Poetry

Another Blue Christmas
Blue, blue, blue Thinking of you oh why did you leave.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Savior?
I can imagine the rough heavily built man Silent and menacing look Entering Getting the attention of a few diners The annoyed and displeased looks of the other diners
By Dinesha Pereraabout a year ago in Critique
Savior?
I had a question. who was /is the savior? Jesus Buddha Mahamath Great Shiva But not any answer.. Asked from many But in vain
By Dinesha Pereraabout a year ago in Critique
What is Christmas?
Children, parents waiting, patience. (Note: My 30-letter poem of What is Christmas?)
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Christmas Is ....
Children of all ages hearing stories of past and present reacting to what their individual sensations tell them mostly
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Christmas Is....
Children Caring Claus Customs Christian (Note: Trying to critique Christmas.)
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Christmas Cookies
Christmas cookies however many reactions and interactions that one may receive the satisfaction in sharing and giving time
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
What is Christmas?
Holiday of presents to the King of Kings.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Christmas Is...
Caring about others and hearing the excitement of the reactions and seeing the interactions of satisfaction towards the
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
A World Apart
The world wondering where to go pleasure trip.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Free to Be....
Free to be... you and me and they who work and play. (Note: A phrase that keeps going through my mind hope it makes sense in describing people in general.)
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
The House That Calls. AI-Generated.
The sun was setting, casting an eerie orange glow over the dilapidated mansion that stood at the edge of town. For years, no one had dared to enter it, not since the Johnson family vanished without a trace twenty years ago. Local legends spoke of strange sounds—whispers in the wind, doors creaking open on their own, and the faint sound of children laughing when no one was there. But for Alex, an aspiring journalist with a thirst for the macabre, the house was an opportunity too good to pass up.
By Roman Oveabout a year ago in Critique