Poems and Poetry

introspection poems

And the Day Ends When She Says Her Eyelids Are Heavy | A Poem by Matheus Teixeira


I was the black dot
smudging the river
as the wind hummed
at the frail foot
of a lavender bush –

my mind whirled
black and white –
fragments spread in
a ring of ripples
which blended into
the impetuous pull
of the stream

the crimson trails
snuffed out
beneath my feet
but, the spectral downdraft
rapped on my windowsill –
ominous like
a clairvoyant, whose foreboding
chains the future to
the same deserted roads
and hidden precipices,
where I was swallowed whole


I wanted to embraced it,
so I stepped into
a white cloth of mist –
lungs shrunk
to little orbs –
a bee buzzing
in my chest

the balmy breeze of the meadow
wrapped my soul in slumber
and assembled the quaint
reminiscence of
the night when waves
washed over the moss
and the golden Arch
gently strolled
across your
seaside penumbra –
delicate and pure
like a dewdrop

and after witnessing
such a spectacle
that rendered my heartbeat unsteady
my days, now, end when she says
her eyelids are heavy

Untitled in February | A Poem by JD DeHart

What does the work mean
when you add it all together?
I walk through the hall,
mutter words and citations,
but what does it mean?

The day comes when you begin
to analyze what was the matter
after all. What was worth
a moment and more time.

The vacuum, the sound of feet,
the stack of magazines, the list
of publications, all of this bears
the on-going question.

What do I do, what is it that
stands and echoes? What is it
that slides away in dust?

Visit JD at https://onpossibilitypoems.blogspot.com.

Hemispherical Sculptures | A Poem by Robert Kohlhammer

I recite to a bird with the cortisol level of my bookworm finger
As a loop of a plane lifts like a lid’s sticky picnic licked jam richness
Daily writing task are like poison ivy drooling on my unlaced trainer
Is there irony in a leaf half eaten between hemispherical sculptures?

My momentary surprise deflating slowly like sandy diet cola.
I count down the shuttle of froth with the gravity of a coaster.
I hope the goal in my head does not hide like a marbled mothball.
Ponytails in the sky are smiling behind the roofs of cork rind sun.

Sometimes I shelf ancient books leafed through a tall tree
The wisdom of the tree disguises the branch logging me in
There is a friendly walk into a tunnel’s incubation of trees.
Without the crowds of people nobody’s bar-coded identity reads.

The leaf is as dog-eared as the seven day television listings
With blue opaque smog like the smell of a petrol stations
diesel dripping on the foliage lingering the day’s restlessness
The caterpillars comatose neutral gears ignites a car alarm.

A Sinking Bottle (She Explained, Softly) | A Poem by Paul Tristram

I’m all cried out, one minute,
then waterfall full the next.
The Sun still shines…
but, it’s always somewhere else… yonder.
I hate that word ‘Yonder’
for you can walk all day and night,
until your weary, battered feet
blister and bleed
and you are never any closer to it.
I have great self control,
I will not succumb to the traps
of ‘Covetousness’ nor ‘Envy’
but, ‘Yearning’ masters me truly.
The ‘Feeling’ started
like a Pebble being dropped into a Well.
A falling sensation, giddying at first,
then later… quite sickening.
The Well eventually changed,
reformed into a tumultuous Ocean.
The Pebble an uncorked Bottle,
slave to all external currents
and full up to the very brim
with the ‘Thing’ which is forever
dragging and pulling it downwards.

Visit Paul at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Ghosts Are Not Scary | A Poem by Muskan Lamba

I’m sorry, but, ghosts are not scary.
They live inside me. They live inside you.
And without realizing, they consume us whole
Of course, they are here to destroy
But the destruction..? It’s so silent
And silence, so to say, is never scary.
These ghosts, they are not like monsters at all
Not even close to appearing evil or disastrous.

I am sorry, but, ghosts are not scary.
Once, they forwarded me their hand
And we ended up building a friendship together.
They told me their secret
Of being disguised as self-doubt, anxiety and anger.
And I told them mine; of being vulnerable.
Wish to know their hiding spot?
It’s beneath our skins, inside our hearts.

I am sorry, but, ghosts are not scary.
I think we have developed an in-depth understanding of each other.
They told me, “We ourselves are suffering
which is why we make you suffer.”
I sympathised. I think so do you.
And us being ever-so-welcoming, we let them in.
Ghosts of me. And ghosts of you.

I am sorry, but, ghosts are not scary.
Not to me.
I’ve been acquainted with them for far too long now
They’re as much a part of me
As I am of this world.
Though just a tiny speck,
but effortlessly infinite within.

I am sorry, but, ghosts are not scary.
Once, they forwarded me their hand
And we ended up building a friendship together.
I even told them my secret of being vulnerable.
They are… not scary.
How can they be?
Yet I am afraid.

Visit Muskan at https://muskanlambablog.wordpress.com.

Writing in Woe | A Poem by Pragati Gupta

I’m writing less these days.
Figuring out the reason
I lose the frame of mind
That has till now
Heated my coffee,
Whose depth you compared
With my navel.

The times you gifted me with
Awaits at my threshold
Not to enter into my domicile
But to resurrect in me
The ancient tradition
Of coating love with courtly songs
Where I’m Petrarch
And you my Laurel,
Coronating the chase with
A second’s glance of the Human-god.

Woe seems me.

Bipolar Observations from the Flight Deck | A Poem by G.S. Katz

Relating to women the way I do
Maybe it’s me that’s bipolar
Have to get back to you on that one
When I figure out who will be doing the talking

Ran into my neighbor in the supermarket
She’s a flight attendant
Just back from Portugal she says
She always looks good in a perpetual jet lag haze

Sleeping in the living room the past few nights
Got the whole sofa bed to myself
Feel like a visitor in my own home
Maybe I’ll do some tourist stuff just to see what’s what