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The Seasons by E.F Hayward

The Seasons by E.F Hayward

by | Nov 21, 2025 | Life Poems, Nature Poems, Poems, Poetry

The Seasons

by E. F. Hayward

I love to watch the seasons change;
As Summer takes the throne from Spring,
So wonderful sublime and strange,
Each one its own sweet songs does sing.

It seems each one, in turn, is best;
Is gifted with some special grace;
Yet Summer fades, as have the rest,
And Autumn boldly takes its place.

This of the Four I hold most dear,
Would be content to have it stay;
But Winter comes to close the year,
And Autumn scenes must pass away.

Just so our lives; our childhood days
Are filled with joy, that's ne'er forgot;
And he is wise who simply says,
"I love them all," and murmurs not.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

by | Nov 17, 2025 | Female Poets, Poems, Poetry, Poets

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -
The Brain — is wider than the Sky

The Brain — is wider than the Sky

by | Nov 17, 2025 | Emily Dickinson, Female Poets, Poems, Poetry, Poets

The Brain — is wider than the Sky —
For — put them side by side —
The one the other will contain
With ease — and You — beside —

The Brain is deeper than the sea —
For — hold them — Blue to Blue —
The one the other will absorb —
As Sponges — Buckets — do —

The Brain is just the weight of God —
For — Heft them — Pound for Pound —
And they will differ — if they do —
As Syllable from Sound —

Friday’s at yours by Shannon

Friday’s at yours by Shannon

by | Nov 14, 2025 | Female Poets, Friday Poems, Poems, Poets

Friday’s at yours.
Friday's at yours are special to me
Whether we're going out to the theatre
Whether we stay in to watch movies
Friday's at yours are special to me
It always starts with tea and ends with a kiss
and theres always a cuddle or three
Friday's at yours are special to me
You are my stormboy
You are my light
Friday's at yours are special to me
You are all my favourite love songs
You are the epitome of safety and fearless
Friday's at yours are special to me
Curled up, no matter where we go
In your arms safe and calm and happy and
free.
Friday's at yours are special to me
We laugh and kiss and look and love
We discover new things about each other.
Friday's at yours are special to me
you play with my hair and I scratch your back
and we kiss like nobody else exists
Friday's at yours are special to me
you walk me out in just your socks,
kiss me tenderly,
wave goodbye.
Friday's at yours are special to me
Going home, leaving you alone in your room
kills me. all I wish is to fall asleep in your arms and
not have to wake up
alone
Friday's at yours are special to me
i get home and we're still talking
talk until we fall asleep
alone
but happy
Friday's at yours are special to me
Listening to Cicadas

Listening to Cicadas

by | Nov 11, 2025 | Nature Poems, Poems, Poetry

Listening To Cicadas

Thousands of soda chargers detonating simultaneously 
at the one party
*
The aural equivalent of the smell of cheese fermented
in the stomach of a slaughtered goat 
*
The aural equivalent of downing eight glasses 
of caffeinated alcohol
*
Temperature: the cicada’s sound-editing software
*
At noon, treefuls of noise: jarring, blurred, magnified—
sound being pixelated
*
The audio equivalent of flash photography and strobe lighting
hitting disco balls and mirror walls
*
The audio equivalent of lightning hitting your face
*
The sound of cellophane being crumpled in the hands
of sixteen thousand four-year-olds
*
The aural equivalent of platform shoes
*
The aural equivalent of skinny jeans 
*
All the accumulated cases of tinnitus suffered
by fans of Motörhead and Pearl Jam
*
Microphone feedback overlaid with the robotic fluctuations
of acid trance music
*
The stultifying equivalent of listening to the full chemical name 
for the human protein titin which consists of 189,819 letters 
and takes three-and-a-half hours to pronounce
*
The aural equivalent of garish chain jewellery 
*
A feeling as if your ear drums had expanded into the percussing surfaces
of fifty-nine metallic wobbleboards
*
The aural equivalent of ant juice 
*
Days of summer: a sonic treadwheel 

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