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A Long Loud Sigh

genius?
sometimes you are in its minimal spotted light...sometimes!
other times you just know you've been touched and you freeze,
moved but frozen...like a stranger it moves in, does its work and leaves.

...maybe it's been a while since you two spoke...
when the dead sea still hosted life,
the hanging gardens of babylon grew in sinc with the breath of the planet,
before the tower of pisa started to lean or mayan buildings were in ruin.

so you write words...any words...they might at least soothe your hurt
hold your heart in a protective shield.
you know how crippling unrequited love can be.
do you still dream of its hug...genius?

life and love share more than a first letter
(like the first letter you wrote under the veil of inspiration).
they also share good and evil...it's a flip of the coin.
either way is fine with you. you'd bathe in holy water or sell your soul.
life, love...passion...somewhere in there...it lives, genius.

all of nature a reflection through its transparent figure glows dark 
like the shadows live in the radiant illumination of evening rays.

so let me speak of us!
recently when i tried to hold you...
you were like a ghost in the bright of day,
a phantom out of its element...
there was nothing of you...i could embrace.
when i tried to enter you a freezing cold ran through me like a winter brook.
you exhaled me 
as if i were fog on a deserted country road invisible to absent eyes.
still you were my drug of choice.
addicted, i chased the dragon...you...genius.

memories fill me...
days when we would paint words,
stitch in a metaphor or two,
weave in music, 
write instruments to fill in the spaces,
ordain a voice.

i remember...

you wanted to taste me
i was overwhelmed 
how you put your fingers on my lips 
how you licked them...you...genius.

you were that giant pine i would climb in the dead of winter
(why do they say that "the dead of winter"? winter will die 
when hell freezes over. winter isn't death it's purgatory.)
the one with the needles that punctures human skin.

come to me again and touch me...
like the butterfly does the wind...barely but thoroughly.
(is it true that just a tiny flutter of their wings could be 
the start of a hurricane? are the icebergs melting?)
i didn't just write that out loud...did i...with you I'm shy...genius.

GENIUS?

fine!
hide.
don't show yourself.
don't speak to me.
fine!

don't bother with rising the sun today.
forget those showers you create your magic arc with,
vacuum away all the plants.
lower your wall of blue.
i'm not interested anymore in those pillowy shapes i use to love so.

i've always known it is fire that cleanses, water that burns,
it is the moon that breaks the heart,
the stars that slaps the face...with...i don't know...reality.
i've always known by the time we see a star...
in real time...it's already extinguished...already dead.

it is our friends that will use us...our heroes that will lie to our face...
our blood will betray our trust...our teachers will fail us...
our leaders treat us like just another job...
the devout that will exhibit hatred.

still i believe. no matter what else...the rose will always survive.
the petals deceiving. they will repel all that is unholy.
grab it by the neck and squeeze out its black ooze,
leaving a gentle soul there to admire its adversary.
don't even get me started on the orchid
or even the flowers all...alphabetically.

i dare confront the beauty of nature's art unframed...
canvas loose to admire...genius!

i miss you but i am out of tears.
do drop in though. 
i can offer you a cup of dry warmth...
soothing like burning logs that crackle with laughter.

or 

take you to my secret place.
behind the camouflage of forests dense,
where vines grow through spiral staircases 
made of turtle shells and dressed in discarded snake skins.
green is the theme there. it is everywhere,
unabridged, unabated, unaffected, undisturbed 
with a fuming, burning, yearning to be touched.
so let's...let's grab...hold...squeeze..
feel free from the cheap paradigm offered.

i don't think you know, even while you sleep, i hold your hand, genius.

dream a full rainbow on a fingernail moon night,
feel february twenty ninth its absolute might,
taste fully the slight of a pheasant in flight,
yearn eternal life, wish a vampire's bite,
concoct rhymes nicely fluffed with built in sight.

genius?
on this sombre morning the sun is blinding.
damn my eyes.
there is a negative entity drapes our children's world.
shame on us...shame on you...i need you.
i am reduced to an objective observer.
life glides on the little wings of its carrier,
its final resting point in the hands of the wind.
another life carried away on a worker bee,
busy stealing nectar from a succulent bud.
a stowaway hangs on for dear life to the flyers leg.
gets off at the next flower.
meets up with a companion to create a new life.

genius?,
everything changed when I met you.
was the sun rising or the mountain sinking.
was that an orange globe against a blue sky
or a lit round hole in a sad wisp of air.

i'll play a keyless piano if you'll paint me a horizon I can reach.
i'll sing you a ballad with a single note...

i walked into my life without consideration.
maybe crawled.
all the same...
when do I get a choice.
when will they stop holding death over my head.

if i could direct a few more plays with you as my guide...
my art, my life! genius i long for your influence...
even one last time to see your face, 
unite and give you one last kiss...goodnight.




