Poems and Poetry

Welcome to Poems and Poetry

I’m poet Guy Farmer and I love exploring the human condition, from the sublime to the silly, through poetry. I created Poems and Poetry to feature original contemporary poetry about the human condition by thoughtful poets worldwide.

 


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Thanks for visiting. Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or comments.

Cheers,

Guy


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Faux | A Poem by Roy Pullam

We are in a revolving door
Sensing what we are
But trying to rotate
In the direction
Of what
We want to be
We reject acceptance
The relative prosperity
With wishes
To be something else
To be
More than who we are
To find the success
Our culture defines
For us
As true and good
It is a misery
To wear clown shoes
We can never fit
To waste our time
Jumping
As high as we can
But never reaching
That impossible dream
But even
If we grasp it
Pulling ourselves
To that level
The pretty bow
Covers a box
Of empty promises
And another ladder
With missing rungs


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On the Outside | A Poem by Guy Farmer

Gregarious and confident
On the outside, trembling
And tentative on the inside.

The sense that he’s never
Really good enough, no matter
How blustery his exterior.

No sense of his utter inability
To connect with anyone on a
Deeper level, as a human being.

Each encounter becomes another
Opportunity to use someone else
To bolster waning self-esteem.


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January Morning | A Poem by Roy Pullam

Big, puffy flakes
Drift down like feathers
The wind tossing them
In a crazy zigzag pattern
Frozen confetti
Celebrating the cold
On the ground
An accumulated drift
The pure white sheet
Tucked clumsily
Like a small boy would
Make his bed
The gentle fall
Covering the road
Pure and innocent
In appearance
Hiding future hardships
In the quiet
Of the beauty
Of a morning snow


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Triad | A Poem by Danny Faragher

ripe fruit

poems appear in my mind
like ripe fruit on a tree
near, but out of reach
ah, to muster the gumption
to climb the fence
and traipse through thicket
to pick them

wet words

sometimes my mind is a desert landscape
and thoughts are like bleached bones in the sand
then suddenly the words seem to fall like rain
from the sky – a trickle, then a downpour and I’m
frantically throwing out buckets to catch them,
knowing the dry spell may soon return

ball point

a poem may be like
the stubborn ball point pen that
refuses to leave a mark
I must scratch around in circles
before the ink will flow
don’t think – just write


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