excerpts

Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.

The Past
Life can be like a burning hallway that you are constantly having to run in front of. There are times that all you want to do is turn around and go back, but everyone tells you not to because the fire will consume you. But still, you want to go back and get those things that made you the happiest and bring them with you. If only you could survive the fire. Time will not slow down for you and life will still go on without you. I guess it's true when people see life as a race. In this case it's against the past. Because looking back at the fire, the past, and getting caught in it will only prevent you from moving forward.
By Detrikhan5 years ago in Poets
Threads
Silence The world is still But I am moving; I am frozen, But the world spins on. Their voices pester And prod but
By Clara Reinke5 years ago in Poets
Why are we ourselves?
Ever wonder why you're you and not someone else? It's not an expression of self loathing. It's something we all play with at some point I imagine. Maybe there's more there. Perhaps instead of asking why you are you and I am me we could ask why am I animate? Why is most of reality not perceptual and we happen to find ourselves in a position where we are? Of all the events that we could occupy we find ourselves in one where the event is that of perception. Of course I couldn't imagine it any other way... However, I could answer why we're human.... It's nice to know that still doesn't answer the question. Whatever the answer is it's sure to be of profound significance.
By Nicholas Powers5 years ago in Poets
dissolved
“Always dancing on the edge aren’t you?” He snickered as the girl spun on the tips of her shoes. Quite literally inches from falling over but she didn’t care. Her eyes were shut her silver hair tied up in a messy bun. She twirled on the edge of the wall without a care in the world. She was focused on something elsewhere. Something that didn’t matter in the end. A far away thought and place. So distant that it could almost be a dream. Somehow someway it was real though. Real as the clouds in the sky and smoke from candles. Real but gone in an instant. Her moves mirrored that of the parallel world. Her fingertips disappearing and fading like dust. She wasn’t going to fall. She was going to be taken away by the wind as it slowly takes her piece by piece. He wanted to reach out and touch her. To stop her before it was too late but he could do nothing but watch. He could do nothing but smile and pretend like it was the most perfect thing in the world. Cause it was.
By Illusive5 years ago in Poets
Pathos dwells in my heart
A mechanical whir. It reminds me of my father's scream. A cloth, it is white, held by four, three are small, unknown. I stand in front of it, next to it, a statue, huge. A child's experience, processing, confusion. Green nets like coordinates, dark the surroundings, a moving pyramid like a tank. There. It's so powerful, a thousand times bigger, for the first time in my life I feel tiny, devoted. Screams are quiet but do not fall silent. It's dripping. Slowly, like grenades, they detonate on sheet metal, I almost lose sanity, my field of vision narrows, I see bigger, more detailed, almost through things, but I can't be sure if I am hallucinating, my forehead is boiling. The sun drains water from my eyes, I long for the avenue of trees, the forest, the magic that the air holds, the creature, I cannot remember its appearance, if I try it changes its form. In this place slumbers the feeling that I would give my life for.
By Leon 5 years ago in Poets
Falling on Your Ankles
The story seems to begin with absolute chaos- but that could be entirely untrue. Take a walk. All elements- tangible would have met you.
By Elizabeth Morgan5 years ago in Poets
a terrified mind
beige tile flooring. with too many patterns that don't line up and cracks too big in places and nonexistent in others. and where the beige tiles end, a beige wall begins. accented by darker browns and slightly off pea-greens. those of course are covered in clashing patterns and textures. tile. sheetrock. pleather. cotton. polyester. then you add the clothing in the room. jeans. woolen sweaters. linen. lycra. more cotton. blues. reds. yellow stripes. greens. orange tie-dye. with a purple sleeve there, and some periwinkle polka dots in the corner.
By Elizabeth Morgan5 years ago in Poets
Warning: Wake Up!
Warning: Wake Up! What do you do when no one listens and all the doors are slammed in your face? It’s such a disgrace to have forgotten our history
By Dana Toliver5 years ago in Poets
Money Talks
Monét says, If I’d read them these poems, they’d still be around. If I broke down and wrote ‘em, I could build a house.
By SagethePoet5 years ago in Poets
What we tell ourselves
I picked up Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina—well, I picked up an iPad with the book downloaded—in January of 2019, but it took me nine months to finish reading it. This, in conjunction with the circumstances in my life that prolonged the reading experience, allowed me to better absorb the story’s impact. The book defined my mood for much of 2019, even though the plot doesn’t seem so groundbreaking compared to other classics I’ve read. The protracted time I spent in this world, as well as my curiosity about my Russian roots, made the story mean more to me. I felt compelled to try writing a found poem using a passage that stuck with me.
By Svetlana Sterlin5 years ago in Poets
What is Poetry?
I was browsing my Facebook home page when I saw someone ask a question, "What is Poetry?" This got me thinking and so, I decided to write about it.
By Denise Larkin5 years ago in Poets
The old Clock Maker
The old clock maker at his dusty old table stares at his masterpiece but finds no measure of joy. Twisted gnarled worked hands shake as he works in a deliberate fervor. Time to the old man is not for him to enjoy. All family, friends and acquaintances are not so permanent. A cold tool fumbles from his grip and crashes to the floor followed by yet another solemn tear. The passing of yet another year. All he ever loved is gone, no one will ever love the quiet clock master again. Foolishly he turns the hands of time backward with just a glimmer of hope that he will yet love again. He will run again and feel the warm sun upon his skin just one more time. But instead he feels the hardened wrench of reality. Time ticks on and the old man lowers his eyes to rest for just a moment. The broken clock begins to tick just as his heart quiets its tireless rhythms. Into memory he goes as the clock ticks away and no cause for all past glories. Left without surrender and no will left to fight. A fall to the ground, no salutes to the old man who would surrender. Now there is no one left to remember. Another passing ship in the darkest November.
By Jack Wayne Arnett5 years ago in Poets