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flowerytale · 2 years

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John Keats, from "Isabella, or the Pot of Basil" (published in 1820)

#john keats #keats #poetry #poem #narrative poem #typo #typography #words #quote #quotes #fragments #*

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the-sound-ofrain · 1 year

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I walked out of the house,

found a dime,

looked at the time,

"Oh dayum, it's 9",

Should I keep this? not the dime,

the rhyme,

Well, the poem's mine, so that's not a crime.

I did a toss,

Heads: I go to the coffee house first.

Tails: I take a bus and hear the screams of my boss.

Well, I slapped my head and uttered:"You think too much, Ross."

tip-toed to get a cappuccino,

ran to the shop across the street,

Ah ! the lady in white satin—

well, the dime was right,

*sighs again* Oh! gosh.

I sat at a table in front of her,

watching her satiny hands holding the spoon stir.

the waiter comes up and asks,

"what would you like to have, monsieur?"

I smiled and replied,

"what she's having, that's the thing I would prefer."

I waited,

but the hasty legs wouldn't stop playing clavier.

her lips enveloped around the edge of the cup.

with the bell of the church ringing in the background.

i felt god answer my prayer.

she raised her pupils while sipping,

my heartbeat joined the hasty legs

& sung a song about death stare.

She smiled, looking at me like a squirrel.

I made a move towards her in the midst of my inner quarrel.

She offered her hands,

My head bowed down in respect,

planted a kiss, revived chivalry.

after that, my lips all felt floral.

We exchanged names.

Ah, the dreamy me,Ross weds Eurus.

she pinched me with a kiddish smile,

brought me back to reality,

I realised we were walking on the road,not the aisle.

I switched sides and started walking on the outer part.

she noticed the caring me & I said to myself,

"That's a good start."

she got scared and held my hands when a prankster screamed,

her fingers filled the gap between mine,

the way life keeps breathing under the shelter of art,

her open hairs being teased by winds,

the sun chasing her grim,

rest of the world cherishing the walking springs,

I felt like the luckiest man alive.

I won't lie;

I promised my mother to stay sober

but her eyes served espresso like the finest drink.

---apollo---

#narrative poem #old school poets.#poetry is life #tumblr poetry #poets academia #desi dark academia

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sweet-somethings · 13 days

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Poison hearts pump acid Through corrosive, dying veins Wisdom spills from blue lips Shared hopefully, in vain The spectre of a dead girl Holds a bedside wake As the malignant blight Becomes too much to take Her lover comes to join her In the dreary afterlife Where she bleeds eternally From wounds made by his knife

- Bug, #291

#291 #my writing #poetry #spilled thoughts #sweet somethings #writing #poem #poet #spilled ink #spilled feelings #writer #narrative poem

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sea-dwelling-wizard · 1 month

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heavenly

Heavenly shall the gazers of stars be

when the Divines smile upon their generosity.

the First shall give himself to the Moon.

he shall receive the highest boon;

become an empty shell.

his tormentors shall burn in the Forsaken’s Hell.

the Second shall give himself to the Sun;

he shall find solace in the dark, for it will not be bothersome.

Divine his eyes shine, the Sun’s glow—

in his veins, godly magic shall flow.

the Third shall give herself to the Northern Star;

pitiful will her fate be, the survivor of a Divine War.

is it punishment, the attention from those otherworldly?

or is it just praiseworthy?

as for those, the Last—

the Eleven cry their…victory? or is it a loss?

which fate awaits them?

the gift of a Divine, or a smile from Heaven?

beneath the waves, within those souls;

in all the sea’s opulence, the Abyss begins to howl.

on that sunset will he sing,

shall the strings of a liar’s lyre ring.

in her eyes was the light of a thousand stars.

in her soul was the misery of a thousand wars.

Heavenly their Fates be;

through the mist rises the sword of Honesty.

#something i wrote to hype myself up about the series i'm working on!#there are no canon prophecies as of now #just a rumour amongst the gods #but we'll see >:]#my poetry #original poem #my writing #writeblr #narrative poem #prophecy #writers on tumblr

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andileighwrites · 1 year

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Little Wanderer

...

While out and about one day I saw a little boy no older than two. He waddled, low to the ground, Seemingly lost. The discovery to walk must have Been a recent milestone. His baby blanket was hooked firmly In his little hand while his other thumb Was fastened in his mouth. His eyes, so big, seemed empty except For the thought of his mother. At least that's what I believe a two-year-old Would be thinking about. Then his dear mother appeared In a flash from the crowd. All eyes watching. Her face was lightning As her little boy wandered and fell behind. Her thundering palm met the back of his head And tears welled up in his darling eyes. She reached down and yanked him forward. His feet departed the floor. "Keep up with me!" "Hurry up! You're slow!" She scolded him, snarling, While she dragged him behind her. Then she released his small arm As if he could fend for himself. His pace could not keep up With his mother's strides. But she yelled like it was no fault But his own. I wish she would've just picked him up And cradled him the way he deserves.

