Poetbay.com

Redefined

Melinda K Zarate — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 20:41:49 +0100

The Garden Cupola

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 18:19:09 +0100

Not much sun today

Alan J Ripley — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 16:23:31 +0100

There's not much sun today,
It's not often it goes away.
Seems today is one of those day's

It hasn't really gone away,
It's covered by a world of dreams,
With the probability that it brings.

Of the reality of the day,
Poetry is sacrament,
Filled with the cander
Of many different ways.

Where the writer takes,
grammar doesn't matter
The writer of poetry
Always finds a away

Poetry is the food of thought,
Feeding your consciousness.
With a misplaced thought, seldom
taught, Before it leaves your mind.

Wether your under the weather,
Or under the sun,
Let's find some fresh poetry,
And let the fun begun.

Sorry I meant begin,

dragon flies and august

MIRZA AHMER BEG — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 13:35:23 +0100

dragon flies so many
fly across green pasture
by the cedar trees and cottages
solo road and me on scooter
silence and insects
how does it feel to be ripped apart?

diffusion of a gas into another gas: aerodynamic profile

Albert Vynckier — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 11:48:16 +0100

if one could predict where it is going to rain
one should predict the movements of the clouds ?

The giraffe-

yoonoos peerbocus — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 02:09:02 +0100

dinosaur-like animal
or the gentle giant of the wild,
incredibly absurd and yet
its angelic appearance
exudes serenity.
Extraordinary
its height, so is
its coat pattern
unique as human finger prints,
neck long to browse
young leaves at the apex
and yet proves too short
to reach the water source
close to its stilt-like feet,
it devises strategic posture,
spreading forelegs
akin to an enormous tripod,
dodging blood stroke
and predators' surprise attack.
It survives the harsh condition
of existence,but seeks not like
man, any form of escapism-
suicide,murder, war,
drug and sex spree ,noisy milieu
to drown the inner turmoil.

Twice Told Tale

Sameen — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 00:58:09 +0100

Cove of the Unremembered

arquious — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 00:44:33 +0100

"Galatine shore at the Bay"

I kept to a small cove
on the far side of the Bay,
where waves were gentle
and wind spoke softly
to anyone with need,
a place to steady their breath.

They came there
like tide‑tossed children,
salt still in their eyes,
hands trembling with the weight
of words they hadn’t yet learned
to carry without breaking.

I shared with them
how to listen to the sea
without mistaking every ripple
for a storm.
I showed them
how to shape their pain
into something that could float.

And one by one,
they found their footing,
their voices,
their bright new sails.

I watched them leave
with pride tucked quietly
behind my ribs.

But the Bay is wide,
and gratitude is a fragile thing
in young hands.

Now this cove is quiet.
Only gulls remember my name.
The water still waits
in the shape of their absence.

Sometimes I hear laughter
from distant harbours

— familiar voices
that once called me brother,
mentor,
friend.

They do not look back.

I remain here,
a lighthouse no longer needed,
keeping vigil for ships
that have already forgotten
who showed them
how to navigate the dark.

Still,
each dusk,
I light the lamp.

Not for them

— but for the promise
I once made
to every drifting soul:

If ever you are lost again,
I will still be here.
Here at Galatine Cove.

Waiting.
Unforgotten,
even if only
by the sea.

when you are old

Editorial Team — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 00:39:29 +0100

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

More information on William Butler Yeats

Mother

yoonoos peerbocus — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 23:09:32 +0100

I live in the absence
you left behind,
that absence
wafts me your scent
and with it
prattling words heard
from passed time;
I have given up long ago,
their era is over.
I see sometimes dust
of your years rising
where I used to play
with you and slow time-
now
watching me from a place
untouched by the sun.
My love for you
did not perish with your shroud,
it stays behind
though now of a sadder hue,
while I grow in the silence
you replenish me with.
How sometimes you walk
beside me or sit with me
and talk together
or be silent
listening
the sound of a babe sucking
and tender little heels
shuffling nearby.
It's real, it's love!

M Y S E L F ?

KYREUS of Sweden — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 18:38:58 +0100

Cant be - me?

Ephelion

Chaucer Whethers — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 17:42:50 +0100

Essence time perfumes

Coronal halos enclose

Momentary thoughts

ahmud — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 17:24:43 +0100

THOSE WHO SAY

ken d williams — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 09:01:55 +0100

Thear who say:
'' I nothing to write about! ''
Are their eyes blind sited?
Are they clothed eard?
When alrwnd them are storys
Thear are cheriters, oh so many!
Awaiteing to be writen down!
See a man a woman a child!
Biogapheys, blank pages, canvace!
Storys to be given!

