Poetry Book Poems

Poetry doesn’t just happen. It’s not just a bunch of words grabbed hastily and arranged to rhyme, it’s not even a so called overflow of emotions. Poetry is much more than that. It’s the silence that echoes within your being,

We promised you a ‘Happy’ surprise and here we are with our next contest – “Happiness Happens!“. And truly so for happiness is not a destination, it is a journey and we would like to be your co-travelers on this

During the talk on love and life My friend, he ended the conversation With a conclusion ‘One who want to be a real poet Should have a pure heart But one who needs to be a committed lover Should have

Poetry evokes feelings, Stimulates thoughtful expressions, Evolving a strange emotion, Of an image in mind. It transforms everything, With a new perspective, A reflection of a photographic sight, In significant verses. Poetry is a pictorial, Imagery of words, Intensely used

I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light,

He said it was not easy, Not that easy, writing poetry. But I didn’t think so. (Yeah! I thought of it though.) I sent him my blueprint, He laughed and laughed… It’s not that easy, you see Your’s all wilderness.

A motley group had made an affiliation of sorts It sprouted and mushroomed in our back lane And there was born a poetry club with no name Passion it was for the verses written in Urdu That linked them beyond

She dashes just in time for the final boarding call Because airport book shops should never be missed She adores browsing second-hand book stores They smell of memories… like a long-forgotten kiss Bookmarks are more than mere page pointers They

When life deepened and words rose to a mystic high , When solitude became a beauty and deep inside could not understand if pain is a blessing or pleasure a boon , when wind whispered in ears sweet nothings ,

Each night, the universe Writes its’ story On the surface Of the moon Using starlight As its’ pen, And deliberately Makes some words To fall on earth That is poetry The immutable self Afraid of its’ loneliness Thinks itself To be many And

Black hole in my china cup, You swirl round in vortices; Rising, falling, twirling up, You mind me no notices! In your twirling eye, black As pitch, I see me in a café; Sitting up and sitting back, Stirring black-hole

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

About the book – My Life and Poetry’ contains 78 English poems in very simple and heartfelt language. The poems in this book have a sense of divinity, love and natural beauty. I will be obliged if this book makes an

Now let poetry flap its wings and sing to the sky in a language that not just carries a rich literary history but is also close to the heart in an unexplainable way. HighOnPoems launches the most awaited Hindi Poetry

Of splendid thrones of gold or treasures manifold Of jewelled caskets or lavish banquets Of Emirs and rajahs Of Sultan and Shahs Of kings and queens Of rulers and emperors Of sparkling crowns or flowing gowns Of their subservient stewards

And so, with trembling heart I dare to embrace your clean white sheet And mark it with my scribblings. To make a sentence, where to start? And where to feel complete? Does it matter if my style don’t rhyme? I’m

Blood dripping from the pages of history books, wartime pictures, dried bones, graveyard stones, torture weapons, memorial sites, echoing the atrocities which occurred at Auschwitz. Any poems that capture the glimmers and whispers of a rainbow in another season may

Poetry is not an intelligent Arrangement of words or rhymes But an articulation of heart An articulation of emotion An articulation of the subtle feelings That can never be expressed by a prose Poetry is associated with more heart Than

arrived in the mail like a grave stone like the last bottle destined to kill the drunk I don’t want you to read it and love it like I do I never want to see your face in Eureka Springs

I Like a book you can read a face of mine Just, again, don’t pass me by. My lips as desert are dry greatly, You can open them plainly. And see how I yearn to sip The nectar of your

The moon spends her beauty and wins the hearts of many, The poet spends his heart and makes him free . .