April 1 2015
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Linda
Contest Name:A Million Dollar Poem








Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015


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MY GARDEN

My garden is such a colourful sight,
with pretty roses and scented sweet peas.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Beautiful butterflies gently alight
on flowers dancing on the summer breeze.
My garden is such a colourful sight

Sweet night scented stocks abloom at midnight
their aroma is always sure to please.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Carnations in purple, scarlet and white
are visited by busy bumble bees.
My garden is such a colourful sight

A haven for birds I watch them in flight
they alight on peach blossom from the trees.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Pretty pansies smile in clay pots so bright
I love beautiful flowers such as these.
My garden is such a colourful sight
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

190 syllables, 10 syllables per line checked with how many syllables


Contest Villanelle me flowers Sponsored by Broken Wings
06~13~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016


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Ungrateful child

I woke up that day with tears in my eyes,
after I heard about your father's demise.
Guess you've never understood,
the point of being his blood.

I remember when your mother left,
how he was totally bereft.
Ran off with the man next door,
not once did he call her a whore.
Not once did your mother call,
too busy having a ball.
Forgot about her only child,
to live a life fun and wild.

He knew he had to be strong,
so the world would do you no wrong.
Every night he held you tight,
his eyes your guiding light.
Every time you would cry,
he would kiss those tears dry.
Worked three jobs so you had the best,
not once did he fail in your request.
He suppressed all his sorrows deep inside,
he was broken but never did he subside.

Single he remained for the rest of his life,
dedicated to you, so you would not face strife.
Yet you too, decided to walk away,
tell me what led you astray?
You called him a religious bore,
when you ran out of that door.
He had your best interests at heart,
but you belittled him for not being smart.

Then you wonder why he finally broke,
all that stress gave him a deadly stroke.
Now you stand there with your unfaithful mother,
with someone who is young enough to be your brother.
Crocodile tears stream from your artificial face,
as his coffin is lowered into his final resting place.
How ironic it has started to pour with rain,
maybe it's God washing away all of his pain.

Don't come running to me for sympathy,
I have no time for those with no dignity.
All his sacrifices now you seem to realise,
but he can't hear you, it's too late to apologise.
Because of you he lived a life heartbroken,
forever you will regret those words unspoken.

P.S
If you think his inheritance will help your austerity,
he wasn't that stupid, he left it all to charity!

The Silent One
16 February 2018

Based on a true story






Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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Do Not Grieve Your Muse

              (For My Younger Self)



You have forgotten your muse.
You neglected her, in the hustle and bustle
of city life, in trying to carve a niche,
driving yourself too hard -
thinking it could make you rich.

She grieves.
Don’t you see her? She grieves.
How she longs to reunite with you
but you are far too busy, with everything new.
Too unmindful, too steeped in the practical
your change was so radical;
Too pragmatic, everything has become automatic.  
You have lost touch with your muse, 
no matter how she pleads you have become obtuse.
When will you reach into the softer, 
more introspective part of yourself?  
Please do not say, never.

Remember how you would write through the night
and people around you would wonder why…
Those moments were priceless, 
the times you communed with words so ageless
as you poured onto paper all your emotions -
In the night, you would write of happiness and pain,
of a young love, and of your simple dreams.

Go back to those simple dreams.
Do not allow yourself to be lost 
in the conundrum that is Life.
Step back, take stock, be still.
Find time for meditation, there is no condemnation
for those who acknowledge the need for salvation.
And as you find that inner peace, 
write once more.
Write, and write some more.  
Set free all those words that have long been kept
within your heart…the happy words, the sad words,
words both simple and intricate
that a reader will enjoy as he masticates
the meaning, the lesson, the joy and young wisdom.

Let your words dance…let your words s o a r !






31 October 2015
Poem of the Day 01 November 2015
Awarded 1st Place  -  What Would You Say Contest




Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015


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A Crow's Command


I be a common salty, once,
No captain's bars, did bear,
Yet blessed was I to venture,
Where few a skipper dared.

          From steadfast crow's high perch
          I watched the bright coast beacons wink,
          Through a biting spray's December gale,
          What goring shoals would sink.

For untold days I rocked atop
An oaken spar at length,
While wake and skies conveyed my eyes,
Lord Neptune's sullen strength.

          Busy dogs, the mates and jacks
          Bent hard to tasks below,
          While toward the sky, with glass to eye,
          My post waved to-and-fro.

First was I to e'er spot land,
My voice the first to yell,
Aye, first to sight the skull and bone,
And raise the warning bell.

          "Thar she blows!" was oft my call
          If viewed a breach, had I,
          And "Friend or foe?!?" the question barked,
          If strange sails split the sky.