Daly events beging to be writ down
Short, calling to be elarged, paded out some
Some peple, chating as you pass them by
You over hear part of their conversatan!
Thou you did overhear the begining, and not overhear the ending!
You can still, overcome that, bring in your fertile emgernashan
In to play!

You, we, have so much to write yet!

ken d williams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

Reference Surfaces

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 08:31:59 +0100

widowed again

anonface — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 02:52:36 +0100

The hive demanded
thunder, weight, and heat,

A golden drone
with lightning in his feet.

But every pulse within
was programmed for the "sting,"

Until the scurrilous web
dissolved his every thing.

She is the widow,
patient in the shade,

A "mechanical octopus"
of silk and blade.

🐝

Sparks

Artorius — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 02:15:46 +0100

In the clash of two swords
Where they both meet
Like strucken chords
Creating such heat

Sparks light my path
They ignite my wrath
And a sick thrill
Comes after every kill

A battle is what I live for
I always hunger for more
And as sparks illuminate my soul
They fill the gaping hole

Sparks are fleeting
Often leaving me in the dark
And so, to keep my heart beating
On my journey I quickly embark

Now I wield my sword for me
Never again for thee

wildflowers

jim — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 23:35:57 +0100

primal slitherer, hunter of wellness

insidious

infiltrator of dreams

from which there is no escape

helpless

in the paralysis of sleep

flick terror upon innocents, fork trauma

upon innocence

in silence but for the hiss—cease!

were there gods and goddesses

i would sacrifice

and supplicate and sing—sow my nightmares

with wildflowers, transform evil to eden

before the fall, before deviltry

WELCOME AUGUST 2026 BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 18:56:29 +0100

Here comes August, and we open a new page on the calendar.
Welcome August, you surprised us with good weather.
I hope you stay like this, not too warm, not too cold.
The gardens smell of ripe fruit and blooming flowers.
Today I sat in the garden and enjoyed the good weather and my favourite book.

foam-born of the Bay

arquious — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 18:35:12 +0100

"Galateus, Foam‑Born of the Bay"

Before the Bay learned

to whisper its poems,
before the first quill
was dipped in brine,
there was only the sky
and the sea
and the wound between them.

When Kronos carved open Ouranos,
Time split the heavens,
and the fallen god
bled into the waves.

The sea shuddered,
and from its trembling skin
rose Aphros,
the bright foam of creation.

From that foam
a shape gathered

—not yet god,
not yet human,
but a soft white presence
like breath on a mirror.

A nymph found him,
unnamed,
wandering the surf
as if searching for a memory
he had never lived.

She cupped him in her palms
as though holding
the last fragile moment
before a dream dissolves.

She called him Galateus,
for he shone like milk‑white spume
and vanished just as easily.

He grew in her care,
learning the language of tides,
the patience of rock,
the sorrow of gulls
who circle what is lost.

But foam is a temporary miracle.
Even the gods know this.

When the Bay filled
with new voices,
new children of the tide,
Galateus showed them
how to rise, how to shape

both their hurt and joy
into something that floats,
how to hear the sea
without mistaking every ripple
for ruin.

They loved him
while they needed him.

And when their sails strengthened,
when their words sharpened,
when their storms calmed,
they drifted outward
toward brighter harbours.

Galateus remained
in the quiet cove
where the nymph first found him,
feeling Time —
Kronos —
gnaw at his edges
like a slow tide
undoing a sandcastle.

He knew what he was:
foam born of tragedy,
a mentor made of impermanence,
a figure meant to dissolve
once his work was done.

Still,
each dawn,
he rises from the surf
in whatever shape remains,
waiting for any lost soul
who might wander back
to the cove where they began.

For though foam forgets itself,
the sea remembers everything.

A Soul That\'s Hungry and Never Well-Fed

Ngoc Nguyen — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 18:24:41 +0100

A soul that's hungry and never well-fed,
is always searching for something much greater,
a great love whose meaning is ne'er misread,
or destiny whose time arrives much later.

In God and thee I find a hopeful fate,
a future that restores a quiet grace,
and moments in time's endless, flowing state;
where I embrace your beauty's radiant face.

