As the hourglass gets filled with sand,
they take time to ask me who I am,
but who are YOU? to ask such a question...
Did I invite you into my world,
with bright pink signs pointing to my direction?
>>>> OVER HERE! INSANITY BY THE BUCKET! <<<<
BUY ONE GET ONE FREE (what a steal)
Is that the way you feel? Am I just a novelty
for your ogling eyes?
(well judging by my pretty face --- I'm not surprised)
But there is such a thing as common courtesy,
though considering your modernity
I doubt you even know how to do a curtsy
with your LOLing to the moon and back
*deletes evidence of acronyms
in a flash*
...... getting back (ahem)
to the point.
I really ought to stop while I'm behind
before people start questioning my modesty
(are my metaphors too revealing?)
GOOD one! (yup ... I'm stealing!)
And before things go from bad to worst
you really ought to knock first,
catching me in poetic undress
when people see your haiku
And did I say you can come in?
(slick intruder that you are with feline finesse)
I should be downright insulted by your nonchalance
to rifle through my cranium, feather duster in hand,
taking advice from the motel maid
(don't try to hide it)
We all know you can't get enough of it,
so what's the big deal?
(are you still reading this ... FOR REAL?)
Wow! What a champ!
Do you want a golden stamp?
(the universal postal service is outrageous
anything past Mars is too far)
Now what rhymes with far?
Bar, Car, Star, ... OOOO CZAR (bet THAT hasn't been done before)
Are you having fun yet, just like a kid in a candy store?
Are you addicted yet ... do you crave more?
Thinking of the best way to rot your teeth to the core?
(pick your poison peeping tom)
... wide open eyes through the crack in the door,
getting looksies at my under
Sometimes I get tired of your probing!
Your seeing of things never meant to be known,
your x-ray vision analyzing my bones.
I suppose it can't be helped though,
it's just how it goes, you know?
I never meant it to go this far ...
a handful of lines was all I asked!
Now look at the poetic aftermath.
This is how it is in a world full of noise,
if I didn't want you to hear my voice, weeell
(perhaps I ought to reconsider my career choice)
NOTE: I thought it was fitting to add a picture of me given the subject matter.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me GAY ??...
Copyright © Sean Kelly | Year Posted 2008
I despair at writing poetry
I'm not sure I have the skill
Just can't seem to find the words
Or bend them to my will
It's hard to sum up what I mean
And make it sound succinct
So as a poet should I stop
And quietly go extinct?
Should I lay my pen to rest
And let it gather dust?
But something seems to urge me on
To write is now a must!
So putting pen to paper
I'll scribble just for fun
And maybe one day very soon
A poet I'll become!
Copyright © Emma Mantle | Year Posted 2011
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
Oh the Ghosts, Oh the Ghosts!!!
The Ghosts of Christmas shall haunt the wicked
They shall haunt the bitter and sorrowful decrepit creatures
Your hunched back and wallet will be no shield
For the three ghosts of the Christmas past
I Sir am the ghost of the Christmas past
Fear not I shall do yee no harm
That, you have already done upon your own wicked soul
Yes, that is you, as a young man, full of piss and vinegar as they say
Oh I know, you young ones then called it love, sore sight that was
I sir am the ghost of the Christmas present
Fear not, the bitter cause their own harm, not I for sure
They seethe within their own discontent and folly
The chains you hear old scrooge, are not mine
They are the irons that chain your heart to the wheel of wealth
I sir am the ghost of Christmas future
Fear not, for there is hope for all mankind
Even you, who counts coins like lovers count kisses
When you wake, you shall remember not, all these wise illusionary dreams
Old scrooge, the gift of mercy shall bestow a last grasp at happiness, take yee hold!!!
The most festive of December days, the sun rose in the cold brisk air
Scrooge awoke, and the inexplicable sound of laughter filled his dreary bedroom
Pure unadulterated joy from the grumpiest of old men
The maid fled in fear, what insanity must have possessed this bitter old lard
Ah but happiness was indeed in the air
On with his topcoat and hat, nary a moment to ponder
Of he went to his secretary’s house
Carol, Carol !!!! He exclaimed, yes, I am not mad not crazy nor insane, open the door!
Possessed maybe, but only of joy, that I, the one so filled with animosity
Now I see, by the grace of the god, the love before my very eyes!!!
