Best Supposing Poems
Fair weather eye's
focused on the eastern horizon
occasional salty sea spray
followed by a chilly breeze .
A voyager , wandering adrift today's beyond
searching for better tomorrows
on life's ocean of emotions rolling wave's
At times , I feel like changing direction's
follow the sun to the west
go in circles to where it never set's
But then , would I be in a continous day dream
only capable of experiencing a singularity ??
Supposing the setting sun gives hope for another
opportunities abound whatever the weather
Even still , why has everything become so different
refraction apparently affecting others
their mind's " I " incapable of truth
tropism natural for most
eclipsing of the sun becoming an everyday event
What happened to the world I once knew ??
If you know,
impart what you know.
Don't say that you know,
when you don't know.
It is beguiling to say that you don't know
when you know.
I tarry with you all night,
supposing that you know,
and you really don't know
yet you tell me that you know
©2013 Christine Phillips
Are you one of life's many players?
Wearing a mask so others can't see;
Hiding feelings, won't let them show,
Absent from what reality might be.
Do you go through life supposing?
That you're the master of your life's all;
But when things in life are amiss,
It's then upon God you call.
Do you often reminisce things done?
Perhaps from a time when weak;
Because we've all worn this mask,
and of these things won't speak.
I've oft thought that I'm two people,
To most, my feelings I won't show.
The hurt that lies within,
I wear my mask so others won't know.
Every word, sentence and paragraph has three main components. Each one has a beginning, a middle, and an ending. On All Poetry there are two groups specializing in brevity. Pure brevity and brevity. Pure brevity can have as a complete poem only one word. Brevity can have more than one. "There is nothing new under the sun." But just supposing the words won't come, and you do not know what to say? What words, or images or memories pop into your head and/or your heart or mind. Use your God given imaginations
You could say," My mind is a complete blank today. I really don't know what to say. I don't know how to think it. I had a thought lingering in my mind for a few brief moments. Than it slipped away like always. Christians can rely upon Jesus Christ and/or the Holy Spirit for inspirational words and topics. There is always the Bible. And there are free on-line books of the Bible on the internet.
Jews can rely upon the Bible as well for background knowledge and/or information. The Bible is really for everyone. When I was younger I used the Old Testament books of the Bible. Psalms and Proverbs. I still draw upon the bottomless well of knowledge, the Holy Bible!
For example I wasn't sure if the correct word was either earth or world. So I used the word earth. I searched the book of Revelations. Only to come up empty. The correct word I needed was world. I made the necessary changes to my Psalm of Victory! The psalm is to be found on my All Poetry website.
Observational poems are based upon experiences either yours or other people. The full white luminous moon lite up the starry nighttime's sky. Famous poets frequently relied upon nature for inspiration. "Poems were made by fools like me but only God can make a tree." I forget her name, but remember one line of her famous poem.
Avoid having things either too short or too long. Depending upon your composition and/or audience. But there are one word, sentence and line poems. Avoid being verbose and using fourteen letter words. Unless it is recommended. Jot down your thoughts, doddle do art work. Whatever works out best for you and your prospective readers. Pray really works!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
March 05. 2020
You brush against me supposing not to know,
but a catch in your breath does surely show
there’s an ache, a stirring somewhere below.
Thus begins our foreplay, a prelude we know well
for loving touches say more than words tell.
It’s been that way since first in love we fell.
Slowly, gently, Sweet, no need for haste,
this sacred moment is too precious to waste.
Our love is true, pure, and chaste.
I love your fingers in my hair. . .
your skin, soft and fair. . .the way you
enfold me there. . .I love you everywhere.
Yes, I truly love you my forever Sweet.
And when I’m taken off my feet,
brush again against me when next we meet.
So deep a love to feel
Your muse Cupid would wonder
When the golden chance you couldn’t steal
Preferring instead to explore gambits like a gander
Pushing a prevarication scheme without a clear
Strategy as to where you felt your breakthrough
Would emerge from, dear
Although to your credit you remained true
Supposing luck once again to your side
Would come swinging the pendulum
In your favour as aside you pushed your pride
To beat the drum
Whose rhythm like a wedding bell
Stimulated heartbeats into faster pulses
Denoting chances to lift the veil
On your romance for impulses
To hasten the tempo of the tango
For both your heart and hers to dance
To disentangle
Knots and spots of bother to advance
The agenda to win the love
For which all along you long
To hold, hold, hold on wings of the white dove
That your resolve makes strong
As seconds tick
You break the ice
Knees growing weak
Lips trembling once, twice, thrice
You squeeze Betty into your arms
Bodies entwined
No more romance doldrums
Love in the end redefined and refined.
Why should the mimic apologize?
Where are the cupboards?
Where are the wages?
