We give each other license
To justify the violence
We relate to satisfaction
Relegating our inaction
To a higher power
The fashion of the hour
Changing with the time
The constant's our reflection
That the state of our perfection
Disdaining all inspection
In the state of our connection
To the mantle of the Don
But will it ever dawn
That ground shifts all the time
Like the mantle underneath us
Some things should be beneath us
Croesus wouldn't be the one
That would or could impress Solon
Just as a fool and all his money
Are destined to part company
All that matters is the time
So just as a marriage license
Recognizes loves' intransigence
Romancing love as love of power
Is but convenience of the hour
And the short term satisfaction
Will result in but the fraction
As it's turning on a dime
If we'd lived in olden days
days of yore
the golden days
and I were a troubadour
I'd serenade you with my lute
unless I had a flute to toot
or go more than the extra mile
and sing a song to make you smile
not with the end of a lance
would I beg my lady's favour
but gallantly request a dance
mayhaps a carol we could savour
to fight and kill the dragon
and do it all with no fear
I'd pull Excalibur from the stone
for my dear Guinevere
Oh farage do give it a rest..' at last things are more quiet
Yet you have to beat your chest.' How much did you cost?
Who has paid your price.? You turned your back and are
Part of the pack..While Tommy is stuck; in the jaws; of their
Vice..I ask you hold that thought for a moment..If its a
Thing you can do? Or lock yourself in a small toilet for just
A fortnight or two..Maybe by the time you come out? there
Will be peace 'at least in ukraine' and Britain will be spared
Your iniquity? That way all sides get much gain.'
Children like bright colours
And so kindergartens and nurseries
And so shopping items
And so youngsters
And so tourist centres
And so food and souvenirs
And so bright photos
Colours brighten up hearts
A sign of hope,happiness,confidence
Freshness and life
But too much artificial touch
Will lose the naturality of scenery
The classic beauty
A quiet elegance
The history of antiquity
An appreciation with time
Anyway natural beauty is invaluable
No imitations
No artificiality
Oh
How about stop painting one's heart
with
Colours of greed
I feel like an antiquity
some relic from the past
crumbling at the edges
eroded over time
aging has arrived
There are fissures in my proud steel plated armor
once invincible
reality is bringing with it a heavy blow
it creeps upon you
like a stealth thief in the night
now you berate yourself
for being caught unaware
new words slip into your vocabulary
things like “possible stroke”
a litany of tests are conducted
let’s begin with a blood test
maybe a urine sample
we can schedule an MRI
is this a heart attack
there is a CAT or CT scan as it is known
what about the C word, cancer
let’s do an ultrasound
ff that doesn’t find it there is always
an endoscopy or colonoscopy complete with biopsy
the realization that life’s destiny is prevailing
is the end nigh
the relic you have become
looking at you in the mirror of life
Andreas Simic©
In my blistered ruined mind
I build odd gods, old!
They sit in irregular rows,
In a crooked cathedral ,
Like a pantheon of ornate oddities!
Each one dusty or lost, I have forgotten
Honesty…!
Cracked white china and blue filagree…
Each a stony façade,
Carved eyes hollow, staring!
Absolutely hollow and odd…
Staring like little divinities!
Sitting in irregular rows.
In a pantheon built of ancient asymmetry.
I have devised until my demise…
These are forgotten Ancient ones,
The little divinities of broken antiquity!
The wind is come to sojourn once more
Delivering tidings from far away, yonder.
It expires its breath and wheezes veracity.
Eyes may not see but ears are alarmed
As the wind calls out its blustery voice
And those who listen will know it well.
The legend told is one of timeworn myth
But nought can change, save for illusions,
And he who walked before us also follows.
The wind is come to visit this day
To test our faith and inquest our soul
For the wind that comes to call, this day, knows all.