Breaking the path by random steps, you move, and thoughts make a ritual dance. In a wingless flight, a cosmic gloom envelops you. You try to stop the dark tremors, Yet you don’t feel safe in a crowd. Life has

Sometimes I feel Isolated. I hate it F is all I see when my papers are graded. I sit in the back of the bus and class faded. I have this mind that is painted on a canvas. There’s still

The unnameable voice whispers with a breath made solely from light –Its voice speaks a vocabulary uttered as vast permutations: migratory flocks, tree leaves, innumerable insects… tropes, colors, atoms and not least, the miscounted stars significantly smaller than the total

The name, that will be written in the book of love, shouldn’t be faint- should be full of charm, meaningful and uttered fairly. The name must be eminent earning her lover’s fame, and the book will win the compliment, and

Are you educated? Have you an injured heart? Have you a purified brain? Do you believe in truth? Are you alone? Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic? Are you a secular person? Do you believe in democracy?

(1) Poetry is holding eternity by its front curl, each time it passes through a transitory flicker. It is seeing all winters in just a refraction of a water drop. It is your face blushing whenever a firefly flames its

Well and here I go again opening up our book of love to when I was yours and you were mine and I still shed a tear reliving all those sweet summer nights knowing they’ll never come again…how did our

At the hapless poetry event I thought I’d have a splendid time But as a poet I should know That life has the habit of being cruel So immensely cruel So I had to avoid the debris Of classical poetry

If anything about poetry has ever moved you, here’s to that feeling! Help us connect to poets and poetry lovers in your social circle. We are employing the post below to discover and engage poets on Facebook. You can contribute

Momma! I am your poem. From that mountain hole Too many pains left And from the island of the vexation A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made  a missiles I was fabricated just below your heart  And I am

I listen to the words of the song that the blind blues player sings Sweat running down his face, neck muscles in a tight strain Sounding as if he’s lived every word he is singing I feel the sting in

In a dream that is not mine Muse of Poesy, upon your cue, I follow after a gossamer line Till I versify as one with you! In your Mobius-looped universe Space regresses as time in reverse; We versify lost dreams

The flesh was putting up a brave dialogue. I was willing to play the game. Stunned, shocked, pleasantly sore basking in heat of silk throat, I asked the needles to go ahead and stitch the wounds without loss of blood.

Strangers from incident, lies for distance, pitfalls of living infrequent, Rushes of sympathy pass over like fever sweat. In concurrent motion the wolves swarm on the lifeless carcass. Impending emotions fill the hole in my stomach, my chest continues to

I’ll let you know some things if I may, Like a captor addressing a prisoner to be. Words like ropes that do not fray, I am locking you in my poetry. It is selfish of me to hold you like

HighOnPoems announces the launch of our new section – Poets and their Published Books If you are a poet and have your work published, HighOnPoems is a perfect place to promote your book and get noticed within a huge community

During the talk on love and life My friend, he ended the conversation With a conclusion ‘One who wants to be a real poet Should have a pure heart But one who needs to be a committed lover Should have

There are nights I sit alone with my thoughts I battle to keep them at bay, But tired they just overwhelm me And those thoughts just won’t go away. I try to imagine the beauty outside A walk on a

I wrote this thinking about you, the other day, As if you were the pages of a book, What a love story that would be I could see the universe through the words you spoke, As each page turned Led

When one’s Life is in shambles and mind in turmoil When one is caught in between the earthly desires and heavenly divinity Make sure He will be thrown into the dustbin of history what is the use of looking back

What’s poetry to me Within myself I need to see It’s a flow of words Like the tweet of birds It’s a way to express Something you don’t want to suppress It’s a personal affair Revealed to the world in

Open the book And take a quick look inside God knows how you’ve tried Put pen to paper In song or in verse Each one comes out worse Than the last one And now you’ve begun Rewrite the score And

Take a look At my newest book. Book has magic That defies all logic. Book has leaves And leaves have sieves. A book must speak What comes out of the author’s beak. Improve your looks By simply reading books. Timeless

I wrote these words to tell all my secrets about you. I told you not to exhort, appreciate nor pity too, but I hope you’ll read and take a heed; to all these words though, it seemed absurd. Do not

Once upon a day I encountered a machine capable of the most exquisite, subtle and profound expression of feeling, While its cogs and wheels turned coldly and mutely, with no heart, thought or feeling of their own. A sign on

