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Best Mixture Poems

Below are the all-time best Mixture poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of mixture poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Sweet Mixture by johnson, curtis
HEAVEN-A MIXTURE OF HAPPINESS by ramamurthi, lavanya
A Mixture of Tea by Canady, MoonBee
Life and Love Mixture by Lacey, Joshua
A mixture bird by Ressler, Roxanna
Mixture Of Million Pictures by manogaran, ugenteraan
A Happy Mixture of All Sorts by Fraser, James
A Mixture by Dellinger, Parker
Mixture of Effects by hickman, cecil
Life's Mixture by Matthews, Mark

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The Best Mixture Poems

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Wind From The Sea

Inspired by Andrew Wyeth Watercolor Painting -- Wind From the Sea, 1947

Standing in the old house
A strange mixture of feelings erupt within me
My roommates Depression, Loneliness, and Hopelessness
Greet me with strangling arms and leering grins
I don’t fight them anymore – somehow they are a part me
So together, in this house, in this room
We endure the somber solitude of the day

A sudden chill fills the room
Death enters – its foul breath chokes me
My three companions prostrate themselves
Pressure builds in my bowels
Bile rises in my throat
A heavy weariness fills my bones
He’s calling – hissing my name
I can’t breath

Death surrounds my soul – crushing me 
I hear groaning  . . .
Strange guttural sound -- it’s coming from me
Deep painful darkness fills me
I beg Death to take me . . .

Through the open window
A gush of wind enters
A sheer curtain hanging comes to life
It’s spirit lifts inwards and up beckoning me to dance 

What is this wonder?
A limp ragged curtain – faded, stained, frail -- has life
Reaching toward me . . .  frayed fingers of thread motioning
Old friends rush to me – Joy, Hope, Love
Death’s grip slips – I gasp a breath
Looking up I see the open window
Boarded by old bare wood, hard with age

I realize it’s daylight now – soft shadows 
A curving road leading to the water
I can taste the saltiness in the wind
Trees in the distance
A calling from the sea
Seagulls, waves, laughter

Joy breaths into my nostrils 
Leave this place – Depression cannot hold you
Simple pleasures I will give you
   Cool breeze on a summer afternoon
   Laughter of friends
   A walk in the garden
   A book
   The Sea . . . 

Depression laughs in my ears
Through that window lies heartache, treachery, poverty, misery
It will chew your insides up – blood will pour from your lips
Pain and suffering awaits if you leave this house
Death waits to take you home 
An end to this constant noise – the peace of total emptiness 

Another breeze and Hope fills my eyes with light
I see colors – vibrant alive filling me with warmth
Leave this place, take a journey to the sea
Let light fill you and be your guide . . . see -- opportunities abound
For laughter, love, forgiveness . . . for life – abundant life
See the rainbow upon the Sea

Hopelessness rushes toward me
Kisses my lips and whispers
Light burns and blinds
Enslaves you
They will see clearly your secrets
Spotlight focus – ridicule scorn . . . ugly disgust . . .  self-hatred

Love rushes in and embraces me
Light, fresh, empowering
My heart leaps with pleasure
Arm and arm she leads me to the window
Much pain and sorrow – yes . . .  also Love
A powerful love that transforms, refreshes . . . frees
Breathe deeply of the Sea air – fill your lungs
Go – you are loved deeply and completely

Looking out Looking in

David Meade

Live Generously

Copyright © David Meade

More great poems below...

Details | Mixture Poem | |

The Weathered Years

The weathered years passed with silent restraint
and left an impression that time stands still
I have counted sunsets without complaint
While life washed over me testing my will
I've crossed boundaries of unimportance
and found wisdom at the iron gates of age
I've laughed on the dark stage of circumstance
and know life's curtain falls on the last page
To play a fool in the turmoil life gave
and paint graffiti on its coldest walls
I've been my own master, been my own slave
I will open the aged gate when death calls

To allow my mind to cross many years
and find a mixture of beauty and tears

Copyright © Frederic Parker

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Red Sun


Brimstone's way up past the clouds 
Highlights against the ocean line
Beautiful sunrise, warm texture
Warning, the rooster!

Glorious yellow and orange mixture 
My source of great inspiration
Horizon against the wind 
Unmatched - beauty mark In the sky

 Itty Bitty Co. 

