Whimsical Poems Novels & Stories

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.

Let’s take a walk by the sea-shore, Spend hours collecting the choicest pearls, Gaze at the starlit sky and try counting the stars; Meet in the streets, explore unknown lanes And find each other lost in one of those; Tell stories to each other, of the pauper and the hazel-eyed princess, And of all that add colour to life, But let’s not say: we are in love! Let’s weave millions of thoughts at leisure, Frame and reframe our lines a thousand times, Think that we’ll share those with each other in the next Spring

"She said it would not leave. She warned that the memory and the whispers would not leave until I warned you." "What was her warning?" "You are not to come looking for them." "Them?" Lord White inquired. He needed to be sure he meant the five whispers. "Yes. They are five. All beautiful goddesses, made from the sea, and the silence of trees. Seek out silence, and you'll find them in peace. Seek out trouble, or dare shout amongst trees, and you'll also find them. However, the latter wouldn't bode well for the person who does. The former, you will find them, and with love."

Why don’t you enlighten us with those words? ‘ okay okay, it's just a 4 lined poem. I couldn't write anymore.' Cassandra, at last, surrendered laughingly. Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes and began: " Dreams are fantasies Fantasies which will never come true, They all lie in ashes When morning comes in view! Fallen in love with a prince, I dreamt one day. He wore the white fustanella And was always happy and gay. His crown of palm leaves Glittered in the morning sun.

The stars sparkle overhead like tiny diamonds scattered across the dark sky, giving everything an almost magical feel. The poem draws me in through Anara’s soft, rosy lips. Her emerald green eyes glitter toward me like precious gems, even in the faint moonlight. With the sky full of stars, I can make out every freckle on her face, like her own little private constellation. The steady chirping of cicadas and the quiet sounds of the deer nearby seem to blend perfectly with Anara’s voice, turning the whole night into a peaceful symphony.

****** “Feed me,” I whispered again, my voice low and dripping with every filthy promise I’d ever made to a man. My glossy red lips parted. I looked up through my lashes, pushing my chest forward so my crop top stretched tight over my breasts. “I know you want this, Professor. I can feel how hard you are. Let me taste you. Let Sweet Poison wrap her lips around that big, angry cock and make you forget every rule you think you have.”

The air grew thick with a sense of mysticism, and Viviana’s words took on a rhythmic, almost poetic quality: “Whisper winds of gentle calm, Numb the ache, soothe the harm. Take away the sting, the strain, Wrap them in relief’s refrain. By the moon and stars above, Bring them peace, a tender glove. Let their pain be held at bay, Until it fades with the light of day.”

had crafted a peculiar poem that, in its eccentricity, managed to evoke a faint smile from Maddy. "A bear hugging a jar of honey flies surrounding a pile of dung, you are the most beautiful pearl in the world, I have been peeking at you as a dung beetle since a previous life, without you, I wouldn't know what beauty is, you are the treasure that makes a dung beetle delusional." The whimsical nature of the poem provided a momentary reprieve, a diversion from the heartache that lingered in the room. However, the distraction was short-lived as a video call invitation from this peculiar "Annoying Genius" appeared on the screen.

She grabbed a book of poetry after going back to the kitchen to bring out the breakfast. She liked Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, and she felt that the poems they wrote portrayed a special sense of beauty and vividness. "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all," "And sweetest in the gale is heard, And sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm."

She dances gracefully at the ominous and dark room as she wonders and hum the eerie tone with her mind that pin and sinks to the poem she made and curse to the very core. “Well, well, well, who among you readers wanted to read my hell of a curse poem?” Teasing a daring, she continues to hum the devil’s lullaby as she whispers the words of the poem. TOMIKO’S HELL Round and round our life spins and about Twist and turn you can hear a silent scream Up and down what a lovely dream Until you find yourself eating a flesh cream Oh, how ironic living and dying In the world where everything is pretty much boring