Ode

Fungible
My Word: Fungible Meaning: interchangeable. My Connection: One of the things I have always loved about the English language, is just how many words can be (correctly) used interchangeably. When I've worked as a content writer, it is especially important if you are writing about a subject that has been written on a hundred times before, so you can avoid Google and other search engines flagging up supposed duplicate content. In poetry and fiction, it's great if you don't want to use the same word again and again.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Wrapped in Gold, Drenched in Desire
They call me sinful, Wrapped in rich gold as shiny as tinsel, Duel sticks of caramel bars, Covered in decadent chocolate similar to Mars.
By Daphsamabout a year ago in Poets
Create a portrait where I smile while I weep
A Portrait of Tears and Smiles Create a portrait where I smile while I weep, Let sorrow be expressed, but not as a spectacle to keep.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
You’ll never return, I had to say
You’ll never return, I had to say, You went far away, as I searched each day. For centuries, in valleys, I waited for you, You came for a moment, smiled, then I searched anew.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
The Hero Dog
The Hero Dog On Little Street, where shadows creep, A night fell cold, the village asleep. A spark ignited, flames took hold,
By George’s Girl 2026 about a year ago in Poets
How can I tell you of my pain?
How can I tell you of my pain? It’s not a story, not so plain. Not a word I can simply write, Not a tale to recite tonight.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
The Love
The Love One day, I met a lover on the roadside, And then a long conversation began, side by side. I asked him, "Why is your attire pale green? Why do your desolate eyes hold a watery sheen?"
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand.
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand. Turn water into glass for me, if you can, Or cleanse this mirror of its rust and sand.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
Death’s Consort
Death is nothing to fear, no phantom to flee when shadows grow near. Even Blue Öyster Cult urged us not to— *Don’t fear the Reaper,* they sang,
By Eva A. Schellingerabout a year ago in Poets
Harvest Void
Silver orb hangs heavy, ripe with shadowed gleam, Veil thins, whispers rise on lunar stream. Golden sickle gleams, a harvest of the soul,
By Jenna W.about a year ago in Poets
Mariah Carey
The beast slumbers for now When she rises no one is sure how There are always signs of her coming Leaves fall, the air grows cold
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Wool Socks
There is a rugged softness to him That cushions The impact from the frozen ground And shields my marrow From the frigid depths
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets