Beneath my favorite tree,
I asked the wind to carry me
to lands across the sea.
In time, my friend, the wind, complied
and took me to the world's other side,
where I gladly lived until I died.
In between those two events,
I lived in palaces and tents,
as an affront to common sense.
There’s a ten-year-old in me still
hitting a home run to win the game
in the bottom of the ninth
He’s throwing a Hail Mary touchdown
to pull off the upset with no time left on the clock
And he’s drilling a three-pointer from midcourt
to force the contest into overtime…
There’s a twenty-year-old who refuses to forsake me
the one who’s going to write the Great American novel
as soon as he gets his collection of short stories published…
There’s a fifty-year-old in me somewhere who won’t let go
spending every moment of his spare time finishing that novel
and then tearing up the last three chapters as soon as he’s done…
And now there’s a wistful seventy-five-year-old looking back on it all
and wondering when all those versions of himself waved the white flag
and agreed to let him finish this poem with a sigh
I am a doctor’s daughter: You go girl!
I am my mother’s (supervising psychiatric social worker) child: You’ve got this !
I am mission oriented: Fried tofu and rice.
Breakfast of champions!
I wrote a book about me
...when it was finished
...I couldn't separate fact from friction
1. To Fly
My father was an admiral, and so
I joined the Navy. Back in fifty-eight
to be a pilot seemed the way to go:
ship-sailors were committed to a crate.
Scrub decks? Paint rusting gunwales? That’s a ‘no’.
The Skyhawk was my weapon (and my fate!)
2. Rubicon Crossing
Some nations follow rainbows, I am told:
we thought, in Vietnam, ‘search and destroy’
would lead us to our fabled pot of gold.
For years we tried it, but it brought no joy:
we lost our nerve, and switched to ‘clear and hold’.
Saigon endured the selfsame end as Troy.
3. Brainwash
The Hanoi Hilton. Yes, I was a guest.
They found my father was a VIP,
and left off hurting me. Impressed,
they wanted to restore my liberty.
But if I left my buddies, I’d detest
myself. I turned them down. That’s decency!
4. Frozen Side of the Sun
Should politicians simply sing the song?
A woman voter told me, in the hall,
Obama was a Muslim. I said, “Wrong!”
I guess I lost her vote. I made the call
I knew was the correct one. I was strong.
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.
I am a lone tree,
An ancient sentinel rooted deep
Whispering songs of the past on the breeze.
I am a stick of dynamite, a fuse burning low
An explosion of feelings, just waiting to blow.
I am a bearer of bad news,
Hive mind of demons.
Thought they would fade in the rearview, the demons
But they still cling to me, pale and askew.
I swore I knew myself,
But I didn't know the mirror could lie.
I wrote a hundred pages but burned them all,
I saw them ignite and die.
I thought all my problems- they would stay behind
As I became a meteor;
A streak in the night,
A terrifying sight.
Clouds rushing to embrace; my body dissolving,
Leaving no trace.
As you wish, always.
Smoke, sweet scent ascends,
Fragrance conquers ill.
Human heart, can it transform?
Kathleen is a kind person who strives to be kind to even those who are not kind to her.
She is a musician who loves music and makes it a large part of her life.
She likes to laugh and even laughs at herself when circumstances warrant.
She is a poet, who often handles life by writing about both the pain and joy that takes places in the realm of life.
Cats make her smile in a way that is truly special and she has a very special feline in her life, as well as other felines that live nearby and brighten her days often.
She has two sons who are adults and are trying to find their own place in this big world. She loves them immensely and is there for them when needed.
She shares life with her husband of 31 years, who is truly her soulmate.
Overall, Kathleen lives a full happy life!
Can we just get gw to write real poetry
instead of all that over-politicized trash ...
Well frankly, my friends, 'frilly poetry's' nearly starved me to death
so, here's another piece of trash with my very last breath
Melting words together for twenty-three years
Poetry filled with joy and tears through the years
Twenty-six letters jump around and make things better
Poetry as an autobiography is the result
A story is told
There is a need to be bold and
Remain consistent in writing about life
Some poems will come across as heavy
But there is a need to bare all truth
Because the art of poetry is a seal in time
Poetry as an autobiography
Bridges the gap between the past and the present
It holds up the banner and
Reveals the manner of the heart at a certain hour
The power of words brings forth a truth that
Can be read for many generations because
Many might also go through the same scenario!
Melting words together for twenty-three years
Poetry filled with joy and tears through the years
Twenty-six letters jump around and make things better
Poetry as an autobiography is the result
Mark Frank
Copyright 2023
In class five the studies was going on for local scholarship
After exam I was seized by love for a girl thru friendship
Second I was in prize but left me alone she went to Dhaka
In merit list I was always as usual in the institutional data
At the end I was continuing in that institute for studentship
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
17/01/2023
Cultivation of distressful life was starting in our family after the cyclone
No shelter we found except a crushed hamlet on far dale with full alone
On the next year we’re moved to hill tracts for probing of best living fate
Through a little job my father cared us with his loving effort to be settled
The year nineteen ninety two was my first year of institutional learning rail
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
07/11/2022
I wandered the Vale and Harvington,
A singin' me songs with passion,
Back then I liked to live frugally,
But me melodies were never on ration!
One evening whilst singing in Banbury,
The Police pulled up in their car,
Out stepped a tall copper
I'm in trouble now proper!
But he wanted to play my guitar!
I wandered around the city streets
I roamed away so far,
With stories of women and nights suppin' ale
And a kippin' in the back o' me car!
I sang in the pubs of Evesham,
I felt like the star of the show,
But the very next day I'd be rockin away,
It's that busker again Trevor Yeo!
In the used bookstore I came across yet another autobiography of a celebrity I didn’t recognize
This particular one was written by a celebrity who was apparently big time
Twenty-five years ago
As I write this, I don’t recall the name of the author
But I don’t think I can forget his introductory remarks featured on the back cover
Where he lamented of being in the spotlight and everyone knowing him, photographers following him hoping to catch his sight
I read it and wondered, “Who in the 773H is this guy?”
I asked around and nobody else could recall, either.
If he walked into the store I could look at him and see just another customer.
In a way, it’s a little sad to see fame come and gone so fast, not passing time’s test.
But if he didn’t like it much, anyway, he got what he wanted, I guess.
every day- wake up.
smoke before the thoughts of you wake up.
drink my coffee on the couch.
pour an extra cup for you.
end up drinking both- i am wired.
i have to stay so focused
on doing my own thing.
focus too hard and crumble.
i can still smell your skin on my sheets.
i want to lay in bed all day,
get high until you float away.
i feel it all at once,
and then nothing at all.
missed my doctors appointment
because you were supposed to go with me.
everywhere i go
you were supposed to go with me.
now i'm doing it alone
with you half way down the globe.
i pray that i can sustain my love,
although time has never made me warmer.
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.