I walk gingerly
through the back gate of the yard
my complaining mom
is petting a ginger cat
the whole house smells of ginger
Where can we sit?
There isn’t a chair still standing.
They now lie prostrate
with broken backs.
What are they lamenting?
Those eager children with voracious minds
once sat on them with pedagogic postures,
impelled to stoop in perverted stance,
grew into adults with adulterated minds.
But the vacuous chairs whose living wood
refused to be moved by lies
(a hazard in their parlous state)
better reduced, dismantled, axed,
no room for them in this collectivist state.
What is yours is theirs, is theirs, is theirs,
there’s no room for stubborn chairs.
But, comrade, your miscalculation will tire,
where will you sit?
There isn’t a chair still standing.
You’ll soon lie prostrate with broken backs,
reduced, collapsed, repenting.
From the bay of blue hills at the edge of placid plateau,
flows with fervent ebullience the sparkling stream
in the emerald forest with the murmur of timeless tune.
Twilight filigree created by crimson clouds in spectral sky
suffuses me with golden touch seeping through my skin.
Flying over the crystal waters of the fluorescent flow,
returning from cold convoy of robins chirp springtime song.
As in the boughs of trees the nascent jade leaves rustle,
beguiled butterflies flitter around the blushing buds,
swinging with the resonant whisper of the rippling air.
The rain-rinsed satin sky shines in the valley of flowers,
the floating fragrance of spring I smell, enthralled.
With the tinged touch of cosmic charm of the rainbow
up above the tree canopy the clouds melt in cool rain,
the drops are like elixir of heaven, my taste buds retain.
When the drape of onyx night wraps the dusky sky,
the moonshine magic turns it into an argentine orb,
adorned by the jeweled stellar crown of constellation.
I’m charmed by the splendorous physical world around me,
perceive in the cradle of nature the niche of divine delight.
….
Blue scholars on safari.
O giraffe, thy neck hide?
Camouflage, triage, tall tree.
On the lightning ride.
Recondite reconnaissance?
Simplicity, thy aim.
Red coal running river chance.
Reckless risk mad maim.
Tortoise mark on tallest pine?
Dark sun solid shine.
Death and Doom, tonight we dine.
Roil, rill. Rinse and rhine.
Yucca bush, yawning yawndrift.
Spaceship, need ye lift?
Grifter, offered shorter shrift?
Chasm floor, seen rift?
First in line of ancient heads?
Giant steps and treads.
Glass bead lovely, spider threads.
Anvils, pincers, sleds.
Orange tongued flame, the prior name.
Staking claim, the same.
Curses bitter, who to blame?
Conqueror the lame?
Wintergreen sprig, love ye spring?
Unless time forgot.
Dominance, to thee I cling?
Tornados of thought.
Will-o-the-wisp, seek the bog?
Lily pad, fair frog.
Humanity, twice a cog?
White hedgerows, warthog...
( for Robin Williams )
~ while your soul screamed "help!"
the world heard only laughter ...
we loved you ... to death ~
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
( chremamorphism )
crisp ...
you lay like solemn ashes
'neath glass ... spotless, sacred
dried to bright hues ...
the shades of her lips in chill autumn air
(winter, whisp'ring soft)
edges crimped ...
like the hems of her pleated tartan skirt
you are the vestige, precious
of a moment ...
a final moment of love, true
sweaty, sweet passion
that found its confluence under a vault of fire -
a canopy of crumbling crimson
wafting, weaving a rustling woodland blanket
the bed for a callow curiosity
confusing, carnal, but perfectly imperfect
numberless months have yet
ceded to the wind
(as tender as the moons they bind)
since I rescued you from the hood of a sweatshirt
still, your color is unerring
and your scent is ...
her.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Wait fait
Pace gait
Just bait
Be cool
Big lol
Warm wool
No tool
Nor fool
At all
WE RISING AND WAXING FRUITS
Hanging here,
We are the fruits
Of the tree
Of liberating life,
In the Edenic Garden’s
Beginning of its own being:-
However, be aware, we’re not
Of mutated, vile, apple seeds,
Nor are we as drained raisins
Hanging in the shining sun:-
Rather, we’re hued seeds
Of the melons of water
Hydrating flowing life;
Indeed, we’re fruits
Of the seeds of undying loved,
Reflected in the mirror of life:
Viewed in the eternal light
Of the sun and its moon,
Rising and setting;
Waning and
Waxing:-
Thus, as fruits of The Sower
Of the rising sun and the womb of the moon,
We too, shall have our waxing and rising equity:-
The crowded room muffles to a gentle hum, indecipherable against the pounding of my mind. Watching others swiftly glide across the floor making the dance appear so simple, maintaining a steady rhythm and fancy footwork to impress the crowd. A winning performance will achieve accolades galore.
Standing on the sidelines now
Insidious anxieties rise
Deluging senses
Questioning one's own ability
To remember with accuracy and flare
The right steps for this, the Dance of Life
Written: October 04, 2026, as A sample for the contest What we leave Behind.
We do not leave our footsteps to the earth;
the rain unthreads them, reed by reed, from stone.
Nor does the house remember what we were—
its walls absorb our voices, then grow lone.
We leave the warmth that lingered in a chair,
a photograph grown silver at the seam,
the scent of roses suspended in the air,
a half-remembered cadence in a dream.
We leave the words we uttered without care,
the wound they opened, and the scar that stayed;
the kindness no one witnessed anywhere,
the small reprieve a stranger’s grief was paid.
We leave ourselves in those who knew our name:
a gesture, an expression, a way of seeing;
some ember smouldering beneath the ash of time,
some unanswered question still becoming.
Perhaps our truest legacy is not what lasts,
but what, once touched by us, is changed—
a life made gentler, briefly, by our passing;
a darkness that remembers it was light.
Autumns' swift encroaches
Carries burning orange embers, crimsons and browns
Fire broaches
Blackens the trees
Shedding the last glimpse of colour
They seize
Somber
Edging towards
Death
Autumns' swift encroaches
Shedding the last glimpse of colour
Death
A gradually setting sun,
In denial for night to fall,
A frightening eternity, despite the attempting stars.
Returning presence of despair,
concludes absence of the light.
Ominous signals from the receptor of a pseudo reality
That there’s no more collagen left to repair
To hold your heart back together;
to deem you warm
For those whom the sun will rise for,
for those who see the stars
Hate them.
The stars are dead anyway
Your biggest star appears to be, too
Some find comfort in the cool wind
But you know,
you’ll forever be in this blizzard
The cracks of a voice spill as your head rests on my shoulder
As I face forward,
and your eyes, behind me.
Our arms wrapped one another,
you dig for the warmth
although it is already surrounding you
But you’re in the glaciers, now
The receptor proves to remain on cooldown
For I, am an attempting star.
COCOONED AND COMING
Caterpillaring,
I’m cocooning oppression:
Liberty soon soars:-
Due to the vast amount he ate and the waste he produced,
and the scarcity of visitors interested in watching him,
the zoo administration decided to get rid of the old gorilla
and place him in an isolated cage for the rest of his life.
Do we need an image
To remind us?
Should the word itself
Be faith enough?
Faith in comfort,
Faith in mind,
Believing without
The image.
Or does the eye
Still seek a shape,
A shadow cast
Upon belief?
Believing without
The image,
Holding the unseen
Until even the word
Falls into silence.
Analogy Categories
Definition | What is Analogy in Poetry?
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Related Poetry Forms
comparison, metaphor, parallel, correlation, correspondence, similitude, semblance, likeness, relationship, simile, equivalence, alikeness, affinity, resemblance, relation, homology,