Let flames be if you can’t fan them,
what a waste to keep words contained.
Intrigue and sparks walk in tandem.
Blind fervor can’t remain restrained.
With an adept Sun’s touch you soar,
that type of glow will not be feigned.
Too prim for this hurried downpour,
please end fake summer renascence.
You don’t dance when hail hits the floor.
Not thinking of the consequence,
heat won’t fire with benevolence.
Sure he will linger, this long.
Not just in memory
Distant; earthly;
As sees him live out again
Whose sense no feelings sustain
Days; endlessly!
Child. With all that term implies.
With a heart, carefree-leapt
Soul, joy-adept;
God's friend was. Who'll in Heaven
Quickest for whose gates open
More love accept!
WIRES CROSSED
A confused robot stands on my drive.
Colours shifting, flashing bright.
It searches for a purpose, a reason to thrive.
Stands out now, a bittersweet sight.
Once it blended in, unnoticed and grey.
Now an anchor to memories past.
I sit and watch, lost in disarray.
Tears run tracks down my cheeks;
my heart is vast.
Just then, a bird flies down to rest,
on the robot's shoulder, a gentle guest.
A symbol of hope, a promise kept.
A reminder of God's love, forever adept.
I see myself in its confusion, its pace.
A reflection of my own uncertain stride.
We both search for connection, a steady base.
A rhythm to hold, a place to hide.
Lord, I pray, bring peace to this space.
Guide me through struggles, show me Your face.
The wires tangled, the circuits strained.
Perhaps one day; it'll find its way.
Until then, I'll watch it in the rain
and pray my heart stays light, come what may.
-A traffic light in South Africa is called a robot-
Sometimes buried deep can be a secret kept.
If very bad, such a secret festers in the soul.
It rots away like bad meat in a giant bowl
where maggots have formed and yearly crept.
Imagine horrors underneath a carpet swept -
an infestation like that of a nasty mold.
Dirty secrets are the worst inside to hold.
Nightmares could appear as their holders have slept.
Maybe at keeping secrets you’re adept.
That’s okay when secrets aren’t so terrible.
But let loose secrets that are unbearable,
for sometimes a secret should not be kept.
My fellow poet Ilene can write.
I look for all her new poems on this site.
To read her work is surely a delight.
Being a resident of New Jersey,
seeing how she expresses herself is easy.
Ilene is so adept at poetry.
From ground to high sky
birds fill break of day with song
feathered hymns rejoice—
dawn chorus of wing and will
call all to join nature's voice
Magpie's carolling
ignites dawn with fluted bells
welcoming chorale
in day-break's cathedral dome
joyous songs of devotion
Willie Wagtail struts
tail flicks like a metronome
swagger in each step—
black-and-white little soldier
stakes claim to place of its own
Grey Fantail arc skits
with tail flits like restless fan
chaos ensemble—
air itself shakes in the dance
with its frantic flight patterns
Superb Fairy-wren
courageous, blatantly bold
blazes bright in blue—
outlandish flare on green leaves
with its beauty turned to dare
Eastern Whip-bird cracks
the lash to rouse sleepy heads
who missed the alarm
stumbled wobbly out of bed—
hoping no one would notice
The Welcome Swallow
adept aerial maestro—
dazzles watching throngs
with its acrobatic stunts
snatching at insects mid-flight
dulcet …
the night …
holds far too few hours
to attend you, pure … proper
in twilight reverence
your body’s song is my scripture
the braille my fingers ache to read -
sexy verse moonlight recites
and orates to my blood
longing’s lullaby
spoken glyph-by-glyph
and plopped like sugar on my tongue
where it attends …
yours …
speak to me with
your coy and curvy whispers
such fair flesh tells an epic tale, erotic
few know the language
but I am fluent
I will listen with an anxious ear
and reply in cursive on your dermal page
my game?
to raise those tiny little bumps -
catkin skin that jumps to
the touch, as my adept answers wind
their warm way south
to the source …
come, let time stand still
night is too fleeting
and a delicious pas de deux awaits -
a torrid tale of pillows and percale and
moonbeamed madness …
where minds and moans and motions are
met in one rapturous breath …
of breathlessness
ghostwriter … and manuscript
this tome is ours -
you and I … lost
to ourselves …
to each other …
to the world of whys and whatevers
and to everything …
but us.
