I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain.
Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.
You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.
You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.
Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.
The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Giorgio A.V. Contest
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
Trust in your fear
As it speaks with a voice
Or you'll be left in pieces
With no longer a choice
For your fear will take over
In vociferous chant
To pieces you will collapse
In meandering rant
So when ever this word
Called fear appears
Don't fall to pieces
Or your soul disappears
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.
Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.
The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.
But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.
The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.
But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits
A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:
A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.
Copyright © Gael Attal | Year Posted 2009
I do not know?
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
Sad Heart, now thou art wither’d from the Sun,
What man, or god, will near thee run?
Wrought in twist like branches in Tempests' gasp,
What Comfort, or Gauze, shall be near to grasp?
True ones begotten are the ones now Rotten
And the ones now Rotten will never be forgotten
They are merely sad remains of assiduous Tears
That have been meddl’d with and tatter’d Raw throughout the years
And thou, cruel Mind, that sat’st still thru toiling trail of Night;
Must dream your broken Dreams; thou’rt a sanely flight!
Can thou extinguish passions of Fire, Disease, or Rain?
—tho thy distinguish’d influence trains to abstain
Thy Remnants brought to debris in thy Empty street,
Devour’d by Vultures, their bestow’d beaks entreat
Merely are they cleaning an inexhaustible Mess
Alas! Leaving thy rudiments of Identity to redress....
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2012
All you do
All you say
All you write
In the jasmine garden
Is a frenzied drum
Bludgeoning me to dumb
As I reel
As you come
Rising on tides
Deluge in the veins
In a hurricane
You seek to
Sweep me off my feet
To be devastatingly kissed
Who does want
A plundered restaurant
I hold breath
But you hit underneath
With your tremendous vigour
A wild rigour
Breaking all norm
Of rhythm and form
The fierce Atlantic storm
From head to toe
Fast or slow
Everything you claim
You monster hurricane
In a primitive joy
Spears and arrows you employ
Pull down and enjoy
In a poor coordination
I reach my limitation
Before your violence
Frantically you tear
All the roses there
The tendrils of hair
The hymns of prayer
Whether in Florida
Or in Miami
Riding on reckless liberty
Everywhere the same misery
Either Katrina or Irene
Harvey or Irma
The same surging ocean
The same commotion
You flood me with
I groan beneath
I have to writhe
And wriggle as fiercely you breathe
Well now as you are quieted
All my emotions
Are now back to the ocean
Give me your resilience
The ocean’s brilliance
Let me reconstruct and create
My new cup and chocolate
In the new circumstance
In future if you need to come
Come with tribal drum
Played by striking with sticks
In the nerves crimson kicks
Come in drizzling ice and gentle rains
Not in tornadoes and hurricanes
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2017
The mirror reflects, obliquely,
a peculiar yellow butterfly -- it flutters, flutters
the specks of black my beard is made of
on the breeze. A daffodil hangs down its treasure
and I spread shaving cream, in great white puffs,
shielding from the windy noise its yellow
across my face. The nose protrudes, ridiculous
excrescence. A leaf half green sweeps up in circles
in the whiteness all around. A weak chin, think I,
of windy sighs. Squirrels crack acorns, crunching,
down into a patchy neck. Very unsatisfactory
remembering winter's almost famine. The trees --
appearance. Altogether so. Oh well.
Quiet. Steady. Sturdy. Oh well.
The mirror reflects, but not uniquely.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012
Copyright © Vincent Rossi | Year Posted 2012
Sorrowful unto death
(Ecclesiastes 1:18 KJV)
He that increases true wisdom increases grief...
exposing that the knowledge of serpent did not instruct the dove,
and to know serpent knowledge is to know,
how the house of Love was divided, that sorrow is in learning,
how many there are deceived of themselves….
To be harmless as a dove is to be love,
to be of a serpentine jester is to pester,
to pester life as a jester of strife...
is to be twain in total vain.
Love is oneness of twain in a wedding garment…
The trinity of infinity is the beginning of thee,
opening the sacred heart gives one options to see,
the beauty you see inside is the essence of thee,
tis also the beauty in the nature of a tree…
the nature of life’s tree eternally…
To be is, to be, of the nature of life’s tree,
not to be, is to be, of thine own ciestrine…
Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2012
He walked amid the woodlands muted morn.