Well Carol and Scrooge passed a very Merry Christmas indeed!!!!!
Notes: This take of “A Christmas Carol” is from fond memories as a child, when our Dad “made” us watch this movie over the years! Blessed are those with such fond childhood memories of Christmas!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
(don't tell anyone)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
For Miranda Lambert’s “Inspired” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
I wanted to write for this contest;
But my muse was staging a protest.
“Take me to the sea,” it pled,
“In this house, I languish, dead;
Put me in touch with nature, a forest.”
“Don’t stare at a screen, confined by walls;
Locked inside, my inspiration falls.
Surely there’s a babbling brook
Or a valley’s overlook.
Give me something to work with,” muse calls.
“If you fail to respond, I’ll attack
As you’re sleeping in a room black.
Thoughts you will never recall
Cannot upon your page fall;
Without me you’re nothing but a hack!”
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
Sometimes I catch them easily,
The words I'm reaching for;
At other times watch helplessly
As they crash to the floor.
I try to reassemble but
They've landed in a jumble.
I grab too fast for floaters and
My chair and I both tumble.
Susie thinks it is hilarious
And joins into the fun.
Before she hears my "stop", she has
Already swallowed one.
I am truly very sorry
There are no poems from me.
You will know why when I tell you
My dog ate my poetry.
Won 3rd place
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2005
hi-jack my haiku?
Hah! You jacked the wrong ku
You stole a senryu
I hide my haikus
safe and sound beneath silly
senryus such as this
Hark and heed this Hank!
Stealing somebody’s senryu
is scandalous but
heisting a haiku?
holding a haiku hostage?
That's horrible Hank
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2014
---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********
now and again
approaches the fog in me
screams its name
apropos adverbs appear
slick little nouns
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
beneath eight parts of speech
within prison walls
filled in the past
like Job's tedious job
homographs from heteronyms
words never mind...
they wind the mind
in the wind...
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
torments soupers fully
picks on others writes
although her writing bites
great big bully
eyes must be woolly
she attempts hurt
with words curt
January 29, 2012
Contest - Clerihew 2
“poetry is freedom of expression. Soupers should feel free to share their innermost thoughts without fear of being persecuted. Nobody likes a bully. If you do not have something nice or constructive to say, don’t say it”.
Copyright © Diana-Marie Bombardieri | Year Posted 2012
Alliteration is awesome;
thanks to thee
it effortlessly erases evidence
Written February 29th, 2016
For the Spoonerisms Contest hosted by Roy Jerden
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
The Old Prospector, The Crazy Old Fool
Folks said that nasty fool is a damn old bat
times the bastard knows not where he is at
Rumor is he lives in shame for murdering a man
eats lizards and snakes, drinks from rusty can
He eats snails, claiming it slows his pain
wore a sombrero, his umbrella for the rain
Chewed on his grubby food lightning fast
swore hell was his garden if it only last
Claimed he slept on a pleasant cactus bed
had genius ideas always running in his head
Knew the earth was only alien hunting ground
had hid every strange thing he ever found
On cold nights slept naked as he could be
swore it put better leaves on his tree
Always used a large rock for his pillow
ate boiled bark from his weeping willow
When asked how he knew this earth was flat
said, if were round I not be where I am at
Kept a rattle snake for his waking alarm
declared it to be a friend doing him no harm
Yet when he passed on they soon did find
not all was crazy as all hell in his mind
For hidden under his massive cactus bed
buried deep were 700 bars not of lead
Gold this old timer had been finding there
his crazy act was to keep all thieves unaware
Gold mine hidden underneath his shabby shack
tunnel underground to rocky hill outback
Lawyers found that he had a grandson at Yale
claimed to be an orphan was his tale tale
He had paid that boy's way into a great life
making sure the kid experienced no strife
His hoard tallied out to be five million bucks
mine still producing hauled out by trucks
Town-folks all were shocked and so damn amazed
this old man they had thought to be so crazed
In his will he left a note for his tombstone,
Hell with you fools, my old tired ass is gone!
I had fun seeing what dumbasses you all were
my trick playing you ALL caused a big stir
Grandson put the biggest tombstone on his grave
wrote a best selling book on how gramps gave
Exposed the bias of the arrogant fools in town
folks laughed so hard they couldn't put it down!
