Readable Poetry Novels & Stories

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

"Now back to study." Celeste nods, understanding Ms. Anne in more ways than the other clueless students could. I look down at my book and read the poem without a sound. For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. The rest of the period passes by smoothly and when the bell rings for the lunch break, I stop Ryder before he could walk away. He has some explanation to give.

Sky says as she jesters with her hands to me. I took a couple of deep breaths before I began to read my poem out loud. Gathering my nerves before I speak. Lifeless Lost and alone left empty without a home. Watching as the wind blows, chattering through hollow bones. Words are nothing but a sound cracking and breaking with each bound. A girl once set to sore left with oozing pores, born in a world torn in two. Amber eyes stare into the starry skies, locks of blonde hair ripped from a head now bare. A face that once held so much grace, revealing split flesh tattered like mesh. Words are nothing but a sound cracking and breaking with each bound. Tears shed out of so many fears, crying in the da

His heartbeat transfers through his chest into my palm, one steady knock after another. I notice the book on his desk. Half-open, a page marked with a folded corner. "What are you reading?" His chest shifts as he reaches for it. "A poem," he says. "Let me read you the part I've been thinking about." He reads it quietly, voice low enough that it doesn't carry past the room. "Put out my eyes: and I shall see you, too, seal up my ears: and I shall hear you still, and without feet I yet can go to you,

“Spout poetry ? You don’t think very highly of poems” “I have a difficult time following them. Words don’t always mean what they are supposed to mean. They are not always in the right order. They circle about”. “You prefer things straightforward”. He gives a slow appreciative nod. “I do”. “I enjoy poetry. Even when I can’t figure out exactly what the poet is saying, I like the way the words flow, especially when read aloud. I believe poetry must be read aloud in order to be truly appreciated”. “Perhaps if you read it to me I will grow to appreciate it”. He says softly.

[haiku] i think i'm in love with a man drunk on the moon i think he's a wolf Continue reading... King Panda Aug 2017 pillow talk a crocus opens and closes with the stream of midnight moon. the playmate of exhaustion crosses the room in his heavy, black boots to close the curtains. goodbye, light. goodbye, pride of lions and boy transformed into a werewolf. a scratch of larceny, the cuddle of maple leaves rotting, the magnet spinning in rocket-ship orbit. all secrets held in feathers, in hair compounded

“Mind if I read to you, princess of pain?” “Only if you feed me chocolate between stanzas.” He grinned. “Deal.” He sat beside me and opened the book with a kind of reverence that didn’t match his cocky voice. The poems he read weren’t romantic. Not exactly. But they had teeth. Rhythm. Rage. And something underneath it all that felt like devotion, buried deep. I listened with my eyes closed, breathing in the sound of his voice, the scent of tea, the ghost of Luca’s touch, the fading warmth of Nico’s fingers.

I propped myself against the headboard, switched on the small bedside lamp, and opened the first letter again. His words hit differently in the dark, with no other sound but my own breathing. …I think about the night you read Neruda aloud in the dark and I understood, for the first time, what poetry was actually for. I closed my eyes and tried to picture it: a woman, Clara, soft voice, reading love poems to a man who listened like the words were oxygen. I imagined Noah’s face in low light, the way his eyes would have tracked her mouth, the way his hand might have rested on her thigh, thumb stroking absently while she spoke of bodies and longing.

I opened the book and let my eyes roam over the pages, drinking in the words and letting them transport me to another world. As I read, I felt myself becoming lost in the rhythms and patterns of the language. The words danced in my head, painting pictures and evoking emotions that I had forgotten existed. It was like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of the beauty and wonder that still existed in the world despite all the darkness and despair. As I read, I felt my mind starting to calm down, my worries and fears slowly dissipating like mist in the morning sun. The poetry had a way of soothing my soul, of reminding me that there was more to life than just the struggles and battles we faced ev

He sat feeling uncomfortable, he wondered what Sarah was up to. "Ryan, Incase I die, do not weep by my grave." "How...like what do you mean?" He looked at her perplexed. "Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do 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 uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight.