I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
I left my
of wonder and
awe. A place that
knows me better
than any other place
I’ve been. This place
has changed me and
molded me into the
person I am now.
The forests, trees, creeks,
and open skies instilled in
me a love for God’s works.
The harshness of the winters has
taught me to be patient and to endure. My small
town is where I learned the small-town work ethic;
you don’t get what you don’t earn and earning what
you want takes a little bit of sweat and tears. Here
I learned that you don’t have to be blood to be
family. Brothers and sisters are made throughout
years of school together. We relied on each other to
be happy. This place will forever hold my heart and
soul. I am a small town girl through and through.
It’s who I will always be. Forever. Thanks IDAHO
for shaping me into something more than I was.
Copyright © Samantha Farr | Year Posted 2013
a guinea fowl
molting polka dot feathers—
© February 21, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Juxtaposition Haiku
Sponsored by: Charles Henderson
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2012
Here further down the hillside slope
Down close to the creek with hope
My husband bought a house, land
Fenced in and made many plans
Subdued the land to cow pasture
And planted a garden, fruit trees sure
Fathered another child to call him sir
The creek seemed to like the stir
Enjoyed the children for a little while___
Loved them so that it made her smile
Today she loves grandchildren the same
No girls there are in frills ___tame
The creek keeps on flowing to the sea
The land is mostly stripped of trees
(This is my adaptation of Robert Frost's poem "The Birthplace". I hope that it does not insult
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
“There is a time for each season…
To everything made…
There is a divine reason.
A time for purpose under
the heavens above…
A time for meaning from a God of love.
A time to be born. A time to die…
A time to farm the ground
under the beautiful sky.
A time to kill. A time to heal...
A time to tear down and
to build up with a passion and zeal
A time for weeping. A time for laughing…
A time to mourn. A time for dancing.
A time to keep...
A time to throw away.
A time to tear. A time to make amends today.
A time to get. A time for losing…
A time to keep. And to give
away at our choosing.
A time for silence. A time to speak…
A time for each hour
and day of the week.
A time for love. A time for hate…
A time for war. A time for peace at your gate.
How will you spend the time
God has given to you?
What is your choice? What will you do???
May this be a time living in
God’s purpose and design.
He created you and made
everything beautiful in his time!
By Jim Pemberton 05/22/10
Read Eccl. 3:1-11
Copyright © Jim Pemberton | Year Posted 2011
Springs around the corner
what wondrous things we'll see,
bulbs popping up above the ground
giving joy to you and me,
time to tidy up our plot, lots of digging too,
weeds to pull, beds to hoe
lots of things will have to go.
You have to be a little brave
if that rose you want to save,
but you will learn that over time
you've got to be cruel, just to be kind,
The flower beds need a tidy
take all that dead stuff off the top,
veg plots being well dug over
hoping for a bumper crop.
Seeds to sow, hope they'll grow !
then the lawn will need a mow.
And when all the hard work is done
you can sit back and be pleased,
wind , rain and sun you have grown all you need.
Copyright © jacque lee | Year Posted 2007
so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod
the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating
progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze
into fruits of sweaty labors
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint
the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects
for this season, before the
days bake the green back into
the humus and the cornucopia
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool
eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron
to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze
any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup
© Goode Guy 2011-08-22
Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2011
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012
The rosebud has little to do
Just drink its fill of waters
From the strong sturdy vine that's true
Kissed by dew that matters
And enjoy the kiss of sunlight
Upon woven petals
Open little each day that's bright
Sun radiant aerials
When opened sufficient indeed
Host a party to bees
Butterflies who on nectar feed
Won't even run from me
Like they are glued to your nectar
Petals are to full extent
Begin to fall of your vector
When petals gone your scent
On petals linger to be stored
In jar_ pressed for oil
Then I would want to be used
As you who had no toil
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
I want sombody that can see what im doing here.
From every word that goes to your eye then your ear.
What does he mean some sometimes subliminly say.
Not that it doesnt go out and over the other ear anyway.
Your reading this right?
Do you get the message of my meaning?
Isnt it tight?
Sometimes i feel cray like right about now.
I should say somthing crazy but phrase it how?
So the other day i met Captain Crunch's Cornol.
But his cearial looks like chicken.
They have a mean life.
It goes like this.
Bread is fed
to the chicken that was later found dead.
They cut off his head, out came a whole lotta red.
The farmers family needed fed, but the farmer didnt have the bread.
Copyright © Zach Kindell | Year Posted 2012
A person who feels about others
And speaks on their circumstances
And offers a better suggesions
To improve the damped system
To add fundamentalistic solutions
To delete opportunism aspects
To develop everyone’s share
To approach everyone’s contribution
To maintain progress and prosperity
To build a civil agenda to enjoy
Without any prejudice barrier
For our human dignity and regard
To differenciate humanism and animalism
To learn about patience and respect
To discuss a topic of learning
A natural behaviour and sophisticated
Developing approaches at same time
To recover the positive and negativeness
To establish distinctions of values
To identify a usefull and useless motives
To live with peace and satisfaction
To encourage further preparations
To secure and safe future
For beyond from newborn buddies
To provide good tools to develop
To understand a constructive problems
To dissolve wastage of recycling
To save extra energy for dangers
To refine pregressive thoughts
To share his doubts and gains
For a better carriage
Is known as a political person?
How do you feel to listen others?
Satisfaction is a matter for all.
Copyright © Daljit Khankhana | Year Posted 2005
When a person approached investigatively,
He chases his relations suspensively,
He finds clue and works dramatically,
Suspection always works progressively.
Confirmation of belief confirms sensitivity,
Growth brings a change to work relatively,
Hunger is seeking growth for productively,
A limit of growth confirms value qualitatively.
When population has highly density,
Unemployment works offensively,
Poverty grows to increase crime,
Disaster comes to balance creatively.
Everything is naturally fast and slow,
A person has patience for a balance flow,
Air can’t across a gravity line,
Sun has different heat rates a limit to grow.
Copyright © Daljit Khankhana | Year Posted 2005
Gray clouds without rain
Loom and strike their hands
With thunders and heavy voices
At the earth below
Sending down flashes of light
Which miss their marks
Then the breath of heaven
Carries away those vapours
Before the sun
Copyright © Leon Stacey | Year Posted 2006
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2010
The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.
Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace.
And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure,
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.
Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
My nightmare is so tangible...so vividly I dream,
The dream, it feels so true to me...reality it seems.
Exhaust and smoke are all I breathe...the air is full of smog...
The job I do is thankless toil, but I work it like a dog.
There's mercury in the fish I eat...there're toxins in my food...
And drugs, they are a constant scourge...myriads for every mood.
Bipolar is my government...a house divided 'tis...
And corporations drive both sides...in the pockets of "Big Biz".
The icecaps, they are melting...the sea is rising, too.
Pandas, condors, polar bears -- empty cages at the zoo.
My money ne'er seems quite enough...I'm always out of cash...
My freedom fled when I wed my bride...(live I under the lash).
"Entertainment"? Reality TV...maybe some vampire shows...
Or idjits becoming household names for being beachfront "ho's".
People clamor "climate change" from the seats of S.U.V.'s,
And bitter news on the honey front...what's killing all the bees?
Politicians spending more...we go deeper in the red.
Opinions dressed as "news" abound...is journalism dead?
Cell phones are ubiquitous...conversation's endangered now...
And "Kardashians" are famous girls..but who knows why or how?
How strange my twisted psyche is t'make real what must be fake...
Now'f only I could find some way to get myself to wake.
