Letters poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of letters poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on letters are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Means that it is not worth wasting my time worrying about stuff and nonsense, when I have the basics of happiness and contentment. we create our own earth and heaven. we can edit delete, be public, private or not at
*A dead letter is a letter that has never been delivered because the person to whom it was written cannot be found, and it also cannot be returned to the person who wrote it.* Dim the lights, for in darkness
MEN OF LETTERS is a secret underground society, some say they’ve been around since the 1930’s, some say they go all the way back to the Knight Templars, all I know is that they still exist today but don’t ask
YOU UPSET THE GRACE OF LIVING WHEN YOU LIE: LETTERS THE DEAD DISPATCH ‘the singing of the song sustained an echo of the life…’ (Tim Hardin 1940 – 1980) you say you hear voices in your head, and that one
Emotional states of a neurosciencE Match another person’s spectruM Personal feeling as soft as snowdroP Associated with individual’s utopiA Teacher and learner both altruisT Home for those homeless, a flourisH Yarn of compassion and sympathY
Love letters from L.A. so sweet Every line makes my heart skip A beat, I know someday we will Be together because I believe The heart can bridge any distance No matter the miles that separate Us today, no and
Poem about my wonderful grandfather John Walker served his country in WWII It was something he felt obligated to do. In combat he risked his life Even while he was facing strife He wrote his family back at home While
friends are someone.. who meet each other- to share joy and sorrow and celebrate happy moments together. here my friends-never I had the chance to see them face to face. we share a world made with the trust of god’s
The train has already departed, From the country that they call yesterday, Into the territories uncharted, Leaving behind the remains of the day. Leaving behind the sobbing hills and churches, And nurseries full of sighing, And forests of ashen pines
Wake up in the morning with no stress,feeling love in excess even forgot my address forget all the bad of men with no regrets turn around on my bed touch my woman and compliment her nightdress touching her hips and
Gazing at the keyboard Then gaping at the screen Heartbeats scribbling suggestions At blank paper of mind, naive Love, a word ringing around like temple bells This is what he spoke, didn’t he? Consciousness went dazed A dreamlike modified reality
She worked hard, He worked harder, They both tried, To keep it together… But it was beyond, Their reach, They could not hold on, Forever…! They fought all night long, She ripped all of his letters, He burnt all her
(1) Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower. (2) A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation. (3) A home without a window is a blind man with no
He was the first man your eyes opened to.. The shivering hand that touched your tiny nose.. The strong arm you cuddled on.. His love that kept brimming but never spilled.. Those eyes that made everything seem within reach.. That
A rain drenched evening, Slowly fading twilight, Holding the hem, Round and round she goes, With peacocks on their toes, At the courtyard enfolded with rows of rose. Hopscotch she plays, At times kicking into the puddles, Spreading her arms
Precious Moments Merit To Be Written, In poems kept under the best of care, Never again will such events happen, For Time nary remakes a past affair; Perhaps, I might reread those rhymes someday, That flaunt of sweet caress your
Everything we do has poetry embedded within it Like a stone yet unturned A picture of the sun that brightly burned The faces of young children as they strive to have learned Describe an emotion that you feel and have
1916. Rossetti and Taberlet. Those are the first two names we read on the memorial, The captured soldier breaking for freedom, stood silently upon the delicately quiet letters that form lost names. There for decades, in sleepy Morzine. The thick
My first book was a store of love words were made of sound and touch characters smiled and sung lullabies I learnt to talk and run for the sun. There was a flood of colors, letters, sentence rules and social
We were the best of friends All summer long and through the fall and winter Cruising through the worlds we knew On beat-up bikes in faded jeans and sneakers Weaving in and out of high adventure Knee deep in grassy
All I wanted was to arrive from the absence of me, through the sluice of scars; life was never the same again. Some inner birth took place; awakening of sorrow for the attempts to take on adversary. Pure disquiet, I
(1) At ‘Bab Al-nairab gate’,(1)on a pile of wet smoke, I meet a sackcloth, a muddy bear fur and two women; one holds by her amputated palm the tail of ‘Sayf Aldawla’s(2) robe, the other sings a rocky song. The
Thou, fragrance, you are the only one, in this universe, Liked and welcomed by all, with no hesitation, nor dislikes, Agreeing with everyone’s tastes and joining hand in hand, With anyone, rich or poor, regardless of their virtues and vices.
The wind writes a name on the clouds and sun wipes out the letters. This game continues daily. coming into life after every death. Exhausted I want to believe and make up my mind to go for a new birth.
A distended deceipt takes over, when you, you become the fear – under a distorted moon, tangled, unscripted. The damp nails scratching, on the skin of light after hurricane. Ruins stand on broken skulls praising the icy death bringing the
Today, streets shamelessly bathe, after they were piled by east winds, which were imported from West, North and South, since that news bulletin to which nobody gives mind. At the hall there is a red coat, a pink boot filled
(1) A flower is a colorful scrabbling over a garden’s cheeks and a flying kiss into air. (2) A flower is a state of confusion, whenever a stigma erects up into a silky bed. (3) A flower is martyrdom on
She beamed melancholy Her darkness a beacon, My eyes captivated By the tilt of her smile. Skin of scars begging To ease, save, steal, To rebuild upon her stars, If she’d have me. In letters, then laughter She came willingly,
Heaps and heaps of words Stuck in desperation, mute, blind I un-turn pages and unfold stories A deliberate, hysterical rewind A happy poem they ask for Color, dance and delight I dig out thoughts, restlessly Terrified letters turn white A
Your absence greets me every morning. In the beginning, so noisy, even wild, Thrusting its claws into my plexus, Leaving deep furrows oozing your memory, Bleeding questions and perplexities- Oh, how I hated that spectrum Which darkened my glaring world!
Mother, you mirror sacrifice ,patience and submission Toiling hard with an unquenchable vigour Suffering every pain with an unfathomable power Striving to reach your goal without failure.! You are a being of many faces Being infallible and loudable in your
Let flow, the drops of love Over the meadows of John Donne’s verse Inside the crafts of Dewey’s penning And Milton’s insight On the ripple tranquility of Shelley’s words Bouncing of Browning’s beetles Shallow clattering of Shakespeare’s sonnets Through the
With full zoom to start day afresh I occupied my revolving chair in front of the computer screen and switched on the Internet to begin yet another day of oozing out random thoughts that have accumulated in my mind over
While my ten fingers are busy forming the letters into words, A thousand thoughts forming in my mind as it creates something to accord. A tons of things to ponder and wonder, A lot of imaginations to expand and discover.
As I walked back to my house, i heard a stranger that passed me by mumbling numbly to himself about why a sidewalk will never unfold itself near the end of a routine and then become a fretwork of shadows.
They say poetry doesn’t pay , A hobby for slacker’s bay , Frost projected it as condition , Far from being called ‘ real profession’ . Advised to bring out the writer , Write pages, words , Ensure some monetary