Best Reference Poems


Premium Member Wonderland II: The Hatter's Tale

Morning At Work

Impaired by his tremors
And a troublesome cough,
He turned fur into felt
Before cooling things off.

He drooled once or twice
And grew cold in his bones,
But he shaped all the felt
Into all of the cones.


Noon

His 'venomous vipers'
Grew restless again
And woke as the toxins
Played games with his brain.

He began to see strange things
And quickly grew scared
When the writing desk swooped
Like a ravenous bird.

Aware that his dark mind
Was now playing tricks,
He quit work forever
At ten shillings past six.


Night

He sat in The Tabard
Where he found time to think.
His skin had turned orange
As he drowned in his drink.
 
He recalled the sad day
His wife took off her ring
And with her cards on the table
Left to marry a king.

He pined for his daughter
And the party he'd planned
But she followed her mother
To that far-away land.


Later That Night

While carrying a tea tray
Upstairs to his bed
He tripped over his hat
He'd shook off with his head.

He finally came to 
Around six the next night
But from that moment on
All his world was not right.

Premium Member Cannon Lee - Re-Posted For Reference

The ocean shatters on the banks of my despair
where I stand above the cliffs in mournful yearning there,
amid the thunder and the lightning
that cracks the black of night
I curse the rocks below that took his precious life.

Oh Cannon Lee, Oh Cannon Lee!
my merman of the sea,
so beautiful a creature the world has never seen.
To gaze upon his beauty is to wake up in a dream
and drift forever in those tranquil eyes of green,
those dreamy eyes of my darling Cannon Lee.

I met him on the shore of Evermore
where he lay upon the rocks, his tail torn,
battered by the raging storm, so cold and so forlorn,
dying in the wake of early morn.

I wrapped myself around him, beneath my ermine cape,
and felt his shallow breath upon my tear-stained face
as he took me with a kiss
to his home beneath the sea,
the only place where he could ever live and breathe.

Visions of Atlantis were painted in my mind,
a castle on a cliff where liquid valleys wind
amid the blue and green
and all the shades of light that fall between,
the difference of awake and in a dream.

And in that final hour
his heart began to beat as mine,
and I knew for evermore that I would never find
a love so deep, complete and so divine
as the love that stole my heart, my soul, my mind,
my darling Cannon Lee.

And now I stand upon the cliff of Evermore,
and fall into those dreamy eyes of green once more.


                                 ~~~
                            Author:  Elaine George

Premium Member Election

You got a vote in your hand 
You got human right
You got justice
You got a will
At this very moment
Everything is in your hands 
At your fingertips
But you become hesitate
The candidates are strange to you
Political campaign is only a glimpse
Canvassing is unbelievable 
You have no reference
There is no evidence
All along you're blind to politics
And the surroundings
You're only interested in 
Everyday challenges
Life is challenging
Survival is hard 
Sometimes
No matter who is on the stage
Life doesn't change much
Life has to go on tough
There is no choice
Let's the court and justice
Go after them
Prolonged justice is only 
In the court 
In front of God

Frame of Reference

^ 
                                             our lives
                                        are woven into
                                a picture of where we live
                              walking history through time
                          births and deaths ricochet through
                             words and voices coloring each
                       thread tinting the boldness of its tone 
               life and breath are the warp and weft of its fabric
    the rhythm of the flying shuttle mirrors the beating of my heart
                and meters the momentum of this living tapestry
                                                home

Delusion and Reference

Delusion and Reference 
(Paranoia) 

Once there was only one, not fun, 
So then this became two, did moo,  
But my mum thought there were two, 
There was her, and then guess who, 
God said this, that, she said, like glue, 
So her and Him had chats with another one, 
This to me made still two in the room, 
But the room had three to happy her, 
And to the other one with her, further, 
They deludedly found her valid and clever, 
So they never hissed at her nor did mur, 
Such that to them in the room done, 
There were also three in the room there hun, 
Not to be bred, so him and her and Yun, 
Simmered my symptoms which decayed,  
My youth and I was subjugated dismayed, 
Such that I am now discharged recently, 
Not newly promoted without ropes concisely, 
Didn't want to placate the man walking behind, 
Erroneous paranoia is best left to fester inside, 
And so I don't know why health professionals sit, 
Without asserting this mistake of faith which does slit,  
Numbers - if functionally for other people and the kids, 
There’s three, and her factor always liaisons her upper lids, 
Then there are three real people in the room, lipids, 
To them, at medical appointments, healthcare visits, 
Meetings, excuse the syllogising of a sought parallax hits: 
So the real converser, the professional, they must cohere, 
That mum’s views may be quietly rejected unsaid,  
Subtly accepted but then bypassed in favour of the kid, 
Who needs to be pulled up from the pit of loneliness, bid, 
By the health professional who must relinquish resolutely -
Through paperwork just to file away the sinner here absolutely, 
Because ABC to me means that there's two in the room, 
When there’s only two in the room, tested, there's two chemically, boom, 
Since hormones cannot combine with a metaphysical being to boon, 
He will loon when dislocated occupations and displacement loom - 
A mathematician is not an essayist and neither a fit bit a goon;
And therefore, please remember that you become what you've done, 
Not what you've sung and altered, so when healthcare workers are spun, 
You get paranoia, not mum by ego, if they don't bravely come into the sun.