Copyright © SKAT A

Details | Mixture Poem | |


Quickening, my blood thickening, oh lonely heart of mine, sickening.
Married years of frozen fears, I cry selfish sacrificed trembling tears.
A well preened daily routine, I slipped away in the shadows unseen.
This ring, a vile thing, on my finger had slowly poisoned my being,
until I was a fixture, a mixture of slave and grave, hours and months blur.
And then I saw eyes that saw me, tasting me like a delicacy, could this be?

Beating, heating my core, my fingers shook, nervously opening his door.
Danger, a friend but a stranger, complexity, intensity, he comes to me.
Sweet love we make in the wake of the hours, my heart flowers and I'm free.
What is to become of me? Adultery. Oh but love is he, blue eyed heavenly.
I slip from grip and fallen grace, he kisses tears upon my glowing face, embrace.
But I must go, no one will know, I love him so. I want him to will away my woe.
I drive in a hurry, I worry, will his smell linger and burn the ring from my finger.
My cell phone chimes for the ninth time, guilty heart of mine, a crime.
The red light blinks, so does my lies and eyes as I text my husband goodbyes.
Feeling brash, a rash of immediate measure, so sure of my future, CRASH.
I feel the shake, glass rake my face and peel away the skin, flesh torn fills in,
blood warming, screams storming, cracks crackling and bruises forming.
A thousand knives of moments of my lives drives my heart to shatter, tissue matter.
Spinal crack, my life was light when I look back, breath slows, all goes black.

Cold hand, I see him stand, just as planned, he was there for me, I swallow misery.
He loved me, I see that now, somehow I must make this right, truth tonight.
But I can't speak, weak, tube in my throat, I write a note, I have something to say.
He says let's pray, it doesn't matter anyway, life starts today, no regrets, no way.
I'll be a better man, I can loose it all easy, it makes me queasy to know things change.
He kisses, he cares, he cries, he shares memories, I didn't know he knew, I do.

To work he goes, the nurse brings me my things, my cellphone and rings.
I search the screen and see, my text I was texting a memory screaming at me.
Scrolling through I do not believe my hate, I reiterate my date, and change of fate.
My chest heaved, my eyes grieved when I read the words, message received.

For Contest:knights writer club
Date april 14

Copyright © Casarah Nance

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Tiger in a Cage

Tiger in a Cage (a stab at men)

Like a caged tiger.
You do not know what is in my den?
There is no worse feeling than the way I pace back and forth repeatedly.
A headless collar is all you see.
The closer I get, the more you seem to pretend. 
To you these stripes look more like dots.
As you, continue to hold my lines and strands in your hand.
You stroke my stripes as if they were a loft of dental floss.

An ORANGE all squishy and rot.
Rough and tough!
You cannot peel what you cannot feel.
You do not know me at all?
You trust me.
You lace me.
You cannot describe the buds.
You cannot feel my fingertips.
A taste of nothing out of your lips.

Indian BLACK streaks in my skin.
How did you manage to even get in?
We mount this unspeakable stability.
A man-eater swallowing her growl.
This hunger is piercing throughout my veins.
Hiding the powerful black star sapphire in my eyes.
Every move I plan ricochets. 
A tiger, a tiger in her cage.

Only in your world, I am my own prey.
My wildness is rarely found above my skin.
Every day I wear this heavy coat, my stripes continue to sink in.
It is a solitary confinement when you are around.
You cannot see the black diamonds under this unbearable frown.

Dingy claws, tapping……
Natures dew bestows a toneless mixture of orange and black tattoo.
These stripes, belittle my self-esteem.
The moon flashes overlapped our taboo.
Never will you see a tigers gleam.

Spirituality waiting to rise above the trees.
It is my choice, to stand behind these unbreakable twigs.
Fertilizing like pollen under a blanket of bees.
Still the effects of your eclipse, bounce off my wall.
I am telling you!
You don't know me at all?
The roads these loads continue to grow.
Far ahead, I am the gravel under your toes.
Crouching like a Tiger hiding the way a dragon breathes.

You don't know how I feel!
I am a tiger in a cage please set me free!


