Short Poems That Are Deep Novels & Stories

Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life,

she said with a light smile and opened the Poetry Anthology to the poem. ‘Coloured’ By De Wet Life starts with colour With a sort of spirit Only a child can give A parent is brightened By the mere presence the light projected But after time That colour fades Dimming Like a worn out jean A ghost Heavy and burdened Uncertain Seeking guidance Purpose Love But once found Once explored Colour returns to life And is reflected and spread

he said. “That’s because it’s amazing.” The poem he had on his mind that day was the poem he read was made by one Albert Meyer. “The intricacy of the story told using the simplicity of the words make for a much compelling piece.” He was so excited when he finally found it in one of the deep literature threads by the net land and was even more excited to show it to August. He continued his dissection, “And did you notice, that the three stanzas were just the same story over and—”

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

They both rode on a childish carousel, laughter blending with the music. My eyelids twitched, a sense of unease filling my heart. Mr. Jones' phone suddenly rang, making me jolt awake, and I stared at him in shock. The voice on the other end said, "The Young Master has been taken by a stranger at the kindergarten!"

When cities wear around their necksthe seethe of the cold, traffic slowsto the gutter the clambering freeze,and half a heart this rain touches our skin,mere stains we believe home recollectsmemories, drops of names unclutteringsuspiciously in the melting shadow,over the ice age of our singular breath,surface of things revives in the darkwhat is lost from a deep gorge of sleep,seconds on the side of water, more hope than hiding, beyond the evening light--there is a rustle of a long sworn word,a lonely song at the night’s heels, oh—but were you there to hear it?

"No, they're not good. And they're more of quotes anyway, they're short." "Okay, so tell me one. Tell me your favourite one." I bit my lip and look at him, contemplating whether I should or shouldn't. I have one in mind, the most recent one. As I watch him driving, his brown curls not falling over his eyes for once because he gelled them, the poem comes out by itself. "She couldn't understand," I begin, whispering, and gulp, still observing him, "why she found comfort in the dark, when all her life she had a fear of darkness."

"I pray that this missive finds its way from tiny, mousey hands. To those who chance upon this plea, heed my desperate call, For trapped within these cryptic lines, lies a fate enthrall." As I read on, my heart grew heavy with each passing sentence, the weight of the writer's desperation pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. I knew this 'song and dance' as it were. Alpha Gonzales had thought me how to read and in the process had used a litany of poems to do so. This was a poem - a rather well known one.

I asked with concern. “Probably not. I don’t do it often, but it is nice. It’s a lot like this. Just you and the water and the moon. It really makes you feel at peace. The stress just melts away. I hate the noise of our world sometimes. I used to imagine running away and living like a hermit far away from everything. It always seems like there is noise somewhere. I think our world would be a happier place and we’d have a lot less angry people if there was more quiet.”

The poem goes like this: “They said you came looking for me. I didn't drown; I was the water." I don't know if that makes sense to you as much as it made sense to me. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful poem written by someone who understands human beings and life in a special way that I and you who has read the poem don't understand. I am not going to waste my time to talk about atheism or to debate about the loopholes of religion. I will leave it for a Sunday when I have the time and strength to actually put a lot of efforts in airing my view for all of you to be complacent with yourself while keeping in mind that my motives are purely intended to bring good and not to cause harm as some of yo