But if the heavens and the stars above,
and all the world were drowned in seas of gloom,
my lines still live forever in thee, my love,
beyond end of days, beyond even doom!

If love transcends all seasons and all times,
then your spring lives on in all of my rhymes.

God

Albert Vynckier — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 14:43:38 +0100

Dieu est le plus grand
Dieu est infini
donc
Dieu seul suffit...
pour certains qui font tout sans croire
en Dieu
Dieu est tout mais
Dieu ne suffit pas !

God is great
God is infinite
therefore
God is everything and
God should suffice
For some, who don't believe in God
God is not enough...

The Lost Children

jim — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 14:19:11 +0100

I knew where they were, beneath the spreading limbs

of the towering pine, among the fallen cones,

though when I thought to look,

I couldn’t find them,

thought it odd

the older folks didn’t know.

It was too awful to imagine— them cold and hungry or dead,

snatched or vanishing slowly, absorbed into the humus.

Instead, I thought of fidgety babies, diapered, feet kicking,

on a bed of soft needles, waiting to be picked up.

Borrowed Breaths

sagi — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 12:30:47 +0100

So the old lady
with an impressive
fight in her soul
is no more!
Whom I got to know
thirty minutes in each go,
spanning over months
Where at instances
she would tell me her pain
and other times her fears.
I would try to piece together
some fragments of her being
Or remove few more furrows
off of her worried face.
Now that she is gone
her face is now etched
finding her way to the wall
where few more reside
like her.
and she will be remembered
through all those who follow her,
with borrowed smiles
and borrowed breaths.

Wrong Turns

Clara Mae Gregory — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 12:27:01 +0100

Don't take love's wrong turn

You will be screwed if you do

Don't follow your heart

It turns on a fickle dime

Leaving the dust of its crime

MY BOOK

ken d williams — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 07:54:30 +0100

My book - The Dyclexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet
My hope is that The Book, will enspier dyslexs
Will explopore, theire their potenshal that
Lays with each in one of us!
Also to enspier, the pearants of dycelexics
To help and suport, thiking, saying:
'' He (me!), can write a book of poetry
Then , just what can I do, you do! ''
Now lets find out what can I do, you can do! ''

ken d williams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

arquious — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 23:24:44 +0100

"muse's query"

A minor muse looked up,

tired of marble and metre,

then asked, simply,

“Do you burn because you cannot speak,

or because you have never been asked to?”

A thimble of thoughts within a muddled mind

Alan J Ripley — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 23:14:46 +0100

Just a collection of misplaced word's,
In a befuddled mind, Written down,
For no reason or a rhythm

Lightning speaks with forked tongue.

Just heard that I can buy a t-rex skeleton from lego,
Somehow I doubt that it's real....
But at least they would have,
The building blocks for life.

Are we living within an omnipotent brain?
Just one of his neurons firing up again.
Would that explain the cosmos;
Or am I just insane, Or is that just a sign,
Of an incredible credible muddled mind.

Actionable Choice

Sona — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 21:17:47 +0100

Practise is action.
Verbs of state of being.
Verbs of state of action.
Let there be no tug of war
between these two.
To never feel stuck
To never have to
find yourself in flight-fright or freeze mode.
Maybe thats what Gandhi
and his path is all about.

He was always in action
-in movement-in retreat.

May be thats what Yoga is also
about
- let your attention move
and be with it.

It will take you places.

My Son

Sona — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 20:54:52 +0100

I found my
son today-
another one from mine.

How else do you address
a handsome young man
who badly needs a space
to call his own
away from everywhere else
and from everyone
who tug on him.

He is lost in the world of words
- a world more unsafe
than the fictitous world.
He is adrift in the real world,
you see,
where people use words as
paddles to reach him
but to take him
further into the abyss.

He has forever known them
and he feels safe with them
without really
fathoming the space he is in.

People at the shore call out
to him but thats a strange place
for a few reasons.

I flew like a bird
near him
and asked him to feel free
and be in a space
where he could just be
-away from the world of words
of others or his own
and just be.

Just this much Son
as i wait for you
to hug you.

Just that.

WELCOME TO ENGLAND TO MY NEPHEW BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:33:03 +0100

Welcome to England, Tsvetin.
I hope you enjoyed the trip to Rome, and that the flights were smooth and without any accidents?
I hope you enjoy the tours of London, Reading, Oxford, and the other places we will go with you and Grandma Tsveti.

