Category: Unclassified (Page 1 of 3)

Tell me something beautiful and you’ll find a variety of colors. 

Tell me something beautiful and you will find peace. 

Tell me something beautiful and you will find beautiful music.

Tell me something beautiful and you’ll find my sweet lips. 

Tell me something beautiful and I will love you. 

Tell me something beautiful and you will find a beautiful blue sky. Tell me about clean air, laughter, love.

Tell me something beautiful.

Tell me about good food. Tell me about a good movie. Tell me about a nice house, a car. Tell me what you love.

Tell me. 

Tell me something beautiful. 

And you will forgett the bad and horrible.

I sat there with her. 

I sat there with my love.

I sat there with my wife.

I realized the moment.

I realized the gratitude. 

I realized the right essence about her and gratitude to her. 

With her, the moment is fuller,

life lighter,

life nicer. 

Heading together towards eternity,

to freedom, to love. 

You can keep your love easier 

by setting your common goals 

and then just walking, 

walking steadily to the stars.

Writen by Tomas Waginger from collection of poetry “Freedom”

Overjoyed? Maybe…. Sometimes

Over the moon – not right now

Overcome by feelings – not so much lately

Over-achiever – never been and never will be

Over-demanding I may sometimes seem

Over-aged for many a thing, I guess, but not the fun

Sometimes it’s better to overlook some things

Overcome obstacles? That’s what I’m here for

Get over? Surely I will

Hope it’s not an overkill

Snowing apple tree

Petals

Accessorize your hair, making hay,

Come What May

Emotionally.

In your bodice one settles.

Notionally.

Very much real it is though…

Admirable thorough

Decadent

Enchantress.

Resistant to (s)un dress?

Dear Poets,

after some time we are back with a new topic called Color(s) of February 20, 2020. In other words, please share a poem inspired by a color / colors. We look forward to reading your colorful poetry.

Marie, Adam and Jarek

Your house with doors of English Oak,
Handcrafted lovingly, bespoke,
Lay open wide for all dear folk.

Light a candle for those present or past,
Feorgiveness in your heart will surely last.
Give support for those you love,
With the knowledge, strength comes from above.

Breda Ware

1994

Love(s) Lost

“Love? Two hairpins

On the bottom

Of my backpack’s pocket.”

Karel Kryl: Zbraně pro Erató (free translation)

Love? A sense

Of perfume

Of a leather jacket.

Love? A picture

Of a snowy

Mountain peak.

Love? A chalet

In a snowstorm

Won’t last a week.

Love? The first kiss

In the school hall

Goodbye.

Love? A letter abyss

A farewell

No try.

Love? Confusion

Desire less

Uncertainty.

Love? Illusion

Nothingness

Vanity.

Love? The sound

Of words

Unspoken.

Love? The wings

Of birds

Got broken.

Love? Two hands

That touched

In the forest.

Love? Just a shadow

Of an innocent

White wrist.

Love? A gap ‘tween

The audience

And the stage.

Love? A poem

From the Diary’s

Last page.

2019

Love(s) Found

(quarter of a century later)

Love? A lover

A companion

And a friend.

Love? A relationship

You wish would

Never end.

Love? Two little

Suns calling

You father.

Love? Boys,

The best girl of all

Is your mother.

Dear Poets

we were inspired by the series The Young Pope where the pope writes a letter about love (see below).

Love lost, love found….. we can’t wait to read your ideas and poems on this topic.

Marie, Jarek, Adam

What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find… . or to lose? All around me, people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now?
And you, the shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.

As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.

Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.

Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.

Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay.  Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,

Breda Ware