Loneliness of night, When extinguishes the lighting eyes, Silence when rules the earth, I listen to the music of anklets, Someone silently comes in, And I listen to a song of love, The poet is still thirsty, The thirsty eyes

What is poetry I must ask, writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write Hmmm, for my delight, or is it from insight? Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can’t bring myself to hate

I enjoy writing poetry, it makes me feel free. Before I write I think of every line, because in a poem everything rhymes. In a poem you write what you imagine, it is a written magic. What you write is

Have you given birth? If you have written poetry then you have It doesn’t matter if you are young or old Man or woman Tall or short Poets give life to words Everyday, in every way, everywhere In a hectic

About the book: This is a selection of poetry about solitude and other obsessions that have distracted, driven, destroyed and / or defined us. Spanning genres, styles, emotions, time & place, these works by a collective of 5 poets are

Some words are unspoken Some words are unseen We leave them all in a moment And never turn around to see Time and tide wait for none But my dear the exception is one Wait for a second and stand

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

It’s a happy day! After hundreds of submissions, days of reviews and a month full of happy poems, we finally bring to you the 5 lucky winners of Happiness Happens contest who have won prizes amounting to 100$ (each winning

There’s a man called Mr. Mischief, He tickles you till you cry out, Or puts pepper in your handkerchief and makes you have a sneezing bout, He hides your pencil under your pillow, He also hid my book, ‘Wind in

She lived like a gush of wind And looked like breeze in trance Her thoughts freely bounced on paper In an awesomely imperfect dance She loved and sang and smiled to the sky Dived in dreams without asking why Her

I wonder what’s it to be like a poet For I am called one… Is it to connect reality with Tough words that prompts reader Look up the dictionary? A one which has a rhyme scheme? A one which is

I once saw a very gloomy old man Whose smile weighed only a gram. I said, “If you tell me what’s wrong I’ll do what I can!” But he just sat there as cold as a clam. He did not

I live today in your memoirs Some courage, an unknown strength, your words breathe into me And though you lie cold and dead You manage to make me emulate Your treaded path, your valued thoughts Your life which you led

A Clock ticking on over time Was the first reminder To pack the bags again. That indiscreet hoot of the cab Made it even worser. Time to be on the roads again, Leaving two frail souls to fend for themselves

I can’t name things. I can’t tell, with some mighty confidence, this is this or that is that. You tell me of love. but, I have known too many loves. blue love, green love, red love, even yellow love. I

remember dear… on that moonlit night when we sat watching the glittering shimmering moonbeams… on the blue waters …you had written my name on the Golden Sands; as a receding wave washed it away… I had questioned? You smiled… snuggled

Photo by torbakhopper I have a sack full of toys, They make a little noise, Some are girls and some are boys; I have a small train, With a window pane, And it rides in a lane, Its driver’s name

10 ways to write a poem! No sentence in the glory of English language has hit me as hard as this one did. I started writing poetry when I was in class 7th. I still remember the day when this

The morning sun lay bare its annoyance, Somewhere behind the ponderous smearing of clouds, While I took refuge under a thatched abandonment, To the surprise of some relieved onlooking crowd. When light couldn’t befit to restore contrast Between dawn and

You don’t know how she misses you Thinks of you and feels you You are a man, you would not understand A woman’s heart, her pain and agony You know to woo, to wean away her heart Away from her,

As I tiptoe past her door In that room, in that bed, My darling sleeps. The thought of her touch, Her kiss, inflames my body Like the taste of Spanish wine. I open the forbidden door, The hot musky aroma

I was five, a little girl, could hardly reach there; where the memories hid themselves, Eyes whispered something to my mind, what is so special about the shelf? A dusty red book, a thread of black to bind its old

Casting aspersion on caste is like digging one’s own Grave For we know not why we have come but we know for sure where we are destined to Go When the coffin doesn’t differentiate who you are Why do you