But the moments that becalmed my soul,
As the swells ticked off my time,
Were star-filled nights, a bullion moon,
And the phosphorescent brine.

          The darkest times were battlements,
          When the ship groaned in its might,
          But never dark, the eventide,
          Sea and sky awash with light!

So rare, it was, to find this tar
On deck or down below,
And rarer still, did I abdicate,
My nest there in the crow.

          Well, I'm adrift on shore now,
          With brittle bones and gray,
          Yet still my mind climbs up the mast,
          To man my post and sway.

And when the angels task me,
To a new and heavenly crow,
I'll bend my gaze to the looking glass,
And give a hearty "Tally-ho!"




~ 2nd Place ~  in the "Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor.

~ 8th Place ~  in the "Create A Character" Poetry Contest, Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer, Sponsor.

~ 2nd Place ~  in the "Best Rhyming Poem This Year" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor.



Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017


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The Gift of Poetry

A poet enters a private sanctuary,
A sacred place where the imagination
Dwells with a mélange of emotions
Conceived by aesthetic beauty,
Often divine and esoteric in nature;
That comprehensive longing to
Express through common language
That which is so vitally uncommon. 
Words that seek to form a bridge 
Between intellectual abstract thought
And the world of the inarticulate.

A way to express the depth of sorrow
While having it become a cathartic
Release, thereby relating to others
In commiseration and heartfelt empathy.
Poetry has the ability to help, to heal.
To reach souls enduring that same pain
May be a blessed gift poetry genuinely
Offers in a nonintrusive manner, helping
Lonely souls know they are not alone.

No-one escapes the loving light poetry sheds.
It dwells inside each of us, realized or not.
It teaches with simplicity, expands the mind,
Ingratiates itself without any effort when
Expressed with forethought and integrity.
It may stir emotions from the most stoic.
Speech itself, lives and breathes, and is poetic. 
Acquiesce to that silent voice inside which 
prevails upon the heart to be released in verse.

Poetry may elevate our spirit with such intensity 
To generate a feeling akin to euphoric bliss.
Poets, honored in past glory with the status of Kings,
Now dwell in a world often misunderstood by the
Masses too busy to take the time to regard its worth.
How fortunate for the insightful who appreciate and
Embrace the ageless, immortal soul poetry provides.
They are blessed and will give birth to future poets.

© Connie Marcum Wong




Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2015


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Happy Solitude, COLLABORATION WITH POET DESTROYER A

(This theme coincidentally matched up with another contest I recently
entered, so I revised my sonnet and then PD graciously extended this
idea of a day of happy solitude. Thanks, Linda, for keeping it in sonnet
form! It's a double sonnet now!)


Happy Solitude/Andrea Dietrich In solitude, I watch the clear blue sky.  Leaves flutter on the grand majestic oak  beneath which I am sitting;. Swallows fly  around me, swooping! Now I hear a croak -  a sound that I am sure I’d never hear  if I were on a busy city street.  I stand and walk around. The sound is near.  The feeling that I get is rather sweet  when finally I spot there on the pond  the tiny frog that’s serenading me.  Crops rippling in the breeze I see beyond  my shaded spot. I'm running - feeling free.  Inside a field with flowers everywhere,  I'm whirling as the sunlight gilds my hair!  -----  Like the sun, I sit and explore the view  A sensation, of everything I lust  Feelings I found myself unequal to  Yellow leaves fall to the ground like gold dust  Once, I reached to touch a lonely rock  The sounds return back into the shadows  I felt trapped by the beauty as I walk  Suddenly branches hung like the gallows  In slow motion, with no reason to stray  Facing down, the new founding sound follows  The croak in the water echoes with play  Captivated, by the flies it swallows  A young, peaceful feel, indulging in fun  I shall kiss and see if he's the right one  ~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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The Bard of Gort

Springing free from glistening 
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for 
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above 
A distant lark now hangs in 
Flight.

Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal 
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls 
Into ripening bean fields 
Planted in neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.

Do now these gentle Slopes 
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed 
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the 
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted 
Thoor Ballylee.

Sweeping briskly past a tors 
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of 
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge 
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...

Now, joyfully sporting in gushing 
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a 
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.

Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland 
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit 
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.

Harken then to the feathered 
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on 
Ye!
For few men know of what he 
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths 
Forever lost within Innisfree.


Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016


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On My Mother Passing


ON MY MOTHER’S PASSING i wanted to keep my mother physically with me but it would be like trying to hold the sun like in life she still shines brighter than any star is as gentle as the finest breeze she isn't gone my mother is infinite hers was a metamorphosis like the butterfly represents eternal beauty flies to heights unimaginable to the human mind butterflies are free and so is she she was a wife a mother a sister a friend she was the best of all those roles she was because she chose to be but she was then she is now she will always be free such was her nature we all knew her as that special person could embrace your heart we also knew she was all but she was one you can't own that kind of beauty and her shine filled you with a euphoric joy she was she is like the moon the one belongs to children belongs to love at its very core love she spreads across the universe my mother was is will always be as large as unconditional love i share this story with you in order to comfort you her influence is immense she is now looking after us all be happy, be confident be at peace my mother is with us all and my mother is love armand
.................................................................................................
An Added Bonus (My Parents Always Enjoyed My Imagination For Both Of Them I include This Piece) DISGUISED IDIOMS & EVERYTHING “JAZZ” for you i’d lay down the red and plush give you the shirt I’m wearing walk a mile and then one more hand you the key to my beet red beat commit all my eggs to your stash throw in nine yards the whole of it tell you with no shame “i’m at your beck...just call” no need to do mine turn around I’ll scratch yours i’m yours all my parts even a parcel all of it ‘till the cattle arrive’ Armand ‘aren’t you the clever boy’ Yvonne
..................................................................... Another piece if your in the mood. If not off you go then. BENEATH THE WHINING scaled the walls every time nothing nothing on the other side found the doors their locks never the keys paid my dues never got a receipt every time i fell got back up followed the light always took the noble path stepped barefoot on jagged rocks autographed the stones in blood -mine from great heights lost my hold landed on my feet regret occupies the larger part of my thoughts sometimes i cried even yelled my infamous screams my life it turns out was blessed having accomplished none of my goals i lived an existence i alone could appreciate underneath the layers of self inflicted scars i found a me i loved and respected i need nothing more armand ........................................................................... I UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCE. RECOGNIZE ONE FROM THE OTHER. while the evil mind trods awkwardly wears swamp covered boots destroys indiscriminately inner beauty dances in partnership a benevolent synchronized waltz minds adorned in a growing blue green moss nurture strong thick deep roots transfer nutrients lovingly to the breathing heart their silent strength in turn energizes a body of good spread like lavender scented clover over a barren land flow like oxygen cleanses polluted waterways worldwide calms the unsteady unpredictable weather patterns of recent times a new is born and not a life animal vegetable human not any life harmed such is the outcome the collective power of inner beauty armand ........................................................................................ FOR YOU MY LOVE a human heart beats over a hundred thousand times a day the first one hundred thousand every day beat for you armand ........................................................................................................ A SIMPLE SUGGESTION I know my heart is made of butter but you can only spread it so thin armand ........................................................................................................ DISNEY WOULD BE PROUD a blue tree covered in spaghetti branches drenched in a sauce of leaves with no desire to be served up in an Italian restaurant where a lady or a tramp or both might end up in a passionate kiss with an orchestra providing the background ambiance no, this navy colored tree is too busy chumming around with the sky and the odd passing cloud thinking back when it was just an acorn now the tallest the most majestic growth in the forest still never forgetting its roots once just a single seed humbled by its origin dearly loved by the Earth no, more -by the universe comfortable in its greatness happy as just one piece of something much greater a gentle giant at peace with its existence wait, was that Bambi and Thumper just ran by it the giant smiles armand ................................................................................................... ONE CENT ALLEY drove us to a magical mystery go see “there's nothing you can do...it's easy all you need is love” so we latched on to a mustard coloured submarine "something in the way..." walked down a british road "and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make" armand ................................................................................................. A PROPOSAL a sheet of paper printed slats of wood measured extra thick rope strong large fat nails steel a set of tools exact a driven will instinctive and there you have it a bridge perhaps we can meet in the middle armand


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2018


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A Near-to- death State Of Mind

He lies, warm and straight; unmoving.
Free from pain in his transitionary world;
safe within a love that shared his body and mind.
Without her altruistic and unyielding care
he'd float through the eternal abyss
of clouds and endless memories.

Images of her weeping pervade.
Her tears flow in viscous streams,
like lava flows that wrap him in
a final expression of love.
Hands, once inseparable, are slipping apart;
yielding to a final, fingertip touch of goodbye.

As they catch a rising breeze, 
closed curtains stroke a stirring caress
like the delicate sway of a grass skirt.
Tiny, impish faces appear then disappear
among the pattern, playing peep
then hiding in their secret, fantasy woodland.

The paintings on the walls become animated,
zooming and retreating like a camera lens.
Their inhabitants: alive and busy
like tiny repertory companies
in their framed microcosm,
creating scenes of a recognisable past.

Strange, vague faces of yesterday
hover in subjective silence as they
claim the gloomy corners of the room.
Some smiling, some scowling;
some turning away without reason.
Why would they turn away?
What secrets do they refuse to share?

Endless conversations with the dead,
yet only one audible participant.
Passed relatives visiting incessantly,
in forms that bring most comfort.
The vertical finger of silence touches the lips
when the living enter the room.
A shuushhh.....and they leave.
Returning to the mysteries
that exist beyond this 'mortal coil.'
But always they reappear:
a night-and-day procession
until exhaustion overwhelms.

