Hey everyone! I was thinking about new video ideas for my YouTube Channel and wondered if anyone would like me to read some of their poetry? Maybe call the video Poems from the Cove?
If you’re interested leave your poems below. Feel free to submit as many as you like! Of course all credit will be given to every poet selected!
Just a heads up folks, I’ll be closing submissionS for this at the end of the day! 😊
Hope I'm not too late?!
Spring:
Just as everything had felt bleak and hopeless, I awoke that morning with the sun softly kissing my cheek,
The bids sang in unison, as if eager to reassure me better was to come,
Playful pastel daffodil heads had burst through the soil, cheerful and with an aura of hope I admired.
The clouds evaporated revealing graciously still blue hues, a gentle tepid breeze surrounded the air with a fresh fertile scent.
Dainty spring green buds started appearing at the birch trees fingertips, preparing for their marvelous reveal.
Just as everything had felt bleak and hopeless, I laid my head that evening with the promise of a new day.
Lifeguard:
As he sits in his chair and we laugh, i study the lines that spread from the corners of his eyes, fixating as the creases deepen, I ponder how many lines over these years I've helped create.
I silently scream unspoken words at him, as if I am an empty vessel, trapped within my own body, eager and desperate words to speak that will never make it past these sealed lips.
For I know, I know now, time is faster than I, and it seems to accelerate once truthful bitter words are spoken. So I simply soak it in, these moments. I study his face, the way the corners lift as he recalls our past. I embrace these moments, storing them away within my mind, for fear I'll need them sooner than my heart is ready for.
He raises his glass to his mouth, consuming the golden liquid. The devils broth. Yet somehow it consumes him. Ebbing and flowing internally, drowning him from within. I've tried to be his life guard, how I've tried and tried. Dragged him onto my lifeboat, for him to leap off.
All I can do now is watch on, for I am no life guard and he does not want to be saved.
Growth:
They say that I'm damaged,
My Past wounds need to heal,
They say that I'm broken,
Tell me how I should feel.
They think they know who I am,
Try to tarnish my name,
From snippets of me,
When I'm reacting to pain.
I wont apologise for my past,
I dont need to pretend,
I refuse to let it win,
I greet it as an old friend.
They say pain is a re-birth,
Fresh seeds I have planted,
I'll develop and grow,
In the soil they took for granted.
As we sat by the river on that windy Tuesday,
Struggling to keep feathered pests at bay,
We perched and we paused, embracing the still,
Needed by us both, some time to refill.
No exciting plans, and not the best weather,
But I know it's a day I'll remember forever.
It's strange how the days that are just like the rest,
Can somehow transform into one of your best.
My eyes camera lenses, my own private collection,
Capturing your face and all its perfection.
I value all and any, that you share of your time
I'm grateful that of all of the mothers, you're mine.,
By the river:
As we sat by the river on that windy Tuesday,
Laughing as wild winds snatched your scarf away,
On cloudy days, that scene I'll replay,
I hope you know how special that it was, today.
That Patch of Weeds
Out the back behind the veggie garden,
That patch of weeds could pass for lawn,
If I mowed it every week
And took care of it,
The people say, 'Cut it regularly,
So the weed seed heads don't mature,
In time it will come to look like lawn
As seen in garden magazines,'
But hungry crested pigeons
Peck at the smorgasbord of seeds
Swaying gently in the breeze,
Those pigeons beg, 'Please don't cut the grass.'
Patchwork Quilt
With the passing of years
The grief of losing you
Has not disappeared,
But it has diminished,
Becoming another faded square
In my patchwork quilt of memories.
Philosophy and Philosophers
Friday night, over a cask of red wine,
Reunion with friends from far off uni days,
Questions and opinions tumble forth,
Deeper, more profound
As the level of remaining wine drops,
'What's philosophy about anyway?'
Different definitions from various sources,
Katie, wine glass in hand mutters,
'Study of existence, knowledge, values,
Reason, mind and language,'
She's quoting from something she read,
Always did have a photographic memory,
But not many original thoughts,
Consulting his phone Daniel says,
'According to Your Dictionary it's about
Standards, ideals and beliefs
To do with thought and behaviour,'
'It's ancient wisdom,' contributes Chris sagely,
'Socrates was the father of western philosophy,'
Intending to be humorous John quips,
'Well then, who was the mother?'
Tilting the near empty cask
To make wine flow faster,
Someone refills my drained glass,
Consulting the internet once more,
Daniel slurs, 'Some chick called Diotima,'
Holding her glass aloft Margie proclaims,
'Philosophy is the mother of all knowledge,'
The only thing I know with any certainty is
Tomorrow will be the mother of all hangovers.
What it’s like to have a panic attack:
I’m sitting on the bus, with my soccer team getting ready to go to the game.
I’m mentally preparing myself because I think I am gonna play.
I have my headphones in on full blast focusing on my thoughts.
My coach is standing in the front of the bus giving his normal speech.
This time though, the speech is going on for a long time and my teammates seem nervous.
