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In The Early Afternoons Like Morning Glories

In the early afternoons like morning glories
I flourish under the sweetness of your sunny eyes
while in the blaze of your pretty smile my solitude
reaches out to you in a kind of invisible embrace

as if I am always flourishing in your blazing presence
drawing, continually drawing your radiance to me.
Sometimes there is only darkness when your soul
drops to the depths of a kind of sheer depression.

In the early afternoons like morning glories
I flourish under the sweetness of your sunny eyes
see a myriad of butterflies fluttering nearer
that visits me gently like the way I love you

and as the night sets in my life is ever folding,
closing and waiting for the sunshine of your touch.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Roses and Bravery

Roses are them who flourish like seeds of the wind,
The winds are forcing their lairs into the grass of happiness.

Free him, the brave one, who is the holiest prize of the world’s bliss,
Find him, in the meek world where he is a merely finest human character.

Is holiness a form of desirability? Is it spherical or saintly?
The world of the ground is not the sea. It is the earth and stones.

Hear him, who understood nothing to God, as a good man might,
As mightiness has understood calamity and bravery of another comrade.

Is the circle of light a perfect stone which carries no concrete nature
Other than its hardness and softness at times. Roses are them who flourish.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Oh For the Swords of Former Time

Oh for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them:
When free yet, ere courts began
With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, etc., etc.

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them.
When, safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew
That Treason durst not enter.
Oh, for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,

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poem by Thomas Moore
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Drugged on Status and the Superficialness of Looks

They've accepted themselves as worthless.
Giving in to subservience,
To flourish a form of obedience...
Only a blinded leech would love!

Drugged on status and the superficialness of looks.
Giving themselves over to bad diets without insight...
With a lack of discipline,
That now has caught up to each one of them!

Addicted to worshipping false gods and 'things'.
Believing confessing 'sins' will produce for them wings.
Distorted by their own reflections,
They believe their neighbors envy!
And sickened by myths...
To limit the lives God has blessed them with,
They sit reduced to produce their own sorrows in ignorance!

They've accepted themselves as worthless.
Giving in to subservience,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Oh, my friend

you, my friend
share this with me
as your feeling
as my feeling
too, Oh my friend
every day i find you
my friend in my verses
every night i find you
my friend in my dreams
are there meaning
for my words
with out you
you my idol
and the imagery
of my fate
you my friend
oh my friend
you my fate
share the breaths
of my life

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poem by Sallam Yassin
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After the Storm.....

oh! my sweet and wonderful dream allow
my childhood wish to come true and cleanse
the teary tore the thorn of the witlessly echo
of my unstoppable wisdom to end naturally

sublime the flowering Daffodils storm,
the oasis of the golden beauty of laurels of
my determine head, flourish in thy most
splendid glow of my destiny and return the
silent night of my soul

forever seen my hope and want the need,
the afterglow of the past witness the bright
light of glance; after the stormy clouds and
hold the rain to flow in the river and stream
where i say to you, release my wonder of
awesome memory

come dear flower of mighty hope blend
the blessed sunny day and breeze; make the

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poem by Antonio Liao
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Satisfaction

Sharing s[w]eep[s]takes s[t]ates each sense
As in a magic meeting meant
To imprint a permanent
Inner impression, stamp intense
Satisfaction vast, immense.
Futile and irrelevant.
Appears defense as discontent
Can’t flourish under false pretense,
Turns Life’s joke at its own expense
In catharsis heaven sent, -
Osmosis as emotions pent
Now outpour in wonderment...

10 April 1998 in database but possibly
16 August 1996 revised 26 November 2006
robi03_0873_robi03_0000 AXX_MXX
see below for previous version

Satisfaction

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Alankar(Decor) -96

Return Of Monsoon (Terzanelle)

The Terzanelle is:
a poem in 19 lines made up of 5 tercets and ends with a quatrain.
metered, iambic pentameter.
rhymed A1BA2 bCB cDC dED eFE fA1FA2 or fFA1A2

The terzanelle body is comprised of tercets
that each refrain the second line of the preceding tercet
for its third line. The first line of each of these tercets
is rhymed with its refrained line.

The first and third lines of the opening tercet are refrained
as the second and fourth lines of the closing quatrain.

Return Of Monsoon (Terzanelle)

Atlast she is back here to me so close
This change of season to rains, the monsoon
Manured my heart doeth bloom from heaven's dose

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Down Down Down The Drain They Go

A flavoring of their own taste of envy,
Has brought them unable to stomach...
What was encouraged to flourish.

The affect of it has made them sick.
Although the implementation of it,
Came easy for them to inflict.

Using slander as an ingredient to base...
A defamation of character,
To pepper gossip heated to deface.
And not letting a waste of time go by,
To bake personalities...
And watch some fry.

Finding like minds just as demented.
And overtime their own crimes...
Began to boil over.
And lamenting it...
They could not stop,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0102 This is a disposable poem

This is a disposable poem.
Under each stanza
is a perforated line

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you may read it stanza by stanza
and throw away each as you read
or having it read it through,
shorten it stanza by stanza

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

since many poems on this site
benefit from curtailing
because amateur poets
tend to be uncertain
about their work

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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