6 Word Poem Novels & Stories

I sat on her lap, smelling her perfume, listening to her softly recite this poem: For glance beget ogles, ogles sighs, sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter. At first, I didn't know the meaning of the poem, but I thought its rhythm was beautiful. Every time my mother read this poem, she would smile gently, as if immersed in some kind of happy memory. My father would repeat the poem with her in a low voice, and they would look at each other and feel their love with just one look. As I grew up, I came to understand the poem.

“I am still working on my poem. I am going to pass in a wricon! Tomorrow is our deadline.” “Let me do it woman,” Dale uttered. I turned my gaze to him. “You are going to review, lalaki?” I asked. “Crazy!” He responded and took my notebook and pen from the table. “Let me do the editing of your poem,” he repeated calmly. That made Dwight shrieked. “What? I shall not commit any act of plagiarism,” I said, raising my right hands, as if I’m taking an oath. “12 syllables, 6 lines, 6 stanzas,” he read the rules I wrote on the upper part of the paper.

Six words. And the six words were not warm and were not an olive branch and were not any of the things that would have made them easier to receive, they were simply true, stated flatly, without decoration, and they landed in the middle of the car park with the specific, clarifying weight of something that had been true for a while and was only now being said out loud. She read them again. She did not respond.

And Hello you know when mixed with a foreign Hello is telegraphic. Finally:At the glum gates I see clock wivesin need of music, my geographylessons I still can recallwhile longing for vestiges of lightthe long summerthe sweet mishapsfrozen fireflies in the mind—the left and leaving, inauguratingthe nameless thingshere, there, in the waiting room. Additionally:Many times we have pried into the secret lives of words, how syllables could swarm, like Manila traffic in our head or the sound among swans, bethinking

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

The wind poem she came up with was written as such: Whispers Soft voices the wind carries How far will they go? Those words ever be heard Caresses the trees’ leaves, its skin the green grass What does it say? No one knows Can you hear it? Who will hear it? The words so soft It rustles the dirt passing by creatures above and below flowing through the air Where will it go? Does no one hear it? Those forgotten whispers Whose are they?

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

asked harriet “ if we knew we wouldn’t be here” “ Be grateful what you have for Be careful what you wish for One wrong wish and fate could change The game of fate is not famous in good way Once it change get yourself use to it Don’t wish more or things would get messed up once again” “ woah…… I really wonder who is the poet? I really wanna know how can he write a poem this bad”

my eyes glance at the first word on the last two lines and say, “EN” “KAREN?” He calls out and I look up at him. “Yes?” I answer and I frown when I see him concentrating on the word without pressing the enter button. “No, I mean the word you just gave me is KAREN, as in your name.” I am still having a hard time understanding what he’s saying until I glance up and look at the arrangement of the poem, and then I understood and realise that it’s Karen. Then it hit me what I haven’t thought of since all the while. This is the World of Poetry and like William said earlier, he has always wanted to be a poet, but what I never asked was if he has tried writing any poem because from what I just saw,

I write every. Five Red Echo, memories Every "FREE! Is that it?" I have to be sure before I type in anything again. I read the poem again. Five fragile hearts are forever down Sunsets fade red, and darkness spreads Amidst the ruins of a love own Echoes of memories that refuse to go Fading every dream, and hope is blind Eagle eyes watch, moments of failure's mown I write down the rhyming words at the end of each line. Down Own Mown