Written on November 27th, 2012
By Daniel Beus (Rebel Sun)
Copyright © Daniel Beus | Year Posted 2012
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The stories are told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilization.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
As he extracts his bones from the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector, signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Copyright © J Eliza JAMES | Year Posted 2012
I can not help but wonder
When God created the earth
How did He think of all the things
It takes to make it work
I know God is God
And He knows all things
But the things I've been a witness to
How do they work I mean
The lava boils deep in the earth
Why does it need to leave
And when it does break through the crust
It becomes a volcano to us
It has destroyed all in its path
What of the hole it leaves behind
The cavity eventually caves in
And then the mountains do begin
Mean while the surface heals itself
The wind and rain step in
The soils that are blown and washed in
Help heal the scars again
What of the ash from the volcano
As it infiltrates the air
As it settles it brings death
Such as ASH FALL in Nebraska
Where the rhino's met their end
And what of the earth quakes
As the earth seems to shake in pain
The cracks that they leave behind
Form gullies and ravines
The oil, the gas, the silver, the gold
The floods, the tornados, the drouths, the cold
Fires caused by lightenings sting
Are all under Mother Natures wing
The animals before man's time
Lived and died as was designed
And still the earth went on and on
And healed it self from dusk to dawn
And now that man is here
It has to work harder
It is there to heal the wounds
That man seems to father
Then we have the food chain
Land and water both provide
And if man doesn't watch his step
Fathom waits outside
Now and then it does rebel
It gets the upper hand
Tornados, blizzards, hurricanes
Volcanos and desert sand
The scars the wars do leave
Mother Nature does her best
If only we'd learn to live in peace
She could take a rest
And all the stupid things man does
Like building homes along a high cliff
Then when Mother Nature does her thing
Bet you can guess who takes the blame
The heavens, the earth were made by God,
And for eons they did survive
Then God created man,
If they don't work side by side
Neither of them will abide
I guess I answered my own question
I just had to use my brain
Thank You God for all Your help
I hope it's not in vain
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2010
much shorter days now
the temperature falls at night
harvest moon provides
Written for Brian's contest
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
She was a devoted ole gal always at her best
so many days I cried hanging off her chest
down to the lake in the hot summertime
we would cool her off and swing on a vine
Every morning at five am here came Belle, now my friend
and again at six pm there Belle was ready to work again
years passed and Belle became a part of our family
we worked, we played, and we milked twice a day
Half my life she was one of my dear friends
I greeted her in summer with warm sun burnt skin
and in winter I spent my time warming them
when Belle died I can't say things were ever the same again
Belle had become more than a cow in a pen, who gave us milk
she became a babysitter, a circus act, part of the swim team, for the neighborhood
but most of all Belle had become a lonely teen's dear friend
Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012
morning by the hill
ants with foodstuff walk in line -
the sun shines all day
7th Place - Traditional Haiku II
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
*This is a repost, the original of which I have inadvertently deleted while trying to delete a double posting, hence it no longer appears in the winner's list. Posting again today in view of Viv Wigley's blog, Old Friends.
**I tried to see if the deleted file can still be retrieved by PoetrySoup but after sometime, they replied that they can't. This is the link to the old post where only the comments remain: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/summer_job_685960
image credit: thumbs.dreamstime.com
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015
outstretched crows flying frenzy
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2010
The fire alarm went off
Water sprinklers came on
Near pups will not writeoff
Pups are my obsession
The floor and walls hotter
Dry hot air_no way out
Get faint start to totter
There's crash on door without
Master early today
He will care for me_pups
We can count on him to stay
His love grows in all ways
It's not him crash through door
He spots me; as I survey him
Shiver with pups on floor
He reaches_ touches rim
Container where pups lay
Places in pocket on coat
Fireman works swiftly this day
Concerned person take note
Who's here_need to be moved
Swiftly fireman moves now
To safety takes them improved
Flames leap; gone_ puppy chow
My life_pups was limited
Our time totally up
To be annihiliated
Fireman saved me _pups
My one_ only method
To say to him thanks_thanks
Is loving kiss slipshod
As he pets my scorched flank
(slipshod in this case:careless or messy)
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011
Lookin' after pests
Keepin' a CLOSE eye on 'em
"Those wild animals!"
Roamin' around zoo
Searchin' for sneaky monkey
Hidin' in a tree
Zookeeper gets mad
"Where's Marty, the smartypants!?"
"He TOOK my cage keys!"
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013
Spirits riding time,
in swirling clouds, mist and fog,
off the bluff they rolled.
Special thanks to James Marshall Goff for taking the time to explain haiku to me in a manner
that helped me to appreciate its imagery and rigid format.
"Visitors" is a spin-off from another poem "Heritage", which I wrote a few years ago and
posted on PS only a few minutes ago. If the imagery and emotions I attempted to evoke fell
short of your expectations, read "Heritage" and you'll tell more about what I was attempting
to communicate. This is my first attempt at haiku, so do be too mean. ;-) ~<><
Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009
dewy tears glisten
upon silver threads woven...
the rains come then go.
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013
While I appreciate the vacation
it would have been better if it were paid.
Funds lessened by nature’s aggravation,
lends credence to the starved artist charade.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
My roots are trembling
through clay orgasm,
tumbling the landslide
that speaks every shake or so.
Leo roars and I await life,
Generic roving rumbles
reminding me of the world around,
but I never remember
how to cling to the ground.
Copyright © Jennifer Ratcliffe | Year Posted 2011