Programmed poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of programmed poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on programmed are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
As usual, the stars, way out there in the distant sky, will probably be out tonight. If it should become cloudy and foggy, they might become hidden from sight. Otherwise, they will appear and fulfill their God given purpose, by
When I awoke that fatal day I knew there was something amiss the agonizing striking pain doubled me over on the cold floor My eyes began to well with tears and gushed down like a rushing waterfall a cold eerie
I want to be free like music. Free like soft tones, melodies, voices, and patterns pulsating together. I want to wake up freed by music in mornings when the mind is slowly, steadily, waking up. I want to be free
the horizon knows no bounds Urania ……… ……One Basic Truth….. The Suns ……The Moons…..The Stars …….The Sky …… Into their Eldest ………….…The Time ……..They Fly……. So Unfathomable ……..Beauty …………So Bounteous……..Powers ….. What Quantum of Energies ……These Celestial Cousins Possess ..
The day I realised that I’m just like everyone else. Clarity. I spent all my time thinking that I was different, unusual. [Apparently] I thought differently to everyone else. [I] Wanted, needed different things. Craved isolation. Solitude. Peace. Contentment. Simplicity
What kind of God would treat us this way? In mankind the wide spectrum between evil to good can be found. In some, such kindness, while in others a wickedness not to be believed is in play. The ancients believed
The kitchen staff left a slice of cake out. all the while, stacking chairs on tables, scraping the grill, through the ravenous inhale of the vacuum cleaner, it sits like an unscaled peak framed in the lights of the pass-through.
Routine Life has no string attached to it Everything is planned for the day It is presumed things move as programmed involvement in the daily chorus smacks the Human sensitivity each one is busy for fulfilling the days obligation Day
The chord struck again Without any desire, the tears did rain. Unable to find why, The angels did solace. But, the inner demons smirked hysterically, “Oh! what did you gain?”. If empathy is what you want , It is lame!
I came across a dusty cupboard, Wiped it clean, It was a solid teak structure, With a beautifully carved frame. The cupboard held many ghosts, From my recent past, A tattered book of verses, A hand note of love, now
Walking down the street Talking to everyone I meet, I share my testimony freely, Praying they will let GOD, Come into their heart. We Christians should do this Every where we go, Let the LIGHT of JESUS in us, Ignite
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
A descent into the abyss of hell, as the petal of a flower takes flight into the sky above, where the angels govern mortal men, keeping a watchful eye on their sheep. summer night solitude, and a prayer to the
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,
Written by: Mario Vitale Shades of pine grafted in again resign Shattered pine in elm certain grove alone My meadow had a thorn certain credit The factual harm of its heartless swarm Featured within in the created design with pine
I have something say, but fear, not dare, blood runs cold and I feel a Chill. If only some could understand how we feel, For the consequences of a confession we had to reveal, And the situations that we have
There is a picture on the wall, With some people hanging around Each smiling and laughing Enjoying and having the time of their lives Each wearing their own costumes, Each with their own colours Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Yellow, Green,
On an evening I sat near the shore And watched the waves as they came and went back. I saw the setting sun in the far horizon, The orange -red rays splattered across, Giving the sky a heavenly look. The
You thought they would open if you knock tapped gently with your down eyelashes small bud of a girl without home but churches don’t have eaves to shelter you from rain and big houses have their big dogs running free
Our poets the fools, as always they are, Mistake the shouts and cry of a bird, As its song, the melody, not thinking The pain, it suffers as ‘thrown outs’, By own mother, attacked by a stranger, The crow, a
It’s not the wealth Which could give you pleasures. That would be worldly. It’s not a job Which could make you satisfied, That would be just a living. People come and go. Some hold dear to heart, Rest are worth
A knock at her door, she opens tiny crack “Mrs Anon?” enquirer asks. “Who wants to know?” “Are you Mrs Anon? Please tell. Has she come back? ” I need to know who you are first “wants to know!” Enquirer
A twisted journey starts on wings after the end of the road. Ambition sits in corner, nonchalantly and a tempest hollers around the spires. Broken down from parched ceiling a mural turns into a mundane knife. Lifts the rage, of
Oh my love, Thank you for bringing me this precious gift, Life without you my love, Will be nearly impossible, I rather stare death right in the face, Than losing you for more than one second my love, I feel
My heart is broken Like a worn out glass Eyes sunken Head bleeding inside My mind screams Nobody could hear My shattering dreams A ray of light appears Piercing into the inner depths The sea of darkness gone Killing the
I walk down the bridge Whispering to my restless mind About your last night’s talk And those unfeeling hands of innocence The night eglantine smiles In its usual way At my timid inexpressive desire And the love filled eyes of
”I sojourn in your vibrant world, Mr. Ahmed Of dulcet melodies and wafting aromas The paintings adorning your house forlorn Are as soothing as the breezes of the morn I met your mates, your benevolent friends Savoured their enchanted, beguiling
A scented moon caves in on a tree top and solitude withers up in a seminal cloud, It is good to be friendless sometimes. Me and homecoming become synonymous. We are ruined by familiar paths. The mist deepens. Not reaching