vintage

Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.

When an art historian feels comfortable
When an art historian feels comfortable. They feel like they are with their people. They feel they could look at the same Renaissance-era painting for hours on end without growing tired of it.
By Miranda Monahan3 years ago in Poets
Mom, I Had a Bad Dream
Awakened by my own gasp in the middle of the night, I sat upright in my twin bed and took a moment to remember Where I was.
By Bugsy Watts3 years ago in Poets
Like A French Woman
I’m lying between celadon hospital walls under the white coolness of halogen lamps surrounded by the metal beds, tubes, and syringes
By Moon Desert3 years ago in Poets
My new weed man acting skept ain't answering the phone making us wait a trillion years before he never pulls up!
This hot mess ain't right now I am convinced my man is cheating I dialed his phone and some hoe bitch answered the fucking phone and tried to call me a fiend and the cunt slut bitch doesn't fucking know me from Adam
By Angelina F. Thomas3 years ago in Poets
Cats
Ginger furry skin Sits the chunky cat Delightfully sweet He purs and stares. The grey fat cat licks his coat wet Cleaning himself expertly
By Denise Larkin3 years ago in Poets
"Ma Lune"
I have been waiting for you. I have been longing for you. I anticipated your arrival. I predicted your presence. I knew you would make your way to me, eventually.
By Jamie LeFebvre 3 years ago in Poets
Renaissance Poem
Many a man has sought the depths of this gym, Assuming to pillage the gains from asunder. Vivid dreams abused have sought from this Earth
By Sid Aaron Hirji3 years ago in Poets
Lightning by Arthur Rimbaud (1873)
The work of man! THAT is the explosion that, now and again, illuminates the depths of my abyss. "Nothing is vanity! And, as for science, FORWARD HARCH!" That is the cry of the modern Ecclesiastes (for example, EVERYONE), for all the world to hear. And still the bodies of the wicked and slothful are piled up in the hearts of the People. Let the prayer gallop forward while the lightning roars.
By Tom Baker3 years ago in Poets
lost childhood
I had comfort once I remember havin’ it all before she was born ruinin’ it all * I had parents once they turned into monsters
By Moon Desert3 years ago in Poets
Morning by Arthur Rimbaud (1873)
My childhood: wasn't it once a fabulous dream? A heroic tale to be inscribed on golden leaves? To what criminal error can I presently owe my feeble form? You, who believe that dumb brutes grieve and beasts of burden weep, account for ME! and explain my decline, my slumber!
By Tom Baker3 years ago in Poets
à l'aise
The soft noise in the distance of traffic near. No longer of concern Because you are here. The soft chilled wind around is a sign that autumn is approaching now.
By Emily Radford(Rising Phoenix)3 years ago in Poets
Warmth
Enter this safe space for residence, not escape. Trust your shoes won't be harmed. Those eyes need proper rest too. This home is alive. It touches every sense you know
By Caleb Simpson3 years ago in Poets