Distant voices of children
travel the sky, certain to be heard.
That playground cacophany
amalgamated to a luring hubbub
of childhood communication.
The mind floats back with
the eye of a soaring eagle.
Back through the forest of life,
scanning images of existence past,
to a clearing where children
dance in happy, skipping circles.

Suddenly, the sky turns dark,
as leaves swirl in rustling tornadoes.
Ominous, churning clouds tumble
and roll in a thundering menace.
The children run, drenched,
in an expanding ripple of screams,
for the safety of the trees.

Then, a flash of lightning ignites
a wondrous, refulgent dawn.
He steps forward into the glow,
without fear, as he hears
the cry of a newborn baby,
held within its mother's arms.
He looks up into the eyes of the mother, 
and then.......all memories die.

A rising breeze blows the curtains open.
They unfurl: banners of respect, fluttering
in unison for his last, whispered words.
On whose release, a wistful wind
carries them to an infinite silence:

'I'm tired, my love, I'm so very, very tired.'






















Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2018


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My Song

~Not Like Me~ 

When you were first put into my arms, 
I begged God, to make you nothing like me 
For my sins, ask for no transformation 
This is my song, my meditation 

Look at my face 
Where has it gone, 
You no longer desire to be part of my song 

Look at my life, 
The toll hasn't been paid 
I'm the one suffering every day 

The vengeance of eternal flames, 
   sit near the empty hearth 
Burning my needs to hold you once more, 
I need you more than you'll ever know 

Now, Look at me, at the age of 73 
I have nowhere to go 
Everyone I know awaits in a place of gold 
Unlike you, you're too busy, proud and bold 
------ A different song!!! 

I sing a song, that accentuate's the mind, 
I have no one to blame, I neglected all the signs 
Hoping the rain would slowly die off 

Today here I lay, wondering where I went wrong 
I implored God, to cause you nothing like me 
I have a heart that forgives, and tries to forget 
I kneel, and I give, and I treat others with respect 
My compassion, I measured in the poorest way 

I judged my life worse than the others did 
Why did I ask ---- Not Like Me! 
For my sins, ask for no translation 
This is my song, my speculation 

The dreaded conclusion of this song, 
All I can say, "Be careful what you ask for." 
In the end, all I can say, I got what I asked for 
Someone, who's Not Like Me...................... 

By: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014


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The Old House

Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.

Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.

The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.

Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.

The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.

I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.

Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.

The house my children grew up in.

Iambic Pentameter  
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
2nd
Best of 2014  1st place


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014


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hahahahaha i have no idea what to title this

help mrs. muse is gone and my mind is shooting blanks 
my friend called inspiration is trying to walk the plank 

motivation just married mr lazy 
and confidence started acting really crazy 

cousin common sense is on vacation out of town 
and aunt intelligence is nowhere to be found 

uncle rational is at the casino gambling his life away 
and my best friend happiness never wants to stay 

my neighbor opportunity doesnt knock on my door anymore 
and my girlfriend love is really just a whore 

my partner pride is always full of himself 
and sister sympathy is busy with someone else 

grandpa wisdom is smart enough not to say a word 
and grandma compassion is seen but never heard 

the only friends that ever come to town 
is anger and disgust and they always hang around 

my high school sweat heart infatuation doesnt really call 
and my childhood friend imagination doesnt exist at all 


Copyright © john castro | Year Posted 2012


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Fireflies

It's so dark outside, my eyes can't distinguish where sand meets water. Somehow, dusk has come and gone, plunging the evening into darkness. 
 
But even as my eyes yield to this opaque absence of light, my other senses heighten. I can hear the crash of waves as they abuse the shoreline, sending foaming water up the beach in icy streams. I'm lulled by the sound of polished pebbles colliding like marbles as they recede with the waves. I can feel the sea's cool mist against my face, taste its salt on my lips. The scent of seaweed drifts on the breeze in gentle wafts - and then, slowly, the faintest whiff of smoke.   

