I listen to people who have returned from heaven
whether or not they are delusional or it happened is irrelevant
I want to keep my antennas and my feelers close to their insights
for if they were really there, isn’t their opinion worth listening to?
and if they are delusional, could they be any more delusional than I?
the message I keep hearing is this.
There is only one reason we are here on earth.
To bring LOVE.
It is that simple.
Not religion.
Not spirituality.
Not rules.
Not commandments.
LOVE
God is love
so doesn’t this make sense?
I have clipped my shopping antennas
No more garage sales, resale shops or flea markets
I cannot be trusted
I am a lover of shiny things, odd things, weird things
I cannot resist buying sequins, rhinestones, glittery mirrors
I am a lover of things
I drag home all kinds of stuff
With feathers, plaids, Mexican embroidery
I am a lover of the outrageous
The stranger, the better
I like the oddities others often overlook
Much of what I buy never makes it out of my car trunk
Stored for years in sacks until I donate them to another resale shop.
an open channel to everywhere, here
a flickering screen
a faded dream
a memory of color
a monochrome world
antennas reach
skeletal hands clutching for the sky
grasping at echoes
all lost in transmission
a spectral ballet on the cracked linoleum
a faded warmth of memory
as embers die in ashes
open channels hum…
Unusual insect facts are fun to know
Creatures with long feelers use the night
Short feeler insects have better sight
Antennas sense enemies around and below
Cicada, dragonflies and honey bees
Have delicate feelers, but their eyes are good
Katydid, crickets and ants in the wood
Have long antennas, length of all degrees
Unusual insect facts, unknown to me until today
But now I have created this poem with a hey, hey, hey
Dancing around without a feeler of any kind.
At least I have a poetic heart and an artistic mind.
Same blood
Different soul
That's all I really have to know
It's in the dirt
And stitches sewn
Yes I'm aware I'll die alone
I can't learn if I always forget it
I can't grow if I always regret it
I know I'm not the first one to have said it
But still I have to give myself a little credit
A positive mind isn't possible all the time
It takes hard work and dedication for that peace of mind
I'm not a pro in the terms of philosophy
But I'm a mother-F-ing expert at just being me
Hiding in the city
Isn't it a pity
The trees are the antennas to the stars
Walking through the forest
Trying to find my purpose
The stars are what help guide you through the dark
“What exactly are you?” “I don’t normally ask, but here we are.”
“I am, how do you say in earthling? I am your favorite martian.”
“What big ears, I mean antennas you have! Do they hurt?”
“Only when earthlings talk bad about me..you don’t talk
bad about me, do you, Jim?” he says with a sideways grin.
“Your making me nervous, my favorite…I mean, what is your name.”
“*$&@*&#@*$&#*@, but you can call me Al.”
“Why are you here?”
“Here? Where? Be more specific. Question feels a bit existential.”
“On earth, Al. We are concerned about your reasons for being here.”
“Again, Jim, a bit existential!”
“Do you mean us harm?”
“Do you mean US harm, Jim? That is the real question. There is
only one of me and so many of you earthlings” Al blows his honker.
“Al…Al…ahchoo.”
“What on Mars was that!”
Al hands him a handkerchief with unusual stitching.
“Keep the change, Jim.” he says as he walks away from the interview.
Jim wipes his schnoz with the gift and succumbs to it.
He was a mean old football coach
Who always had an odd approach
His antennas were long
His mouth was all wrong
His faced featured a giant cock-roach
mom always put a snail snack into my lunchbox
made of apples, peanut butter, and celery.
The best parts were the eyes; they were chocolate chips.
She never put in more than two.
A snail only has two eyes, right?
I ate the antennas too; they were made of pretzels.
Always licked off the peanut butter,
Diligently threw away the apple and celery.
Played
Every other's antennas oftentimes are up, An emotional
state that everything is mental being free from deceit.
Unguarded emotions impulsiveness and vulnerability
routinely get taken for granted in games of strength,
distractions are often hypocritical and shady. Rules
are broken, and trust is deceptive powerless to be played.
Survival of the mentally fit supposes everything has cause
and consequences who you thought you played
well, you played yourself.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
In the dark cloudy nights,
The sound of thunder wakes me up,
With the visions of threatening monsoon clouds.
The monsoon clouds overwhelmed the sky,
The ominous feeling, flashes of lightning,
The sounds of thunder filled me with eerie fears.
Once saw the lightning struck an electrical wire pole,
The flash going in ground only hundred feet away, numbing my arms for days,
The menacing sight, tree limbs, radio antennas, window glass, scattered miles away,
It was so frightening; it still blinds my rainy-day romantic vibes.
As a child, whenever lightning flashed, clouds thundered,
I would seek refuge in the darkest corners,
Pray to God, I will be good boy, let the gloomy clouds go away.
The psychological fear of lightning has stayed with me forever,
Hope the lightning never strikes the same person twice,
Glad my childhood memories are behind me; bet they will come back with the dark rumbling clouds.
Hundred million K' away neighbour, Mars
Hovers bolognese smeared brother, ice brick
Fondness for possibles although bizarre
Intoxicate screw loose hair brained psychic
Frog skin glint silk soak, last page of atlas
Frigid rift in regolith terracotta
Ancient alien sustaining chalice
Embalms escargot creatures exotic
Savant submerged in claiming lake, limbs grey
Gnawed on by hordes of sword fish ravenous
Haunting waters, explorer credere
Stores files in his spongy tissue camera
Angora cotton ball goats, horns antennas
Munch dust, dull marbles watch earth untether
Still the twentieth of October
Extra terrestrial Thursday
Great purple hairstreak
purple tip
Adonis blue
clouded yellow
four gorgeous insects with God-painted wings
Slender symmetrical ebony antennas
Known as butterflies
Surround yourself with angel-friends.
Each sees you in the pits,
Calls you to their end —
Everytime the demons, they outwit.
Their antennas raised
When they sense you’re all alone.
Together you sing God’s praise,
Your angel-friends’ ears on loan.
They prayed each day and night,
An arm around your hoping shoulder.
Together you fought the good fight.
Sometimes the Lord takes the older.
To pray with you, seeders
Of a new thing God has planned.
Posits of compassionate leaders
On the ready to deeply understand.
5/3/2021
Little ant, you are invited to rest here
on the back of my hand.
You’re invited to think about time with me.
I am always thinking about time,
all those thoughts pollinate my very skin.
Time little ant is not on your side.
Feel the coarseness of my skin
the ridges and gnarls
time was my master, yet a bad teacher.
I must confess that I paid too much attention
to the movement of the sky
and missed the movement of my mind,
and you little ant
waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering
the pheochrome taste of my words,
no doubt sensing something so large
that you can see it not.
Not even if my eye comes close to you
can you perceive me.
This is what time looks like little ant,
it’s too discrete to be trapped,
too considerable to be conceivable.
We are both just ants filtered through
its porous skins.
Now you wander onto a fingernail.
What now little ant?
Do you glimpse times cliff edge
as I you shake you off,
do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you,
yet which will surely kill you?
Do I?
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.