"Breed to Breathe" by Napalam Death 

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Butterfly Pavilion

Nestled in hills of Pine Mountain, Georgia
Butterflies thrive at Callaway Gardens
Pavilion filled with cornucopia 
Vibrant beauties are captured on the lens

Floral-filled setting surrounded by glass
An international mixture abounds
Each majestic beauty in its own class
Flittering, fluttering, flying around

Magnificent magenta and sapphire
Flaunting deep purples and vivid yellows
The Lord blessed each with stunning attire
And they seem to be such carefree fellows

Pavilion visitors stand in great awe
Marveling at creatures without a flaw

*entry for PD's Butterfly contest.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Mixture Poem | |


In the cradled of life's dark garden,
It dwells amongst the murky waters
Behold the creature from the black lagoon.
Nay what is this creation, neither fish or 
Yet a blending of both, a high bread's mixture,
Intelligent, and cunning, the last of his species,
To survive.
Brought unwisely did men, bring beauties
Forbidden fruit, unto this lost oasis of Eden.
For alone sentinel awaits to partake in such
A luscious morsel.
So does it not say in biblical text, go forth
And multiply, by a driven basic instinct he
Cautiously watches from the thicket brush.
What a graceful motion moves within the
Jungles domain, 
She swims idle caught unaware, the bride
To be herself, charms him with every stroke
Across this lake placid.
With Chameleon like stealth, the groom appears,
Taking his prize to their cavey honeymoon retreat.
So tenderly he greets his mate, from shocks
Dreamy like state she awakes, and recoils in repulsion.
No love's scorn, and tragedies broken heart,
Can do more damage than rejections expulsion.
Bullets may have cut the flesh to the bone,
But was it not beauty, which killed the beast,
And the last sight he saw, was his love in
Another's arms.
So ends natures final verse in this evolutionary
The creature from the black lagoon now lies
Dead, upon this tragic stage of life.


Copyright © cherl dunn

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Mongrels of Mischief: An Introduction into Mischief Pt 1

It was somewhere in Cambridge, when the amalgam of substances 
began to cloud our judgment. 
The changes were between vague and blatantly obvious, but 
we were masters at this terrifying craft. 
A small dose of opiates added with  
at least two beers causes a distorted reality. 
Nothing too off the wall except for the truth in knowing 
you can’t fly among the stars above the mortals. 
Four misguided miscreants let loose upon the England populous. 
God help poor Britannia! 

Usually at the helm of this godforsaken voyage, was Tony. 
His plans were often of ridiculous proportions 
many which either involved an attractive woman or 
a ruckus full of dangerous consequences.  
 A vulgar yet honest vagrant.
Dante was a force to be reckon with. 
Not only did he talk a big game, but he also delivered. 
He was a Ciroc and Patron connoisseur with a
knowledge of the appropriate attire for any occasion.
A savant of the good life. 
Rico was small but dangerous. 
A mellow individual with words cool enough 
to give the devil a cold shoulder. 
The cool head amidst our savage expeditions 
except when the spirits possessed him 
causing a unique transformation. 
A human wrecking ball of loose inhibitions. 
Finally, there was me. 
A laid back but slightly eccentric hedonist. 
Forever seeking for any instant gratification and 
always serving a dish of offbeat worldly wisdom to the masses.
An aimless joker who does what he please. 

The streets of Cambridge are gruesome at night. 
All types of freaks, monsters and nutcases 
under the guise of party addicts fiending for the next fix. 
We were just like these misfits
 only further down the rabbit hole.  
What seemed like a stroll into the seedy nightlife 
soon became a submersion into another dimension. 

Our mannerisms became over exaggerated. 
The pleasant embrace of euphoria was as if
the good Lord touched the depths of our souls. 
Warmth, peace and relaxation….
Tranquility of mind, body and spirit… 
A transcendence into Nirvana… 
Thanks to the sweet nectar from 
the land of milk and honey. 
Mother of God, this was amazing! 
This is a high we didn’t want to come down from! 
To onlookers we were madmen; 
a product of the uncanny side of the spectrum.  
However, little did they know 
we were gods among mortals.

Our illuminating vibe attracted a 
group of voluptuous women. 
In this instant, Tony decided to seize the moment.
Using charms only he could apply, he 
stated a question: “Hey! What that mouth do?”  
The lovely raven-haired woman of the group 
responded with an immediate action of a lustful kiss. 
It was a mixture of seductive and sensuous 
with a spontaneous flair. 
The woman replied, “That’s what my mouth does.” 
Tony was at a loss for words. 
I had full belief this woman was a man-eater. 
Somehow with a simple kiss she managed 
to swallow Tony whole. 
After the encounter, the group vanished 
within the night.  