Robert J. Lindley
Note: Poem is loosely written on the life of an old man about my former home-town, an old man they all called "Crazy Jim".
One day, I talked to crazy Jim, he stopped acting crazy walked about town with me a teenager explaining all about the places and people for the last 40 years there. Not a single crazy word did the man utter.
As we arrived back where our walk started he shook my hand and said, son I knew your dad well, he was an honest man, a good man.
Then he walked off jabbering, back into his act...
Later when I told people about it all -none of them believed me...
I learned that people will absolutely refuse to accept when they've been played for fools. Will prefer to keep believing the lie..
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
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 poetry priestess Dawood
Donned her Bowler ,as only she could .
But a bad Irish breeze
Jellied her knees .
Still her squiggly scarf wrapped her GOOD !!!!
Copyright © Sean Kelly | Year Posted 2008
Young Shakespeare didst say to his tutor,
"Methinks I wouldst be much astuter,
And per chance, I wouldst say,
Mightest write a screen play,
If some fool wouldst invent the computer."
Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2005
Now here's a contest that seems pointless
But, up to a point, I guess it will do.
The points in my life have sometimes been fruitless,
I just thought I would point that out to you.
Oh, the point of this rhyme
May be pointed one way,
But it is at this point in time
To score points by what I say.
The point that I am making,
Is that there is always some point
That life points in a way forsaking,
Giving your point a grave disjoint.
I have pointed out many times
that points are good and bad.
But the good points I remember better
Rather than the bad points I have had.
You can sometimes see how pointless it is
To try to point these things out.
As for the point I am making,
You get the point...no doubt!
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2011
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2007
All these words and all these lines
Just keep running through my mind
By the dozens, they drown out sound
And force me to quickly write them down
Lines and lyrics in poetic rhyme
Written within record time
Words so simple and plain to me
Can bring a smile or a tear you see
Though these are more
Than mere words to me
It is a part of my soul,
From way down deep
So please excuse me
While I let it all out
Or these words will drive me crazy
Without any doubt!
Copyright © Christina Fell | Year Posted 2005
of the causation
is the clarification
or the realization
is a manifestation
of your fixation.
I wrote this in 2003 and it was the first of it's kind known at the time.
Copyright © Terry L. Allen | Year Posted 2012
G ood God! How I’ve tried,
E ven outright denied
M any times the persona you see.
I nside of my skin,
N either conscience nor kin,
I have you and yes, you and that’s me!
Copyright © Gerard Keogh Jr. | Year Posted 2009
Time has come
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?
I opt for the one
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.
If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again.
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2006
Oh I would give Christopher Higgins a peck..
as I read the words penned by John Heck..
and there just would not be such a spark without
the writes of Michael Degenhardt...
just like it would be a sin, not to feel the words
of Mohammad Yamin...
John Loving, Sean Kelly and Des Juan
the writes of these makes a duckling feel like a swan...
now it seems as if this one is too important
to pass up the likes of Michael Jordan..
and always one to write with good sense
I can't forget my man whose name is Vince...
now it would seem such a shame, to forget
my friend John Rhinem's whole name...
also it just makes no sense to forget the
writes of Joseph Spence..
and how could you not understand
that Brian Strand is the man...
let's not play games not one to poke
don't forget the talents of Mr. James Foulk...
and for that matter how could I forget
my friend Daver..
oh and yes let's close the curtain
but let's not forget the writes of Derrick burton...
these men can truly make the words cry
if you think I'm lying be my abili..
with this list I can always continue
so much great talent on this soup's menu..
if I've left anyone out, I apologize
it's not a smite, and not a guise..
these are a very talented group
that represent on poetry soup.
P.S. THIS IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE MEN
OF POETRY SOUP
Copyright © Deneen White | Year Posted 2008
I have entered many poetry contests
to display my best...an amazing number of sixty or more,
only one of my poems has won first place;
poets are like enduring athletes who fight to the very core!
One big hurray goes to myself for the first win,
congratulations to the other participants
who are on the top of that list, or have been
awarded Honorable Mentions for their efforts!
When my poem doesn't make it to the finalists's list,
I don't feel discouraged, I brazen out the doubt and try again;
even Lance Armstrong, with his skills, can't always win his race,
and the trophy must be given to someone else!
