Family
An object
In the quiet corner of my room, it stands, An object of memories, crafted by hands. A weathered book, with pages turned by time,
BrendonJosephPublished 5 months ago in PoetsA moment in time
In the stillness of a moment, time suspends, A fleeting glimpse of life, where magic blends. A breath held gently, as seconds unfold,
BrendonJosephPublished 5 months ago in PoetsGratitude
In the garden of thankfulness, petals unfold, A symphony of gratitude, a story to be told. For every dawn that paints the sky so bright,
BrendonJosephPublished 5 months ago in PoetsHappiness
In the garden of joy, where sunbeams dance, Happiness blooms, a sweet, enchanting trance. A melody of laughter in the air,
BrendonJosephPublished 5 months ago in PoetsChildhood memories
In the garden of youth, where memories bloom, Childhood echoes like a sweet, nostalgic tune. Laughter, like butterflies, flits in the air,
BrendonJosephPublished 5 months ago in PoetsBeing a Parent
Being a Parent “The best part” Spending a day out in the sand Seeing my child’s hand, Playing in band. A fun day at the park
Corey W HarlandPublished 5 months ago in PoetsThe Gift
The Magic 9 is a newer form and relatively unknown. The creator could not be found, though it appears to have been inspired by a poet misspelling the word "abracadabra." This 9-line poem doesn't have any rules as far as meter or subject matter--just a rhyme scheme: abacadaba. That's right! Just remove the r's from "abracadabra," and boom! A new poetic form; and after writing my first Magic 9, I can report that they're fun to write. Writer's Digest, Robert Lee Brewer
Denise E LindquistPublished 5 months ago in PoetsPhenomena
Listen to the strange harmonica Of this world’s phenomena Feel the shattering feeling of unease As The Scattering tingles all around you
Atomic HistorianPublished 5 months ago in PoetsBlack Box
No one listens They just talk That’s why I like my black box They only listen for something to use To abuse you with That’s why I like my black box
Atomic HistorianPublished 5 months ago in PoetsMother
In the silent curtain of life, a mother's love weaves deep threads, a testament to the infinite depth of her heart. She is the silent architect of our existence, molding our foundations with whispers of affection and enveloping us in her warmth.
J.m. SafriPublished 5 months ago in PoetsNostradamus
Nostradamus is nauseating I wish I was just hating But the closest to this gnosis Is something between hypnosis and psychosis
Atomic HistorianPublished 5 months ago in PoetsIntrusive Thoughts
Intrusive thoughts are usually quickly forgot Unless you’re me Then you write them down For all to see Let them bleed
Atomic HistorianPublished 5 months ago in Poets