Cheshire cat grins encompassed 
our faces. 
Even though this event was minor, 
we knew it was the beginning to a series 
of outlandish events. 

Copyright © Ty Townsend

Details | Mixture Poem | |

The poison lives with you forever

Pain used to be the only thing that reminded me I was alive,
the images are still flashing through my mind,
whilst that vexatious feelings never go away,
the effects of the poison still hinder me today..

Laying in a hospital bed with several needles piercing my arms,
injecting the most toxic severe poison into my slender veins.
I remember asking myself, how can this be a cure?
Trying to be strong, reminding myself, it will all be over soon.

Chemotherapy kills all your cells, good and bad,
it leaves you motionless with no energy for anything.
You lay there like a dead person, but breathing slowly,
motionless, vulnerable and sensitive to harm.

Then your body begins to change as the poison rapes you,
you are falling apart inside and outside, as it mutates you.
Your hair falls away and your skin becomes all gaunt,
eyes change to a jaundice yellow and the weight loss begins.

Inside your body is like an erupting volcano, but there is nothing you can do,
a mixture of pins and needles an numbness plague you.
Slowly you are weltering away and there is nothing you can do,
even death would be less painful than what you are going through.

After a while you do start to recover, but the damage has been done,
even when you have beaten cancer, you never go back to how you were.
The effects are ever lasting, your body and mind are never the same,
but, I am lucky to be alive, even though I miss who I once was...

Silent One. 7 August 2015.

Copyright © Silent One

Details | Mixture Poem | |

The Most Beautiful Thing -Contest-

Round orbs stare into my eyes,
Sparkling with the beauty of the sun caught inside;
They laugh and smile on their own.
Brown-golden suns reflect in the center,
They lead out to the most beautiful green.
Transfixed, they are the most beautiful things.
They hold pure un-judging love; 
My heart beats a startled thrum,
Unsteady with this love.
Staring me straight in the eyes,
They speak, they whisper, they sing, they cry.
I trust them, more than I've ever trusted anything,
They don't lie, they don't hide. 
Tears fill my eyes, for reasons that are not sad,
They pour out and down my cheeks,
Tinted with the painted blue in mine.
I stare at the most beautiful mixture I've ever seen,
Rimmed in long black lashes, 
They stare only at me. 
God gifted me with this art, 
To stare at such beauty;
To hold its gaze for all of time.
This mutual stare is claimed forever as mine.
I swear I'll never let it go.
Beautiful green and gold,
Beautiful suns, my love they hold.
His beautiful loving eyes...

Copyright © Jay Loveless

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Halloween's Evil Visage Cometh

Halloween’s Evil Visage Cometh

Halloween’s Evil Visage Cometh now alive in this famous predestined time
Where dubious shadow shades run a riot as the ghastly ghosts of darkness,
Begin calling to all goblins, ghosts, ghouls, and witches in the graveyards;
To come alive—as black cats call out their signals to all lost souls seeking, 
Powerful black magic spells to aid the spirits of ancient alchemists as they
Brew their potions to dull the senses and conjure all the evil spirits on Earth.  

A falling silver-layer mist appears as these uncanny evil spirits invade our
Mortal plane and lost ghosts appear as hungry human skeletons looking for 
Sustenance and seem to be horrified at the stillness broken by a death-cold.
They scream as bloodless fingers touch cold shivers without a warm heart; 
And who knows for sure the sad and mournful song from an ancient grave,
As “The Undead” conjure ravenous demons seeking warm blood to feast on. 

Blended into the dust are the crows whose shadows as a “Dark Phantom,”
Begin to form and take his shape—yet fear not the potent occult light as
That special Halloween Eve super moon beams brilliant and bright making  
Its presence known as your destiny and destination are already decided as
The Ancient Alchemist beckons all of us to drink widely from his mystical
Chalice of Darkness as all malice is reconciled—the birds and beasts speak.
Life as we know it is offered upon the Demonic Alter as the Dark Phantom
Initiates all human sacrifices as a drool-dripping envy of all existence drops; 
And the lustful and vengeance-seeking Vampires scrape along the walls as
Sharp poisonous thorns begin tearing behind their secret inner-vision as the 
Deep-dark and dismally-damp curtains open and eclipse the radiant dawn as
An unpleasant and horrible pain visits and our heartbeats grow faint and stop.

