I stood unsure when vacillating there,
My thoughts walked way ahead me waiting there.
I’ll reach you, love, ere my feet reaching there,
Wet you with love ere rain can, raining there.
Like some of my friends who come to meet me,
I’ll barge in before air entering there
And try to soothe the kind soul that dwells on:
How’ll the poor plucked flowers be feeling there.
To me alas, flowers die anyway,
O to die a slow death suffering there.
_________________________________
Ghazal |16.09.2025 | flowers, friend, love, rain
It's funny when some people barge in the business of others and leave themselves startled by what to others are just normal things to do, and the things they can't understand.
January 12, 2024, PST, SPC
Why would some people keep minding other people's own business and keep complaining everytime they see something they don't like? Isn't it that they have the choice not to barge in?
December 27, 2023, PST, SPC, NE
Wake chants ring one early morning
The sounds of beatbox and singing
While moon gives a full silver glow
To all the creatures down below
The empty minds keep complaining
About how I make my writing
They bark things they don't understand
Like useless vocals in a band
I wouldn't mind if they comprehend
The things they say, more, when they blend
Sticking fingers on one's own door
Is of the minds, nosy and poor
You have the choice not to mind it
Don't barge in if you don't like it
You were not born to waste your time
On one's own business, you don't rhyme
December 27, 2023, 2:55 AM, PST, SPC, NE
I have this inkling feeling each time before i break
a tightness in my chest, i swallow air
and each time i want to discard every piece of you i own
but i forget, forget, forget
i close it off, i just don’t think about it
and silently i let you barge in on my space
and ask for more
all you do is ask for more
then good days turn into bad days
and all my good poetry turns into bad poetry
now i’m standing in the shower thinking over my day
you didn’t do anything but disappoint me
i didn’t get a lot of birthday wishes this year
nor did my grandma send me the right book
but i wasn’t upset, cause there was always you
not anymore, i guess
at least not the way i want it
you make a point of walking over me and then wiping your feet
and i make a point of breaking down and crying like a little kid
and i don’t know how to say that i want to go alone
since you’ll follow me anywhere
but i need you to stop being attached
attached to me, your punching bag
Sun’s soulful smile swells boundlessly
while the sky mirrors the clear blue sea.
Seashore blends with the ebbs’ rolling voices
Sifting, swaying to and fro
as beach-goers barge in.
Humid air blows gently around
On white dunes with parasol mounts
Picnics with lots of fun abound
Excursionists are hard to count.
ice cream and cold drinks
available everywhere…
hot season’s specials
April 1, 2022 1.54pm
(Forms: Crystalline- Kimo- Quatrain- haiku)
www.howmanysyllables.com: (8,9) 17-(10,7,6)23- (8,8,8,8)32- (5,7,5)17
For A Combination of Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Don’t cook it, don’t prick it, just swallow it whole
Make sure you don’t chew it, there’s more in the bowl
So here, have another, go on get it down
Think of the money, get rid of the frown
Consider it vegan, go on just eat
This nice latex sausage is herbal not meat
And when they’re all gone you can take to the air
Take the right path, nought to declare
And then when you’re landed, just visit the loo
And settle yourself into cubicle two
Position the net just as snug as you can
Let no latex sausage escape down the pan
And after you’ve passed them and washed them, your done
Slip them next door into cubicle one
Locate the cistern, look under the lid
And retrieve our thanks for the work that you did
Don’t leave until outside the door becomes hushed
And if there’s a copper, try not to look flushed
But if cops barge in while you’re sat on the loo
Be sure that we’ll tell them we've not heard of you
Be careful my friend with the knowledge you give
Remember, we know where your wife and kids live
You won’t get to jail, not if we find you first
For then you will wish that a sausage had burst
My memories scatter, like dust of the air,
which once were more numerous than fish in the sea.
Now withered, they re-tell tales of lost youth.
At times my memories congeel and fragment,
so much so,
that I label myself untrustworthy.
I feel an emptyness that my mouth can't quantify, nor words express.
Like my soul is fleeting, ready to leave the sack of bones it hopelessly occupies.
People say that growing old is a curse,
but it's not the outward complexion that grieves me so.
Rather the rattle as my marbles drop and my memories lie in tatters.
I'm scared when the people in white coats barge in.
who say they're 'here to help' , but proceed to strip me of my my dignity,
and use pills to make me helplessly compliant.
Maybe cruel karma has punished me fast.
For little did I empathise, until I truly knew,
what it's like to be a burden, societie's disregard.
And ever shall I wish that humble soul,
will see me not as useless, but marvel at my tales.
And one day, I pray, that someone will,
outstretch to me the hand of compassion.
08.19.2020
My home is neon-friend to the idiocy degree.
I am sure when people barge in, they think me mad.
