Public Speaking poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of public speaking poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on public speaking are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Looked naïve, but he was elevating himself on the heap of lights unlearning the human commitment. Hunger was his weapon to level the uprising of underprivileged. This monarch of darkness picks up the best, insists on low profiles. We were
Love is formidable weapon It really opens New chapter With lot many things to offer Many wars were fought But we were caught With dilemma to see consequences With holocaust and occurrence What do you want to achieve? By being
We are afraid today more than a lot, We choose to stay beneath our spot. We are so unbelievably protected From things that make us happy and connected. We are afraid of speaking up, We know we’ll do the stuff
In touch with my inner feelings, The emotions of loving and being loved, Spanning from admiration to adulation, Reflecting all diversity of love, With a silent glance, Eyes speaking volumes. A gentle whispering kiss, I flap my wings to soar,
Education ought to bring us out of dark Ought to take us to lights bright Ought to enrich our knowledge And make our cognitive powers sharp. But is it true of it today? Does it open new vistas? Does it
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
Up there, the mind of saints is telegnostic And thought is superluminally telepathic; Via sensorial communications anomalous Gnosis and mind are venially synonymous. All is public fare; the personal life is dead And every thought you surfed in your head
In days when we have thousands of distractions It’s hard to maintain the interaction Between two people who are having fun, Who want to have relationship of number one. However in the age of modern era We have addiction of
On a lonely day, I stare at the shaking trees, And falling leaves. Deciduous leaves leave the boughs, And a stream flows and stirs about Like a lovely lough. A scene so beautiful, I looked and adored nature’s manoeuvre, What
In a community deep in the Southern land of feed corn and cotton The more basic things of life are best treasured and unforgotten Newspapers and Radios, Jack Rocks and Jump Ropes, Pop Whips, Hide and Seek In child’s play,
In this battlefield, I’m the charioteer and you, dear Sun, my chariot. The reins I hold, your golden hairs are slipping out of my grip. So please be gentle with your blue rays that blind my eyes with the haze
(1) Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower. (2) A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation. (3) A home without a window is a blind man with no
He was the first man your eyes opened to.. The shivering hand that touched your tiny nose.. The strong arm you cuddled on.. His love that kept brimming but never spilled.. Those eyes that made everything seem within reach.. That
Through the wrought iron gate, Emblazoned with an ironic promise Of freedom earned through labour. A promise fulfilled only for the lucky few. Within, dull, threatening concrete towers Survey the inner pen, once filled With innocent men and women, Ready
The exuberant fire that burns within my soul, In that first embrace of a lover’s smile; Shall forever be held, in equality to the power of love. Her servant shall forever wish for her luminous, infallible, tongue. Which speaks of
Neither a coaching class nor experience, We had in baby-sitting, feeding and Cleaning little kids; but managed, somehow, With the limited knowledge, we played it; The little one kept me and my wife, Always active and alert, we never went
The birds, trees, sky , and sunshine A kiss for him ’cause he’s so fine Playing on the beach, on the sand Wearing sailor striped knit clothes And holding his hand Swirling around I let go of him To smile
Means that it is not worth wasting my time worrying about stuff and nonsense, when I have the basics of happiness and contentment. we create our own earth and heaven. we can edit delete, be public, private or not at
O my last breath! waiting for you eagerly. willing to embrace you, possible as early… When shall you come, at a slower pace. and take me with you, leaving behind no trace… O moon! I am jealous of your sight.
Your lips were me. I wanted a kiss which never came. Insertion of a word, was committed my wings took a flight for anonymity. To keep suffering alive truth was accepting the hurts. I was not speaking for myself. Who
From my point of view, grandma was my pillar of love and strength Mother was a faithful wife, a loving homemaker, and a good hairdresser Daddy was a breadwinner, versatile entrepreneur, and plantation manager Jack, given to me when just
Truth is I’m just another woman forced to face The crime of a close friend Truth is where I come from everything is allowed except peace From hookers and hoes to junkies and crack babies From victims turned murderers To
There comes a time when my frustration scales On seeing the heap of trash that smoothly trail Along with me, in my about to explode handbag, So much unwanted stuff, no time to clean, compelled to drag. So I start
Saturday evenings reek of stale words, aching bones and a running out of things to feel dressed in a darkness where your silence meets mine and no sound seeps in through the fine crisscross weave of the blanket soggy with
She is silent, He is silent, But the silence is broken, And the eyes are doing their work, A beautiful heart in love, Is reflected in the eyes. She knows it well, He knows it well, Then why this refrain?
“HMS Trincomalee, British Man-O-War, sixty guns, one hundred gross tons was she, The Purser and Pressman am I, managing a pressgang in strict service of country and King. Her ships bell marking time; bosun pipes: Captain arrives! She’ll turn with
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
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
Gone are those days when We didn’t need to think about calories before eating. We didn’t have to plan everything in advance. We didn’t have to decide what to wear for a party. We didn’t have to check before speaking.
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
Ouroboros is its own meal The same is true with Those from own country that steal! To hamstrung the incumbent Most party members are not hesitant. Ouroboros,they adore their party, Which they obliviously or Otherwise sully with A rent-seeking identity.
I give you a shoulder to cry on, endless night talks, lamentations & worries, I have made your problems my burden, support both emotionally & physically, These four walls have seen it all, love, worry, regret & the thief of
Let’s paint these walls red, With the blood of our dead. Of the lost and wounded, the sad and depressed. Let’s paint that chair green, With the leaves of the trees. The trees cut down, every day, week, month, year.
Summer passed, winter arrived , Short steps turned into long strides , Insects prepare for hibernation, Serenic beauty is nature’s projection , Mother puts her child to sleep, South Africa just won cricket match with clean sweep , Bells ring
We were marbles in a concave pan different sizes different trajectories congregating in clumps and caravans until the formation shattered we slid to the edge or the center almost unable to control ourselves but certainly in a hurry motivations and
I approach the 160° turn to the left, The public toilets, still there. Those strange, Striped warning poles and a sign in Old engineering font (like London Underground, but rusted) saying ‘STOP WHEN BELL RINGS’. Up its gentle elevation to