Best Sociable Poems
It twinkles brightly upon a baby’s first born cry
On September 23 to October 22 reigns up in sky
Transforming into a magical pair of scale
Hailing the beauty of Venus to unveil
As its Libran muses tread a path of life thenceforth
Soaring on element air, Friday has a blissful hoot
Ravenous taste on cereals, apples and berry fruit
Oh, are they on diet just to fit their suits?
They might have been smitten by a peaceful sky blue
Wearing gems with sparkling sapphire and jade in various hues
Their floral taste of rose in pink, white, blue, red or yellow
An exquisite gift of love, three for me and three for you
Born Libras are courteous and diplomatic
Loving, sweet and most especially romantic
They are easy-going and charming
They are very sociable and they are darlings
Born Libras are peaceable and fair
Lovers and friends to everybody, they prefer
They are balanced both in mind and in heart forever
No ambivalence for love, never a teeter-totter
Aug. 26,2014 6.10.00pm
I just got most of the information here from the designs of my favourite mug and cover of my piano piece. I don’t know if it is true ;)))))
I always thought that I was like my dad.
People tell me that I look like him
So, I just suspected that we were similar.
He doesn’t show much emotion
I don’t show much emotion.
He’s got blue eyes,
I’ve got blue eyes
He only has a select few friends,
I’m picky with my friends.
He’s funny,
I hope I’m funny.
I’m quiet and reserved,
He’s extroverted and sociable
But I’m at my best when I’m with people.
I’m open to people,
He’s super skeptical of people
I give a lot to people,
He gives a lot to those he loves but not really to those he doesn’t know.
I’m afraid to be alone,
He’s pretty much always been on his own.
Maybe we aren’t that much alike after all.
The saying opposites attract is true for him and I
But perhaps it’s the opposite for my mom and I
We don’t really look alike,
But we do the same things,
feel the same emotions,
still mine are on a much deeper level
For example, I could’ve only known a girl for a month
things end and I’m heartbroken.
It doesn’t happen all the time, it’s legit only when I put a lot of time into it.
The same goes for my mom
she gets over things she didn’t put a lot of time and effort into easily
but when something does
and it doesn’t work out
she takes it hard
we might not show on the outside
but on the inside
it’s like we are lone sailors in the middle of hurricane
trying to lock down the hatches
calling for help,
but just wanting to someone to understand us.
Which is funny,
because I’m 5 shoe sizes bigger than her
yet her shoes don’t seem to hurt my toes.
She always wanted a relationship with her older sister,
I’ve always wanted a relationship with a stranger.
We are so much alike that I tend to get annoyed with her
because it’s like talking to a different version of me.
I’m sorry for not recognizing this earlier mom
It turns out I’m just like you,
And I love it.
In the middle of the meadow she stands.
Majestically reaching toward Heaven.
Beautiful in her solidness,
Patient and serene.
From beneath her branches
Kisses are stolen between lovers,
Their initials etched within
Proclaiming immortal devotion.
She is an enduring sanctuary,
Absorbing the suffering.
Tears from broken hearts fall.
She comforts the forlorn.
Youngsters are tempted into her shelter,
A magical secret hideaway.
They clamber into her green haven,
An enchanting retreat.
Friends rendezvous beside her,
A sociable meeting place,
Intimacies are shared
Amid her familiarity.
For years she has stood proud,
Her roots firmly grip the ground,
So glorious and green.
She is so much more than just a tree.
One Christmas, hubbie lost his job,
and we were feeling sad
when at the pound, we found a cat
that helped me to feel glad.
We never knew what age she was.
All we knew was that
she’d lived with dogs and had green eyes
and was a little fat!
Although her name was Razzmatazz,
instead I’d call to her:
“Come, kitty, oh so beautiful
with shiny soft black fur.”
I loved to look into her eyes,
and back at me she’d gaze.
She’d hang around us. On our bed
with us she liked to laze.