Alan S Jeeves
True, a Myth-and-a-half ever since dim Antiquity
“Breathes there the Man with Soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said
This is my own, my Native Land”
True, a myth-and-a-half ever since dim antiquity
Who breeds and holds the brood in binding sanctity
Isn’t s/he who sows and let grow blood ties in family
Don’t leaders all use the ruse of saluting country
La Patrie is never the suffering Peoples’ victory
They lay their lives down for their leaders’ greater glory
The plot of land’s where the Soul ignites anonymity
In the au-delà is not country mere pure vanity
Leaders lay wreathes at monuments for tv publicity
Upstarts win lone battle or two through freakish strategy
And let expanding borders be besieged by many enemy
Yet end-up somehow by losing the Imperial Army
Shouldn’t he who seeks to foist himself on a polity
Be required to pass the test of Ego-immunity
No vaccination nor re-inoculation would be free
From an overdose of megalomaniac frenzy
© T. Wignesan –Paris, April 9, 2021
Silken seas
pouring chromatic,
waxing floral
in scented bliss;
ecstasy of
godly kiss
is jubilation,
they reminisce.
Woodbine entwined,
elegance refined;
eternal hearts
enraptured
like minds.
Chrysalis ever
so divine in flight.
Dragon dreams
transcending
light-play’s
mesmeric seas;
rapturous cacophony
tranquility played
with ease.
sultry flows
yet to compose
aesthetic dreams,
in natural repose;
then awaken blossom
of newborn rose;
heart of Egypt’s
majestic Pharaohs.
5-7-2
All Yours (May 9) Poetry Contest021
Brian Strand
Until the cap is won, effect of heat on reasoning remains unknown.
Until the palace is visited, that comfort creates discomfort is undiscovered.
Until power is tasted, that corruption is a genetic disorder remains a fallacy.
Dereliction, never a power disability, but a long inherited trait in ANTIQUITY
The Lion hectors the antelope
The Antelope terrorizes the grass
Strength uncommon to both BUT power.
Vulgarism and terrorism, power that corrupts the powered.
Corona virus, a legal tender to decipher corrupt human trait
The politician the national purse suppressed, the Grocer the destitute suppressed.
Experiencing trials and hardships along the way,
For four years I’ve witnessed the truce in full play.
The nation’s at stake as the willow catkins in a gale,
My life is the drifting duckweed hit by rain or hail.
The defeat at the Panic Beach panics me constantly;
Passing the Lonely Bay, I feel even more lonely.
Who has ever survived his death since antiquity?
May my brave heart mark the history with loyalty.
(tran.)
Memories
Renewed by scene
A heart carved in sapling
Mighty red oak thirty foot high
Heirloom
Memories can be pronounced mem-o-ries or mem-ries
If power of prayer dusk come of flame
what make for a good lunch her love
If money could no longer make a bridge would a throne still appear
piece of pieces does not lack wood
Is a walk a walk but how long does a paste paste time can timid
out paid a disguise
If lighting could break ice then is one skiing on thine ice
or yet is it a ice breaker just words to sleep on
If advice is more then a note or kiss over the shoulder would looks break thin air then where is your love with one
Is a walk a walk but how long does a paste paste time can timid
out paid a disguise
out to reach or reach out to one can one be hang over with love
which in fact holds the question.
“Hoc est quod Isidorus”, she said,
As I ate Swiss cheese
Wrapped in a starch fold,
While blatantly returning a nod.
Never grace my table
With your impurity.
Is it finished?
Indeed!
Something supercilious waxes the eye,
and you beaming go.
I stay for the gladiator match.
But all around I see hordes.
She said there was a transcript in the mail.
But I laid down my life,
And the desert sands
Covered me like a stinging blanket.
Ode to the lost oblivion,
Sung well on a star-stretched night,
Hovering over my soul like a luna moth.
Isidore, never cover my pity.
(Isidore: “The last scholar of the ancient world”.)
You become culpable.
You feel you are in a prison
of your own making.
Cursed familiarity is inescapable,
Capable of ennui only--
You rediscover yourself
around every corner:
an indelible image of
what you were minutes
ago, aging with the clock's
every tick, the merry music
of chimes, announcing
each solitary hour. And,
then, there are the ghosts,
shades of those who've
graduated, enshrined in
faux gold or silver,
framed there as no one
may keep their flesh
and blood when vibrant
with life. You live among
these images which people
your so-called life: the prize
for longevity, the Oscar
for hanging in until you,
yourself are caught in
glass, framed and blamed
for a long life.
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.