I still recall those days of smog,
When the hand in front of your face
Quite literally disappeared.
A billion chimneys, belching smoke,
Filling our lungs with noxious fumes.
A girl and boy passed in the street,
Each quite perfect for the other.
But only footsteps in the fog
Sponsor Netta Onclaud
Eight x Eight poetry contest
31st July 2026
The African night goes robust with
silence and attentiveness.
Darkness, grave, deep and merciless,
hisses remorselessly but soundlessly.
The moon is on a visit to her grandmother
Fireflies on bulrushes give blinking light, like exhausted
Twinkling stars expelled from heaven.
Post-suppertime, belching stomachs recline on
Whims of a slow-travelling night with faithful
Silhouettes walking ahead of stalking shadows.
Orchestral insects keep the night company
Folktales steal into this power of darkness —
A breathing nocturnal art with the pulse of
Communal growth . . .
The town crier is abroad
He needs no other identity but his voice,
A foghorn in the entrenched darkness.
Next is his wooden gong,
An instrument of life.
His voice rides smoothly through the night —
At times with punch, some other times
With the sound of glory . . .
And when there’s gloom,
With the sonorous flow of woe.
79.
Wrong Turn
On the time I left the straight path
Unfathomed anxiety teemed my heart
Ever doubted the resolve of my brain
If it would delight or harness some pain
The only sure thing was that
I only earned another's wrath
When from discontent
Formed I blemish intent
I became a speck
On the eyes of the meek
Abnormal fantasy
Drained all sanity
Filled with derision
To a righteous person
Worshipped childhood idol
Whom I thought would heed my call
Thought I'd found a savior
Who would do me a favor
Upon turning away
From his opponent's way
Onwards orange avenue
Belching fumes towards yellow hue
Traffic disturbed
Many eyes to me turned
On wrong turn entrapped
By stupid mishap
Was towed from the highway
After causing disarray
In proper seclusion
The transgressor was thrown
Behind the shadows anguishing
No orange attending
In the end it was yellow
Who ransomed ex-fellow.
-11/20/2011
(Dumarao)
*Yellow Poems Collection
A smirk ghosts
by torn lips
razored puce
and throbbing wild
to fire a fusillade
of mortar murmurs
armed with fangs
honed in cauldrons
belching molten words
to palsy the gainsay
of jesters
who scarify and behead
bliss.
It was all about a grim,
Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night
In Hithergreen,
London’s belching south,
Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and
In the silence of grieving mornings . . .
Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph
Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills.
The trains always come railing!
Railing loud and silly
Like heathen bandits with no shame.
But before such mornings,
A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed
Evening caused me tears
When I chopped onions.
A spruced up harlot was coming to dinner
By the way!
Oh, yes, from London’s bleached Soho,
Venue for awesome sex.
I may have forgotten to tell you, brother,
But through the insistence on cutting further deep,
There it stood!
Ilse Koch!
An old character!
She piled up arms against ashen flesh,
Fomenting tears to rain down on the faces of many.
And with each stare,
I asked for permission to be laconic
Just to preserve the dews
Of the heated stove near the chimney of an
Age-battered window of a grey, frazzled winter night.
Crime never pays, sooner or later the long arm of the law will reach you.
Quote by poet.
Sergeant Tim Wheeler’s shift was nearing the end, it had been a long day.
He put his coat on, and then the phone rang, it's all I need, Tim thought.
He answered and a concerned voice said," Sam Jones has been shot”.
Sam ran the jewellers store in Whitehorse and Tim hurried over to his store.
A crowd had now gathered, and the townsfolk were stood around in shock.
Sam was conscious but had a gunshot wound to his side, Doc Jones was treating him, he gave Tim a description of the thief, then an ambulance arrived and took him away to hospital, from Sam's description Tim knew it was an American who'd been hanging around town and chances were he'd head for Alaska and once over the border he'd get away with his crime, Tim headed West and drove for about ten miles then spotted a parked car, smoke was belching out from under the hood; Tim drew his gun; a voice said "Drop it",but Tim was too quick and shot the thief in the arm, saying “You can rest in jail, right now you’re under arrest”.
Behold the sun
and all its authority,
great manufacture
of God
behold God’s man
and all his impurity
prototype written on
fluid stone – the earth,
its belly of churning,
belching~ dis-pleasured
groan….
Students asked if they were Jewish going into University lectures. Synagogue fire bombed. This is Australia and we don’t allow this to occur!!
Antisemitism
Children cut out of line
Being Jewish is their crime
Forced segregation is now the game
How long before cloth stars are warn in shame
Synagogue fires burn in the night
Cowards torch and run is their might
How long before the chimneys grow
Belching black smoke and ash as the wind blows
© Paul Warren Poetry
A rusted breeze ripens with early frosts
Ill-fated trees wilt begetting their loss
Rich fermented decay's putrified bloom
Bidding farewell to the song of the loon
The belching pond spurts summers spoil
Bird nests crumble leaving traces of toil
Flowers tilling soil with seeds for new growth
All of life is taking a dying oath
The spreading fire of the evening sun
Blazes in drenched horizons faraway
As days get shorter, and stars have more fun
Popping on flashlights in the milky way
Autumn-extraneous-harmonious
Ceremonious-Testimonios
Quietly waiting
at the table
legs swinging…
Then, Aunty Jean
brings in
green soup.
