Heads of yellow lion's teeth

Are crouching on the lawn

Their color summons children

Will the children pluch the heads away

For necklaces or bitter tea?

Or will their father's pushmower chop off the heads

And make him think that the beast is killed?

But this is just a pipe dream

For the beast shall never die

For ten grow in the place

Of every head you chop away

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is inspired by the fact that the word "dandelion" comes from the French "dent de lion" which means teeth of the lion.

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"I See Potential"

by Jeph Johnson


I see


in a lot of


not yet
ready for me.


by the time
they are


they are
already with
someone else

Author's Notes/Comments: 


View daddyo's Full Portfolio



You think you are high and mighty

You think you are so smart

What you don't know is the joke is on you

And has been from the start

You always thought you were the best

Personally,I think you are no better than any of the rest

If I could let you know just what I think

I'd tell you your heartless and you attitude stinks

So I lift my glass to you, you lousy jerk

I hope you die alone, poor ,and out of work!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is for everyone that uses people.

View mendy's Full Portfolio


In the beginning

Sunday morning, nice and scrubbed

Sunday heathens always snubbed

Sit-in rows and un-lended ear

Sunday Christians all give here

Sunday cars, all clean and gray

Sunday children may not play

Constricting clothes and spray on hair

Sunday women all will wear

Sunday smiles, neat and clean

Sunday mood; can't make a scene

Unbuckled belts and football games

Sunday dinner's still the same

Sunday eyes and hushed remarks

Sunday goes, the week embarks

Daily sins, no guilt to spare

Sunday comes with none laid bare

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in 2003 for high school creative writing class.  Poem was rejected by my instructor due to personal offense.  I did not attend a parochial school, but I may has well have.

View necifallen's Full Portfolio


In a round vase

her being moulds

to become womanhood.

Joy and grief,

enclose jars,

pitchers pots


she gives her

all to all.

Coloured dreams

all encase

worlds unseen


artist and brush

make her real


the tones blend

Adam's Eve?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Composed on April 4, 2002.

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Disguised Sorrow

Beautiful sea, of rushing, capped waves ~    

timeless sands awaits your love song.      

Within your depths dolphin's play.        

Above your waves ... they fly!              

Tell me, you forgive                        

the few of us                              

not seeing ~                                

your true                                  


Author's Notes/Comments: 

I just had to try this one more time! LOL  This form of writing intrigues me.  I love to paint a picture when I write- but to do it with each line fewer syllables than the line before, to me, is a real challenge.  Have you ever really thought of the sea?  We see, usually it's beauty always. Some of us refuse to see that with our neglect of its life and the carelesness of our ships to spill oil and dump rubbish ~ One day ~ What we all enjoy and take for granted, may not be there for us to behold. This form of writing is explained in my comments on Majestic Flight. ~Lesa~

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2002 Poetry

beware of what the Lips can do

it is the one who whispers to a

lass’s ear, luring and flirting

trying to make her surrender

it promises bright tomorrow

it can pick up the stars and the moon

and sew them like a gold necklace to offer

it can gather rain, lightning and thunder

it speaks of sweet measly murmurs

an irresistible bait sure to lure

it pronounces love when it means lust

and then when finally you gave in

when finally you returned his kiss

it will swiftly commute to gobbledygook

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Beware of flowery words

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The Gold he Gave Me

The gold he gave me glittered.

My, did it ever shine.

The gold that he had given me,

he told me it was mine.

So many things he gave,

it all led to my head.

The gold was all the teddy bears,

that lay upon my bed.

The gold consisted of money,

the gold that made me laugh.

I was sweet as honey,

Hiding all my wrath.

I loved the toys he bought me.

I tried never to treat him bad.

With everything he bought me,

I was never sad.

The gold he gave me glittered,

and sparkled my green eyes bright.

With all the jewels shining,

I never seen the light.

The gold he gave me shined,

but now we are apart.

The one thing he never gave me,

was the golden rays from his heart.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a true story.

View dyingpoetkr's Full Portfolio

The Bar


An old worn out woman, the age of 43,

spreads on her make-up,

very carefully.

Her bleach blond hair falls in front of her eyes.

She's trying to feel young again,

but the wrinkles she cannot hide.

Her cigarette continues to burn in her hand,

as she sits in a bar,

waiting for a man.

A husband, a boyfriend,

whatever comes first.

Or at least someone to cure her angry thirst.

She flirts with the Bartender,

who is at least 22,

as if there was something she was trying to prove.

Her short skirt was purple,

made out of suede.

Her blue eyes once beaming,

have now begun to fade.

I think she is lonely,

you can tell by her eyes.

I thought to myself,

"what is she trying to hide?"

When finally no one came to sit by her side,

she left the bar with long slow strides.

She had too much to drink,

and now was depressed.

as nobody but I,

watched as she left.

What a pitiful sight!

I can't believe what I just saw.

Then something came to me...

I was the one sitting at the bar.

She reflected an exact image of me.

Only that woman had the strength to leave.

She left with a memory I'll never forget.

I was the one who was just like her...

and now I am left alone.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this from another persons point of view. I was too young to go to a bar when I wrote this.

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