Trial poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of trial poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on trial are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Liquidity crunch turns you into lip slave. The candlelight bed has the broken legs. Asleep by the boat you sway in dark. You are still a number in the books to be fed. A jigsaw puzzle in the economic boom
Here I am, Standing in the dock once again. For the evil one had sought and gotten an appeal of God’s prior judgement. With his legal standing, The devil named me as the respondent. And intiatiated the service of progress
I have a box and that’s for a fact- from which an act is being lead. With scripts of wild puns that overlap, it banters back while remaining intact! Equipped with taunting realizations that retort- with hiss as they push
When lips seek lips to quench a thirst of passion… Freedom slackens a knot in its belly and gasps!!! When limbs entangle in an embrace of abandon freedom.. comprehension gets drowned in the deluge of an emotional erotic Freedom between
One beautiful Sunday afternoon, down by the valley where the waters cascading down the rocks upon the stony bed I sat, lost in reverie on my life continuous struggles when His shadows appeared, silhouetted against the fading sun upon the
The air was thin, while the room was hot, My eyes scanning, spotting the warm glow of a dress, She whizzed and whirled, her youthful gait attendant to my plot, Two legs in unison, eyes like gilded jewels, breasts like
The mother knows compassion and grants permission the father accepts responsibility and manifests reality the child is born and experiences god directly the adolescent unfortunately forgets its connection to the divine the teacher shares self-evident truths and growth occurs the
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
You went blank on the line between sand and water, between seizure and assault. The tribes have unwrapped their torches, they are coming in numbers. Who was going on trial? Fierce fidelity is demanding vendetta. The drummer announces the fight.
Have I been born of a curse; Rehearse The station just burst, A hole through it first; So it is like to be at the mercy, of this jury decided on perjury. A trial without annihilating the evil inside me,
The angel of friendship rumoured of an affair with a demon; The legacy of beings of every Earth Lives through its connections. A tale of geese of the morning sky, Pose as a ‘V’, glorifying amity. Owing to misapprehension of
Chastened by expectations. Seasoned by trial. All journeys begin the same. Roads diverge, yet all end at the same destination. Experiences vary, stories differ. But the results the same. Progress occurs by the nectar left behind. In this way, the
Dr. Maximillan Williams is some kind of brilliant; Too bad he has to, in fact, be a villain. In his classes he was always the quietest, Lost in deep thoughts about the sciences, Perpetually tinkering with newfangled appliances, Never the
Poem Dedicated To My Father Late Moinuddin Hasan–An Ideal Teacher- BEFORE TEACHERS’ DAY Moinuddin was his name,eloquent, which means— One who is an aide to faith and for that weens He lost his father when only six months and mother,
Weaving fine fibres of unripe beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird scrambles, shading the stone valley. There was no thrift for the cadavers. The burnt relics were eating away the greens of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.
It has been a long drive of fifty years and odd stumbled,edged,raced,soared,jumped all odds and silly games yet all meaningful. a stint at art, a trial at music, a full fledged love and a hard earned indifference, a gritty fight
For you expressed that which touches climax of love Sounds resonant, pours honey in soul, nay above–Say again In utter awe I forgot whether it was acceptance or denial The second sentence of your version my sense’s trial–Say again You
Without being abandoned in the darkest room Incandescent light would be a mere shade Without trial and experiments Success would be worthless Without birth and death Life would be stagnant Without love and compassion World would be void. Without springs
With fractured hands I lit a pyre of small nudes with pink globes. A moon bleaches me white in a long night. A reprieve was needed from the scorching sun opening a jinx of a metaphor. The poems will take
This was a raw thing. A paranoid template for AK-47 rifles. The homemade bombs were planted on the roadside. A very explosive blend of a fedayeen. You cannot take it anymore this jihad. In everyday life inside comes out in
He comes in like a buccaneer, tip toed Into her life, conquering her dreams Adding his own sweet hues and mystifying music To her silence, deadly and intrepid She wonders how each thought of his Gives her joy and brings
Well, at entrances of all cities, there sits a monster as huge as a puzzle. He asks; travelers still give the wrong answers before being devoured. There comes a man with two legs, two hands, two eyes, two ears, a
The war is not enough, The death is not enough Now someone maintain a silence Because they want some more death, And many of them want to live, But don’t forget, they want death, So many deaths! Is it mine?
Cold night, shimmery light, A white lie to the white knight, Broken heart waving good bye, Shadows in the blue moon night. Melancholy in the milieu, And heart beats are drums in the air. In the deep dark night with
The hopeless eyes and tear stained horror of a far-away, fragile gaze, where once a sweet and happy child dwelt, till the innocence of life was erased. The tears have dried up, cried out with the pain of battered beseeching
This is my portrait of you. It speaks to me in strange, colored verses, in whispered codes of ancient languages. I often get that illusion. You are not easy to ignore. I’ve long studied its dog-eared corners, one by one,
This body of mine. Wretched; leaking stink from every pore, spreading decay to everything touched: metal, food, flower, paper; shedding dead skin every moment; creating odour odour odour… But in your arms transformed: into a messy tangle of limbs, hair,
My life depends on how fast you unload Ephemeral me; who prays for either too hot or too cold I sustain such extremes for my survival I pray for some reuse before recycle You chat and engage for long is