When someone came to visit us,
beside us all she’d be.
Black cats like her are not bad luck.
So sociable was she!
Five years soon passed, and Razzmatazz
was acting rather strange.
First diabetes; then her stroke
affected quite a change.
To ease her pain, we had her put
to sleep, for death was near.
Today I see black cats and think
of mine so sweet and dear.
March 28, 2022
For the Black Cat Poetry Contest of Robert James Liguori
Yesterday, sociable sun embellished,
desires of my poetic garden heart.
Spreading sweet scents of serenity,
elegantly and enchantly, echoing,
vivid visions from my vibrant vocabulary,
but, such is the nature of the muse,
without refreshment, it's petal like mood cried
for raindrops of ink to nourish and flourish its
sensitive sleeping seeds, shielded by my soul.
But, howling winds arrived with bitter rain.
Their rapid rage of gusts so forceful,
fumed furiously at my simple words.
Hysterical and bloodthirsty,
their wrath devoured my delicate artistry,
all day and throughout the night -
for the first time, I felt empathy for the moon.
The morning after, I awoke to find my
flower garden resembling Greek ruins.
My cherry blossom tree is now bare,
her pink buds floating in depthless puddles.
Tulips are headless, with their perished petals,
laying lifeless along my purple slate path,
as rose bushes slump,
arching and aching from brutal blows.
Unsociable sun did not appear today,
maybe too afraid, maybe too shy.
In my state of despair, I wonder;
Is there beauty, in such a tragedy?
Is there hope in such an unfair travesty?
But raindrops keep pouring,
physically, emotionally and metaphorically.
For your thoughts, you are the boss
You can surely prevent your loss
Your happiness, you only hold
You can make your ideas gold
For your health, you are the master
All the good habits, you can muster
You can be sad, mad or even glad
It depends upon the preference had
You can converse, argue or shout
You can be clear or have doubt
You can love or hate or be indifferent
It depends upon your mind's current
You can laugh, smile, cry or weep
What you sow, you surely reap
You can joke or be serious
You can be true or specious
You can take a firm stand
To make your life grand
Or stoop before others meekly
And give up your goals weakly
You can be sociable and kind
Or arrogant with a bad mind
Everything good, you may own
Or lose everything to atone
If you are wise, take my advice
And your plans, you revise
If my advice seems to be wrong
To listen to it, never at all prolong
If my advice is sensible only
Kindly follow it daily duly
Always the choice is yours
You can get tears or cheers
Never do anything due to force
That is the best advice of course
Use the freedom given to you
And shrewdly make a self-rescue
All the best in your endeavor
Always use reasoning power!
The sky an ocean of gathering crimson,
leaden on hues French-vanilla ice-cream,
puffy cotton candy clouds wandering sociable.
Grassy field of red spice cinnamon poppies.
Dream of pleasure indulges in sweetness of childhood,
her large blue eyes watch, a half-smile hangs on,
a wink of sun glare, untighten her fingers,
cries, red balloons into the crimson they bolt.
3/13/2022
A simple girl, this is me
Who looks forward to her future and waits to see
A very quiet girl who never tells a lie
Sometimes she feel sociable other times she feel shy
A girl who adores creativity
And likes to do any hard activity
Her heart is always white
She hates to be involved in a fight
A girl who is called an angel by everyone
And enjoys getting up after the rise of the sun
A girl who has a great aim
And awaits the coming of her fame
A very simple girl, this is me
Who looks with optimism and waits to see
Tippy toeing across the desert sand cracked Cement stepping stone road
We venture towards The blooming onion bonfire that Rises like a medusa’s hair in a galaxy fueled by the heat of a dying star
The raindrops roll down my china doll cheeks
Makes my hair glisten like candlelight hope diamonds
And the rain washes away my feelings of self loathing
This weathered couch so lonesome in a field of curious horses
Seats sociable strangers Intoxicated with vodka mixers and self pride
Under an umbrella a polish model speaks broken English poetry Cuddling into my side instinctively she acted sisterly
My body was their hurricane shelter and my arms kept them from harm
He slid in on the ancient couch to seek momentarily comfort from the soaking tsunami
Faded........floating on a wave of intoxicated insta-friendships that we made only in our kindergarten years
when we wore tiaras and over sized dresses wide eyed and gaped toothless
Imagining what greatness would become of us Superheros and Princesses
The bass of the stereos fueled masculine desires for destruction
They tossed the grandfather couch into the flames and became a beaming beacon of light in all the darkness the smoke spiraled as the fires creeping fingers consumed the skeletal remains of the chesterfield.
