Television poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of television poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on television are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
A young couple walked into the maid agency “I’m looking for the perfect au pair!” He exclaimed One that will keep my princess entertained, Someone to paint a radiant smile everyday. Oh, and she would play with her Take her
My room was the old garage attached to the house festooned with posters and dirty underpants my father’s Mercedes was a sacred relic with a flavor of old leather upholstery. It rested in its own building. there must have been
I remember the day that they stopped the clock, The day they told me your time had been bought, “We’ll make him comfortable”…those dreaded words, If there’s a “comfortable” way to die it’s absurd! I’d armed myself with so many
Nestled in the long loud smell of your kiss, Which reminds me of the smoke guzzling chimneys of my hometown And the yellow sunlight reflecting off our cemented yard Is the elixir of death, destruction and surprise. The surprise on
An irritable child of six, the targeted television set, screaming mindlessly for their selfish wants. Sickly subdued female hands, male regulated, sans rest, roll dough in the damp kitchen. Cool expanse of fresh air where mind swims free at its
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
It stormed all night rattling teeth and windows the small tribe of cats sheathed their claws for once crept into human beds drawn incapable of love to the safety of something larger a fleshy barricade to take the blows something
This morning at the town square, little orphaned children gathered to listen to stories and lies left behind by last night’s lovers. On one of the benches by the fountain, one of the children, a little girl with a clogged
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
Between the zeros and the ones, a paisley tablecloth is spread, and atop it rest white lace napkins, the yellow butter and the butter knife, the wine glasses, the teacups, the water jug filled with ice – a mundane scene
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.
In ranks and strange constellations Neighborhoods bunch like uneven muscles On the elbow of a river that smells Of cypress and motor oil. They contain buildings you’ll never live in Houses you will never enter Even if every night was
Painful, we fight with verbal knives. As our women and men need no fight, Nor they should suffer any loss in that; But need to be paved in rough roads, From the husband’s office-rules, you say, The odds and orders,
A herd of Chicanos is on TV thanking some mike on a stick Complementing my all pill breakfast It’s time to write clinical sonnets to girls in biology The looming plurality of entendres hopefully penetrating their big hair They don’t
Titles, titles, titles, all she won was titles Lengthening her debuts at piano recitals Lengthening the doctor’s verification of her vitals Narrowing her gape Her cosmopolitics tightening ‘Til all was television and art-deco sex Her untangling the day’s trinkets from
A hesitant day for fat men and old women moving cautious but still slamming out the door and like infidels calling down a brace of ice spears exposed necks and those rounded shoulders so tender overloaded bodies knocked down stunned
Forever amazed of what is happening in the world today Glaring eyes at sights, ears pricking to what people say Many events enlighten us, interesting plethora of choices Variety of feelings comes within, focused on telling voices Becoming more learned
Every minute from dawn until dusk, I watch a screen, waste my life away. It’s not a good life But it is my life now. The television is my headstone, Marking in the electronic earth The coffin of my bedroom.
Only so many tigers Left in the wild— Donate generously To ‘Save the Tiger’ Ran a television commercial! The commercial Was not being telecast… Once in a while— It was appearing Every other minute That too, not in just one
During the time before television came to our home, My dad sat there in his car on a dark Southern night. And I was somewhere close by, enjoying a wonderful Game of Major League Baseball on the radio. O, there
I held the little machine as it vomited a feverish accordion muted damp of sweat soon joined by tears we played the tune twice with a coda I, the unaccomplished explainer exhorted endurance, prayed for return to bed couch instead,
From the busy schedule, reserve some time for self Wait for a while and, analyze yourself Go offline for sometime and forget all the worries Peep in the childhood and refresh all the memories Do makeover for yourself and get
The sensation of thick honey Gliding down your throat, Enveloping your tongue in A heavy, smooth numbness that warms your buds, Dissolving into sweet ecstasy. The smell of rain Soaking into parched soil, Tingling your nostrils, Tickling your senses, Encompassing
Van Halen a young kid running the streets of California Brother Alex playing on the pots & pans In time young Eddie bought a guitar hoping in his heart he’ll go far Although from that scene many years had passed
I hear by declare I shall not fell, I hear by declare I shall not crack or succumb to the utter temptation that “I need help”, I hear by illuminate every dark thought by living in my unproclaimed fantasy. I
I watch your broken soul as this consumes your entire world Blaming yourself for a decision completely out of your control Trying to keep the peace, you break your own will to keep happiness in the world of the selfish?
a savage desire to severe off one’s neck, the song will get a name in troubled mind, to remove the stain on tongue of black spider, you will think again to commit your sleep for that beautiful death: guess what
I saw the scene full of flowers and I saw the Actor choking, drowned in petals, leaves, which entered his mouth, nostrils, ears, covering him until nothing was left of him. Poor Actor. What a death! Smothered by the flowers
Delhi the mighty city, I love to hate, has withstood time and is steeped in history. With its harsh climate and its harsh reality it doesn’t give excuses, doesn’t sugar coat its being. With pride it says i have it
A tribal fear was lurking, behind a surge of emotion. The sun was looking black. A sexual abuse of a quaint flower aborts the fruit. This year we will go hungry. A nascent seed stripped on road- cries for water.
I live in dreams, waiting for time to come, That bud I spied would open up someday, What had been days or scant minutes for some, Became those lonely centuries to me; As sun would tarry long before it dims,