An unending agony screams sonorously as a deafening silence falls over us. 
In this “Land of the Dead,” they make their own laws overwriting all limits,
As a vile, creeping, malevolent mist crawls down into the valley deep below; 
The Devil's Advocate slithers on in a nasty, vicious way under your own skin,
As shivering timbers of truth of a living being watches outside our bodies on 
This Halloween Eve as our individual dreams enter the Twilight Zone forever! 

The Devil’s clever wizards and witches concoct an ancient poisonous mixture,
As the boiling cauldron of demonically-enhanced soup is stewed with care and 
Fresh toads, spiders, worms, beetles, ticks, and tiny black snakes are added in.
This unholy and potent poisoned soup from centuries past is now blessed by
The Dark One—to take life from the living and give nourishment to the dead,
As the veil between The Living and The Dead disappears on Halloween Eve!   

Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(October 1, 2015) (Free Verse)

Copyright © Gary Bateman

Details | Mixture Poem | |



but  its an ILLUSION

         THE GREAT MAN
what does He want all of a sudden  
                                              whats His game

i know His intentions are good but im TIRED of being protected
                G                   onto it may distort my memories
i try to let go but the fear paralyzes me
its a mixture of REALITY and FANTASY
                                       i havent REPRESSED any of it

the slate is CLEAR                        MENTAL STABILITY
                             PROPERLY PREPARED PATIENT

confirming my preconception that WE ARE ALL USELESS AND WEAK when we sleep

                                     THIS NEW JOURNEY

Copyright © brandy megens

Details | Mixture Poem | |



I AM  the voice of erstwhile nations


 I AM the river of all their sorrows
because their well has now gone dry


I AM Wisdom
The one who gave the world its seed

I AM the slave who broke his chains...
...behind their backs I learned to read

I AM the sound of children weeping
without guidance

I AM their Keeper, I AM compassion
I AM their strength sent from above

I AM the echo of  Blackmen's protests
I AM Dark Hued, Caramel, and Tan

I AM a scholar and not inferior...
...I AM more than "three fifths" a man!

I AM the Sun, the Moon, the Galaxy
I AM the Dawn that brings the Light

I AM the eagle in all its glory
I AM the thought that takes to flight

I AM Maya, Brooks, and Sanchez
I AM the spark that lights the fuse

I AM the Dream that's reached fruition
I AM Woodson, Shabazz, and Hughes

I AM words that are not yet spoken
I AM all of the writers who go unheard

I AM their Spirit, I AM fulfillment...

..I AM..

A mixture of conscious stirred

By Don Simmons
Aka Poetiq1der



Copyright © Don Simmons

Details | Mixture Poem | |


When velvet petals blend with moonlit drips I wander through rims of skyline’s debut, evening chimes, drifting on prayerful tips time away from rushed hours, while air brings dew. Along crocheted rims of skyline’s debut soft -laced flowers taste a hint of basil, time away from rushed hours, while air spills dew when color of blush deepens, my cheeks thrill Soft -laced flowers taste a hint of basil, leaves adorn the forest in twilight’s hum, when color of blush deepens, my cheeks thrill as mixture of red and white grows plumb. Leaves adorn the forest in twilight’s hum evening chimes, drifting on prayerful tips as mixture of red and white grows plumb, when velvet petals blend with moonlit drips. Contest: Think Pink, Anthony Slausen

Copyright © nette onclaud

Details | Mixture Poem | |

Woodland Rhapsody

A woodland path in the dappled sun- hushed and quiet
where I come free my breast and silently ponder.
I gaze upon a spiritual calm and listen to its quiet song
releasing tranquility of mind that does wander.

Between branches of towering mixture of spindly trees
encased in morning sunlight smoky haze;
I hear the rustle of hanging leaves falling gently as a sigh,
conceding tired mellow heart to praise.

In far distance echoes soft cries of lonesome blue jay,
quickly taunting squirrel gives harassing reply.
In shadows of bushy foliage, sunlight fails to cast
hides ground creatures that have come to spy.

A cool soothing breeze sweetly lulls an inward peace
capturing solitude within fractured soul.
Suddenly troubled trapped mind feels timely at ease
when moment seized a woodland stroll.

Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey

Third Place Winner ~ "A Woodland Path” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
July 6, 2011

Copyright © Caryl Muzzey

Details | Mixture Poem | |


An empty echo bellows from within the depths of a chasm. Endless and cold, it moans an apathy that desecrates the sanctity of love and alters the signal of all feeling and emotion. It reaches and bites the heart, concealing from vision its true mission of destruction. Tightly wrapping itself around the soul, it plunges its deadly sting through its victim, cutting off the gentle flowing mixture of happiness, sincerity, laughter and devotion. Mindless faces speak a meaningless language. The lips seem to move in an endless array of contours as a lone silhouette vanishes with the last beam of light. Alone it stands as it silently waits for time to pass. Alone in these vast depths of indifference, there is no hope, no salvation from the inward conflict that evaporates the soul. Bow your head little sparrow. Weep the tears that none else can. Reveal the pain that none else will. Lift your eyes to a destiny. Take the future up in your tiny wings and bring it back to me. Together we can cry over the past and fly away. Darkness is the absence of light, yet you and I see. Within the chasm flickers a small candle. To you and I little sparrow, no freedom is too distant, no change too great. We persist with love where blind hatred dwells. Lingering within us is a hope, a dream and purpose that lifts the wind beneath our wings. We've tasted the bottom of the chasm. Together we can cry over the past and fly away..........

Copyright © Walter Williams

Details | Mixture Poem | |


My feet are cold; my tiredness lingers;
My back aches from stooping so low.
Dampened by the frigid water below,
I breathed warmth into my numbing fingers.
Again, I dipped my shovel into the coarse gravel
Of the stream dredging up with a gurgle
A mixture of pebbles and sand;
Into a bucket I poured it, firsthand.
In this wilderness I'm not alone, there's bear.
Mindful I am of the sounds around me;
A churning stream, rustling leaves, an elk groan,
Snapping twigs, anything that would put a scare
Or raise my hair. I looked around for a tree,
Somewhere to flee before darkness set in.
Not far from here, I spied a log cabin.
Into this stronghold I placed my supplies;
Nature's calm was just a disguise.
I latched its massive door; and bolted each shutter.
In its stone hearth, I started a fire;
Basking in its warmth worries melted like butter.
Outside, darkness enveloped the cabin;
Strong claws raked its walls peeling away its skin;
Relentless growling resonated through the dusty din.
Suddenly, I awoke huddled next to a glowing flashlight.
Shivering against the muddy walls of a beaver's lodge, 
I could hear the bear feverishly ripping 
Through the muddy grass, and the disjointed timbers 
Above me. Deep beneath the surface darkness arrived
Just, as my flashlight flickered, then died.

Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann

Details | Mixture Poem | |

The Potters Hand

In the beginning it was dust
being tossed around in the wind with no direction
wandering for a home that could not be found alone
laid out on hot pavement dried out and seeking
then the rain fell upon, mending together to form clay
bringing forth a new life form
from which by itself was alone and dead
water shall be made available to all
which shall give the texture to work with 
few will absorb into a ready substance
seeking to be like the lamp stand which set the example 
washing away the stones which caused it to separate
 the Potter shall embrace with guidance
pouring the perfect mixture on a solid foundation
for this new creation to be molded 
for all has been brought forth to press on
 Just as  clay while being formed into his creation
will fall and try to go on its own 
for it has no support within itself
and has to be known it can not do it alone
but he watches closely and with his hands 
he continues to mold and patch all things right
for he knows its path and direction
for only by staying in the center of his hands
shall it be raised up into a finished product
set up to be baked by the fire to purify
which then can be filled with overflowing water 

Copyright © Stephan McBride

Details | Mixture Poem | |


I met a Hippie walking down the street.
She had long hair, big eyes.
Wide-bottomed trousers, orange-red,
Covered in an intricate pattern
Of strange designs, flapped round her feet
And from her shoulders over a flowered blouse
Hung a black satin something
With bright green frills on the edges.
From her neck dangled to her breast an emblem
In a circle – a unity of Love and Peace.
I passed by her and she glanced up.
I smiled...she smiled...and we moved on.
A smile can work wonders.

The couch and chairs were empty
And we sat comfortably on the carpet.
The candle threw an eerie light
Which came to nought in the depths
Of the room’s shadowy corners.
An odour of incense drifted around us
And a distorted candle flame
Was reflected in my cup of coffee.

We spoke of art, painting and poetry
Treading on the romantic, 
Passing through hazes of religion:
A mixture of love, knowledge and mystery,
Probing into the eluding outlets of LSD,
The restful release of meditation,
The yearning of youth, disillusions of life,
The roots of joy and depression,
The understanding of oneself.