Twas cremated at the early hour of dusk
University was just the eclipse in our eye lids
Life is a wayward hurricane NASA plane emblazoning on a rainbow runway
spin yourself faster than a ballerina collapsing into the tutu frill.... brighter than a lantern fueled by essence of a thousand swarming fireflies
Our naiive youth is but the past, we left it behind in this catacomb laid to rest
Wearing my best dress,
Stirring tea with a fine spoon,
I will mind my manners well
And be a success.
Tonight I adore the moon
While my disappointments swell.
Everyone will smile
A proper sociable grin
And ask about each other.
All will speak awhile
About how great time has been
And who is now a mother.
We used to wear jeans
And disdain the grown-up ways.
We sought out different lives.
Now it surely seems
Reaching our own grown-up days
Reveals us as standard wives.
Teenage malcontent
Seeks a newer, better world
Than what modern adults view.
Seems teenage time spent
Grows a woman from the girl
Who conforms to ways held true.
Doris Lessing is dead,
And she's not a feminist,
An uninhibited outspoken
novelist,
She's also sociable and
artistic.
Mind you she's no easy meat,
Won the Nobel Prize for a
lifetime writing,
Passed away at the age of
ninety four,
And her memories through
her books will continue.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A tribute to the lady who
wrote the famous 'The Golden
Notebook'
She left her family to for her
work.
Novelist,poet and writer.
The wonderful woman buried there
Molded me in her hands with vision’s care
Of enthusiastic pot maker’s creativity;
Ushered me in this world of cruelty
And gallant gave me her sweet breast
Of milk so my spirit was the joy’s crown;
She held me tight in her balmy bosom
So such sincere sense of security
Handed me everlasting love of purity.
The wonderful woman buried there
Gained me my identity as sturdy as a snare;
Her great feat in edification
Lent intellect to my premature years
Hence now I stay alive wholly because of her-
No human race can subsist without mother.
The wonderful woman buried there
Self-sacrificed herself on the cross’s jolt
Flaking searing tears of salt through droughts
So I may grow to be a man neigh naughty
But a man educated deeply like her-
When the tears fell on my countenance,
The tears did not taste of salt
But like the crack of dawn’s sun.
The wonderful woman buried there
In that sinister sepulcher, beneath the cross
The lady whose epitaph reads:
‘Herein rests lady, Dr Trusila
PhD Social Motherhood,
A committed mother, sociable worker,
Human liberation seeker,
The sun for her lone son….’
The wonderful woman buried there,
The brilliant woman who gave me life
That woman who is masked there is my mother.
I would hate to say
How true friends went away
Please don't try to argue, just try to understand.
That time can change people, as the tide can change the sand.
Friends forgive, forget, and forever stand.
At times I don’t want to be taken for granted
But like a seed friendship is planted
So many people are full of lies
No one to lean on no shoulder to cry
Friends are central to our lives
They help you to succeed and strive
A friend's love is unconditional and unique in every way.
There will always be there from day to day
A friend’s loyalty which is held very valuable
We need somebody sociable
Standing strong by your side,
With no secrets and nothing to hide
A friend is never jealous of the things you may attain
And if you are the winner you will not hear them complain.