LAST DAY OF JULY 2026 BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:28:47 +0100

Here goes July, and another leaf falls from the calendar.
July was quite hot, but also full of good moments and memories.
My brother was born in July, and so was my great nephew.
Goodbye and see you again July, you are welcome, but August is here.
Hopefully, August will be kinder to us.

AMAZING PEEPOL

ken d williams — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:07:57 +0100

Two amazing peepol
Who creaited an amazing
Book of my work!
Thank you Zelda and Jack

ken d willimas

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

The worm has turned. The gullible seagull.

Alan J Ripley — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 15:01:16 +0100

There was this one seagull,
That found he liked to swing.
So he tap danced on grass,
As he started to sing.

Now a wiggling worm
Hearing the music,
With the beat of the feet,
Climbed up through the earth,
To listen to it.

Now the seagull you see,
Was much cleverer than he.
For he knew With him dancing,
A worm would come up and see.

Now the poor worm that wriggled,
Was now in seagulls beak.
Realising his predicament,
Had to think on his imaginary feet.

Please Mr seagull before you eat me,
I only came up on the ground to see.
A talented seagull sing and dance so free,
Your tapping feet to and singing,
Sounds and looks amazing to me.

Do you think Mr seagull,
That you could put me down.
So I can watch you sing and dance,
While I'm sitting on the ground.

With that he put the worm down,
The worm slowly looked around.
Saw the seagull tap dancing,
Then smiled at his singing,
As he hurriedly slipped back underground.

If I made it, what does It Matter?

Kee Zealy — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 11:53:31 +0100

Some days

Sona — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 10:38:40 +0100

There are some days
when i miss you
and then
there are some days
when i miss you more.

The feeling comes
like how morning fog
reigns Delhi winters
- sudden but all pervasive.

On such days
i do not know
how to go about my days
except for
tuning my heartbeats here
to your footsteps elsewhere.

Engravings

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 09:54:49 +0100

PLEASE DON\'T GIVE ME MORNINGS LIKE THIS!

Griffonner — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 09:03:43 +0100

Please don't give me mornings like this!
The mist I see in the Summer air
Has travelled Ninety-Seven Kilometers
And there is no mistaking it is smoke.
So acrid that before going in my garden
I have to reach for a breathing mask.

What the hell are we doing to this planet?
I'm older by another year this week yet
Every way my still agile brain computes
To seek an answer for the needed resolution
I see avariscious people hoarding money
In preference to taking remedial action.

People who would rather be themselves in power
Than recognise this is a man-made Earth condition.
People who have the power to switch from oil
But would rather not upset the richer people
People who won't change the way they generate
The power that powers the electronic world.

People who have such plans for artificial schemes
So all consuming as to steal water from the poor
And starve them of their costly energy
In favour of another so called intelligence
An intelligence that is actually so idiotic
That it is stealing essentials for human life.

Please don't give me mornings like this
Where at only half past nine ay em
It is too hot to stay in my garden
And I am forced by smoke and drying heat
To barracade my doors and windows
To not be cooked alive. Please don't
Give me mornings like this.

Albert Vynckier — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 05:14:42 +0100

Tightening

Melinda K Zarate — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 04:14:18 +0100

Control is an illusion.

Fear is misplaced when the world is spinning,
and we think tightening the reins,
imposing strict guidelines,
curfews, and rigid protocols,
will set things right.

We try to calm the chaos by demanding
dominance over this one life.
Driven by love, or perhaps by fear,
the need to control
will never grant the peace you seek.

Respect cannot be ordered.
It is earned.
Neither a title
nor the blood coursing through veins
will ever be enough.

Children are meant to be free
to find their way,
to learn from their own mistakes.
If you control their choices,
their wings are clipped.

You may think you have won,
kept them safe,
and preserved your beliefs
with your endless wills and will-nots.
Forced order benefits you.

But in the end, you have lost.
Respect is not a game to win.
It is an honor to be earned.
To demand it only turns
love into resentment.

the shallow trench of your stride

arquious — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 16:55:21 +0100

"the shallow trench of your stride"

Blessed be the weight of your heel

upon the scree,

you who crossed the salt-flats

before the rains came back.

The air still curls

in the shape of your breathing;

the stones you overturned

are still cooling in the wind.

I do not know your name,

nor the house of your kin,

but I walk

in the shadow of your passing.

Brazil is evolved enough for me.

