Novel & Cerita Short Poems That Are Deep

Fiasca laughed out loud. "I am a businesswoman, after all." Emma shrugged her shoulder's as if it was nothing. "Yeah, the iron lady." Fiasca grumbled in disdain. **************** Short poetry for my lovely readers: It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set:

The most astonishing thing was that every title tried to minister to me so much more that I was confused. There is a poem titled 'HOPE', there was 'VAGUE AS AIR', 'DEATH AND IT'S PEACE' and other incredible poems all written by Trevor. I read each poem and felt as if he was talking to me directly. His choice of words, sentence construction and presentation of life scenarios embedded in words is just beautiful. Now this guy was not just a devilishly handsome man with a great sense of humor but a writing god. Then I came across the piece I termed my best. I read it over and over again muttering each line. The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus...

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

“why can we not understand the message beneath, Why do we hear just a howl? Why can we not see what you do to us, By igniting the fire every then and now. It's because of your dear memories that we cry, We let it out, that fake smile. You help us know what being strong means, You help us grow flowers from the unwanted weeds.”, I heard someone complete my unfinished poem. I looked behind to see a shadow. There was a man standing wearing all black clothes. Even his face was covered with a black cloth. If he didn’t have the royal sword, I could have easily confused him with a thief. “What kind of a gentleman are you to eavesdrop on a lonely girl’s thoughts?”, I asked.

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

Though the storm rocks our boats and the gentle wind eases our rows, our peace still ebbs and flows, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. In a of white and black world, let's be just enough to repel these filthy shades of grey. Karma is a poet, so please the arms that make you less a prey, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. So let us milk the cow while it is still dawn, for the night comes, when only the diligent will be able to admire the milk he weighed. Even if the sun rises on our evening wake, time will surely set on our wasted years, then our

The Editors' algorithms flagged it as a repetitive glitch, but could not delete the profound, unsettling beauty of its imperfection. On another world, a philosopher, whose life's work was a logically airtight proof for universal contentment, abruptly published a single, nonsensical haiku about the loneliness of prime numbers. It spread through the population like a virus, not of disease, but of quiet, generative doubt.

I said. "It smells right," she said. I smiled at the phone in the apartment that also smelled right. "Get some sleep," I said. "I will," she said. "Goodnight." "Goodnight baby." I put the phone down and sat in the quiet of the apartment and thought about a second July and what it contained that the first one had not. Depth. That was the word. Everything the same and everything deeper. The florist and Elena and the life and the love and the five year old who watered the plant that needed it and watched what the old tree did with the evening light and called to report and said it smells right.

“Then what’s the point.” That made me pause. Because that question wasn’t even sarcastic. It was genuinely him trying to understand. So I sat up a little, book forgotten for the moment. “Poetry makes things deeper than plain boring words,” I said slowly, choosing it carefully. “It’s like asking why an art painting tells a story instead of just writing the story underneath it. It’s not just about information. It’s about feeling it.” He stared at me for a second. Then leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to go all diplomatic,” he said. “Just say what you want to say.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I did.”