vintage

Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.

The Values of Old
Books and stories can reveal much about the author who wrote them and the period at which they lived. Whether it be their dialect or actions, characters tend to reflect how people were during that time. In the poem Beowulf, one can learn the values of the Anglo-Saxon society. For example, the main hero Beowulf and others show strong characteristics of bravery, loyalty, and faithfulness to God.
By Almárëa Laurësil8 years ago in Poets
A Soldier's Diary
How can something meant for protection Be twisted around To cause me affliction Wandering around I no longer know me No longer do I understand where I've been
By Courtney Hughes8 years ago in Poets
Hannah for Hannah Cullwick
Crocus and Hartshorn washed off knives. A 'Dumb Waiter' delivers perriwinkles. The Footman's pantry is empty. Gall of Bullock and Beeswax shelved for future need.
By Johnny Vedmore8 years ago in Poets
I Have an Old Soul
I have an old soul My soul is the soul that once danced with the gypsy nomads, laughing with no care but to live passionately and love freely. It is the soul that has been touched by the good Victorian lady, a love of all things gilded, glamorous and dark. The gothic ink of the artist, poe, a fuel for the macabre fantasies of a young girl living the facade of a well-leashed house cat. My soul is the soul of the daughter who wanted to rebel. As the 20s roared and Gatsby reveled in frivolity, my soul was the soul of a girl who yearned to be a woman. To dance and to love Wildly. To be somebody ride or die. Somebody's Bonnie to Clyde. My soul is the soul that began as a force of liberation, rebirthing perpetually into something utterly oppressed.
By Melanie castillo8 years ago in Poets
My Name Was Caoimhe
Here is what I know: My name is Caoimhe. My wife cannot say my name correctly, but I cannot say hers either, so I suppose that is fair. My wife, Adalheidis, pretended to be a man for a long time. This is the only reason we are allowed to be married—the only reason we met. I am glad for it. She is my world; our son is my universe.
By Teela8 years ago in Poets
Media
I remember the shine of compact discs Using them as makeup mirrors Applying lipstick with giggling friends While another CD
By A. R. Ambrosi8 years ago in Poets
The Brown Ceramic Mug
Quietly sitting on an old wooden chair, I hear the hum of the machine heating the water in the brown ceramic mug. Darkness creeps through the window blanketing the small room as I rise to retrieve the small bag of leaves, ginger, and peach that would soon drown in the hot water in the brown ceramic mug. Beep! Beep! Beep! My trained brain responds automatically to happily reclaim my brown ceramic mug and plunge the bag of tea into the steaming liquid. Snatching a teaspoon from within the silverware drawer and pulling the sugar jar from the back of the dish-piled counter, I easily unscrew the lid and sprinkle some of the sweet crystals into the brown ceramic mug and give it a quick stir. The wooden floor creaks as I shuffle through the small room and up the stairs to another room full of books, a comfy armchair, and memories of a past life. Under the protection of a rouge blanket and comforted by a pillow made with love from a great grandmother who is now resting eternally, I enjoy my first sip of evening peace.
By Rachael8 years ago in Poets
Fairytales
As children, we are told stories, Of monsters and dragons, And evil witches trying to kill good people, Stories of prince charming,
By Cierra Merryman8 years ago in Poets
Mother Says
Another day at school and I am ready to retreat As the bell rings, I grab my things and head on down the street I stop by a soda shop nearby and get myself a pop
By Joshua Scott8 years ago in Poets
Windows 95
There are endless reflections Of my former selves Versions of truth Like previous versions Of an operating system That no one likes to think about
By A. R. Ambrosi8 years ago in Poets
An Unlikely Pilgrim
From the Princess’s Prologue Alone in her travels throughout the night Was a lass whose skin so pure and light Born of royal blood when snow lay fresh
By Victoria Shaw8 years ago in Poets
Paradise Lost
Paradise has not been lost, but found again, In time, in every sleeping second, Weathered by the grinding of sin’s teeth
By Rose Reade9 years ago in Poets