What To Expect In 2018

What to expect in 2018?
Maintaining the status quo or building my dreams.
I could start a new project, or keep old ones going.
I can focus on my career writing verses and poems.
I could dedicate hours to learning a new skill
Or I could just sit here and say that I will.
One thing is for certain, that if I want traction
Ideas are no good. What I need is action!

What To Expect In 2018 is a short poem by Ms Moem.

Count The Ways You’re Beautiful | Poem

Poem about beauty - Count All The Ways You're Beautiful - poems by Ms Moem, English poet.

Count All The Ways You’re Beautiful

Count all the ways you’re beautiful;
Your soul and your spirit,
Your brilliant body
And all the wonder within it.
Your heart full of love,
Your mind full of care,
Your eyes full of awe,
Your lungs full of air.
Your chest full of pride,
Your muscles full of strength,
Your brain full of questions,
Your compassion, immense.
Your hands that can comfort,
Your words that can soothe,
Your conscience that roots you
In the good, right and true.
You are a miracle,
Unique through and through.
So count the ways you’re beautiful
And always be proud of you!

Count The Ways You’re Beautiful is a short rhyming poem by contemporary English poet, Ms Moem.

We Begin | Poem

poem about life - we begin by english poet, Ms Moem

We Begin

We begin not by wanting to exist,
but by chance.
A complex dance of nature.
Nurtured. Take your
talk of fate and seek to make
more of your turn.
Learn what makes you tick
because you don’t have to stick
with what is presented;
pretending it’s your thing when it’s not.
You’ve got the power and it’s within you.
So begin.
Win your own definition of success
and don’t settle for less, as giving up
only means you ensure that it will never happen.
Break the pattern.
If chance brought you here, you have nothing to fear
by beginning.
So take a chance, and never stop swimming.
By wanting not just to exist, we begin.

We Begin is a short poem about life by English poet, Ms Moem. ©

Small Town

small town lyrical poem by engliash poet Ms Moem


Small Town

I remember that summer
A lifetime ago.
You were a boy
I couldn’t wait to get to know.
I was but a girl.
We both were so young.
Mistakes yet to make…
A lifetime to come…

It feels like only yesterday that I last spoke to you…
Now you’re a small town rumour, but I’m sure it can’t be true…

You smiled when you saw me
And I smiled too.
Our last conversation;
If only I knew.
I might’ve used your nickname
Like I did years before
But I’m glad we said goodbye
Before you headed out the door.

It feels like only yesterday that I last spoke to you…
Now you’re a small town rumour, that I’m praying isn’t true.

The news spread like whispers
Around this small town.
So long, see you later.
Won’t see you around.
I never imagined
It would go this way.
Can’t quite believe it…
Don’t know what to say…

It feels like only yesterday that I last spoke to you…
Now you’re a small town rumour, and I’m so sad that it’s true.

Small Town is a short poem by Ms Moem.

Being Santa | A Poem

being santa poem by ms moem

Being Santa

Being Santa must be fun!
Giving gifts to everyone
And riding on a magic sleigh;
Jingle jingle all the way.

He’s read a billion Christmas lists,
Employed some elves to wrap the gifts,
Fed the reindeer, tied his boots
And slipped into his nice red suit.

Setting out on Christmas Eve,
Flying over towns and trees,
To every place, down every road
To all the children round the globe.

It’s such a feat of dedication
Speeding to each destination
With a smile upon his face
Then onwards, to another place.

When he’s been all round the world
To every boy and every girl
And left some presents to be found,
His work is done; he’s homeward bound!

Mince pies and milk, he’s had plenty.
His heart is full, his sack is empty.
He cheers as he returns, a winner.
Home in time for Christmas dinner!

Being Santa is a short Christmas poem by English Poet, Ms Moem.

Misplaced Composition | Poem

misplaced composition is a short poem by English poet, Ms Moem

Misplaced Composition

You were the poem that got lost.
Lines crossed and meter not quite right.
You were a bright and bouncy piece
scribbled frantically, imperfectly,
impulsively.
Some lines were more memorable than others.
The opening verse rolled pleasingly
round the mouth.
Tentative dabbling with words formed
the ambling core. The closing
stanza was somehow sketchy.
Still, you never left me.
I couldn’t image trying to
re-write you. You didn’t need to be
finished or perfect, but you spilled
onto the paper,
begging to be read.

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