in the heart of the absolute
an intent arose
to manifest as a soul seed
then see how He grows
hiranyagarbha: cosmic egg
shaped like head ovoid
was the first manifestation
pure and unalloyed
both immanent and transcendent
Self as living light
crystallised then as body-mind
where ego blurred sight
earth life’s real and yet a dream
twirled by gunas three
yet light innate cannot be caged
silence sets us free
knowing this not, we pray to gods
concepts we’ve been fed
adept at brainwashing ourselves
truth’s as good as dead
in a state of inner conflict
head and heart apart
God smiles at us when we choose love
that’s the way to start
boundaries blur when love awakes
pheromones mingle
in samadhi we transcend mind
our soul’s eye single
the seeker who sought disappears
Self alone remains
this is the way, weary hermit
to shed ego chains
Who was only one inch tall,
raised in a lab since he was, well...small,
doped on phenobarbital,
escaping o'er his prison wall.
Tell me friend, can you recall
King Mouse?
Who lived in a tidy little hole,
knew when the cat was on patrol?
Though cheese and crumbs he stole,
he never lived on the dole.
Let's sing praise and extoll
King Mouse!
Who was diminutive in size,
told the truth and never lied,
had big ears but never spied,
nor squealed, just squeaked and sighed?
All expectations he defied -
King Mouse!
His body small, his soul immense,
big ears heard every offence,
and you, who wanted to dispense,
are now awash with penitence,
as you consider recompense
for King Mouse.
Who knew the secrets that we kept,
never told, just cried and wept,
before he laid on the floor and slept?
At discretion he was adept.
You struck him with the broom while you swept -
King Mouse.
The coo of a mournful mourning dove
reminds us of the guy in the sky above
who we wouldn't touch without a glove.
But now as push comes to shove,
we realize we really love
King Mouse!
They live like we do and look like we do.
Inside their sometimes quintessential houses
they reside oftentimes with a wife, maybe children.
They work in jobs where we might work.
Some may even be the preacher at a church.
They could be a government official.
What harm could there be in someone with great charm?
Behind the doors of their houses,
(perhaps with those proverbial white picket fences)
they probably show at least the random signs
of who they really are.
It’s likely that someone sees something
that isn’t just quite right,
yet they are adept at manipulation,
and easily, so easily, are people fooled by them.
Meanwhile, they harbor the darkest of fantasies,
and some of them will act
these fantasies out.
Somewhere in this world right now -
somewhere in a big city nearby you,
it’s very likely that a child or young woman
was lured by some sweet words
or perhaps simply and suddenly abducted.
If not beneath the ground,
they might be miserably languishing
in a dingy basement locked up
or even kept inside a box -
fodder for the whims of
the charming psychopath.
Writers and poets are a different breed
They live and breathe phrases and concepts
Awash with all manner of clever speech
At engaging the reader, they're adept
They invite viewers on travels to distant lands
To discover strange customs and beliefs
To experience a whole new world apart
The Rain Forests, The Great Barrier Reef
Through the eyes of these intrepid travellers
We witness different morals and rituals
Experiences people wouldn't normally view
Many are very sacred and spiritual
Imagine if we didn't have these literary giants
To warn us of mistakes of the past
The Great Depression, the two World Wars
How great nations through history never last
Writers and poets are a different breed
They focus on the ethereal side of being
Flying high above the distant horizons
In a world of unknown and unseeing
My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.
My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.
Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.
I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.
My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.
From the words of my beloved partner---He spoke I inked
She’s a clutch player who excels under pressure
She’s Johnny on the spot with tenacious resolve,
one who is extremely creative
An innovative marvel
For example...
Surprisingly adept to any endeavors
in which she partakes and is quite vivacious,
A zany sense of humor...
with a touch of sassy and with a tangy edge
She’s a multifaceted dynamo...
with an energetic verve, tenacious
and at times pugnacious
She can be a little too verbose
At times the hostess with the mostes
Massaging me with body oil,
I am now your woman to spoil.
My hair’s become ringlets.
With an arch in the jacuzzi,
I lay back let you taste me.
String pearls and cigarettes.
There is an absence of my voice,
save an inarticulate noise.
The sound of a branding.
Your adept hands apply pressure,
hit that line of pain and pleasure.
My heart’s understanding.
Where do you end and I begin?
My safe word is ‘Separation’.
Manicured nails cut glass.
Mirrors left completely shattered,
lips left soiled and tattered.
Pure lux in sassafras.
Different luminosities don't characterize her. She's
A force to be reckoned with, Let's count the ways:
Brainy, Brilliant
Loveable, Lover
Adept, Artful
Classy, Competent
Keen, Knowledgeable
Whimsical, Witty
Observant, Out of the World
Magical, Mystic
Artistic, Always
Noble, Nurturable
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.