Where is the tailor? I had
no use for algebra, I knew it-
in as much incognito on a prefabricated track,
in order that....
free thinking then supposing,
til warning for dreamless help provided,
a typewritten treat from this meditative cell on
a bi-directional night, just as incensing this layer, once
shouting, against kaleidoscoped winds...
Will the dubious cartoon walk on top of the comparison?
or will the prevailing keystroke provoke a smashing debt?
Their marriage possessed an alcoholic copyright.
just as the about face twists the rear....
A wizard paces..... surveying the blackboard
just when a scholar stands,
and rocks across a page, so that unless
Some author squeezes, a western dialect,
lest now his leisure violates,
a once welcomed, road of gold on the critical side, in as much until
and even faster still, a projecting spontaneous cricket,
now in a graveyard embarrassed by his wasteful song,
messy thoughts, broken prized belief,
sweeping away the cheat,
disregarding the window from the top,
so that a porter yawns,
outside the offending captor, who wears a wolf pendant,
underneath the inside havoc, if only
the technology collapses before
the funerals, thick attack, talk on top,
of frozen outlines, and a leather sofa cracked,
from opinions changing, as correspondence leaked,
so behind smoke, a fire of desire lurking near the conflicting repertoire,
next to the guilty bystander, raining like a thief, now interferes, who
stirs the sticks... across the crossroads,
Can the music spin the guilty onto a bandwagon until the other staggering strangers advancing,
to the next fizzy, dizzy, bog...
while guides await in order to assault corrupted fantasies,
beside crystal strips, where rusty knights in armor, sitting on a park bench
trying every half measure,
disturbing breezes,
in the haze of memories. Stir these random thoughts and let their impressions talk to you and one another.
Who knows how the mind really works?
ON HIS BIRTHDAY
from Anne Donne to her husband John – supposing she went on record..
Five senses have we, but just one soul
I take you part by part, and then the whole
Your fingertips begin at shadow’s end
And I on each a hundred kisses spend.
Your toes from which radiate your joy
Your soles, your feet, your legs I all enjoy
Your shoulders, arms, are ceaseless comfort trained
Your face, your hair, your lips are thus arraigned.
Sweet tower of enterprise, and honeyed substance found
We share our treasure where we most abound
Our secret selves are now a flame of sense
Where we explode at last in innocence.
Exploring ways to end all life’s regrets
Our joy a million, million tears forgets.
by Rosemarie Rowley
from IN MEMORY OF HER Dublin 2008
Hershey, Pennsylvania’s a place I would like to go.
It is essentially a chocolate El Dorado.
This little town somewhere in the middle of the state
is truly a place many people consider great.
It’s just full of chocolate goodies without any doubt.
You can get chocolate bars with almonds, or some without,
and peanut butter cups, kisses, and others galore;
enough is there to satisfy anyone, and more!
This is a town I would be proud to call my birthplace
if I were made of chocolate with “HERSHEY” on my face.
A bunch of “Whatchamacallits “would be my brothers,
and tall stacks of Kit-Kat bars I would call my sisters.
How many people would want to take a bite of me?
Supposing this was all true and not mere fantasy?
I would have plenty of relatives for all to see.
Together, we would be one big happy family.
If I told it today,
In this moment, right now,
Would you believe me?
Not just please me,
But believe me?
If I opened my chest
And exposed my heart,
Would you not hold me?
Not bring me comfort?
Not shed a tear?
My God! Can you even cry?
Supposing I loved you,
And gave my all
With no returns,
Would you then be glad?
To hold my life
Within your reach?
To drag me down,
To wipe your feet?
Thank God! I haven’t loved you!
And if I saved you
By telling a lie,
Supporting your wrong.
Would you bend a little?
Stoop before your lie
And ask for understanding?
And if I cried for you,
Hurting inside,
Would you see me?
Acknowledge my pride,
As woman, not child?
Would you even see me?
Of Love I Ask
Who do we ask
love from? Who do
we expect love
from? It is hard to
say, when as a
child you never felt
it. I don't
remember a hug,
or a kiss, or
anyone showing
me love.
If I were a child
again,
from my parents -
I would like hugs
and kisses. As a
grownup I would
ask for good advice
and understanding.
to me that would
be love.
No criticism - we
get enough of that
from other people.
I would ask for
support from my
family. A family
should be together
in the good and
the bad.
From my mate I
would want some
tender loving care,
supposing that he
loved me. I would
also want
truthfulness, no
lies and above all
faithfulness.
As a very young
child I learned that
I was not suppose
to ask for
anything, so I
don't. We should
never have to ask
for love. Love is a
gift that not
everyone can
give...
06/29/2014
By Lucilla M.
Carrillo
Note: Just another
small part of my
life.
How lucky can one man be
To have the love and friendship
Oh so many sweet adorable people
Here on the Soup... male and female
It's like a love-in from the sixties
Minus the beads and hippie hair
(Well, I'm supposing!)
