My close associates, relatives admire me as a Compassionate Righteous Persona
spending Quality Time. -Poet
Confidence , Competence and Intelligence
construct and administrate my existence
Dad has embedded Morals in mind,
being my mentor, philosopher and guide.
In my soul Dad sowed seed of" Self-esteem "
to sprout and flourish to reach Supreme.
Throughout my journey of life, I always honour
Universal Moral Values with ardent ardour.
Being compassionate, I always offer
my eager helping hand to sufferer.
I can't show kindness to any vice.
I'm ready to fight against injustice.
My Principle of life guarded by Ego,
is the pivot of my progress : I can't forego :
Wherever forgiveness turns my weakness
Always I hold strength to act ruthless.
Exploring life as challenge trying to be righteous :
I pay respect to my Self Esteem simultaneous.
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where
webbed wide world series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
So You're Running to be President
By Franklin Price
6/29/2015
So you're running to be President
I'm here to cast my vote
I'm just one single person
Not anyone of note
I'm the one you should consider
I'm every woman every man
Who's old enough to help you
Or to throw you in the can
You're not so high and mighty
Put your pants on just like me
Want be in charge of freedom
And freedom isn't free
Many died to keep us here
The choice of freedoms are our own
As long as we obey the laws
We should all be left alone
Don't tell me how to live my life
That is not for you to say
Yours is to protect and represent me
You'll swear to do that every day
As President you won't be king
Was never meant to be
You're put there to administrate
A better life for you and me
If that's not on your agenda
You will not get my vote
You will not be the President
Not wear the top hat and the coat
Land of Milk & Honey.
The president has banned the verb “work,” there are no job seekers
or unemployed people, but those who administrate the state are on
duty. Since all is mechanized, digitalized and robotozied there is little
need for citizens to do anything, but receive a monthly card to spend
on food, clothes and other things, and they will be well enumerated.
At last the masses have been set free from the toil of labour.
They can sleep as long as they want, walk in the park or pursue sport,
meet in the evening and read poetry, with the understanding “work”
is not mentioned, ‘cause the state know some poets are insubordinate
and will try to sneak in “work” by calling it something else. If the state
censor find out the writer will be banned from all public gatherings and
not being able to buy yogurt till he repents and writes nice things about
the beautiful colour of plastic flowers, made by a robot called Rose.
It has taken mankind thousands of years to reach this stage of maturity,
and they will look up to the clear blue sky and say: “Truly this is Utopia.”
The hour grows late, as hours grow late,
They crawl like a thief in the night;
With devilish art to administrate,
Diminishing sight and purloining the light.
Blood, sweat and toil, hot water and oil,
Fever dispensed with a flair;
Fervour and temperature brought to the boil,
A fanatical prayer of both joy and despair.
Flourish and sweep, made cutting and deep,
Brush wielded high like a sword;
Canvas awakened from moribund sleep
With driven accord and the power of the Lord.
Constructing the scene, colours wild yet serene,
Paint splashed incandescent and clear;
Memorial collisions of all that has been,
New dreams to appear, digest and revere.
The hour grows late, as hours grow late,
Dawn hides a lifetime away;
Candid creations of brushes with fate
Are burning to stay for the seizing of day.
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.