The scents of earth were wafting on the breeze.
For dawn had moistened yet another day.
And silence dripped beneath the autumn trees.
A rustle in dry leaves, he caught a glimpse.
His gun caressed the warmth of flannel sleeves.
The silent hunter, stalking, tiptoed near.
A golden-red meandered through the leaves.
The sun began to rise above the knoll.
It shone upon dark eyes; the gun rose high.
The pheasant flickered leaves; then, heard a crunch.
He recognized the scent; the man walked nigh.
Red feathers, brightly accented with gold,
Were ruffled as he took his fighting pose.
The cockerel next to man had no defense.
So, high above the trees the pheasant rose!
His hungry children waited back at home.
He rushed along the trail up to the crest.
The pheasant lost from view; his stomach growled.
The hunter and his gun had done their best.
At noon, the hunter rested on a log.
The water in his canteen, nearly dry,
No morsel did he eat as day grew long.
The stealthy man could hear his children’s cry.
December 1, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry) - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2014
Singing happy song
Love in its purity bonding
Daddy slips into the arms of another woman
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
Where has dad gone, momma dear?
Hush, my little lamb.
Your dad's gone to the thicket dear
And mad old Abraham
That man went early this grim morn, and took his sharpened knife
And with him took his own first born, to offer up his life
With servants and with firewood, both, they journeyed to Moriah
And on the hillside there they built an altar and a fire
And Isaac, when he heard the plan, went willingly, it's odd
That he should let that daft old man, so worship his cruel god.
Your father, he was passing by, and heard but could not see
And foolishly could not deny his curiosity
So closer did your father scramble peering through the thorns
Unaware of how the brambles tangled with his horns
Just to see a crazy man who planned to kill his kin
Your father did not understand the danger he was in
For then again that mad old man started hearing voices
His god was speaking to the loon and giving him new choices
And so his plan to slay the boy came about to falter
And Abraham, he took your pa and dragged him to the altar
But that was never fair, mama, can you tell me why
When Isaac he was all prepared and well prepared to die
And all had been decided on, so what cruel trick mama
Was played upon that grand old ram, who was my own papa?
Life is not fair, my little lamb, nor is it like to change
And fate plays tricks on all of us, both sinister and strange
So you take care, my little lamb, with this advice from me
Do not visit places where you know you should not be
The moral of this story dear, is take heed of the odds
And stay away from two-leggies worshipping their gods
Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2011
Sometimes I wonder,
What ripped us asunder
I wonder...why friends fade away,
I wonder...why death is our destiny,
And as we experience our final day,
I wonder what will become of you and me
I wonder, with eyes dilated,
Why this day was to be so fated...
When all I saw was you walking away
Or your soul released from here...
I see the suffering of Rene'
Our lives are short,
I wonder what ought
To have been,
Is there some reasoning
For the the ultimate sadness
Towards which we spin?
I wonder if we'll ever understand
What it's all about
I wonder, and wonder,
What was God's plan grand?
I could have redone this life
And accomplished so much more
But now it's too late,
For death approaches my door.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
Wooden paths I seek forlorn,
I miss the smell where I was born.
The coolest air of blossoms bloom
no longer wait for me to loom.
No canopy to be my roof ~
now ashes scattered under hoof.
I had to leave I couldn't stay,
they took upon themselves that day:
destroying what I miss the most ~
now just a charcoal ghost.
Copyright © Tammy Armstrong | Year Posted 2011
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 | Year Posted 2006
Amassed bulging clouds
Dashing enmity fusion,
In jellylike kneaded layaway
Mysterious noir over
Prairies quietly resting
Suddenly trapped under
Vicious wind’s X rated
CarolineCecile - 10.15.12
Copyright © Caroline Cécile Delacroix | Year Posted 2012
You scowl in anger as I turn to go,
Your gemstone eyes so full of jealous heat;
You do not understand, and cannot know
The thoughts that turn my head and guide my feet.
