostalgic saga of regal magnificence sublime Streets set with old cobbles residual of inestimable spell Windows bearing testimony of inlay with glass and shell Figurine on the gate posts on
I saw her sitting at a table for one, her hands were slender as she grabbed a sesame bun, which was stuffed with three inches of smoked turkey, onion, tomato, lettuce and swiss cheese, opening her red-lipsticked mouth with ease,
Let’s take a walk Just you and me and none of our goddamn pretensions None of the constant editing of words and phrases in our daily interactions Let’s say things as they come to mind Hell, let’s just not say
Mountains from thirty-five thousand feet: Bike-wreck rucked skin below powdered sugar. No tread and no track in that authentic wilderness No pioneer souls in either ridgeline or crease And no you to arrive home to, the lush riffle Of short
The rising waters envelop me, Frothing and bubbling around, Rushing towards the unknown, Seeking a final resting place. I try to move against the tide, But rivulets pull me resolutely, Like a mother dragging a child, Through the heart of
Scared I was, entering an eave, Of holy hermitage, and pious naïve, To tumble down, from regal to rag, And love your attire, and delicately drag, Entwining a smile, gazing your chest, Dilemma of ardor, intimate of best, Your blissful
I He caged a raven thereby saddening a sufi gentleman ,who thought none of the fraternity of man incompetent to do something so absurd . Actually ,when consulting the mirror of his mind and the one in his bedroom, he
Alone I walk alone I stand Known only to God’s angelic band Sometimes a blessing and a curse Solitude my friend for better or worse Many go seek elsewhere delight But I can see that she holds the light Only
Speak to me in the lone nights, when all but your eyes watch The crowded clouds up, and the grunting dogs under lights, Empty and flare-smooth shadows of us may join in perfect Calmness and stunning peace of night; A
Like a testudine wanderer or a gastropod tramp, the weight on my shoulders shrinks my home. Holes and scars of a limited life; duct tape and pants on display. For in such a tiny home, lives such a tiny voice
I’m scrunched in partially obscured view seating, hands at my temples, elbows pressed to the balcony rail. Look up, Sherman Alexie! I squint through borrowed glasses, willing your signature pen to drop, your writer’s eyes to find me. I’m cheap.