I glance over my shoulder, where a tiny dot of light penetrates the darkness. It's a beacon on this cool night, and I walk slowly toward it, digging my toes into the soft sand with each step.


dim moonlight peeks through thinning clouds-- fire crackles
He's still there, stoking the fire, feeding the flames until the heat is tangible. The air wavers between us like a veil - a line I want to cross. He stirs up clouds of smoke, stirring feelings within me as I watch his busy hands. I wait patiently for him to notice my approach, and when he does, my breath catches.
rainbow flames burst from seasoned maple-- blue eyes sparkle
I watch golden light flicker across his skin, softening the lines of his face. He abandons his task, moving around the fire until he stands before me, smiling as if he knows my heart is thundering in my chest. He waits for a painstaking moment to pass. Then he kisses me with toasted marshmallow lips, pulling me down into his lap to watch the sparks rise like fireflies into the breathless night.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013


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D-Day in Malta:::co-write

We met in Valletta city on a fine November day
Introductions...hugs and kisses; we got talking straight away.
All agreed to go sight-seeing – architecture , harbour view
Made a stop to buy an ice-cream where there is a constant queue .
We strolled on and at Cordina’s chose al fresco to sit down
Next to regal Queen Victoria, a stone lady with a crown.
Drinks were ordered and pastizzi, which were followed by some cakes
Freshly baked and appetizing, all adorned with chocolate flakes.
We were served by cherub Fabio busy running out and in
Second time the badge said Mario, then we found that he’s his twin.
Jan and hubby soaked the sunshine, the Calluses hugged the shade
Those around spoke multilingual, a musician plied his trade.
We stayed there and spoke for ages, watched the tourists walking by.
Valentina took our photos; she is young and sweet as pie.

Jan and Bob will be returning in two years on Malta’s shore
Although Maurice has predicted it will be a year before!
They will then be celebrating married bliss with silver ware
All on Soup will be invited; this occasion is to share.
That’s a promise made for keeping – friends will meet for sure once more
We shall have some cake and snickers; sweet surprises lie in store!

--------------------------------------------------------------------
Fun poem ~ co-written by Paul-Jan-Valentina  on 2/11/2014


Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014


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Soldier

I saw a burial with a bugler playing taps;
I turned to my father, “what happened?” I asked.
He clutched my hand and with a quiver in his voice,
he began to explain and his eyes became moist.

“My son,” he said, “this is rather difficult for me;
for an old veteran like myself this is tough to see.
In that coffin lies a genuine patriotic warrior,
an honest-to-God hero, an American soldier.

I appreciate that soldier and the service he gave,
and I honor his sacrifice as he’s laid in his grave.
He was honorable, selfless, courageous, and bold;
please remember him son, as you grow old.

The value of his service, I must explain,
if not remembered, will be lost in vain.
As a nation we’re nothing without soldiers like him;
and failing to remember would be a terrible sin.”

I listened in awe as my father spoke,
it seemed as if his heart were broke.
I suddenly remembered when he went to war,
and when he returned I thought nothing more.

I never asked why he walked with a limp,
and I didn’t care about why he was sick.
I was too busy enjoying the life that I had,
to realize that I had it because of dad.

I finally understood what my dad was about,
and it hurt so bad I cried out loud.
He sacrificed so much so I could be free,
and his battle scars were suffered for me.

It was my father’s spirit that spoke to me that day;
thank God I finally understood what he had to say.
I saluted his coffin as they laid him to rest,
and I thought about the medals pinned on his chest.

That I didn’t honor him sooner, I will always regret;
and I pledged that day to never again forget.
I’m proud that my dad was a patriotic warrior;
I’m honored to be the son of an American soldier. 


Copyright © Ed Coet | Year Posted 2007


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the PLAGUE

as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on sleaze).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues.
while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heroes or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or retarded or helpless, it’s all their own fault – 
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt’!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen, 
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE maintain many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns:
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone 
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are, well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (Armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.   
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust 
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that We cast to the sty.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
their own school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR throne...
whether diamonds or rubies... to gemstones WE’re prone) .
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em a bone.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagnes, ginger ales.


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013


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A Letter to God

  

I wrote a letter to God and I had to ask why,
He allowed so much suffering and little people had to die?
One’s that had never caused trouble or done anybody harm,
Taken before they experienced life, plucked from their mothers arms.

He said answer me this, why did my son have to suffer and die?
Nailed to that cross I couldn’t even watch, all I could do was turn my head and cry!
What trouble did He cause, what harm did He do?
And all for what, He did it for you.

He said you couldn’t comprehend all the things that daily take place,
And all I ask is your trust till we meet face to face.
He said all things have a reason and someday you will know,
But you must trust in my word so your faith will blossom and grow.

I said Lord please forgive me if I sounded out of line,
It seems like all we ever do is complain, ask for mercy, or whine.
I know that you are busy so I guess I will close,
Thank You for listening and my love I enclose.



Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2009


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Memories on Branches

Memories on branches live on and on - multiplying since the world’s first dawn. Fresh and beautiful in spring are we - buds that blossom on our family tree. We all need a place to build upon. Memories on branches will still live on even though - like summer birds - one day we may leave our nest and fly away. Busy we may be, but in the fall, we’ll look back and tenderly recall memories on branches have still lived on - bright like leaves that decorate our lawn. Winter’s snow covers us as we grow frail. Yet through our posterity, we know well what we’ve lived through never will be gone. Memories on branches live on and on. For the Memories Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014


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A Letter Sent

I am writing to you because I know you have a wish.
I have been thinking diligently about your wish. It is not
going to be easy but I think it can be done. First I am going
to break down your overall wish into many smaller wishes.