The image which you have is incomplete,
And so by definition soon will fall.
Your views are suffocating -- obsolete --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
I will not bend my head or stoop down low
To make myself a mindless slab of meat,
Or let my soul be shaken to and fro
To lose itself and crouch beneath your seat.
Would you deny my voice to hear the bleat
Of brainless chatter, just to watch me crawl
To bed and spread my legs beneath your sheet?
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
An ever-changing wind will come and blow
Through Winter, Spring, and Summer, in the street;
And restless waters will forever flow,
Their colors cool, their textures smooth and sweet;
Yet you would change the pulsing, throbbing beat
Of Life and Love, to answer ev'ry call.
Mistakes made in the past, you would repeat --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
Your mental boxes, always stacked and neat,
Have packed my essence up against a wall.
Take care, my love -- this gypsy heart is fleet;
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock | Year Posted 2006
The open sea
In every direction for me
The last accompanying sail
Gone over the edge,
The tip of the mast
A sight I found a comfort
Is now a thing of the past
All alone on a world
With no end
With a heart to mend
No ocean liner
Or luxury yacht for me
A simple boat
On this useless sea
If I make
Some distant shore
To sail once again
A desire I will have no more
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
If I were a word,
I'd be on the point of Sharon's pen...
If I were a poem,
The young one would have penned me...
If I needed to show my heart,
I guess I would be me,
If I were to lay down wisdom,
I'd be John, Vince, Ruby, Christy, Maya
But, I wouldn't be me....
If I awoke in the middle of the night,
Wrapped in fear and uncertainty,....
I would be Tom Bell again,....
In desperate need of a friend...
If I have offended, I will volunteer
To cut off the offensive part...
If someone will remember me...
Somewhere down the road...
If I can create a smile,
or a wondrous thought,
I will have exceeded my aspirations
As a person, though never quite a farah chammah,
I will see the sun rise, I will see the sun sink...
I will pray for my fellow man,
Regardless of what others may think....
One life to live?
Nonsense, the Hindus got it right,
The cycle is repeated,
Until we see the light...
Yet the light is here at Soup,
It shines so bright that it could blind,
But blind most of us are,
We keep a closed up mind...
Lives end, lives begin...
They are virtually the same...
God kisses each of us,
And grants us a special name...
But time is oblivious to all this,
It has it's own agenda,
And we are powerless to influence it,
There are higher powers we'll never understand...
But the power of our words lives on...
That power will never end.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
I tell you the rocks don’t bore me.
Unlike other cognizant beings with their endless stories,
Droning on about their mindless vapid glories.
I find myself scrambling to be free,
All the while wondering what the plotline to these tales could be.
But go the highest mountain or hill,
And find at its summit, a rock or stone.
One that is forlorn and alone.
And if you have time to kill,
Imagine for a second, if you want a new thrill.
Consider the pebble in your hand,
That once floated at the bottom of the sea.
If it could describe the scene, what would it be.
Its stories would not be bland,
speaking of the anthropods in the sand.
And if it had eyes to see,
It would speak of the jaws of the earth, biting with force.
And up the mountain went on its course.
Up, up it was thrust into the skies.
And with the ocean it was forced to break ties.
But put your ear to the stone, and it makes no sound.
This witness on the mighty peak,
has no ears to hear, no eyes to see, no mouth to speak.
In silence it is bound.
The treasures it knows, will never be found.
I tell you the rocks don’t bore me.
Mankind is surely cursed.
In banalities we are submersed.
You have a voice, and I’ve forgotten your anecdotes already.
The rocks have no voice, so I’m left wondering relentlessly.
Copyright © Daniel Carter | Year Posted 2016
Tender torrent, week long moment
while the skies fill dark and crimson
Back lit lightning, lovely, frightening
while my heart trips over itself
Call the whisper, brother, sister
sweep the sky with your liquid eyes
Tin the rooftops, as the heart stops
waiting for thunder to stomp the air
Birds stop singing, ears are ringing
as the clomping rain pools up
Trees kiss soil, burnt turmoil
while the wind lets loose her breath
Run for cover, father, mother
beg the sky to lift you high
If you listen, brother, sister
you will hear the sound of death.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005
I do not know?