...

Andi Leigh

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muadweeb · 1 year

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HAROLD IN CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE BY LORD BYRON

ROBERT BARATHEON IN A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE BY GEORGE R R MARTIN

#lord byron #childe harold's pilgrimage #narrative poem #asoiaf #robert baratheon #valyrianscrolls #valyriansource #robert baratheon is MY byronic hero sorry #a song of ice and fire

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feacrow · 3 months

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Grown up

Why is your heart so very cold More icy than the snow To what devil have you sold The warmth and happy glow

That you had as a child It was so great to see Sun seemed darker when you smiled Where's who you used to be?

#poem #poetry #poets on tumblr #english #english poetry #narrative poem #feacrowpoetry #writeblr

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visgrapplinghooks · 9 months

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Left Behind

There was a muttering creek at the edge of the yard, Father said he never wanted to put a fence up, Our yard was the animals' long before it was ours.

My sister Shelly and I would play there every day, We'd play where the creek met the woods behind, And dip our toes in the water, feeling the bed of clay.

It was on such a day as this that Shelly saw her, A girl of long black hair, in the woods past the creek, Her voice was faint, but it sounded like laughter.

Her gaze met ours and I could feel her eyes smile, Yet neither of us came any closer to the other, We would continue to see her every once in a while.

It was months later when Shelly broke the spell, She crossed the creek for the very first time, as did I, From deep within the forest we heard a knell.

The girl with black hair and the smiling eyes, For once, I could get a closer look at her, Her skin looked rough and coarse, her face likewise.

She was a small and scrawny thing, Unlike me, who seemed to almost tower over her, And her hair was like thin little strings.

Wordlessly, she led us deeper into the woods, Further away from the creek and from home, Never speaking a word, we somehow understood.

We came across an old well in the woods, Made of stone brick, seemingly centuries old, Surrounded by clusters of monkshood.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong, The girl seemed anxious and tittered about, Shelly did not want her unease to prolong.

She offered her help and offered her aid, The girl indicated the cost was far too much, Little did we know, the price was paid.

The girl stared deep into the well's darkness, As if seeing something only she could see, Then turned to face us, face in deep distress.

We were led back to where the woods met the creek, Seemingly, our adventure had come to a close, Of that girl, we never saw another peek.

We would come to the edge for every day after, Hoping to catch another glimpse of the girl, But we would never again hear her laughter.

Shelly tried to cross the creek to the woods, But every time she tried, the currents raised, As if the creek was warning us in what way it could.

We would eventually stop playing by the creek, Our wonder gave way to melancholy, All that was left of her was a memory.

Many years later and Shelly and I drifted apart, It is as some siblings do, though sad, I look at the woods and feel a well in my heart.

As of late, I've taken to watching the sky, On purple nights like this, I still think of her, I still think of the girl that we left behind.

#creative writing #writing #poetry #poem #poems #writers of tumblr #writerblr #verse story #short story #verse short story #narrative poem #mystery poetry #wistful #long poem #writing community #fiction #poetic fiction #fictional poetry #fiction poem

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justjozzyjitters · 10 months

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Old Poem #96

"It wasn't them"

“It’s not you, It’s them,” He says, Like she always had, Blaming himself, As he kneels before her, Pulling her ever closer, The puddy in his hands.

“It’s not you,” she’d say, Taking a slight step closer to the edge, He’s the king, And her his knight, One step more between them, Edging on not reaching, Her palm– sweaty and itchy, The lifeline of only which he has found to cope.

“I love you,” he’d say, Pulling her closer again, Grasping her fingertip, As she points away from them into the abyss, He turns her back to him, And she drops her hand.

“I love you,” she says, On one lone night, Following it briefly with “goodbye,” She goes to the depths of her own head, The place of which, In his head alike, He had suspected, She has never been.

And so he pulled her down, A stool and a rope, Letting her limply down to the ground, And in lying his head against her things, Is Content despite the silence, Of his one brave night, A restoration of balance, Between the king and his one brave knight.

“It wasn’t you,” She says on her regained breath, “But now, it wasn’t them.” He looks back at her glumbly, As she ceases to speak, Refuses to meet his gaze, Or to even wipe away the tears he can simply not seem to keep at bay.

“Don’t do that again,” He commands, “Didn’t you know you could talk to me?” “You are more that just a knight,” “To me, you are all that is right.” All that is right in the king’s eyes, As yet again there he goes, Making it all about him.

About 2022, age 18.

#narrative poem #my poetry #old poetry #toxic love #love poems

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sassysadisticsarcasms · 10 months

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If there are plenty of fish in the sea