Smoke rose in bluish transparency.
The ring on her finger was big and it glimmered;
She opened a poetry book at random
And began reading from Tagore.
I was silent. Her voice was soft.
And when she stopped we said not a word.
There was no need – we both understood.


Contest: Any Poem#22
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placing: 4th

Copyright © Paul Callus

Details | Mixture Poem | |

The House of Fallon Dreams

"'He,' whom speaks into existence those things which were not as though, they are...." ~

Fables; to dream these seemingly impossible things!?

A compiling compound upon the pages of a lifes, forever tarnishing of stories....

Drinking this mixture of both poison and cure; night after night and, day upon day

Finding but, these mostly barren tainted walls; no repreives and no relief; vacancies

This continuing onslaughts never ceasing to slay, the spirit of a living hope ~

Until one day the precious heart so finds, no more air left to breathe; condemned

Slowly, it dies....

Depicting cycles repeating themselves once more as, deeper, into the mire they fall

Beauty desperately countering within; framed moments to stem, these portraits; illusions

Painted upon the canvas of creations reasons not knowing thus, nothing to win and or, lose?!

Destinies foreclosures; deposits towards the paradigms of, signed sealed and delivereds

Reciprocating affairs, amid the not so magical mystical mystery tours; misled....

Ponderings upon the reparians reflective waters; refrains perceptions; lost in the muse  

Bleed me a river please and then, break me in two, time and time and time, again!?

Quondam sleeping now as, waxings cankerous sores somehow, speak their tolls

Tomorrows, priceless tears....

Diagnosis being it so hopeless then, let us gather in what we can, while we can; deja vu


The house, of fallon dreams?!

Note: Smile ~ I was listening a bit earlier to the song, "Beautiful," by Mercy Me & I thought
About certain lives & souls so, painted them a poe ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~

Copyright © John Rhinem

Details | Mixture Poem | |


Poet Destroyer what a peculiar name
A protective layer of sorts
Reader beware, stay at a distance see the parts she wishes you to see
I look beyond the shock and awe to the woman beneath the words
The girl named Linda with a heart of gold
I wonder who has hurt her, bruised that tender heart
Creating a mixture
Intensity, Passion, Love
The layers innumerable, a dove in eagle feathers
Capable of great heights
A predator persona with an angel heart
Striving for connection yet holding back some parts
If you look closely you will see a tender hearted girl draped in mystery
A hugger a unicorn lover
She loves to laugh and she longs to be free
Poet Destroyer still Linda to me

Appreciation in honor of Pd

Written May 13, 2013

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux

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Butter Toffee

"Love comes in many flavors....but the taste of it, is unforgettable"

It makes a very large batch.
And when I finish, there will be
Enough for my family, my friends, and quite possibly
Everyone who lives on our street.

On my tiled kitchen counter
I have gathered..according to the recipe,
The butter, the sugar, the corn syrup,
Nuts and chocolate...all the necessary delectable
Ingredients to make my mother's
Melt-in-the-mouth butter toffee.
    I make it every Christmas, a family favorite, 
    Like a legacy that must be passed on...
    A futile attempt to lighten a dark hour ...of long ago.
A new bride then, with inexperience my middle name.. 
In a tiny kitchen of blue and white 
I was frocked in frilly yellow, wearing the apron she had sewn
An apron with color as warm as the butter assembled before me
My task, was to follow the step by step instructions
A recipe, written in her hand 
Letters so blurred by tears that had taken up new residence in my life
The curls of her handwriting
Wrapping 'round me like the sound of her voice...
A little page from her vast collection..
Wrinkled and yellowed, with speckles, and splatters 
Yellow splatters, reminding me of days of my childhood
A childhood of naivete', believing still, in a sun that would forever shine for me...
When I had so much yet to learn

    But this was that ghastly year, ....that first Christmas,... without her...
    It was up to me, determined to carry on
    ...A simple recipe,     ....couldn't be that hard...could it?

My novice effort, in those first months without her
Was a disappointment.  Just not the same as hers, 
Faintly scorched, the delight, in the offering...
People were polite, accepted it, and ate it to be kind.
They smiled, patted my head, gave compliments...  
But I knew.
And, as time passed,..experience taught me.  Experience heals.
My toffee is good. Quite good...delicious, actually...
Still not the same as hers, but my family thinks it's fine.
I, however, know better. 
     I Have always known.
Today...I melt the butter, I add the sugar, and the syrup
Stirring while the mixture turns to amber.  It won't take long.
My family waits....waits eagerly to savor the sweet flavor
      The flavor of butter, the flavor of chocolate

                              the flavor of enduring love..........that was my mother.