Darkness falls all around thee
All around me the midnight comes
Rolling in with swiftness and greed
Consuming me completely and to the fullest
I welcome the cold and silence
Inside I toss and turn
I find peace in the darkness
Darkness finds peace in me
Copyright © Tonya Barron | Year Posted 2006
A Rage Against The Storm
Alas! against the storm I did bellow,
you bloweth upon the wrong fellow
My soul you have now so sorely tried
fear, your gift has now so surely died!
Nature feeds your evil blowing wrath,
I curse your daring this upon my path
Heaven's powers ignore your wicked deeds
you the rot that eats away joy's seeds!
Hark! all the destruction you have wrought,
fruits of sins that man surely has bought
Yet, I defy your right to so hammer me
I, the strongest root of my family tree!
Rage on , tear out the withered and the old
This man defies you with a heart very bold!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-27-2014
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014
Wisdom insured life
Man wreaked havoc on nature.
Spitting in God’s face.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
February 14, 2010
Poetic form: Haiku
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010
Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that,
Like a bubble in the air
Have to be content with only
Being fidgety inside myself.
When the rocks try to stop
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied,
Breaking its head on the rocks,
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.
Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?
Unable to do much about oppressive relations,
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom
endowed by nature, in relations.
But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression,
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.
Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.
the volcanoes are also destined to remain
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.
Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'
Copyright © Mohan Chutani | Year Posted 2014
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2009
Like sick allergies,
Boredom can be passed around
I call it: THE BOREDOM DISEASE
Like a horrid storm,
Boredom can catch you off guard
Hold on for DEAR LIFE!
Like the whooping cough,
Boredom can be serious
If I were you, I’d
Get a vaccination !
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013
With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope
1. The stand of old growth Melalucas, graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years, accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.
“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will grow.
More grazing for the cows and less hay we’d need to buy in Winter."
Inwardly, I lament, not wanting to lose the beauty of these trees
with branches that rise like huge broccoli bunches against bright blue skies.
My husband, much harder, by necessity, over-rules my sentiments.
2. Conveniently, earth-moving machines appear early on the first day
of the New Year. They cut a long swathe
but on the dam are left a large row, marked by me,
They cast reflections on the still water.
3. The felled trees are piled into rough heaps. Prophetically, the car
of the Inspector for Primary Industries appears.
“You must know, these are protected trees.”
He asks for permits (not granted) and orders a ‘cease and desist.’
His scowling looks are an indictment.
4. For months the operation was on hold
and, then the rains came and the floods—almost our undoing.
Flocks of water-birds occupied the flats, nesting on the islands
formed by the grassy hummocks. When these waters receded,
an overgrowth of young melalucas sprouted, where the old trees
had once stood. A network of roots underground had signaled
a catastrophe. New nodes erupted along all the root-ways.
Dumbly they announced their guardianship of the swampy land.
“Give us back to time,” they said , but the un-relenting slasher
leveled them again, so grass could grow.
5. I go back into my house now, secretly pleased the trees are speaking.
The topaz flames from the fireplace, warm my bones.
The hoary frosts have come. The envelope containing the D P I’s
decision waits on the mantel shelf, propped by a row of grazing, ceramic cows.
From the window I see our cows enter between the Melalucas.
They graze on the new growth pasture.
I warm my hands, as the flames lick firewood.
The scent from Melaluca smoke haunts me.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2014
Waters rise, engulf the land and other ruses
we devise to block their flow, to stem the tides.
Anxious, we are left to ride the waves
on fragile barques bereft of sails.
Such flimsy arks (mere barrel staves
and baling wire) float up the sides
of great sea-risers, like defiant snails
awash in slime. In time, seabrine looses
collective holds on congealed excuses
and in salt solution we dissolve.
To silver fishes we soon devolve
while worlds and stars, giants and dwarfs,
fade from mind like boats from wharfs.
And when to darker depths we dive,
will fishes miss us? Shall we survive
apart from sky, from air, from dry?
When at last we gasp and die
will crabs cavort? Can fishes cry?
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011