Justice – Injustice, white and black, One is a blessing, the other is fake. Injustice is a deadly snake, Justice is like a beautiful lake. Justice nourishes the roots of society, Injustice lives in an immediate priority. Justice is the

Memories of old, flooding fast through my mind, some tinged with sadness and some, sweet sublime. A fireside reverie shared with eyes so bright, an audience of innocence and excited delight. The crackling logs on the fires of time, little

You know how it feels? To be cheated in love By someone so close, someone so dear Who’s there in each thought, in every breath of life So much trusted and looked up to – Share joys wholeheartedly And to

It was a place of echos and fragrance of spring.. Gentle like the weightlessness of clouds It was just about me and you being free.. Free from these mysterious doubts. Behind every place of refuge.. Plunged a maddening familiarity of

The stillness of the wind Is all around As I walk along This stretch of sand Oh! how I am amazed A beauty so grand As I stood and gazed This majestic land I knelt and picked A leaf in

Freddy the flea moved in here with me, and his family were queued up behind. I said ‘it’s a cheek’, but he looked pretty bleak, so I said c’mon in’ ‘cos I’m kind. In they all trotted, and now they

I want to sit in the lap of nature, And hear the murmurs of its bosom, Unravel the secrets of the here after, The idle hours, they depart and they come. I want to lie in dark crevices, Within the

Part I Has the spring of poetry faded away? In a deluge of falling leaves, When the shadows and lights are at play, Like transient doubts and beliefs. Have words become faceless apparitions, Gazing into the boundless night, At ancient

Drifting by my window on a cold dark winters eve, no sound, nor chasing echo, no path to follow or deceive. A silent spectre; a mask of scorn, a hazy memory, from life ’twas torn. Jealously wanting what now it

From a subdued, quiet daughter, To an unruly boisterous teenager, Accepting the transformation with a straight face, Whilst, trying hard to find my space. The hectic turbulent college days, The intermingled greed for love and appraise, Wanting to be a

Are you there Are you real Or just a cloud in the sky Rains hard on me Drenches my existence With the aroma of romance Fills my senses Then disappears With the wind and the weather Are you a friend?

Poems. They love. They fight. They can keep you up all night. They know what you think. They laugh, smile and wink. They stand by you, they heal. They know how you feel. Now touch a poem and see it

Two stars partially shrouded with clouds, Standing in the terrace to behold the glimmering horizon, That was Sikkim. Days after the torrential rain, And death People’s bodies were beneath the debris, And trees Be it heat or frigid, poorer dies.

Being a poet doesn’t mean you just rhyme at the end of the line. For me it is a chance for readers to relate to the views that are mine. I usually try to write great poems to inspire the

It’s kind of odd All the same a tad bit sad too Crossing the paths again After an unceremonious and Perhaps acrimonious end to all of it. Eyes, once sparkles at seeing me were As dead as that of a

There is poetry in the, Heart of the ocean, A longing in the soul, To be enfolded in its waves, As they create a ripple, Of pulsating thrill in me. A calming tranquility, Fascinating wondrous hues, Magnetic is the attraction,

A is for Ant; so small yet strong B is for Bear; with claws sharp and long C is for Cow; in the field making milk D is for Dog; with fur soft as silk E is for Elephant; Its

The pages of a book, the leaves of a life. Pictures of a love overcoming strife Moments in time, captured for posterity Reminders of a past filled with love and hilarity Memories are all that the pages now hold Dreams

It feels like in some place Else, I’ve been here – now, then And before! I seem to embrace A life of times I know not when; The fall of this evening’s sunset Ripens red recesses in the head; I

Little lives are what we put away In closets at night; mementos of the day Cry out, ‘Live us or hie us away!’ Do you not know? Stars and moon sigh In the wind, ‘Unbind us, too soon we die!

Poem…..it soothes the mind It reverberates in the Heart It calms the nerves It creates saneness It makes one bold too It makes life meaningful It is everything in short Who will not like a Poem On flowers, Nature, Rivers