I want you to get that electric car you always wanted. That huge
backyard protected from unwanted visitors. I know you have a love 
for life...do you remember when you told me - You should never eat 
anything that once had a heart. I miss all those organic vegetables, 
fruits, growing foods you use to treat me to.

I want you to be able to see the stars at night not hidden by the 
crud in the air. Enjoy a sunset free of gaseous neon colors. Rid
the world of killing machines. Did you know there are weapons now
can kill hundreds in a few minutes, I know it would break your heart
to watch.

Than I want you to fill your lungs in the cleanest of air plumped up 
with an abundance of oxygen. Drink from the  oceans, lakes, rivers,
 bays fresh thirst quenching water. Can you imagine all water life 
free of cancerous tumors, fishies free of disease but I am off on
a tangent. I want you to play in the rain without fear. Have you
heard of acid rain?

I want you to get each and every single wish that I mention.
Delivered to you by the most gentle of breezes. In the frozen
fingers of the icebergs. Some in the whirlwind motion of the 
smallest of tornadoes. Others through the hairline cracks of
the best behaved of all earthquakes. 

 I love you with all my heart. I know so many have changed 
without remorse. They are so busy looking for the pot of 
gold at the end of the rainbow they no longer notice the rainbow.
So many wishes you yearn. 

I wish for you mother, at the very least your children would
stop raping you, sodomising you. Mother Earth we your children,
us the humans live here by your grace...well my wish for you
mother is that your children would stop all the denial, all the
arguments, the rationalizations...we have all the excuses for
what we do to you. I wish what you wish mother. I wish your
children would show you the respect you deserve. Just that
no more, no less.

Love, Always
Maurice

20~12~2014
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Contest Name: My Wish For You 
 




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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In Solitude

In solitude, I watch the clear blue sky.
Leaves flutter on the grand majestic oak
beneath which I am sitting; swallows fly
around me, swooping! Now I hear a croak -
a sound that I am sure I’d never hear
if I were on a busy city street.
I stand and walk around. The sound is near.
The feeling that I get is rather sweet
when finally I spot there on the pond
the tiny frog that’s serenading me.
Crops rippling in the breeze I see beyond
my shaded spot. I soon must leave my tree.
Red sunset I will watch before I creep
in quiet of the night back home to sleep!

For Line Gauthier's The Beauty of Solitude Poetry Contest



Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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PoetrySoup Heroes

They read our poems, and more than that,
they leave a word or two.
It isn’t much, yet that’s a thing
some folks here NEVER do.

Some heroes never visit me.
I sure do wish they would,
but I am glad to know at least
to others they are good.

They welcome poets never seen
by simply saying hi
or click to comment on our poems,
not just on that “Reply.”

I know we all have busy lives,
but if we post a poem,
it’s much more fun if we can feel
this is our second home.

The builders of community
are whom I’m writing of.
To those I’ve met and those not yet,
I’m sending you my love!

I just found out I had to choose
three poets and no more.
It pays to study contest rules
not after, but BEFORE.

And so I'll name three friends of mine:
The very first to greet
me and become a truest friend
was Nikko, one so sweet.

Another one to fit the bill
of great community
is Jan. I love her humor and
her sweet sincerity. 

So many others do their part
to make this place so great.
My newest friend is CayCay, and
to meet her was my fate.

Three friends, all women, do their part
to build community.
These are the ladies who now bring
sweet sanity to me!


11/10/2015

Since my Poetry Soup Heroes are too many to name, I have named three Community builders that I am currently the most in communication with through Hotmail: Nikko Palmario (who goes by binibining P.iNk), Jan Allison, and CayCay Jennings. For me, friendship is everything.  Without good friends here, how can one truly enjoy the experience?



Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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Violet Eyes

I made a promise, a little visit
A busy day...so much to do..
But, I'm running late, they will be waiting...
I should be going...the clock is ticking
I'll take just a minute for a quick hello
no need to linger, ...and then I'll go

I grip my keys, and make excuses...
She seems confused....unduly quiet 
Oh dear, it's useless, ... her voice is desperate

"You must try a piece of cake. Made fresh this morning,.. no need to hurry! The tea is hot. Let's have a chat, you must be thirsty!"

(The clock is glaring.....I need to scurry....)
(My life is busy....this day's been crazy)

"I can't stay long.....  a late appointment....  I have to go,"...
                         was my reply

  (Oh dear, it's clear, she tries to hide sheer disappointment,,,, I cannot lie!)

.....

She walks her cane, across the floor,  her smile is kind...

