Poem | |
When my spirit was fogged in gloom
After i impacted concrete; like a lead balloon
It lifted my strength as i started to write
Of a beautiful girls toy; on its maiden flight
Intended for a contest by souper trouper P D
But i wrote it wrong in "form" if you look you'll see...)
Yet on its immersion in "the soup" i felt satisfied
It seemed to numb the pain; i had been feeling inside
Its not winning or losing while on "the soup"
Though neither string bean; or minestrone (i feel) in "the loop"
There are many places to spend a while,
But the "draw" for me is "the soups" unique flavor & style
It has content..) that's peaceful, stimulating," its fine"
Yet words versus" its essence is exercising my mind,
Let its writers and their themes be the answer to why
I extol "the soups" virtue; that's my definitely my very best try..!
Copyright Joe Maverick 2012
in support of Carol Browns what you love about "the soup"
amended 19 02 2012.
Poem | |
Restrained flow of ink expressed from a dusty pen,
to the faded paper creased like a wave in an angry sea,
tucked inside a tattered notebook,
closed until another bittersweet day when the golden sun will rise.
Minds eye reflects,
to the thoughts that travel through endless days,
until the pen reconnects with the delighted literary soul.
Poem | |
Poetry is my most recent passion
That's got me by the scruff of the neck
Grabbed me a couple of years ago
Not getting much sleep, I'm a wreck
Sure didn't know when I started all this
It would ignite this fire in my soul
That rages consuming every damn moment
Two poems a day is my goal
This Poetry Soup site sure is addictive
First thing in the morning I'm there
To see who's reviewed my latest entries
Did they think I wrote them with flair?
Late into the night I'm feverishly editing
Tweaking the words to the last
A few things still really bug me though
But time's running out really fast
Trembling I go to the “post poem” prompt
I click it then patiently wait
A feeling of anxiety creeps over me
As I sit there awaiting my fate
© Jack Ellison 2012
Poem | |
will you be changed into today?
Perhaps Alexander Portnoy
or Bilbo Baggins
You should take note
of the way you read
and not become part
of a story you didn't like
After all - you are
not a fictional character
You are something
like the earth, sky
You exist in real time
Reading is a nice way
Don't get caught between
You'll find yourself crashing
into the dark waters of unreality
Adrift in a sea of dreams
you'll get lost
and you won't be able
Do you really think
you can find a way
in and out
of a made up world?
Good luck to you
with that one
Poem | |
Poetry is not meaningless.
It helps the writer,
To get his or her point across,
Poetry is a unique expression.
It is the writer’s way,
To pass on God’s blessings,
And life’s lessons.
It is my way to combat hate,
From the past and present dates.
Poetry drives punches and puns,
In such view words.
It gives haters or readers
In short what they need or deserve.
It is here to help us all
Pass life’s promising tests.
Poetry is the literary genre,
That I love the best.
Poem | |
Eight authors were killed today,
some of them, somewhat prominent,
and an unknown number were injured,
when a very large crowd of words
came rushing toward them, and
crushed them under the throng
Hundreds of onlooking readers were aghast
at the sight of surprised writers,
running from the tens of thousands
of words, phrases, and stanzas shouting
loud rhyming, some carrying sharpened prose
A bloody mass of heaping humanity
was cast over the civil edge into
a brownish-reddish swaled blog beside as
poets, slammers, and lyricists fled
Many widows and orphans sat beside the ruck,
weeping softly near the edges of their pages,
stunned, stupefied, even utterly dumbfounded
as multi-syllabic words flashed their anger,
and chased the writers to a gruesome end
Diphthongs and anagrams on the scene said
that they'd never seen such a riot of language
or a plethora of grammatical constituents
rise up against their mortal masters
The literary community is expressing
their deepened sorrow and angst with
a spontaneous outpouring of pens, pencils
steno pads, and small digital tablets
left at the scene of the rampage
Editors, secretaries, and linguists unified
to say that the guilty will be found, caught,
and expunged from the lexicography of
modern civil discourse and authorship
"Words cannot express our feelings" they said
© Goode Guy 2013-02-12
Poem | |
Ears listening to only their lies,
And their lies speaking only to them,
Trying to be quiet yet still screaming,
Drowning in rants never heard,
So concise but not too clear,
Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession,
Muttering useless ancient literary rules,
In love with yet hating poetic expressions,
Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations,
Trapped behind walls of old thought,
Grasping yet never holding reality,
While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded
Judging without thinking one step ahead,
Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement,
Still their bodies move forward to nowhere,
Their voices the only sound left to comfort them,
Unaware of love just beneath their windows,
Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains,
In pathetic awe of ancient written rules,
Never really meant for ones of their ilk,
For they were penned for poets of consciousness,
Aware their times and rules would surely end,
Were never truly meant for all the centuries,
Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived,
Afraid of new ideas of written expression,
Created from the minds of what they fear most,
Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change,
They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Poem | |
SIX AND SO SICK
into the eternal. far from the real
saddened by six bells which no longer peel
six clappers stand now, stilled and so quiet
death took them away and life could not deny it
extinguished were six flames, flickering names
players were they in such dangerous games
equestrians, gamesmen, strong upon steed
but unmounted and showed did their need
gone into the eternal by me they'll be missed
gallant they rode into smoke of the mist
my eyes saw as they rode, and a tear did I form
their end, although painful, was far from the norm
choking and vomiting, death was not calm
did once all they wanted was a shot in the arm
paid they the price for their weakness of soul
now six of them lay six feet deep in a hole
© 2012...copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Poem | |
Free from the sins of the America’s bureaucracy,
you were always indifferent
Yet your poetry
Has fostered poets
To compose legendary verses,
And, though you are distinguished from,
The majority of your contemporaries
The wounds of the broken have been mended.
Poem | |
Only a select few tread on this grand pathway
as it always often remains untracked anyway
I wonder why people find this boring someway
though it takes us to the Treasure Island faraway.
The passing through itself is a source of delight
that is strewn with splendid places that attract
Offering on the way many a breath taking sight
blessed are those who opt for a trip on the route.
Yes, it does require one to fulfil certain norm
for undertaking an expedition of this odd sort
it calls for a sensitive mind with a great thirst
that gets drenched with Mother Nature’s mist.
There are different alleys on this joyous road
that present the tourist with myriad pleasures
which when once experienced remain etched
And the taste lingers on ceaselessly unbridled.
One can experience the joys unheard by others
and have the benefit of tranquillity that is rare
and forever revel in the contentment at ease
it’s a pleasant and fascinating journey indeed.