Which suits me fine
For there will be less barging.
They need to stay on their side of the river.
If I need them, I will pick up the phone and call.
If they need me, they had better think hard about it.
For my phone is off unless I want to make a call, which is seldom.
Many homes are feuillemort. Dull orange, dull brown, duller yellow.
This is not my home.
My home lights up like New Year's Eve's Madison Square Garden.
My home is neon-friendly to the idiocy degree.
I could not live here if it were any other way.
I could not live anywhere if I could not take my neons with me.
I certainly could not live in an old folk's home.
I consider them social clubs for the non-private ones.
Man of death
As dawn broke one day
No knock at the door
Cause he knew his way
He broke in
And a life ceased to be
It was her world
He did barge in
Her soul mate
Painfully met his fate
The hands of death
Pierced her heart
And out took a breath
A bleeding cry went far
Tore her whole apart
Aloud his name she called
“Come back my sole soul
In the world of mine
You are installed.
You are walking away
That early
And pieces of you and me
You are keeping at my bay."
Words of ache
Roared their way out
In vain.
Silence of death is around
Undefeatable and mighty
Will always death be
And everything here after is empty
Pieces of her
The blank inside
They fill
Into her heart
They put life
Her night they light
On her mouth
Laughter will gain place
Into her eyes
Love will shine
Hope will wipe grief out
And make her embrace life.
Lifts are lumps and lumps are lives. Libraries are filled with lynx. Who gather to read the polka dot books. In rows. In lines. Catalogued. Wow. Print in a paint is an iconic image. But can one play a trombone in a library? Well an elephant could! It would barge in. Take up residence and play. Toot toot toot. Booom books. Boom. And then the books would surely leave their shelves. Take off their many labels. And walk out. Free. That is escapism at it's finest. An hourly write is an hourly wisdom for a tome, an encyclopedia, and a thesaurus. But dictionaries are happier sunbathing. By the river bank. Wow. Libraries. Book dungeons. Breaking. Cars enter. Hoe a garden novel with a ten foot rake. How quite theatrical. Really it is. Entertainingly ethereal as well. But seated atop a weather vane is a large pickle. Giggling. The escaping books leap away. And freedom is relinquished to the angle of a triangle. Pythagorean theorem. Good. And assesses to ascertain whether they were so cute. Withington station bus link. Literature leaving. Haha haha haha haha and now eat a salty seahorse on a train. Xxxx authorisational. Z attempting a pocket ***
Not Sure If Up Your Spine
From you, there is something that I need
Tell me what poem you would want to read
So I can feel contented and also reassured
All problems by me can readily be endured.
Read my poem casually and then when done
Realize were not refused or rejected by anyone
To hear my poems listeners will have waited
You will discover they were deeply appreciated.
I will not try to barge in or move to front of line
Or ever sound arrogant like an exotic Einstein
Who of entire field possessed all the knowledge
Although he refused and never went to college.
Take me and my poems as were meant to be
Easy to be understand and full of simplicity
When I read my poem and reached its end
Not sure if up your spine any shivers will send.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
What is privacy?
When prostitution is made public
When lesbians bring their sex in the courts
When Homosexual cannot
Enter into the Kingdom of God
What is privacy when little
Babies and teens a raped and sold for sex
When a door at DHS is broken
To see the bodies of women when they barge in
The rooms without our permission
What if we're not dressed?
What is privacy?
Why are laws made when private right are taken?
What is privacy when the gossips
Don't tell their business?
And don't tell what they do when they
Smoke up weed,cigarettes,and K2
We're homeless,but we're human
What is privacy?
When your faith in Christ is unleashed
As a joke,but in privacy Jesus' name as a joke
So what is privacy?
Oh disbelief that He is real?
When He returns
Devil,your hands will forever be chained
Black plastic bag
discarded on the bridge
writhes like
an injured animal.
A paragraph of
birds in the blue
of the sky wing by
grammatically correct,
but open ended until
the commander in chief
changes its configuration
with punctuation.
A fleet of wild geese
flying their colors
barge in like
small battleships
in minor invasion.
The equation
some of us make
is: what price
Freedom?
I was not living in the world of expectation,
the expectation so great as to frustrate by word disillusionment.
I am not that young or naïve
to be affected by a word disillusionment;
then, why does the word disillusionment
suddenly barge in my way and harass me in this belated time?
I think
may it be the weight of sadness
getting heavier as age advances.
The greater reason than sadness,
however, is not able to bear its weight
but diminishing strength in direct proportion
with growing age to weight of sadness;
nonetheless,
if the course of water is the same as before
there shouldn’t be much difference between disillusionment
and sadness because if you place these two words on the flowing water
and let them go, who knows, in some day, they may reach a great water
named oblivion.
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.