I have declined, with clear remorse
I start to say one last good-bye,  hand on the knob of her front door

"Would you like to take a pot of violets?
It would take just one moment, before you  go"
        I can't refuse, how could I now?  I see the longing in her eyes

And now we've walked to a screened porch 
The sun's a torch that lights the room
Her potted blooms are in a row, a glorious show of mauve and blue
They sit so proudly like pots of gold
In glorious colors,.....I must behold

I smile expressions, sheer admiration
Her anxious look turns to delight !...
Her face lights up just like the sun
Years melt away from somber eyes.

I've asked her "What, could be your secret,
           to grow these perfect spring bouquets?"
"The fragrance sweeps a magic potion, that makes me want to spend all day!"

"Please tell me more, I'd like to know." 
We sit and chat, and I'm enthralled.....
  "Leftover tea leaves? Helps them to grow?".....
           "Now who would guess? Please tell me more!"

               Her eyes are wide, with my request
               This time I know just what to do
              "I'd love to share some tea with you"
               That's how we spent all afternoon


      She cut the cake
            I poured the tea......Her smile was worth a million suns

                I noticed then,.. that afternoon.......her eyes were blooms
                                     of violet too
        
                         

_______________________________________________________________
Contest: A Conversation
Sponsored by Frank Herrera


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009


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Eleven Words

A busy road.
A tree stump.
An old man.

Everyday at eight 'o clock
He sits there, cane tapping
just watching cars go by--
I among them

Such a lonely man
I say to myself

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Same old man.

He looks up, cane twirling
and smiles at me
in that split second
I smile back

A roadside friend is gained.

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different old man.

Day after day
He waves hi--cane dancing
Smiling
I wave goodbye,
no time to stop

Same busy road
Same tree stump
No old man

I screech to a halt
Ask of his absence

Clutching
a piece of paper
found taped on his cane
I weep in my car
and send a prayer
of thanks
to my roadside friend

Eleven words
Changed my world.
"Thank you lady in the blue car.
You make my day."

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different me.




Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2010


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Popcorn Music

Pop (corn) Music


Introduction

It’s time to dance, time to tango
There’s a Canadian on the banjo
When he sees the guitar strings
Jack’s mirth grows soaring wings;
As he scans the rhapsody drums
While busy the Banjo he strums!


He strums with finger
Voice doesn’t malinger!
He strums with thumb
He’s loud, he’s not dumb!

There’s Pop Music in Poetry House
Fasten belt, tighten that blouse
Third Party Insurance will not help
Scorched, when you start to yelp!
While Archaic blows a brass horn
I’m squatted munching popcorn!

He blows the mad horn
That the Devil can dehorn
Bravura of Poetic sound
Tremulous on the ground!


Background 

Fantastic footwork by Andersen Anne Lise
Compared with my hodgepodge tango style
Her voluble Poetic twirls and untimely release
Sent me across the floor to hurtle and fly!
Supine and writhing with shyness’ disease
Miss Wattle spruced my green-horned tie!

As if mêlée was all but an esteemed order
Sis Yvette, on her protuberant poetic drum
Synchronised with Archaic’s across the Border
Non-stop, the frenzied guy continues to strum
Poetry flowing from the mental cam coder
Raving Banjo on the mercy of Jack’s thumb!

Poetry Soup is irrefutably a busy Pop House-
As Cherie Thomas beats with Conductors’ stick,
Wider goes Delysia Hendricks’ split blouse
Furiously harping with gusto and a rare trick!
To rupture of ecstasy and uproarious applause:
“This kinda stuff makes this cheeky Gal tick!”


You’d say he’ll suffocate where he’s trapped
I mean Sir Lamoreaux in a spirally saxophone
Blowing, piping poetic tremolo whilst wrapped
Breathing into the constrictor’s tail a cyclone
Heaving chest, yet poetic zest is not sapped!
Alas! He’ll not till poetic tremor is fully done!

Repeatedly blowing the Lyrical saxophone
Vicky Tsiluma, intrepid Black Queen that she is,
Across Kilimanjaro, waft her poetic tone
With intonations of peace and human bliss
In this fine cognoscenti’s vitality is borne
That Lovers of Learning cannot afford to miss!

Eileen Ghali with her fine and sombre heart
Completed the missing link in the Poetic Pop
Which she could never eschew to take part
Her poetic prowess and love writ not to flop
Cheerfully sang love lines on a pedestal chart,
With dance sending Jack’s trousers to drop!


Conclusions

By sharing Poetry for free
Other’s mind we start to see	
Lost temper, back we find
In Soup we share our mind!



**Dedicated to all the Soup Community members. I could have included all of you....space could not allow. I love you all!


JM

16th Oct’ 2013 



Copyright © Joseph Matose | Year Posted 2013