I am
I am man
I am nature
I am of life and of death,
I am lesser
I am greater
I am of right and of left,
I am mechanical
I am manual
I am technically a wound up mouse,
I am loud
When I am silent
I am inadvertently at fault with doubt,
I the ego, me the person
I the genius, me the fool
I am lost when I am chosen
Found
I am
A part from you.
Charles Babbage
The full package
His invention tidal bore
Led to computers galore!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2nd place: ABCD Clerihew - 4 Lines contest; Sponsored by Joseph May
He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes
before he jabbed at me
with his cynical sarcasm.
He slowly lit his Camel.
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.
I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.
I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.
A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.
“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”
Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”
I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”
She took the bait…
Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sin where is it from?, where did it begin
Perhaps not with your enemy but maybe your friend
How many judges will let you decide
Weather a window allows in the sun or blocks out the lite
If its the answer that you think need
Then find our books from which we read
don’t mind the titles, some are wrong
Just locate the page and try to follow along
Their are procedures to deciphering sin
If you don’t understand then please just pretend
Eventually you will have to know
That not every answer is the same where you go
Lorraine Peterson
N-ight
U-ses
D-ark
E-vening
R-eflecti on
S-etting
H-uman's
A-nalytical
D-is course
A-right
Topic: Poetess (Nudershada Cabanes)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Parenthetical phrases help you read between the lines
S-P-E-L-L it out letter for
L-E-T-T-R.
Nothing to the imagination
Don’t get it? Just look it up
Online, between the lines.
Read the Spark Notes, they’re almost as well written
Write nonsense, discuss complex
ideas and trivia.
I knew that! But I forgot it back when
Imagination ran away with the spoon
instead of me! I was so traumatized, I couldn’t handle it,
So I covered my eye with hair and turned to a poetry book
Full of stories of my suicides and how terrible my
Middle class suburban life has been!
Can’t you see the depression? It’s sewn into the seems of
my pants that are about the tear!
Driven mad by gibberish tears.
meaningless juxtapositions for the sake of
contradiction. I think therefore I’m confused.
Just tell me what it means so I can go
Back to being oblivious! Just accept it,
because you refuse to comprehend it.
Regurgitated info spills out of my ears,
I read the passage for the tenth time.
Pointless analyzed text pours out of my mouth,
Technical terms burning holes in my creative mind.
Efforts upon efforts supporting a theme,
Whilst my poetry slips away.
Taking another’s creation of art
And tearing it apart like we’re inhumane.
Blood drips out of the carcass of art in form of
Motifs, characters, metaphor, and setting
All used to describe the art in a way,
In a way the author likely didn’t intend.
Themes destroy originality and creation,
But we’re intellectual if we find one throughout.
Someone’s story meant to convey their own tale,
Used, while we make it our own, like we understood.
Life is art and we squeeze and we squeeze,
Until life no longer remains.
We scratch and we mangle till the art has now crumbled,
And the reader still burdened with disdain.
she's not elderly
or of the working class
she's poor
but, not of the working poor
she's not young or old
just middle aged disabled
a baby boomer from the sixties
computer savvy
way too analytical
for her own good
deprived of a work history
no skills or experiences
just a head full of knowledge
and education
because she look lazy
or some other b/s in eyes of employers
looking to hold a girl back
from her dreams and hopes
of a successful life in her fifties
well established by her sixties
a fulfilling life
of accomplishments
and rewards
from her successes she coulda have
How can one fathom the most curious emotion of love?
Some ride the very idea of romance their entire existence. Straddling along the
bareback spine of annoyance and tyrannical and zealous possessiveness.
To allow one's self to derive hope and idealistic success, from an originally prescribed
placebo- concocting happiness. Or so we think, as mind-blocked as we are from
voracious persistence. Blocked upon block, upon block.
Tempting the sheer catastrophic gal of aggravated ignorance. We play the fall game
upon a field of cacti, and this emotion seems to captivate our consciousness at a
hallucinogenic level allowing us to drop. Drop. Drop...effortlessly.
It appears to be so minute in a realistic importance, love, but in actuality, it weighs
down more than half of our humanistic ideology -consequently, a cataclysmic downpour
of unfathomable preponderance. Fathomable by the most blissful of minds..
Analytical Green
Is Putrid
Spent to fast
Gained too slow
Maybe it's Olive
Or seafoam green
No matter the color
It is our uprising
Into a vast dominion
Of analytical green
Pea green
Just like vomit
The things that make
Us puke
The things we gain
To lose
Emerald like the
Eyes on the back
Of a dollar bill
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.