Those were wild, free spirited days
Making love, NOT war
I was newly married back then to my first wife, Linda
Busy raising three young kiddies
And struggling to make ends meet
My rewards though were much greater
With 3 super kids, a gorgeous wife and a new career
The closest I got to becoming a hippie
Was letting my hair grow long (shoulder length)
And growing a beard
Which, believe it or not, I still have today
Those were difficult times back then
But oh so rewarding... ahhh memories!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Speak to me my muted heart
where went your rhyming ways
The voice of a hearts deepest hour
in mysteries a soul explained
Is your rhythm lost or simply hiding
in the noise of life as it whines
expression tied by hopes revising
sweet serenity and peace of mind
You run and ride with speed in your stride
ignoring all fear of the fall
you dig your heals and hold on tight
then question how momentum has stalled
An erie silence rests within
like unwritten lyrics implore
when inspiration is crushed to dust
supposing your song should be more
Poetry to you is a mountain
raised and balanced in a hand
yet your fountain of speech has ceased its flowing
like the trek across untraveled sands
If inspiration is swinging from a chandelier
opposing the status quo
and insight a vehicle to merely be steered
why now is there no marrow in your bones
Words keeping time with the beat of a life
linguistic expression out of step
lancing the poetess with a wordless knife
a beat-less palpitation in her chest
Return to me dear creativity
like frankincense anointed and blessed
convey the miracle of a heart unlaced
my poetic world at rest
Could it be I feel too much
farther reaching than any sea or the sky
or is this a symptom of insecurity
for all the where the when's or the why's
I am disassembled, rearranged
the safety net beneath me removed
everything familiar suddenly changed
with the muse of my rhythm unmoved
Perhaps when the seismic quake has passed
and my world is as it should be at last
I'll write of how transporting through worlds
was like a dance with a tornado as it twirls
Until then I'll retire my pen
and pray a new melody plays
some new, never known before tune
in the awe of poetic display
She was an old lady, widowed for years long.
Mrs. Sims was her name, lived a block away.
She was alone, her three children were gone.
Never a caring word did she hear them say.
I was busy, a young man trying for the top.
Board meetings, audits, trips—much to do.
Those were priorities, taking time nonstop.
Mrs. Sims didn’t matter in that world I knew.
At my wife’s urging, we went to the viewing.
One look at her face remodeled my mind.
She echoed Mother, which was my undoing.
In an instant, tears of regret my eyes affined.
I thought of how in her sundowning hours
Mother was surrounded by dear caring ones.
But Mrs. Sims received no love, no flowers.
Not from her daughter, nor from her sons.
In her passing that widow lady taught me
Mothers matter more than earthly acclaim.
Now I seek the old lonely wherever they be
Lest for being uncaring I’m worthy of blame.
It’s easy to set aside the old and the used,
Supposing they have nothing left to give.
But that mindset must sternly be refused:
They can teach us the Christ-like way to live.
It’s a pleasure to walk out on a Winter’s day,
When the cold air bites, and deep snow’s here to stay!
To hear the wind howling through the bare trees,
Perhaps hear the sound of a chickadee sneeze!
But then, I love to walk in the pouring rain
Without a hat! It cools my overworked brain!
Nothing beats that feeling, when you’re freezing cold.
It’s something to remember, when I get old.
Always supposing I will reach old age!
And yes! I like to go out on a Spring morn.
For when taking a walk, I’m glad to be born.
Though rubber boots leak, making feet sore, and wet.
I’m soaked to the skin! Can I get wetter yet?
There’s a Westerly wind screaming through the trees!
Better I think, than walking in a light breeze!
I slip and slither, and finally fall down.
If the puddle were deeper, I’d likely drown!
Then of course, I’d never reach old age!
When Summer is here, I enjoy a long walk.
To be out in the heat, when it’s hard to talk!
As sweat pours from every part of my being.
People can hardly believe what they’re seeing!
Dust sticks to my brow. I smell rancid and strong.
If you don’t like my smell ? Then best move along!
Still in rubber boots, though they make my feet stink!
I look so disgusting, it makes some folks blink!
I doubt they’ll let me live to reach old age!
In the Fall, I’ll be going out once again
Coughing and sneezing, I’ll slosh through the rain!
The chickadee died. He caught pneumonia!
So I buried him under the red begonia!
There’s a rash on both legs, and my nose is sore.
I’ve no handkerchief left, to blow it once more!
There’s an ache in my right ear, and fungus grows,
Itching and burning between most of my toes!
I’m amazed I’ve lived to reach old age!
Now, as another good year gets under way,
Why I wonder, are things tough for me today?
All I want, are the simple pleasures in life.
Maybe a good woman, to make me a wife!
But for some reason, they’re very hard to find.
Though I’ll still keep trying while I have a mind!
By until that day when I find one to train,
I’ll keep to myself. Out in the pouring rain!
At present no one cares if I reach old age?
Rhymer.