Chilling Reference

the carving knife met
drag the blade down the chest
smiling face ghostly

A Different Point of Reference

They call it shuffling of the mind
when other eyes are turned;
Other visions call upon the history 
that is their very own, allowing us
to see, to share, to grow.

Onrushing Earth
will ride the tides of time 
disclosing newer cries of childhood; 
hearts will sing again their Kyries
while brotherhood is unrelenting,
we may join the new-made antiphon
where every song is triumph;
each surrender is a victory.

There is risk in such a stand.
There is plenitude among the powers
of the strong, righteous in their zeal.
There is challenge.  There is testing.
There is no defense.

Mayhap, there need not be.
      ~

A Reference For Every Thought

A reference for every thought

Deconstruct all you think and find the link
To the last time you felt that way
Heard the words
Learned that fact
Disassemble the pieces of the things and 
Actions you hold to be true
Find the place in the litany of your life
And note down the author, the theorist
The lover and map the route to the
Conurbation of storehouses and pyramids
Of belief and time
Track each thought, each breath, each moment 
That constructed these towns of ideas
And live the informed like evaluating each
Placement
Fortify only the foundations of these that
Hold under such intense surveillance

Frames of Reference

what though there be a garden of flowers
the essense of the whole distilled to but a drop
the humble bee alights
frozen in time and purpose
sucking the nectar of its created heaven
in the now in the here 
gridlocked

Miracle Reference

If you don't believe in Miracle's 

I refer you to

Anfield,  Liverpool 

Tuesday 7th May 2019

Liverpool  -  4

Barcelona  -  0

Miracle's are not Dead 

God supports Liverpool

13,39(In Reference To the Fort Hood Shootings)

First off, this is a poem about my feelings about the tragic even that took place in Fort Hood, 
Texas yesterday afternoon. Prepare yourselves. I was very angry at the time i wrote this. 
hope you enjoy regardless. 

13 dead. 39 wounded.
who knew the acts of one man could be so gruesome?
i'll never know what thoughts traced your mind.
as you pulled the trigger and affected so many lives.
what were you thinking? 
ending lives without even blinking.
mass chaos.
last night i couldn't even sleep.
i can only imagine how you made those families feel.
you are a coward.
and that's putting it nicely
you make me sick to my stomach.
are you breathing in regret? 
do you feel any remorse yet? 
i bet you don't feel a thing.
because if you would have thought twice you would have stopped this from happening.
you would have stopped yourself.
i guess you can blame this on your mental health.
just like everyone else.
the world is evil but for you i have zero respect. 
you can't blame this on anything.
because you yourself pulled the trigger to the handguns that called for the innocence's ending
i bet you'll never lose a second of sleep. 
you are weak. 
no pity for a coward. 
i hope you get what you deserve.
can't wait for karma to take it's course. 
get on your knees and say a prayer.
i hope it goes unanswered.

Frame of Reference

...to My Dad


As I strolled through Bolton 
I saw the players who possessed me,
who beat me down and held me up, 
who tickled me and trounced me,
formed and shaped this neophyte.

Full aware of their manipulations,
stations of the Cross, or as temptations
for transgression, they were my lifelines,
baiting me, or bonding me to morals,
some would stick, and some would splinter.

Too soon my father passed away.
Oft I meet him as I wander,
more than any other wraith, 
we smoke cigarettes and chat,
solid body, apparition.

Significant exchanges, the channels
of his wisdom broadened those 
of this young child, and I expanded
'til perspective took its hold. There will 
be more, 'til I am singular and bold.

Frame of Reference

My reality might be
The opposite of yours.
You may think the words I write
Are merely metaphors.

Some may be, I’ll give you that,
But mostly they’re the truth,
A frame of reference I’ve been in
From early days of youth.

Of course, that frame’s expanded
As experience has grown.
We each exist within a world
We cling to as our own.

But oftentimes I get a jolt
That knocks me for a loop.
What’s obvious to me
Is not to others on the Soup.

Within my frame of reference
I describe the things I’ve seen.
I’m shocked when those beyond that frame
Do not know what I mean.

Premium Member The Gathered Women, a Short Poem

++ The Gathered Women, a short poem++ 

A Magnificence captures
Us
Unexpectedly
We run off
To hunt our mantillas 
   From long ago youth
To address
And dress our heads
In all felt humility

—————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/21/22

**a mantilla is a lace veil
Catholic women wore to church
before the 1990’s

Past Reference

Where would I dine inside your heart
If I have felt love then I have feared pain
And If I have feared pain then I have tasted lust..


Where would I be had I not tasted your lips,
Had I not felt you sacredly inside?
You took over my being and held me captive till I could not see
And you stripped away all that I once knew.

I gave myself to only you
and you took that knowledge and ran away with my still beating heart
You coveted me with words of, "you knew"
"love", and, " I didn't mean to hurt you".

I shed so many tears longing just to have you
And you laughed in my face silently
Oh, what I wouldn't have given to be stronger in those earlier day's
and to see the sign of regret on your face.

I touched your malice
and I glimpsed into your black soul
I yielded the pain that kept your heart inside those walls
and I made you want to love again.

This was my pentence
Making all that have left me behind see they could truly love again
And from my past live's the pain I had dealt
Had now become my own.

I begged them not for forgiveness
Cause all that had been done to them
They had the gratification of doing it back to me.

Eternally I am sorry,
Have I not been punished enough?
© Dana Kirby  Create an image from this poem.

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