Earthly bewert such sortilege such abrasive cohorts so they all gather beside the black mass and look skyward daftly for the mote of wet grass, this trail of desiccation like lumps of wetted coal that has failed to ignite the obverse rational goal.
writhes bones, skeletally abrasive,
impinging upon warm bodies,
closing in, shadows stalk,
root system of sinister,
disrupted by intense light
figures in white, outside
of temporal, embrace blue
of his shoulders -
roots of sacrifice, present.
led through the forest;
dead wood parted ways
like Moses’ Red Sea, which
can’t hold water when
the King of kings leads.
5/11/26 1:53 P.M
You never stayed
Never stayed long enough to meet
Me.
You thought I was
Abrasive
Rude
Wrong
But I was a girl covered in armor cherishing her heart behind it
The heart already shattered but
She salvaged what she could
And managed to love in the dark with every crumbling piece
But you didn't see me
Me as the girl who listens to sad country songs
And thinks of the people who taught them to her
The girl who admired the sunsets
The sky dances with shades of rose and orange dreamsicle bleeding into blackness
and quiet
You never saw the girl who loved silence
You saw the armor but never the crumbled girl behind it
The girl who cried at night wondering why
The girl who had paced in her room whispering to herself at 1 in the morning
The girl who cried at Instagram posts fearing she was missing out
You never stayed so you never met her
The girl behind the armor
Who finds beauty in everything
The bright sun
The dark night
The swaying trees
And whatever person was gentle enough to hear her and stay to see me.
There was once, a clever man called Tim
His abrasive, smelly wife was called Vim,
Her head too big for her boots,
Such a nasty person, who wished some no good,
Tim being so handsome, got all the looks,
Whilst she was looked upon with disdain
Again and again and again and again.
They bought a house in an upbeat snobby area,
Her idea, and next door lived a lady called Sahra.
A cultured person whose background, much like Tim’s
Tim and Sahra got on like a house on fire,
Whilst our know all rude wifey, Vim,
Found her own kind in Sahra’s slobby husband, Skim.
Conveniently they had no children, Tim and Vim,
So got divorced, and then Tim married Sahra,
And now they have a pigeon pair
A girl and a boy,
The boy so young, yet so debonair,
His name is Terra,
The little girl blonde and pretty like Sarah,
Terra’s looks Latino like, just like his dad Tim,
Granny s fav the little girl, whose name is Kim.
Well what happened with the slobs Vim and Skim,
Does anyone care, a true story I wished to share.
I feel it smoothly, gliding freely,
Liquid fluidity surging.
Not a fraction of too much friction,
An undulating path followed effortlessly.
Movement and balance allowing continuous flow.
A sense of harmony as the lubrication guides easily.
Embracing depth with no distraction.
No tension felt as if all melts with fluid energy.
A transition of like particles melding without abrasive motion.
A sleek silky transition is accomplished.
Liquid fluidity surges.
The artist textured an abstract artwork to the canvas.
Bold gradient strokes, are a pivotal attraction adding to the ambience.
Light, and layered emotion captivate through transitions and bold contrasts.
The paint melts across the canvas, intersected by frivolous bubbles and a masterful juxtaposition of cracked and fluid textures.
Each element from the fractured patterns to the luminous flow of paint, contributes to a sense of wonder of movement.
The more I gaze into this painting the more I see the effects of lubrication.
Imagining the paint is still actively moving freely on the canvas to a degree.
Let's play a game of telephone...
crepitant tongues converse
overly dramatic tendencies
incoherently concrete
awakening preoccupation
a train flying off the tracks
chaotic clumps crust up
dissonance distended
indecorous reception
viral instigator
I dont want to sift
sterilize rhetoric
abrasive to the ear.
A game of telephone...let's play.
Admirable
Tough
Lots of energy
Abrasive
Sunset
Trusting
Hardworking
Original
Mature-ish
Accommodating
Sociable
Balanced
Ultimate edition
Candid
Healthy
Abundant
Non-nonchalant
Agile
Neighborly
Let’s get rid of that old antique thing, my daughter said.
Was she talking about the clock? Was she loose in her head?
I pretended I had not heard her weird kind of blasphemy.
That clock was given to me by my oldest Grandma McGee.
Sure, it was ancient, it no longer played a pretty song
Some of it had splintered, its chimes were abrasive and long
But there was a connection between that timepiece and me.