I pull out my earbud.
He explains that he might take the one thing you have truly found love for.
My soccer career is in jeopardy.
My eyes are getting blurry, maybe is it because of my contacts?
Is the heater running, because I can’t breathe.
My heart is going fucking crazy, did I run half a marathon?
My chest is getting stabbed at, but someone is also taking a straw and pulling the air out of my lungs.
Breathe.
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe.
I am controlling my breath.
Don’t shut down.
Ok.
Text someone.
First notification.
“Hey, I’m freaking out”.
“Are you okay, how are you feeling?”.
*Enter anxious ranting*
-left on read
My head is pounding.
Why didn’t he respond?
Did I say too much?
I need to talk to my teammates.
Oh my god, I have to tell my parents.
My head, my god.
Do I need water?
My heart rate is going up again.
They are going to be so disappointed in me.
I am now the disappointment in my family.
My head is so fuzzy it feels like I haven’t slept in days.
*Teammate taps your shoulder*
“Are you ok?”
“Yea, I'm fine”.
Have entries for this closed? I've spent far too long indulging a crisis of confidence 🤣 it's a brilliant idea, loving the work that's been put .
Wish
I want death to embrace you,
as I once had.
It would be easier to place a flower on your grave, then to dig one.
Your poisons free you,
while trapping me inside.
- Nav Sohi
Can a woman change her mind? The worlds most retorical question.With some help from Adam Gary and Emilio Puerta this poem is now finally done. So if you want to read it on Youtube Adam I would be happy.
I'll join in on this!
1) "broken"
There is nothing left
to quench this throat,
to stop the sting of those words
as they leave your lips.
My favorite cup is broken.
I should have known
not to let you handle as
fragile a thing as that,
because you never held
my heart tenderly either.
***
2) "choosing sides"
One side pink,
one side blue.
People always told me
to pick a side,
but which do I choose?
Do I have to stand
on one or the other?
It's too hard to decide,
though I could ask my mother.
What would she say?
My father too?
What about everyone else?
What about you?
What would you say
if I told you I'm somewhere
in the middle?
What would you say
if I hadn't thought this through?
This poem right here,
not quite a confession,
but a testament to the thoughts
in my mind's dissection.
Ask me again which side I'm on,
the pink or the blue
or maybe something new.
Ask it like so in a poem or rhyme
and I'll tell you I'm taking it
one day at a time.
***
3) "breathing love"
I breathe out love with every exhale,
waiting,
hoping,
praying,
imagining
some kind of end for us.
These fears of mine
are so strong I think we'll
shatter,
ignite,
fade,
cease
to be this wonderful thing.
Sometimes even your promise
to always be by my side isn't enough.
I breathe out love with every exhale,
all my faith and tightened grips
cling to you as you smile,
pulling me closer for a kiss,
and an unvoiced promise
that you'll never leave,
one I wonder if I'll ever stop believing,
one I pray I never will.
***
4) "unwanted"
They are so deeply rooted,
running through layers
of a mind that has
lost all control,
all will to forget.
Their roots are rotted,
their existence poison,
yet they won't let go
and be left to fade away.
These unwanted memories
have been passed by
so many times that their
presence is accepted,
but the unwantedness
is still there,
fading a little with
each moment.
***
Those are a few of the ones I think are my better work. Absolutely loving this idea, @Adam Gary !
Phoenix You are your own force of nature. No matter how many times you fall, you always rise. You take the ashes around you and create infernos Watching as you grow, collecting the discarded feathers of past mistakes and disappointments You wear them proudly and without them dragging you down The heat and eruption of a volcanic rage is an icy blast in comparison to your formidable spirit To see you vivacious and resilient, compassionate and radiant Brings a warmth and new life to my too frequent, chilled soul Keep fanning those flames, little man. You'll continue to rise.
I offer this one up for consideration. Written for y son.
I may be late to this but here’s one of mine 😁
Ghost Photographer
As I looked at the empty
space you used to fill,
it calved a home into my heart.
Filled with icy air,
Shivers my heart to it’s core.
Is it beating, does it care?
The music enters my ears
and exit my eyes.
Tears, it gifts me tears
and memories.
Photoshopped.
Because nothing real
will ever be good enough.
Nothing present, past or future
will ever be good enough?
Will it?
Your ghost is there
It waves,
smiles at me
takes a photo.
A photo I will cherish.
You’re not in it,
but I will always remember
how you looked when the fireworks went off. Lighting up your face. Glimmers of hope in your eyes.
They’re gone now with you.
All I have now are illusions of what was.
Uncertainty of what will be.
And a slow, painful present.
Of time.
Of your face.
