Tag Archives: Poetry

Poem: Pillow Thoughts

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When my head hits the pillow at night,
And darkness surrounds me, a blanket of night.
My mind starts to wander, thoughts swirling around,
Echoing loudly, without any sound.

The day’s events replay in my head,
The things I should’ve done, the words I should’ve said.
Regrets and worries, they creep in with ease,
Robbing me of sleep, denying me peace.

But amidst the chaos, a glimmer of light,
Memories surface, bringing comfort and might.
Moments of laughter, of love and of cheer,
Reminding me that joy is always near.

I think of my loved ones, their faces so dear,
And know that their presence will always be here.
Their support and their kindness, a strength I can’t deny,
Helping me face each day, helping me try.

So when my head hits the pillow at night,
And the world seems to fade, a canvas of white.
I’ll embrace the stillness, the quiet so sweet,
And let my heart and mind finally meet.

For in this moment, when all else is still,
I find the answers, the peace, and the will.
To face the next day, with courage and grace,
Knowing that tomorrow is a brand new place.

Poem: The Simple Joys of Childhood

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I sometimes tell BB & GG that I had a better childhood than them. While the two of them did not grow up with technology like the children of today, they were exposed to it at a much younger age. My father was in IT, so I was exposed to technology much earlier than my peers, but our childhood was one that was free of pretty much all technology, with the exception of the radio and some television. Today’s poem is a throwback to that simple time, when life was about playing and enjoying life!

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The Simple Joys of Childhood

In the days of the eighties and nineties’ embrace,
Where childhood was golden, a magical place,
No internet buzz or smart device calls,
Just laughter and sunshine, and echoes in halls.

Mornings with cartoons, a bowl full of cheer,
Saturday wonders, so simple and dear,
Riding bikes freely, till the streetlights came on,
With scraped knees and smiles, till daylight was gone.

Secret societies and letters sent through the mail,
Whispered secrets and an adventurous tale,
Skipping rope rhythms, hopscotch on chalk,
Endless games played on sidewalks of talk.

Library visits, the scent of old books,
Adventures in pages, with longing looks,
Trading cards, stickers, and marbles in hand,
Simple treasures cherished, in a world unplanned.

Climbing up trees, feeling the breeze,
Catching fireflies with effortless ease,
Running through sprinklers, laughter in flight,
Campfire stories that flickered in the night.

Handwritten letters passed in the class,
Notes folded neatly, with whispers that last,
Ice cream truck melodies, coins in races,
Chasing the music, with joy on our faces.

Friendships were forged in the simplest of ways,
Shared in the parks, on long summer days,
Hide and seek giggles, and tag’s playful chase,
In a world of pure wonder, an innocent space.

No screens to distract, no digital chase,
Just the pure, simple joys of a slower-paced race,
In the heart of the eighties and nineties delight,
Childhood was magic, in the purest of light.

Poem: Beauty lies in the eyes of the Beholder

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In the eyes of the beholder, beauty is found,
A prism of visions where judgments are crowned,
What one may see plain, another sees gold,
For beauty, my dear, is a story retold.

A petal in bloom, a star in the night,
A whisper of wind, the softest of light,
To one, a mere moment; to another, divine,
Each gaze is unique, and and each heart intertwines.

An ancient oak tree, gnarled and wise,
Its rough bark is a testament, under open skies,
Some see it as weathered, old and uncouth,
Others find magic in its ageless truth.

A smile with a gap, a laugh full of mirth,
A soul that finds joy in the simplest of earth,
Not perfect by standards, yet perfect in kind,
Beauty resides in the eye and the mind.

For mirrors can’t capture the depths of the soul,
Nor portraits define what makes us whole,
It’s the lens of the heart that colors the view,
In the eyes of the beholder, all things are true.

So cherish your visions, the ones that you keep,
For beauty is vast, and endlessly deep,
In the eye of the beholder, where dreams take their flight,
Every glance holds a wonder, every gaze, pure delight.

Poem: Solitude

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I am someone who loves being alone. I love days when there is noone at home and I can revel in the solitude. This poem is an ode to those days of solitude…

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Solitude

In the stillness of a quiet room,
Where shadows dance and thoughts consume,
Solitude whispers, a gentle embrace,
A sanctuary found, a sacred space.

No voices echo, no footsteps tread,
Just the silent hum of thoughts unsaid,
In solitude’s arms, the world grows still,
A tranquil haven where dreams fulfill.

The outside clamour fades away,
As solitude invites the heart to stay,
To wander through fields of introspection,
To seek the soul’s quiet reflection.

In the hush of this serene retreat,
The mind finds solace, the spirit is replete,
There is no need for words or human touch,
For solitude’s company is just as much.

Here, the heart can freely roam,
In its vast expanse, it calls its own,
To ponder mysteries, to contemplate,
In solitude, the soul does elevate.

It’s a dance of shadows, a silent song,
Where solitude’s presence feels so strong,
A friend to those who seek its grace,
A refuge found in this quiet place.

In solitude, the self is known,
A time to cherish, a time to own,
The depth of being, the quiet profound,
In solitude’s silence, true peace is found.

So, fear not the quiet, nor the alone,
For in solitude’s realm, the heart has grown,
A tapestry of thoughts, so pure, so wide,
In the embrace of solitude, we find our guide.

Poem: The Calling

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A few years ago, I wrote a poem about being an avid reader and have now decided to write one from the writer’s perspective. Why do I write? Read on to know…

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The Calling

The words, they beckon from within,
A siren’s song that won’t give in.
They dance and swirl, a restless tide,
Demanding that I be their guide.

This burning need, this endless ache,
To put pen to paper, thoughts to make.
To craft a world, to paint a scene,
To give these voices life, pristine.

For writing is my truest bliss,
My raison d’être, my life’s abyss.
Without this craft, this sacred art,
I’d wither, lost, with a broken heart.

The page, my canvas, waits for me,
Inviting me to set words free.
To weave a tale, to sing a song,
That carries readers along.

So I will heed this inner call,
This driving force is what drives us all.
I’ll write until my dying day,
For writing is the only way.