God, when the mother's cry
arrives—do You hear
the shape before the sound?
The phonemes of her grief,
or merely what they stir?
You hear
the way December hears a leaf:
as afterthought.
You frost
what begs for spring.
We are Your coordinates for cold.
Feel my energy
& come to me.
Notice that knot
in your stomach
& know it's my breaking heart.
Rise without thought
& find your keys.
Excuse yourself
& run to me.
Fear my cooling.
Break the speed limit
to catch me awake.
Catch me thinking of you
& hoping you would come.
Apostate, apostrophe?
Faces in the crowd?
Scenes in plays, dramatic be!
Bury deep, O shroud...
Queens of high end greatness?
These exist, but are rare.
Golem, gold. Take thy best guess!
Could be anywhere...
Fair? Life? Dance upon my knife!
Hollow hills and strife.
Flickering like notes a-fife?
Raw roundabout rife...
Wife, thy furious temper-main!
Deep as ocean blue!
Vampire, best avoid that vein!
What the hell to do?
Lament? Over duress stark.
Cold core confuse call.
How indeed the day gets dark...
Placer soil of Saul...
What the heck has happened here?
What did I just write?
Prophet wisdom gets severe!
Fate, been feeling bright?
Light atop the high cliff face?
Hope for sparks apace.
Otherwise be-fevered chase!
Crushed in carapace...
It should have said St John’s - with that apostrophe!
So many omit the little mark.
How could they, when its presence or absence
gives us one meaning or the other?
A tenant within these apartments
who is a mysterious lady,
placed the absent apostrophe on that poster,
kept this nighttime act a secret, and crept away.
St John was a saint we remember,
on the twenty-fourth of June:
it’s St John’s Day.
And this little mark marks that.
Without this modest mark, this little apostrophe,
we have a plural, not a possessive.
So how many Johns were there?
Or are these apartments named
after just the one John, as we’re told -
the one that has that little apostrophe?
Often do I wonder who
the mysterious tenant is, the one
who posts missing apostrophes.
(3 Sep 2024)
If her campaign goes like warm breeze,
And Trump’s loses its MAGA fizz,
Can an apostrophe
Cause such catastrophe?
In USA it does--
A few days of big buzz,
Which for Soupers forever is.
___________________________
Happenings |27.08.2024| political, America
Poet’s note: Is it Kamala Harris’ campaign, or it should be Kamala Harris’s. A great debate goes on in USA-- too much fuss for nothing, one might feel. But I have to play safe for this ditty’s caption with just ‘Kamala Harris campaign’. Why, one may ask. But we Soupers (contributing poets on PoetrySoup.com) know, apostrophe in a caption is a big no, no here. Why again? I don’t know, nor know if God knows.
Hope is on my ceiling
suffusing through the air
Hides beneath floorboards
that rot beyond repair
Hope is all pervasive
can lead anywhere
Very hard to pinpoint
and totally unaware
Hope is unapologetic
doesn’t really care
Probably won’t happen
if it does, hope its fair
Hope is a fantasy
from my comfort chair
Soothing, calming,
keeps away despair
Hope is beautiful
ugly when unfair
Can be quite powerful
when beyond all care
Hope is fifty fifty
perhaps a dream to share
Save mine for the grave
God knows, I’ll need it there
By
David Kavanagh
Custodian of Apostrophe's Apostle
Who done it, steed?
Who said what's read
between the lines marked
with ad hoc diacritic dashes?
Miss Barker, let me say a word,
though this to many seem absurd.
Your attitude I find pragmatic,
not judgmental, not dogmatic.
So poetry is not your strength
though some will go to any length
to immortalize themselves in verse,
writing dogerell, if not worse.
Avoid concerns to you so alien.
Be what you are, a Pomeranian.
Grammar fools
My ignorance just makes me stronger
But when I try to write, it makes me wronger
I decry anyone who knows more than me
I call them names without an apostrophe
Because I’m so clever, don’t need to learn
Then I look at my account, how much did my book earn?
Still, I call you a Nazi for pulling me up
Knowing my stupidity is an over-flowing cup
So don’t dare to challenge my writing art
Because I think fried food is ala carte.
Now all you grammar pointers, who
Promote genocide, don’t question me
Because you’ll hurt my pride.
David Cox 03/07/22
You are my life's apostrophe
The part that has always been missing in me
You're right where the hyphen used to be-
You are my life's apostrophe
Once a question mark was all I had?
And commas dominated my soul,
Semicolons; separated my dreams
And the ellipse was firmly in control...
Then you placed your brackets around my [heart]
Your braces around my {soul}
Your parentheses surround my (dreams)
You're the exclamation mark in my life so droll!
Apostrophe
A derogate demons asperity
Calumniate my integrity
Malicious deceit
Holding no truth
Held on to nothing!
My inglorious ignominy
Your repulsion Satiate!
Nauseated glut unsensual sodomy
Surfeit and salt in nasty infected cut
Given dichotomy
Or burdened with great weight
Tarnished, libel. Stuck in a rut.
Nothing left
Appellation stained – Tainted mendaciously
Verbal hate – Eat the flesh
Minstrel blood mixed with sacred semen
There’s nothing left – except for fire and this acrid demon
Choice knows the play,
Allow for zest;
Live well this day,
Make love your fest.
Align your heart,
Ply a sound feel;
Opt cheery start,
Sense sparks kind will;
Touch tells you now,
Rise with sure stride;
Observe endow,
Prime your own ride;
Heed that sure need,
Etch poise that feeds.
Leon Enriquez
31 October 2014
Singapore
Two lifetimes I have seen since yours began
and still I am not free, though haunted by
your words, blood-coated with your passion,
seeped into a history of marching feet.
The cadence of the years still cannot stand
their purity, and you, baton still high,
drum major for a righteousness you saw
that lived in dreams--
still march...and I cannot.
It's best you died, perhaps, for you
would not abide another line of voters
kept out in the rain,
their voices slain by fraud and perfidy,
their backs still open to the lash of scorn,
and scarce remembering the wounds
that you received when all you asked for
was to love.
That loving didn't get much easier
around this shrinking ball, disfigured from
a restless floor beneath the sea, and for
a while the human heart was stirred,
but more had died from restless greed
and naked power when love was set aside.
There's not much zeal for marching now
along the streets of Washington,
and bigotry is steeped inside.
We need to hear your dream again,
to have you sing with us once more,
to promise us that we shall overcome
someday.
~
l’air morte
the last breath which speaks to no one
though others may be present
others may be in the room or on the street when/where it happens
it dissipates into the surrounding air
as if its point of origin had never actually
been---
a few too many drinks before a car ride on a night with a bit of
black ice
a curiosity concerning a drug one has never tried, with no frame of reference besides the snide smile offering
a moment too long of cabin fever brand depression in a house alone with a stocked gun cabinet
a spouse cheating on their significant other who has just stirred up a fatal cocktail to offer them
a sickness eating from within which bears no signs on the face or the exterior until it is too late
a lover whose passion cannot stand another in the mix finding out how to correctly operate a pistol with a silencer
and blood fills the world
unparalleled
as the breaths subtract themselves away
into finality.
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