I rejoice when some of the chosen poets appear
on the winners' list; I am happy for their accomplishment,
and into a word-restricted message's box I gladly comment
on their poetry...with the insight of an achiever!
And for those whose names never made it as previously thought,
I honestly tell you, from experience, not to be a bit discouraged...
your time will come when your enthusiasm will require a big shout;
never put the word, " Winner " to rest, write for fun and persist instead!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
I shalt ne'er be a famous bard such as William Shakespeare.
From mine pathetic poetical quill he hath naught to fear!
Mine immoral mot, "Where'er thou mayest be let thine water flow free",
I fear shalt ne'er compare to Bill's immortal line, "To be or not to be!"
"He hath eaten me out of house and home!" could be said of mine cat!
(Why could not I have conceived that line - all I can say is drat!)
"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" cried Richard The Third!
(If I had said that, people would have deemed me quite absurd!)
"Brevity is the soul of wit!" and thus "This is the short and long of it!"
Alas, I shan't match wits with Willie so while I'm ahead I'd better quit!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
I do not know?
Thinking of O, Ms. Jill Martin was in her solitude “Quietly…breathing”
That, she just waved her hand greeting April Lewis “Without Speaking”
I spied humorist Donald Meikle, writing a “Note to a Lady in Waiting”
Let’s party! exclaimed silent Sami Al-Khalili, but not “Only In Winter”
That’s a real cool idea, and I said, how about in “The Field Of Summer”
Dame Marcyle Beer offered her place, called “Welcome To Fort Beer”
A rising star Taryn Melville proudly breezed in: saying “I Am From…”
But, party guy Anthony Slauson showed us his “Fingers of Freedom”
Leaving noble Alyssa Finley’s young mind fixated in “Dreams Come”
A free verse expert JeanMarie Marchese of Homosassa, uttered “Slow”
Let snow lover Linda Smith tell us first her “Footprints In The Snow”
Indeed, we’ve our time to introduce ourselves, before “The Cockcrow”
Sweet Elaine George arrived, when the night still had a “Tender Heart”
With a special gift, for Raquel Nicholson, ‘cos she has “a broken heart”
I learned that Big John Tanaskow did not wish to go “Back At the Start”
The party made poetic Mark Hansen expressed himself, in “Cloud Nine”
Perhaps he had consumed much of shy type Nicola Steel’s “Plumy Wine”
For he was too excited, to meet a bright Seema Ali, on a “Poetry Online”
Before the party was over, Juanita Ganir, sprung from her “Sacred Well”
And, old Londoner Matt Doe spoke, of his mighty “Showdown In Hell”
To a sexy Tamiviolet Manchas, but, she xoxoxo urged him, “Don’t Tell”
Many thanks, to photographer William Jones, for his “Living In Color”
A souvenir that reflects my own plea to “Make Me Whole, Once More”
A plea to everyone, to all friends, to remember that “My Name Is Thor”
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2006
Never has there been a word
With more meanings, I have learned
Than this trinity of letters
That set so nice when together
The Oxford English Dictionary
set down 62 columns, so worthy
Which will have you all set
Please forgive that little jest
When you set forth to search and see
For yourself the word you need
Your search for a synonym you'll find
Sets within your Thesaurus kind
Don't let your idea be so rigid set
That you can't bend your mind and let
This little word set you off in the right direction
To help you fulfill your literary perfection
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
If I were a word,
Then 'peent' it would be.
It's something unique,
Just exactly like me.
With mystery and flow,
Like a forest hid stream,
Like memories unrealized;
Some faraway dream.
Any sentence could fit me,
I'd make stories complete,
My meaning’d be endless,
My harmony sweet.
Yes, if I could pick one word,
That fits only me,
There's only just one word,
And 'peent' it would be.
Copyright © Jason Klaiber | Year Posted 2005
Sensitive ears of nature I have
Poetry is not the sight of words
but the sound.
Spoken,sung or played on a guitar...
Human, machine,instrument or nature.
Any of these are cool as long
as they're written down.
A flute playing, a bird singing ,
a car engine starting.
Someone whipping , chopping,
cooking in the kitchen.
Hear it first, then write it down.
For what is poetry but the text
the sound that you've found?
Copyright © Mariana pavlich | Year Posted 2005