Newborn poems bring the best collection of short and long newborn poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great newborn rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these newborn poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on newborn are here for you.
Just an infinitesimal trace of light there Like a candle grown dim at the foot of the stair, Just the whisper soft motions of long, long ago That have dwindled away in the candles’ soft glow. Just the dawn calling
Cacophony was child’s cry,it made me forlorn Symphony it is,now that you are born Trauma was my life,bruised my being Tranquil I am, showered in your eyes loving Bathed in your waft ,my stink is gone Rescued by your raft,now
When mired in jadedness Or weary of Truth, I sleep babe-like in your nakedness, O bosom pal of my youth; The nature of mothers in you Suckling my sleep! Or when dark empires above Shut my mind, I star-and-moon sketch
Bessy now pulls the cart towards their home that day Her size makes pulling baby carts as mere child’s play She’s huge, a Labrador, obtained from Russian friend Trained by cop, we’ll call Tim – that isn’t his real name
The weary sun tip toed through crochet clouds To darn lace curtains with golden needles, And to sign its name on criss-crossed trickling waters Making shadows bow down low in obituaries Of another fading day, and on distant Wandering memories,
she wore the gold off her narrow ring on the zinc bartop tapping out an alien message unheard by the narcissists pinching each other’s cloth like bargain shoppers sniffing at the must of use and hard travel men and women
Ends did not meet, like beginnings, fact was insulted by fiction: the newborn stuns the God. Drop by drop life drips from ankles. Desolation takes advantage, forgets the path, becomes self-centered. Dialect changes, to taste the foul heritage, cadaver breaks
The silence shattered like a crystal glass on a marble floor And every splintered diamond shard glittered like a newborn dream, As rising sun fingers trickled over them in blood red and gold contusions Dawn was the servant who had
Robbing the silence of heights to undo the whole sky, you lean on an enigma to become reverential, elevated by an absurd system; I was still pursuing fidelity in the rubble of meaningless life; not faith, but the certain urge
The red brick wall was old and cracked, but still was strong and active; all covered by a tough old Vine that made the wall its captive. Each year in Spring, the vine grew leaves of green and tiny flowers,
Isn’t a child’s pristine smile The sweetest of all expressions One can ever chance to see On a human countenance? Doesn’t it make you forget Your woes and worries for a while Reviving your faith in the inherent goodness Dwelling
My unborn girl and I Live within each other‘s spheres She has carried me first after all. Out of night’s numinous dream My mother comes down Spiral celestial stairs. “Look what I bring you” A little girl in tow. A
A dream what is that exactly, a reason to live, love, laugh, follow your heart. His heart, her heart, your heart, my heart, their hearts even our own hearts, from that first newborn smack on our baby bottoms, to wail
Feels cool to be a 21st century haiku. Not bothered with others’ frowns, scoffs and sneers. Only concerned with widening some unseen folded petals of their hearts, lips and thighs. Softening their flowing molecules of love, making them feel their
And there’s rigoletto laughing out the cry of the one who’s defeated by fate among the spectators dressed in blue by the light flooding them between the acts and there’s the woman eternally defeated by love, a cup with poison
Rhymes another part lies in your heart, Before seeing its noble birth. Strains beset like cascading blacken hairs long, Too soft and sense touching strong. Never let it assume slumberous maidenhood And fly fast to some distant wood. Stories, handful
Lord if I died today I’d be a better man for knowing You You gave my life dignity, purpose and wisdom too Exposed all my weakness to myself forgiving like no other My Father, oh my Lord, beside me always
November 9, a stroke again in her life, The broken phone lying near the bed, her eyes filled with tears, a blade in her left hand and bleeding fingers of her right hand, all spoke the same story of betrayal.
Here are stoves uttering trilling cries of joy, their tongues orange, their clothes henna. Here are chumps hissing، lulling, bowing and crying with hot tears; We’ve got a newborn, his hair made of winds and tempests, his hat a cloud,
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
Post-human in this unlimited universe Are the dreams of scientists Mutation and cloning won’t be perfect They will cause many side-effects Destroy this wonderful world with undead With many new failed human beings created Imagine if people will never die
A solitary moon rises, behind the seven veils. unattended by stars and clouds, between yes and no, desiring nothing. turns back through the centuries. The religion to kill, refuses to stare at the tainted fatality. lying sprawled on the burdened
sea grew wild, rain couldn’t cease rain fell drops, from tears of souls… the sailboat floats, on angry seas. wind blew hard; their distant howls like predators out, like ancient owls. Tide close in; a thunderous shout makes sun retreat,
Gasped for air as if suffocating, Not that breathing was strenuous, or I suffering disease, From responsibility I carried. With lips many profess to love me. Yet blinded to how I was affected. They explained: it was for me, if
A quirky beginning provides a funny story to share Fits of stops and starts when suddenly, beautifully The friendship is built; a vessel to carry lives A port to weather many storms Though this is not yet known Years of
Curled up in the blanket of dim-light hours, Shadows overreach, closing the gap of every enclosing hour. The gentle waft that had me swoon , Drew me into a cup of steaming brew, Lips damp with the brush of froth,
The bushes, I remember, have been there in the tales of my love! The breath, the tears, and the aura of virgin forest – The art, the sighs, the darkness, the motorcycle, the roads, the unending journeys, have been there!
What is it’s essence? Is it like a vulnerable, Hemingway-portrayed skiff being tossed about by changing waves of feelings, urges, yearning? Is it like a spoilt compass, it’s nervous needle half-trembling, rotating in illogical, unscientific, fickle-minded fashion, unable to be
After the flood had gone A wreckage of human waste we come Seas have shattered the lives of some I know we must rebuild as the tide succumbed Nowhere to live, not even clothes to put on Nature tells us
Bearded face still looks from the severed head, in timeless gaze after the spitting blast. A nimbus cloud is lobbed on the tormentor to stop burning; the silver urn contains the daisy sick to wean away the enemy of tender
In the shadow of moonlight My cape pulled up around Me tight, standing at the crossroads Under the tree of life, eyes like fire In the night… I call upon the spirit of HEKATE As thunder rolls and lightning strikes
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.