Philosophy Poems Novels & Stories

Those forgotten whispers Whose are they? She smiled as she read through her own poem. She could have used it for one of the assignments she had in the course, but now it will just sit in her laptop. She looked through her laptop and saw an assignment she never got to submit. She read through it and sighed. It was about environmental poems. Stating that environmental poetry is to influence and force the reader to imagine and feel the words on the paper in relation to the environment.

They say writing essays makes you smarter. I say writing essays makes you question every life choice that brought you to this point, including why your English teacher thinks poetry analysis is the key to unlocking the universe. Like really? Last night, I sat hunched over my desk, glaring at my crumpled piece of notebook paper like it owed me money. My topic? A stupid plum blossom poem that apparently symbolizes life’s endurance. Or maybe death. Honestly, the whole thing could’ve been written by a pretentious fortune cookie, and I’d still have to write about it.

I didn’t know what to say, so I settled for a smile and a curious question. “What exactly am I supposed to understand from that?” He released the hold on my body and straightened his torso. He couldn’t take another step without lifting me into his arms. He sank into my confused gaze and spoke seriously. “Don’t understand anything, little one. My words don’t welcome philosophy.” Without a doubt, his words were the very philosophy I could never understand no matter how hard I tried to analyze the thesis of its thinker. A mysterious cloud surrounded him from every direction, pushing me to pick up a pen and notebook just to analyze every word that left his sweet tongue.

Miranda continued, "Not to mention Bob Frost's poem, 'Tea is a religion of the art of life,' and a verse by Emma Dickson, 'There is something in the nature of tea that leads us into a world of quiet contemplation of life.' "The poets of old have passed on, but we are still here. We gather here not just to enjoy the taste of tea but to find the reflections of life and the truth of existence within this activity. "Lastly, I leave you with this phrase, 'Life is like a cup of tea. It's all in how you make it.' May all of us learn to live life to the fullest! Thank you."

"Death is before me today: like the recovery of a sick man, like going forth into a garden after sickness. Death is before me today: like the odour of myrrh, like sitting under a sail in a good wind. Death is before me today: like the course of a stream; like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house. Death is before me today: like the home that a man longs to see, after years spent as a captive."

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫ In the age of despair, with the dream of life Wandered far away If you only knew Even if it is ashes, even if it is dust Nothing comes of it Dreams are a distance, hands are empty Believe me, you were too And yet he fell asleep Even after losing China Every night of worship, the eyes of the czar Put tears in the palm of your hand In the trap of hiccups, taking my name To me from my master If you asked, you would be too In the belief in love, what is understanding? What's up? What does the work of reason mean? There are millions of arguments against love As far as citations are concerned, they are not authentic Believe me, you were too And from the whole world, then to the foot of redem

Daphne took the time to glance at the enjoyable expression on her face, and asked: "Are you still going thinking about your sister..." .... .... .... Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. She walks in beauty, like the night

"Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of reflection and the beauty of. . . Love.” Taking a moment to centre himself, Ryan begins to recite, his voice carrying the rhythm and cadence of his verses: "Not my acrostic smudges; Darkness is running towards me. I am running away from me. A universe is so huge. In just depths of my eyes, The universe is Too vast to fit. I am Asking myself;

A glow of wisdom, of knowledge and old A tale of a world, where myths unfold In cities of wonder, where dreams are made The streets whisper stories, of a world yet unafraid A world of possibility, of hope and desire Where hearts beat strong, and love sets the fire In the silence of night, where darkness reigns A light flickers softly, a beacon that remains A light of guidance, of hope and peace A shining star, that the heart can release In the depths of the soul, where emotions reside A voice whispers softly, a gentle, loving tide A tide of compassion, of empathy and kindness true A heart that beats strongly, with a love that shines through In the realm of eternity, where time stands still A

he says. "Yes." "I hate it." "No you do not." "You are right. I do not hate it. I just do not like it." "That is okay. You do not have to like it. You just have to be in it." He looks at me. "That is a metaphor," he says. "Everything is a metaphor." "No. Everything is just everything. Sometimes the water is just water." I look at him. "When did you become a philosopher." "When I stopped trying to find meaning in everything."