SOUP TROUPE (CM)
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peer group, Soup group
write verse, scribe troop
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
My heart longs to have a poet
Willing to write with me a duet.
TAKING ROOT
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A field of snow before the first footprint.
My hand hovers, a hesitant bird
above the frozen ground.
What seeds to scatter here?
What thaw to coax from the barren space?
A word takes root.
Another follows, tentative, green shoots
pushing through the icy crust.
It unfurls, tentative,
a fragile bloom pushing through concrete,
nourished by doubt and desire.
The pen, a conduit,
trembling at first, then finding its rhythm,
a dance between intention and impulse.
The page surrenders,
accepting the ink's embrace,
the birth of something new,
A poem emerges, breathing,
where only emptiness resided before.
making others feel worthless does not increase the value of ourselves
I thought of you today and shed a tear
remembering the poems that we shared
and though at times we fought 'twas always clear
that in the end the two of us still cared
the Soup at times can be a fickle beast
not always sure who is a friend or clown
and though attacks and insults rarely ceased
we had each other's back when one felt down
the ache inside is deeper than you know
your absence like a tree without a nest
so many years and then you had to go
to some of us you simply were the best
here's hoping there's a grandiose return
for in our hearts your poetry still burns
She is... poetry (a reference to her classic poem, I Am Poetry)
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
I used to hate dresses,
The feeling of air blowing onto my legs and the need for sandals.
I hated the way my light blonde leg hair would shine so brightly in the sun.
High schoolers were so scary,
Taller than me, bigger than me, more mature.
Now I am that high schooler and I still feel that way about them.
I’ve always been the smallest girl on the field, in the classroom, on stage.
It gnaws at me because it is unchangeable.
Unchangeable in ways I would do anything for.
Gone are the days of running around on the playground,
Now are the days of straightened hair and perfect outfits.
Girlhood hits like a train, ending the non-gender conforming ways of childhood imagination.
Pre-conceived notions and unachievable expectations.
I used to be afraid to perform.
But that’s what girlhood is.
TIME FOR SOME BUBBLY
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After a day filled with rhyme,
Storm the Squirrel found time, sublime.
In a tub full of lathering foam,
with effervescent glass she imbibed at home.
Sipping champagne, enjoying her poetic prime!
With bubbles that danced all around,
she admired words and verses she’d found.
“But dear sonnets and haikus,
you’ve given me such blues,
But now with this fizz, joy abounds!”
So she toasted to muses and dreams,
to the creativity that fills her to the seams.
With a wink and boisterous cheer,
she declared, “Fellow poets, have no fear,
For tomorrow, I’ll conquer new themes!”
Wreckage of moments thoughts
born in the space of actions
Reactions to the stimulation
Expressions, expectations
Ruined little things, broken
Alone, a cry sold in old
Scattered around after a war's toil
Hear the rage far and away drone
I walk in the ruins of soul
I feel forgotten in foreign soil
The drifting of imagery
Pressing the fragments
Shards hard into skin
Forsaken forbearing fringes
A soul not tethered to this realm or reality
Walking the footfall of a second soul
Wreckage of my deity..
There are two days I know
Yesterday and today
Yesterday laid the cross I bear
Cross I dared not to wear
Forever we stay, they say,
But the thorns stares away
In the pasture last known to stray,
Cradle land, a means to an end
Forgive me if I stray to forever land
For my kin, I bared my soul to fend
I gave my all and my all it took
Parting is luxury for tomorrow unknown
Final glimpse I begged the stars to hide
Evil stares where eyes dared not look
In corners cloaked by fear and stain
Mara Chantal@2025
QUESTIONS POETS AND WRITERS ASK
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On my laptop’s screen, words twist and twine,
I ponder, “Is this plot truly mine?”
With a character's frown,
Will my story break down?
Or will sadness and joy combine?
As I scribble, “What rhymes with orange?”
I chuckle, “Should my hero be foreign?”
With a coffee mug in hand,
And a notebook quite grand,
I wonder, “Should my villain be boring?”
“Is this twist too much, or just right?”
“Will they cheer, or will they take flight?”
With each question I pen,
I just laugh twice again,
For the joy of it all feels quite right!
Like Merlin, we graze
At thoughts limitless,
Benign souls scribbling,
Keyboards inspired,
Or so it seems,
Faith doubts and believes,
Love's days dreaming,
Stars, the moon, our muse,
Makes our happy hearts,
Okay poets!
The pavement claims ice cream from little sticky fingers. Cries echo through the air, tugging at the heartstrings of first-time parents. Turned-out pockets disarmed, everyone walks away with a smile~some wide, some forced, and some bewildered.
Some have watched her rising
from an ocean of time.
Her sightings return at the pull
of each luna cycle.
No clamshell boats for her,
after she rises from the waves
she and the shoreline disappear
she's only to be seen driving a classic
Chevy convertible or riding
a gayly adorned donkey.
She is sister to desert nights,
and all the dance moves
of the free roaming winds.
You have seen her, you know her,
she is the one that comes to you at night
on moonlit slippers.
She's neither old nor young,
Venus is always for your best years.
When the moon begins to starve,
she returns to the sea
vowing everlasting love
to the constantly cresting waves
of your heart.
Specific Types of Poetess Poems
Definition | What is Poetess in Poetry?
Poems Related to Poetess
rhymester, dilettante, writer, author, lyricist, muse, rhymer, bard, versifier, artist, dramatist, maker, poetaster, parodist, lyrist, librettist, odist, balladist, metrist, rhapsodist, rimer, sonnetist,