Lost Poems
Heaven
by Steve Turner
What happens in heaven?
Will I sit on a cloud?
Is walking or talking
Or jumping allowed?
Will I be on my own
Or with some of my friends?
Does it go on for ever
Or eventually end?
......
An Open Shut Case
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
I was an experienced interior designer, whose specialty was outer doors,
Ever opening to amber sunshine, as petals open, when vivid beams pour.
Functionality and beauty were very vital, so I helped customers each day,
To choose materials, colors and styles, like modish spring's latest display.
I adored inspecting the final product, and its impact on the whole house;
As butterflies, greenery and blue skies, incite rapture for motley crowds.
Opaque doors always fascinated me, being portals of frenzy and mystery.
......
Disabled
by Wilfred Owen
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
......
Centrifuge
by Dean Young
It might have been midnight when last we talked
and now I've got this poem that keeps flying
apart which accounts under these xenophobic stars
for all force: gravity, magnetism wind, the ling-
ering of a kiss, a judo throw although
there's yet to be a single formula for it.
Save us from single formulas. One room
smells like ash, another smells like fruitcake.
......
The Prospector
by Robert William Service
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.
I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
......
An Open Shut Case
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
I was an experienced interior designer, whose specialty was outer doors,
Ever opening to amber sunshine, as petals open, when vivid beams pour.
Functionality and beauty were very vital, so I helped customers each day,
To choose materials, colors and styles, like modish spring's latest display.
I adored inspecting the final product, and its impact on the whole house;
As butterflies, greenery and blue skies, incite rapture for motley crowds.
Opaque doors always fascinated me, being portals of frenzy and mystery.
......
lost in him
by Reagan M
where he goes
I follow
towards locked doors
and through endless empty hallways
whatever he says
I listen
from intricate truths
to the simplest of lies
......
My Prison Door!
by Vera Rice
Who am I? I really don't know who my real self is, I have been locked up inside of myself with no way of escaping and no way to cry out for help either. Because my voice won't work and nobody can hear it, because it's buried really deep inside of me.
My real self has been locked up all my life, I never got to meet my real self. My family saw something inside of me that must have scared them because they were the ones who locked up my real self. They even gave me rules to obey and follow without asking any questions, the first rule I learned was 'you are not allowed to feel anything.'
It still sometimes feels like it applies even now, then the worst thing happened to me it was the day my prison door was shut and locked forever. I can never escape it because I don't have the power, then I found out that it was only going to get even more horrible for me.
My family gave me a title that I don't want and I despise it whole heartily, that title is 'I'm a good girl who does what she's told.' I have tried to escape many times over the years but to no avail, they always found me and returned me to my prison. Even now they still make sure that my prison door is safely locked, I don't think my family wants me to become one with my real self.
I think their sacred of my real self that's why they locked her up, I can hear her screaming to be set free from my prison door. I everyone sees is really just a shell of my real self, that my family locked away and threw the key away.
I think their sacred that if my real self was set free because they wouldn't be in control of me anymore. They wouldn't be able to manipulate me anymore either like they have been doing to my shell of my real self all my life.
My family would lose their personal playtoy and that makes them scared of my real self if she ever got free of my prison door that they locked her up in.
By: Vera Rice
Foghorn
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
I was an inscrutable, capricious mystery writer, like a pure mystery of days;
And I had composed best selling novels, like westering sun's scarlet phase.
An unparalleled passion for writing, had for quite long been the motivation,
Behind novels which captured hearts, like pink clouds, drifting in formation.
My office desk faced the picture window, near the border of riotous blooms;
And sunny views enriched often eager eyes, owing to birds of many plumes.
Friends were a forever force in my life, like the natural floods of floundering,
......
She Has To Choose
by Frangipani Retrograde
There was a girl
Turned 23 last year
Only a year ago
She knew something had to change
So she wracked her brain
Looked for an answer
Her river of hope ran dry
They all turned a blind eye
......
-
-
-
Edwin Arlington Robinson (30 poems about Lost)
22 December 1869 – 6 April 1935 / Maine / United States -
-
-
-
-
-
-