Here are two, that you may consider
1) The Death's Route:
City lights are dimming;
winds are frost. My legs are shivering;
as I am lost. Lost in thoughts tangle with perilous seclusion. All my nightmares are standing in a row; to shout out the end declaration. Mantilla of darkness dwell across;
diffuse with the stink of rotten fate; slowly comes around. Fanning my anxiety;
as my inner mind knock-on, hell's door and has heard a satanic sound. Screams of mirage faiths and myths have echoed, All wicked evil spirits shroud me to applaud. Applaud with sinister joy, that rage a storm, I have to turn;
and read the page of death;
all hopes are long gone. Death is hanging from the ceiling like a garland woven of venomous snakes, About to pierce my neck;
and drink my wither sorrow on the take. My imposter inner voice allures me;
I am cold and in despair. A shadowless eerie voice haunts me for ages, now vent clear. " Death is waiting for you dear. Just a mere illusion, another path to share. The ruse of freedom to snatch away your wisdom. " And finally, lights dimmed out I drown into the abysmal of cold darkness, the death's route. 2) Counting Love:
How much I love you, shall I count and count,
not profound as Mediterranean,
nor umpteen constellation to recount,
not blaze magma of subterranean,
nor kudos of flamboyant legacy.
Our seraphic bond effloresces under the stars,
our clandestine love drapes supremacy.
Waning winter moon duende our scars.
My moon stuck mind gazes our constellation,
our asterism, conceal you in bolides.
My heart has heimat in your complexation,
where aghast vacivity subsides.
You, my love, hold vast pride in this Sonnet,
that will relive for ages to resonate.
P.S- Both are pretty big. I hope still you will enjoy it.😊
Is it okay to submit poems that have been published somewhere? A few of my poems have been published in a writing group anthology and several others have been printed in magazines.
Here are some for you to consider!
Misery Whip
Deep in the cedars of a Sunday wood
we tear the morning with wild profanity
a felled Ash and a misery whip between us.
My heals dig trenches in the clay with each impotent lunge against the blade.
The Ash refuses to yield.
By sheer will he orders the saw through the bark.
Blisters break and leak through his fingers.
The first wound is a Catholic masterpiece.
Dust coats our hair as we work.
He cuts deeper with each pass.
I receive the saw and return it to him
until the Ash yields, a broken miracle
lying on the forest floor.
He collapses against the log.
The misery whip trembles in my hands.
Christ beaten into an offering
to the silent god of the trees.
Assemblage on Birth
The chord strikes itself in a blue vein.
The symphony forgotten
laid to rest with the poets.
Perhaps we are all works of art.
Perhaps the painter is ourselves.
Each thing I have birthed has hated me.
What a nightmare to be born?
It is a crime to give birth
in a spasm or a cloud of dust.
The sculptor could not contain himself
or his grief for the weeping Madonna
and set after her with a hammer
to relieve her of her sinful hands.
Christ how I wish to be
the sculptor or the hammer
these broken hands upon the floor.
Harvest
My breath blooms in tiny ghosts overhead, a congregation of starlings embark on their journey south. But the geese on the lake next to the café are content and will stay for the winter. I, too, will stay for winter. Inside the church, tins of baked beans and boxes of pasta are waiting to be donated to those less fortunate. A combine harvester emerges from its burrow, or wherever it sleeps throughout summer, spreads unwelcome mud on the road. It knows its own strength and could harvest rocks on Mars but today it’s wheat. I point it out to George, who’s four, and say, It’s pink, but he’s clever for his age and tells me, No, it’s blue. He asks, Is God a farmer? I’ve never thought about God’s job before but I like the idea of God wearing green wellies and a flat cap, driving a gold tractor to reap our prayers. I tell him, Of course God’s a farmer. George is clever for his age and doesn’t ask if God exists.
If they are worth of sharing. :-)
You're very welcome to read any or all of these (to start with) – awesome idea!! Looking forward to the results of this. Thanks.
Weirdos
Weirdos make the best of friends:
They’re always up for fun–
A child still dwells within their souls
Beneath the moon and sun.
Weirdos make the best of friends:
They’re all they need to be–
They’re round, they’re flat, they’re far from square,
Except in honesty.
Their heads may not be firmly straight,
Their feet may not turn right.
They’re wise– in cracks; they’re quick– in wit;
They’re bright when given light.
Yet Weirdos make the best of friends:
They’re constantly on call–
They care, they share, they but require
Your friendship most of all.
Music
It’s music most that makes the world go round.
No matter what, no matter where, it’s there
Enchanting all with its melodic sound.
The echoes of its voice each day resound
With its unique and satisfying flair.
It’s music most that makes the world go round.
In ev’ry note is something so profound
That elegantly whistles through the air,
Enchanting all with its melodic sound.
And as the people go to where they’re bound,
It rids their minds of ev’ry sombre care.
It’s music most that makes the world go round.
The spectacle it brings is so renowned,
The influence it leaves beyond compare,
Enchanting all with its melodic sound.
There’s nothing that within it can’t be found,
There’s nothing that it wouldn’t want to share.
It’s music most that makes the world go round,
Enchanting all with its melodic sound.
The Man and His Sitar
Alone he sits upon a stone
Beneath the morning star,
And weaves into the languid world
The strum of his sitar.
In solemn silence, soothingly
He plays his repertoire,
Which flows as though to only be
For him and his sitar.