Poems and Poetry

poems about life

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
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

Daughters and Them | A Poem by Devika Mathur

Sacrosanct white truths of life leave me jumbled often

My brown mahogany rusty table being shifted to another room,

my constant sheltered pillow being given to the newly born.

I am a ballistic allusion of a ‘yes and a no’,

the concoction of my mother’s truth and father’s pride,

I kiss morning each day with a Delphic sigh, oblivious smiles

for I am a petal of cyan mauvy shadow,

A limerick of fragility and frosty faded nights

My parched lips once again blossom into reds, pinks, nudes

and I shall be planted like a slick sheet of an unturned page of a pale book

Further into your valley of wilderness.

Visit Devika at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com.

January 2, 2018 | A Poem by Roy Pullam

My old man bones
Ached this morning
I began
The fight with the cold
I took the ice scraper
Cringing from
The up-the-spine screech
As I scraped
Making a porthole
In the frost
My vision a squint
I drove slowly
Devoid of the total
View ahead
The heater
Spit out cold air
A swoosh of frigid
I had to endure
Until the blower
Picked up heat
It was a short drive
A trip to the grocery
To fill an empty larder
A casualty
Of holiday eating
I navigated the aisles
Choosing fruits and vegetables
A penance
For two weeks of gluttony
I left the warmth
Returning to my cold car
The weather
Making a short drive
A long way home

The Hoover Guy | A Poem by Gareth Culshaw

He filled his van up with Hoovers,
brushes, cleaning fluid, mops
and other sorts of things. Whisky
was painted on the back of his throat,
and his phlegm was curried
with it when he spat. He slammed
the door and walked around, money
rattled with keys. His polished hair,
black as his heart, glowed,
as if something slithered through it.
I never liked seeing him or having
to say ‘Hello’. He was a difficult man,
opinions, wind-like, and a stare that made
you think you shouldn’t even be alive,
never mind looking at him.