Albert Vynckier — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 15:32:23 +0100

Why don't you go live in Brazil?
You are not evolved enough to live in Belgium.
Knowledge and your inner self do not go well together.
I want my blonde*! This is my merit,
this is the prize with which this city has honored me,
so that I may belong to the National Gene Bank of Belgium (NGBofB).
But why don't you marry someone from your own clan?
Or better yet, someone from the opposite clan,
to forge new alliances while fostering peace and power?

*i was in a fine dining restaurant and an apparently educated person told me that, I believed he thought, I was so superficial ! of course, I don't have any others informations to make up my mind

SAFE JOURNEY TO UK BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 12:49:28 +0100

Have a smooth and safe flight to London, England, mother and Tsvetin.
I am waiting for you to come home and hug you.
I miss you very much, my dears, and I love you.
With love, light and peace, forever yours, Ann.

Day Castles

Chaucer Whethers — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 12:00:07 +0100

Where Life may be Death

People cast out into The Street

To live without breath

Whilst they in castles are replete

With all of the good things

This world may supply

For who pulls the strings

To make them all die

Bright trinkets and baubles

Cast as idols of worship

Despite massive troubles

Passing thoughts are but a trip

Into an eternal forever

Where light angels sing and play

Far from the fiendishly smart clever

Creatures stealing life away

The Heart

Nils Teodor — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 10:36:48 +0100

"The principal characteristic of genuine happiness is peace: inner peace."

His holiness the 14th Dalai Lama (Born 1934) Tibet

"The mind should be a vastness like the sky.

Mental events should be allowed to disperse like clouds.

Longchenpa (1308-1363), Tibet

Simply stop.

Let all words drop

In the timeless song of silence

there is a mountain of stillness so full of life

A sky of presence untouched by clouds

When when is no more

only here is the core

nearer than near

so wonderfully clear

The boundless Rose of joy

is dis-covered as the true Heart

from which you are never apart

Silent knowing is peacefully glowing

The dawn of wisdom breaks the night

In delight enjoy being the light

simply as it

Bodies

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 09:22:32 +0100

If Bob Dylan were to step out
of an old Volvo
in the parking lot
at Willys in Boden,
he would just be an ordinary body,
an old man's body,
making his way
with some effort
over to the shopping carts,
pulling one free,
and disappearing
into the entrance hole
of the discount store

If Putin came stumbling along
with a walker
outside Biltema
at Storheden,
looking for
a cheap coffee
and an urgent piss,
he would just be
a small body,
gray and ugly,
utterly uninteresting,
among a soon-to-be-erased crowd
of old bastards
and old bitches.

The Great Thermodynamics

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 07:57:03 +0100

O, Muse Divine! Guide Thou My Soul and Pen

Ngoc Nguyen — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 07:21:07 +0100

O, Muse divine! guide thou my soul and pen,
inspire me to divine song and rhythm,
to sing tales of Greek gods and thewy men,
now carved in ancient, history-bending prism.

Grant me Apollo's sky-searing chariot,
so like a scorching sun that sears the earth,
I may ascend to heights of poet's fame,
in Mount Parnassus's sacred, watery hearth.

But if divine impulse thou must withhold,
then may my measure's rhyme not be forsaken,
and instead may thy grace for me unfold,
so words of gold and gems be not untaken.

O Muse! Let me drink from the Pierian springs,
so thy sweet strains might move both gods and kings.

Lose Your Crown

Jamsbo Rockda — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 04:00:06 +0100

sparrows

one trick pony — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 03:08:11 +0100

marketa reads in the evenings

i like to walk

it's too hot, too smokey

park paths too worn

too tired

maybe it's the new norm

i wish myself down the coast

big sur

redwoods, slip back in time

a different paradigm

healthier

less fractious, was it less fractious

i look out the window

watch the sparrows across the street

chicks fledged a month ago

remnants

of the nest in the v of the cvs sign

chicks indistinguishable

from the adults

urban dwellers seeking what we all seek

sustenance, shelter, one another

thriving in the city

one big, happy, flighty, squabbling family

figuring it out, making it work

hardscrabble

opportunistic, persistent

i'm tempted to say unflappable

but i won't, i will say inspirational

colin tells a story

he's ten

a new bb gun

he shoots a sparrow

kills it

the immensity of the act

burrows into his psyche

two and half

decades later he recounts the event

as if it happened an hour ago

says

hardly a drop of blood

a life lesson

less so for the sparrow