Maybe because it had come from my favorite Grandma McGee.
That night I sat up in bed, wondering if a ghost was about the house.
That clock was playing like it was haunted by moose and mouse.
My hair frizzled with fright, for I had not had this experience before.
I broke off three teeth grinding them; I locked my bedroom door.
Could not get to sleep the rest of the night; this was a fright, it was a fright.
Next day, I tried to give the clock away at the first sign of daylight.
Who would want it? Asked my daughter, it's scary as a gargoyle on speed.
I can deliver it to your house, however, if you have a desire or need.
My Pain is invisible to one's naked eyes
With no emotional sensitivity. My Pain
Physical collateral damages awakened me
Consistently from a sound sleep. My Pain
Emotionally pain is overwhelming, racing
thoughts, vulnerability, traumas, and grief often
haunt me. My Pain
Abrasive relationships and familiar faces encounter
me with no emotional sensitivity and no support.
Material losses, lessons gained I don't want no
more pain. My Pain
I don't read between the lines and I can't read minds
I was unsuccessful on my last three tries
you asked for my opinion but what you're seeking is agreement
so I toss what I was thinking in the trash like I don't need it
I do whatever works unless what works is inconvenient
then I kill the plan I had and act as if I'm in bereavement
I don't care about possessions and I know how hard success is
when successful at any level it don't feel like I expected
and regardless how I feel I have no choice but to accept it
sometimes the stuff that happens ain't as grand as its perception
that's just the way it is and that's how will explain it
if the statement that I'm making is too abrasive then I'll replace it
when I'm told I'm acting childish my ability to form
an excuse that I can use while I'm building me a Fort
goes right outside the door and I resort to getting petty
Richard Petty go in circles till civilities restored
Real poets don’t make lasting friends
they shun fraternity
Their truth like gritty sandpaper
abrasive when intoned
The reader may be gratified
with what the words uncover
More likely though the pain involved
— will cut them to the bone
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
I have a secret weapon Leprechaun Larry said.
We thought he was odd, a bit tiny in his head.
It will get me the magic secret to the pot of gold.
His claims were abrasive, rude, impolite and cold.
What is his secret? I wondered to my cousin Mug.
I think it is that he has a pet, a rare kind of ladybug.
Ladybug was not talking, so we followed him about.
Until Leprechaun Larry began to grouse and pout.
If I show you my secret weapon, I will lose power.
He said this to us in the middle of an April Shower.
I have to get stoked up and ready for March again.
We finally left him alone, because he is our kin.
We can mortify our flesh,
wear our sign of confession,
perform our penance,
bear portions of scratchy sackcloth
so rough, so abrasive, against our bare backs.
Our sideboard now bears such a treasure,
three posies, nosegays, tussie-mussies,
bound in such pieces that would
love to scratch at our naked flesh
if we pressed it against our chests, our bellies, our backs.
Do we think of our past - our past’s own past?
Do we ignore all history
as we glance at, or disregard,
those posies, nosegays, tussie-mussies,
that sit in scratchy sackcloth?
(11 Dec 2023)
LEGACY
If all that is left of someone are the words they said
Or wrote, perhaps – whether as a poem or a diary
Then they must be remembered for such expression
Even if it should read almost as a hesitant confession
The tone can be humble, bold, or maybe even fiery
But if written words, then they might at least be read
All the things they never said, and all that they did
Proudly sit alongside some of those deeds we recall
A life well lived, frontiers that were boldly crossed
But what of the million thoughts at risk of being lost
Don’t leave a unique voice to be never heard at all
Maybe husky in later years, but smoother as a kid
A person is reflected in all things both said and done
For many, a silent photo is sufficient for the memory
Biography in its style for some, sounding too remote
And cannot compare to what they themselves wrote
Yet harsh words recalled may be abrasive, like emery
But for all who were close, they miss the morning sun
* The Tongue
By: Miracle Man
7-25-2023
Sometimes we comply to our inner voice,
giving little thought where it might lead.
We followed blindly, as if void of choice,
then regretting later that we paid it heed.
Remorseful feelings always come too late,
but with forethought we might have avoided.
Once door’s ajar, and horse through the gate,
those abrasive words spoken can’t be voided.
* James 3: 5-12 KJV
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.