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Mixture Poem | |


She is light skin
blonde hair with curls
a perfect mixture of our different racial spring.
A gap in between her front teeth
and two tiny dimples on her cheeks.
She is so beautiful and fragile
very intelligent and sweet.
She has a castle in the garden
she believes she is Cinderella.

My unborn princess Mia.
I dreamed of her ever since i was sixteen.
at nineteen i thought this was it
only i had no groom.
so when he put a ring on it on my 21st birthday
i knew it would be anytime soon.
But when we went our separate ways an year after that
it was another doom.

Now am 24,turning 25yrs soon
and i think i have found the right Mon.
But with all the distance and miles separating us
i think it will take a few passing of the moon.

Each night before i drift off
i close my eyes
place my hand on the tummy
and listen as her tiny legs tries to kick it off.
Each dawn when i wake
i kiss 'Mia the teddy' on the forehead
as i shall each day when we wake.

I live for that soft wail
when doctors cut that tail.
I live for the bite of her first set of teeth
announcing she is about to outgrow my tits.

I breath for the day she calls me 'mama'!
I breath for the day she runs down those stairs
without my arms as her guide and armor.
I breath for that scared innocent look
when i let go of her hand on her first day to school.

I fight for the day she comes home crying
with her first heart break.
I fight for the day those tall legs makes a win on the run way
granting her a career through break.

I live for the day she reach the teens
start to see me as her evil twin.
I breath for the day my baby girl walks down the aisle
with pride besides her father all glamorous and in style.
I fight for the day she hit forty
and everything she feels becomes a fight.

I live for the day she will comb my gray hair
tuck me to bed with a kiss on my forehead
as i once did to her.

I breath for the day i shall dies
old,toothless and with a smile
because i know she will be standing by.

I live, breath and fight to live
till she is live
right here in my life.


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Wild Rugged Wuthering Moor

How I love the  Wuthering heights rugged landscape
Of the wild savage moor
As I stand upon a rocky outcrops
High on a windswept Tor.

Under the  blue sky canopy before me
Lies sweeping lush green and tawny vales and rolling hills
Land so wild and unforgiving
As the cold wind begins to bite and chill
Carpets of lilac heather providing shelter
For grouse rabbit and mouse
Somewhere in the distance
I catch the site of an old dilapidated stone farm house
Battered and in decay by the harsh temperamental weather
Every day.

Silver ribboned streams gushing and rushing ever flowing
Sparkling in the sun as lazy trout swim and pout
Trying to kiss the sky.

Little white woolly dots majestically graze on idle days
As the ravens take pieces of wool for nesting away
Suddenly the sky turns black and the icy rain begins to pound
And somewhere in the far distance I hear a deep rumbling sound
Cracks of light flash in the sky and the thunder now close by 
Gives out a mighty roar
I feel the power shake the ground where I stand
And it shakes me to the core
A mixture of fear and acceleration sweeps over me
As I watch far from safety in awe.

Suddenly as it started the thunder stops and the sky begins to clear
A rainbow crescent appears and the lark twitters once moor 
As the started wild ponies and heads of deer reappear
The  overpowering smell of damp earth
I'm soaking wet my cheeks red and aglow
I'm lost in the wild untameable timeless beauty
That I have come to love and know
In my isolation I find peace of mind so serine
I am not  just a visitor
But at one with nature and part of the scene.

Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. June.

Copyright © Peter Dome

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Ode to a Woodpecker

The ladder backed pecker,
like a prison uniform.
Caught-up in exposing
the truth beneath the bark,

of the poet's apple tree.
We prefer ourself in spring;
with tiny little flowers,
and the fruit of possibility.

Yet, if not for the woodpecker,
tapping holes into poems,
we might not ever see
the flesh and blood of raw meat.

I will climb that ladder back,
escape pre-decreed standards.
Tap into that syrupy mixture
and suck-out truth from hard wood.

Yes, lessons from a jail bird.
A pest in the Avian Kingdom.
Wisdom from the little rebel,
beat-out of a tree.

Copyright © Dean Walker