Orb poems bring the best collection of short and long orb poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great orb rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these orb poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on orb are here for you.
Welcome, my friends, to bustling New York – The port of lore, the door to more, Abounding, of course, in scores of stores And words and Fords and public transport. Adored by humans of every sort, Inviting all to come
Majestically it spins. Eons in place. One of countless. Silently reflecting, glistening in the void. Dance of the worlds graceful silence, choreography of the cosmos. All spinning, dancing to creations music. Immense it all be. Yet, finding comfort in the
metaphysical impulse ensues through the flames of resistance shun its existence etched beneath the tapestry of loosened conclaves alone in desperation in the night heavy sounds of cosmic illumination in temples of fire reaching ever higher on point locked in
Winging my way through the air; high in the Cascade Mountain Range. With a serene wilderness lake just below me. Reflecting an exquisite brilliant sunrise of various shades of yellows, oranges, and golden hues. Reflected upon the glassy placid surface.
Do words inspire When spoken in the soft shadows, Of the veiled darkness? Are the lips that utter, The Holy Grail to wholesomeness. When shredded or shrouded In somnolence, Are words, then, A solace? Does silence amplify thoughts? And words,
In East Africa, here in the Serengeti desert with the sun as a giant orange orb,breaking the skyline, Casting prisms of light upon a monstrous oasis. From out of the midst of a thicket of brush a young lion family
the way you walk the way you talk the way you comb your hair beautiful eyes as if a angel in disguise the touch of your hand makes me understand pitter patter of soft sandle feet whispers in the corridor
When distant chimes announce the midnight hour, And full the milky moon hangs in the sky; I hope to meet again your dan’rous power, And pray this abstract love at last can die. Each nearing step, each heavy, panting breath,
What? The moon’s beautiful? Yes, ’tis so beautiful and how fakely indeed, oh, so foolish are the minstrel , to weave wreathes for thee. Thou misshapen tenebrous orb; What are thou so conceited about? Thy brilliance is not thine own,
I’ve had dreams of other places, other places where I have lived. Places different from where I live now. Places that seemed just as real. All we know is what our five senses allow us to know. There is more
Tides starts to rise, ripped up by the currents; The birth, snuggled to keep up, tenacious children; Ripples fretted the body, filling, reaching; Stream of water, lowly creeps, lulls to the hollow bed, Trust forth and flow in the rivers
Light of illumination filled the tiny vortex of my mind A world colored river earth cloud and storm Forestry crosswinds and fire Ah natural madness beautiful madness A sweet perfect chaotic choir So I can drown snug in a sublime
Our race against extinction. We all come from the same cradle. Though we think ourselves mature. Our childish and petty ways are truly obscene. We are products of our environment, fine tuned to fit the scene. Some are black with
I am shivering, tossing and awake Each lonely night is like a thousand nights Is this punishment for not being with you? I cannot endure the hours Of being without my partner I dread the night, the whole night As
A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon, and turns into a vast lake of tears. They were fighting for their right to remain poor and hungry. It was a fractured amnesia in the pit of flesh. Was it a pink
Self-love is the path to enlightenment, they say. A needle in the arm, a line snorted will never compare with a kiss on the cheek. A shot down the gullet or vapors inhaled will pale to a long lingering hug.
I wondered, What does freedom mean to me? Perhaps, it could be liberty From the internal struggle, That I undergo everyday… In the distance, Through my window, I saw a little bird in a cage, And I wondered, What would
I was scrolling through the comments of a YouTube video yesterday, when, A random insult thrown at the YouTuber caught my attention – Aimed at him, was the proverbial swear word, not so subtly cloaked in the sheath called “woman”,
Wind prowled. You had a hornet’s sting buried half in your hand. Anaphylactic shock. Translates into night of terror. You hesitate to smile. Midnight blues. You cannot count the stars. Pesky. Stories spread about moon’s pink thighs. An ode to
On a rainy morning, An aroma of coffee, Is a toast of love, A blended moment, Of the heart and soul. In sorrow or joy, Not dwelling in, Words of war, Enjoying life’s fragrance, With a bouquet of flowers. Sharing
I woke up from a nap to find no wife just a yellow-legged spider above her pillow pulling hanks of web from its shiny black abdomen silent in dim light half turning from industrious momentum and I imagined the screeching
For you I am walking on rocks holding unburnt match sticks, you want me to throw them behind me. To step down in lake for washing sins from the snuffed out skylights. Between green and blue I climb on leaves.
Every night, a fire burns bright Inside the cave. The one-eyed snake Comes crawling Drawn by the promise of warmth That emanates from the leaping flames. Its forked tongue struts in and out Like lightning. Its limp agile body Tightens,
We are broken pieces, Pieces of art, Sometimes joined At the odd cracks, Hoping for completion. Sometimes we are glued To a piece so intricately Carved, so well we gel An illusion to dwell, An illusion to live, Until that
Surge of rage in domes of violence skins the history, becomes a frozen embryo of genetic markers, shimmers in society, race and native shirts. Enters into the creation of a saga accomplished by advancing poppies; there was no connection to
Crying to know Desperate for answers Screaming silently No one knows The uncontrollable tears The fighting within oneself Why her? What did she do? A secret so disturbing Being told no one will believe you A cycle of abuse A
REMEMBERED If I could remember the day, the when, the where we last met, all so easy yesterday with a picture framed and set. Within my head, always there available whenever wanted, a picture kept, a memory fair inside me
Watching from pin hole lamps of baked clay. Every thorn was in my flesh. I was losing my voice in crowd of maniacs. Dragonflies climbing on worn leather. Through cracked sunroof – skull splinters into million heirlooms. Fever climbs the