Mother-glares at me,
sister-stares with me
at the cold green soup.
Is it medicine,
pond slime,
mushed frogs?
...at least twenty
spoonfuls long.
Silently I say, “Ugh!”
Quietly waiting
at the table…
Aunty Jean brings in
passionfruit cheese-cake,
cream dessert.
Is it more slime,
frog spawn,
tadpole eyes...?
Oh no, it’s a giant slice.
I take one bite…
“Oh,” says Uncle Ron,
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not really,” I murmur.
“All the more for me,”
He smiles,
turns goggle-eyes,
leans across,
adds my slice to his.
Cauldron bubbling,
mixture squelching
sauces oozing
gases belching…
“A glass of milk?”
“Yes please, I’d like
a glass of milk.”
“...and a chocolate frog?”
“No,
No thank-you,
Aunty Green.”
Suspended high up the tower,
I hang out of sight.
My shiny golden brass core is hollow,
but I have a big mouth with a bell as a tongue.
Sometimes pigeons visit, resting on my arch,
but fly away leaving their droppings behind.
Don't pity me for my loneliness and silence,
as this serenity never lasts.
When the cloaked man arrives and pulls at my rope
he breaks the peace with deafening sounds.
Each tug hammers against my cup shaped sides,
belching vibrating echoes across the lands.
In an enchanting melody that brings joy to most,
but distress to some -
who only hear me as shrills and shrieks.
I love my ding dongs,
be it to tell the time,
or for funerals, weddings or as a call to prayer -
I'm content in ringing all day long!
While in an antique shop, I came across a wood stove
The cast iron, covered in rust, had seen better times
I admired it as it stood within this vast treasure trove
There's no doubt the antique worked well in its prime
You rose early in the morning before the rooster crowed
Gathering what you needed, like dried kindling or sticks
Once the kettle got to boil, creating steam on the window
Patience in preparing a meal because it took a while to fix
It was a mainstay, a necessity you couldn't live without
Belching on a belly of splintered wood, hot to the touch
You dumped the ashes regularly. There wasn't any doubt
Claiming victims who inhaled its carbon fumes too much
Standing on its bowlegs, taking up valuable floor space
If a fire died on cold days, not stoking it was unwise
A potential death trap, a coal burner smoked up a place
An unattended wood stove would often cause one's demise
We gathered around the piece of iron to listen to ghost tales
A cozy, toasty altar when the old decrepit house would creak
Its consistent use has proven, over time, to be tough as nails
Stoking the flames warmed your frame any day of the week
While in an antique shop, I came across a wood stove
The cast iron, covered in rust, had seen better times
I admired it as it stood within this vast treasure trove
There's no doubt the antique worked well in its prime
You rose early in the morning before the rooster crowed
Gathering what you needed, like dried kindling or sticks
Once the kettle got to boil, creating steam on the window
Patience in preparing a meal because it took a while to fix
Belching on a belly of splintered wood, hot to the touch
Before the EPA, a coal-burning stove smoked up a place
Claiming victims who inhaled its carbon fumes too much
Standing on its bowlegs, taking up valuable floor space
A wood stove was a mainstay, one you couldn't live without
If a fire died on cold days, you might end up in poor health
You dumped the ashes regularly. There wasn't any doubt
A poor-working wood stove would often cause one's death
We gathered around the piece of iron to listen to ghost tales
A cozy, toasty altar when the old decrepit house would creak
Its consistent use has proven, over time, to be tough as nails
Stoking the flames warmed your frame any day of the week
Wind circulates, lifting and flattening
an otherwise, benign, breathless world,
relying also on deeper, slowly moving
tectonics, belching foully, scattering
seas...effecting change. Seasons like Sun
rejoice and fold. An occasional comet or
meteor perhaps a compassionate
God-sent, heaven rethinking the dawdling
pace of destiny…. Man a defiant offspring,
rejecting patterns seemingly not of his own
making – good angels know better, dutifully
soothingly serving.
The All Earth 24/7 Buffet
David J Walker
And on the 8th day
God said
LET’S EAT
And eat we did
Chomping and whirling
and chasing
and spitting
and hitting
and catching and killing and
cleaning and cooking
boiling and foiling
in tin turtles over a flaming-out fire
lest eat
lets eat
letzzzzzzzz EAT
All day
Everyday
and it came to pass
we grew fat on each other
belching in out guilty pleasures
pleasing
and sleeping
and procreating
replenishing the Earth
fearing
that we may never eat again
And God said
IT IS GOOD
And it came to pass
That it was good
and good as gone
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.