The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend.-- Abraham Lincoln
A friend loves at all times."
-- The Bible: Proverbs 17, 17.
The number of my Destiny is 7.
Solitary Seven it is sometimes called.
My birth path number 5 is fun and sociable,
but honestly, I love to be alone!
Alone I read my books,
alone I write my poems,
and alone I watch the movies I adore.
I love the company of family and friends,
but since my siblings all live far from me
and my own two kids are off and on their own,
and since my friends are mostly all online,
and the people that surround me at my workplace and at church
are mere acquaintances, busy with their own families,
it's by myself I usually can be found.
It's like that time I spent on my first cruise
paid for by my husband's mother to accompany her grown daughter,
a person with whom I share no common interests.
Instead of going with me to attend the talent shows,
the many ship activities like games and competitions
or enjoying karaoke, she was often off alone herself!
Meanwhile I just blended in with all the crowd -
laughing with the members of the cruise,
watching them all dance
(I must admit I longed to have a partner then),
but all in all, I much enjoyed it all even though I mostly was alone.
I have no problem seeing movies by myself.
At matinees I'm sometimes the only person there.
I put my feet up; no one's there to care!
Frugal, I rarely go out to eat.
My husband is so quiet, the few times we eat out,
it would not make much difference
whether he was there with me or not!
I have no friends with whom I go to classes at the gym,
but I am there to exercise, not socialize.
I'm content to have just the right amount of social interaction
every morning when I'm teaching at the school.
Yes, I am a solitary sort. It's always been this way.
In my childhood, alone I read upon my bed
while downstairs my siblings liked to play.
At times I joined in with them. In school I cherished friends
and hung out very often with my pals,
but in the end. . . .
I find enjoyment in many things,
and many of the things I most enjoy
I do quite comfortably
with myself and me!
For PD's the a poem' about you... it can be an ode' a self ballad, any poem about you.. THE POETPoetry Contest
It amazes me that she came to mind after some 50 years.
She lived far back across the fields, alone with not a care.
She was laughed at and talked about; some were afraid of her.
No one was ever harmed by her, and everyone stayed out of her way.
Even when they avoided her, it was difficult to escape the sound of her voice.
Up close or across the fields, we heard her so clearly and sincerely crying, “Holy!”
She was not sociable, and perhaps even a bit eccentric. Though religious, she was not a Mother Teresa. I do not remember a smile she gave to anybody for any reason. Was she out of her mind as some suggested? Was she a voice crying in the wilderness? Was she on a divine assignment from God? Was she a saint or holy person? I most assuredly did not know then, and I am presently content to let God be the judge of that. But she had no doubt about her God being Holy, because, with unrelenting commitment, she cried, “Holy!”
It’s clear to me that God had become the center of her every affection. Indeed, she deemed it her mission to proclaim the Holiness of God to a needy people. So without refrain, fear, or hesitation, she simply continued to shout, “Holy!”
She was unconventional, unsophisticated, unconcerned, and unlike anyone I have ever known. She cared not what people said, thought, or felt about her. She was fearless, and nothing mattered except her mission. She was called 'the sanctified lady’; but time after time, come rain or come shine, she paid us no mind, and she never ceased or declined. She just cried, “Holy!”
I never knew whatever became of her, but she was a small framed lady with a strong and deep sounding voice. It’s the cry of her voice that brings my eyes to tears. Without apology or regard for public opinion, from her home deep across the corn and cotton fields, we often heard her crying, “Holy!”
I don’t recall anything else she ever said or did. But I will say that if she was on a divine assignment, God must have been pleased with her. I suspect that it was a lonely and often cruel assignment, causing much pain and ridicule. But she bore the pain; she had nothing to gain; her message was clear and plain; she refused to refrain. She certainly was not popular, and I don’t remember a friend she ever had. But ever true to her task, from the depths of her soul, she cried, “Holy!”