Listening poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of listening poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on listening are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
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
They walk in dreams nightmarishly spirits of nameless faces staring without eyes. The screams: of a child on whom you poured boiling water. The screams: of a girl made to wear only flesh, because she ran away with a priest.
Wandering all along the Shore Sharing the shore with many Hiding amongst the crabs The shells playing hide and seek My sore foot is caressed by the sand Leaving an Imprint for a Moment The tides take them away Step
Listening to the Sea – Series of poems Blushing the tides around the boat Living and Non Living both I encompass Some bathe within me and some live within me I spread myself so vast to see the horizons of
Rains have made me wet by now Turning dark as the sky reflects Every droplet I take within myself Thirsty of love and oneness When will mankind awaken Not to separate me by boundaries Labeling me and identifying me For
If the thunder roars, and should the lightning splash across the horizon, Or should the earth quake beneath our feet, is it God’s voice that we are longing for? The loud sounds and great displays of natural lightning are not
I remember my dear that evening of ecstasy, Moonlight seeping through the window panes, A witness of our love-making. You made me feel so special that evening! That stolen kiss- my life’s biggest bliss. That cuddly embrace, Placing my head
In your eyes, I watched fireflies dancing… I listen to a song within my heart, shredded, broken whispers… at dusk listening to the music of falling leaves laid bare my heartaches… tonight, it rains with thunder, being alone is quite
She judged her every step Her crumbled wrinkles and grey hair A story of a granddaughter and grandmother Her parents always sent her to her house The old shadowy house with a glittering stream grass to the knees and smell
don’t go there don’t speak to that man, come back return. today you are like sea waves, lashing on the beach, today your heart is full of sand……….. afternoon’s red sun, a word……….au revoir…… it comes to mind night’s silence,
Oh, my husband, he is too soft, giving everything, I ask, but not trusting me, keeping all savings, himself, And asks, “what is money for, am giving all that you need”; That’s not right, am wounded and so, don’t like
I always feel I have deceived my conscience My conscience pricks me for what I did I try to convince my conscience for all the wrong I did My conscience accepts my decision but rejects my action I get into
Time ticks away, Questions pour in Answers flow as crashing waves Against solid rocks The mute sky looks indifferent Is the era of clues over? Smilingly I pretend ease Watching, listening, chatting animatedly One eye on the clock Rhyming with
A miserable hospital scene, with shouts and painful sobs, With fractures, wounds and injuries of various calamities, And my friend, one among them, cancerous, with no hope, Not weeping, but talking and laughing, as he was, years back, In our
I like watching those tiny tots at the beach. It’s kind of listening to the ballads. Like the slow build up when someone strums up, They come, holding on to the li’l finger of Parents or rather these days Mostly,
The Democrats The baseball executives The cops The professionals and the experts and their assistants Swapping talking points and selling the deal Shoveling our infrastructure and our water to the rich as fast as you can Dispersing low grade food
Though not a right, may I seek a fading, but yet worthy pursuit? For the many whose pursuit of chastity in marriage grinds to a halt, Could it not be due in part to being pulled toward illusions of grandeur?
Too careless what’s going on all around, Although in a cage she is kept and bound, The couple is not free and cannot fly, When she sees other birds in open sky, She turns his nibs to the pretty spouse,
This is my portrait of you. It speaks to me in strange, colored verses, in whispered codes of ancient languages. I often get that illusion. You are not easy to ignore. I’ve long studied its dog-eared corners, one by one,
Monitoring for movement, scanning expectantly for signs. Electric eyes, barely blinking. Knowing the prey and her hiding places. Prowling the night, thoughts blacker than the surrounding darkness. Staccato stalking, sleek and streamlined, she smells the air. Nervous nose, almost aquiver.
Face to face, I was bewildered. What was happening to the garden? My body left in absent seizure; words had destroyed a beautiful poem. I was listening without blinking like a blue moon or the serene lake. The interlocking in
Carrying my words in a small jewel box I was listening to silence of falling rain, to heal my truth. A blueberry moon was peeking from behind the hills. Crazy clouds started a celebration. Sometimes you want to stop in
A fear stalks me on the road. Sun was very aloof and cold. Cannot stop the decline, give me prayers of your lips. You talk of dark children dying when I was losing consciousness. Will not question the ink of
About the book: Essence of these poems is being in love and the beautiful feeling it brings along. If you have ever been in love, you would feel connected! They also depict various dilemma one encounters in life. What we
Death was prowling from funeral to funeral. No shadow will be spared today. I am not ready yet for the final curtain. Bullets have left some clocks ticking in the pockets of time. I shall call the leader who is
In the service of flesh new vision was perfecting a cult; silence was going home. It was not there freedom of defense for bread, but I must pay the price of hunger. The oblique afterthought compelled by nocturnal infidelity picks
This morning at the town square, little orphaned children gathered to listen to stories and lies left behind by last night’s lovers. On one of the benches by the fountain, one of the children, a little girl with a clogged
With an empty pocket, and an attitude He strolls down the streets…… With an empty heart, an empath he is Swings by swindlers, a philanthropist, Little lunatic street urchin he is……. When night falls Kevin watches upon others Like fathers
I do like to listening to voters and then breathing legislator’s air listening to the staff array and consultants demonstrate due diligence for you carry the deptt. we have incurred at the man’s behest… lifting up our degradedness with pretend
Someone asked me, what happiness is, can you define? I smiled and politely said, it differs from person to person, who am I to redefine? Being happy is a matter of choice, It is mere listening to one’s inner voice!
Camping in the outback of Manning Park. In the approaching twilight created by the “Grand Master”. A blend of majestic colors have addressed the eastern skyline. Soft hues of mauves, leading the eye into hints of blended greys and pastel
These ear-rings, made up of different metals, shapes, and colors do adorn the ears, they think; our foolish girls, not knowing the troubles they create, on jumping, dancing and attracting the boys, equally wicked and foolish, imaging her beauty on
Mind cant mind its business It keep on dancing to its tunes It gets agitated at the slightest provocation It gets disturbed on losing money it gets agitated on not making money It weeps when others make money it feels