Love’s Goodbye
Those who ask
no questions
offer the greatest
comfort
Those who speak
inscriptive
tell the biggest
lies
Those who pledge
no fealty
to themselves
dishonor
Those who bear
no greetings
doomed to love’s
— goodbye
(Dreamsleep: February, 2026)
Misfortune Contrives
It’s in fashion
to wear
your heart
on your sleeve
A French poet
alarmed
that love may
deceive
Bleeding a wound
that
misfortune
contrives
Alone
in deception
your love
— circumcised
(Dreamsleep: February, 2026)
Epiphany Of Time
Once
you wrap
all existence
into this moment
You will
understand the
difference between life
— and its living
(Dreamsleep: February, 2026)
A poem should
explain itself --
define what it
is – at the poem’s
prepping, by the poet
done all the required
kneading
whether healing or
bleeding, a poem
should be its own
hunger or feeding --
should stand alone
clear-day, or cloud
seeding --
In conclusion – poems
should require only
a reader reading….
When I mark my ballot
I make certain of the ink...
it is always red to me!
Each stroke, a limb –
each downward pressure
an attempt at stopping
the bleeding, a bullet
having found the torso,
but never the true heart
of a Freedom
loving patriot.
Know what goes into the
right to vote...and leave
that booth shaking with
such honor others sacrificed
their very lives to selflessly
give you....
On Sunday, the sweet soft tone of the choir was muted
The church pews were brimming with dust
Ushers were unable to give directions
For even the congregation was stuck up in isolation
Preachers had to minister to the echo of their own voices
No trace of humanity has witnessed such a calamity
A pandemic with the propensity to spread faster than fake news
The entire globe is bleeding a single wound
We have to stay at home to avoid the blood stains
Meeting friends and family seem to be the good old days
The latest trend is keeping a distance and washing your hands
Who knows?
What's in the air or exactly how this thing spreads?
The beautiful feeling of just going out and getting fresh air
Now, it seems like a bad idea
This Plague, like a fiend, feeds the earth thousands of righteous victims every day
It's striking a newly sharpened double edged sword into the hearts of mortals
This is not just a virus, it's fear itself
Take precaution!
A knife stab on a man
Hurts as much on a kid
He has to remain mum
A brave face to cede
A woman on his side, on the other a son
Two souls to shield, emotions never freed
He has strength to lift a tonne
And more to make his tears recede
He holds the tears back like a dam
When his boiling anger feeds
His heartbreak may have no span
But he won’t flip a lid
Lucid is heartbreak to a woman
It is heart dust to a man crushed to plead
A moon ray in the absence of the sun
Sparkles a tear drop on his eyelid
When the world looks away he becomes human
Allows his tears to flow and dilute his bleeding
He knows crying a river killed no one
But bleeding a river did
Life is but a poem,
With a lot of oxymoron subjects.
I looked into those tranquil eyes
That face reminded me of a beautiful poem.
She used to walk on a fine line, in my mind
Between faith and frustration.
In tiny steps, little by little.
In my memory, I greeted a poem, once
And the poem was crying, in pain,
While pumping her breastmilk out
Those pills, she was taking
It could enter the baby's body,
With the purest food
Like the seepage of a poison.
I talked with a poem in my mind, once
Faded much…
Yet, I could recall memories of her,
She was fighting with her destiny
And a magical wound of frozen time
Was imprinting a brutal moment of vulnerability
And all I could remember is a puzzled, confused and lonely soul
Bleeding a pool of occult blood on her fight.
I wanted to utter amen in my supplication, for all those poems I knew.
Vulnerability, will you send the angel of hope at the end of the day?
And I will greet her, silently
"Please tell me life, how's it going?"
Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Ironic Zink
Hesitant and much fretful I stood at the threshold
of a cordoned off bloodstained room, dolefully cold,
At this time a most dismal of moments and piteous
to wrap my head around the conception when told
my beloved lay bleeding—a murder most vicious.
Oh, there are some hurts that nobody reckons
When a rush of rage, pain and revenge beckons
about a wanton act of mayhem and spiteful action,
In the silent nights it beckons, oh how it beckons
belying my fond ideals, beliefs and just conviction.
~Rhyme Time with 5 contest by Laura Loo
THE VIOLIN PLAYER
Poised chin, resting warmly in the tailored cup,
Seals the union.
The smooth bow tenderly caresses each tuned string;
Fingers gentle as milk
Roam the slender mahogany neck: sweetly
Stealing silence.
The ebony hued harmonic vault echoes released passions
Of an innocent heart
Bleeding a mosaic canvas: coloring metered air
With cosmic rhythms.
Cosmic rhythms: teasing tympanic membranes
With melodic ecstasy.
You bring out my inner feel, although I am not sure who you are. Might it be a collaborative collage of power to heal this man of a thousand hearts, all broken? Romance has forever sunk its sappy soul motive teeth into my veins. Bleeding a poison for you to breathe in. don’t drink too much. It could possibly kill. There is a breathless gasp that my soul conjured a blanket from. Anti-venom holds me tight as I curl into dreams of cupids failed arrows.
You are the monster in my mind.
-Mitch
The night has befallen me
Rescue me, unchain me
Sacred Lorelei
Bleeding a passion of royalty
Forever I'll follow your Argentine cloak
with the most deadly pacts
beautiful Witch
Sacred Lorelei
Tell me did the ravens Hear my cry
My misery's plea
Sacred Lorelei
Was this all just upon a dream
Lucidity becoming reality
of my Sacred Lorelei
A fiat of darkly desire
from a most beautiful witch
unchaining the burden of my misery
All for my
Sacred Lorelei
Can you hear the bell ringing in your ears?
You're on the floor looking at your girl kissing another guy, so what you gonna do now?
You stand up and put your dukes up!
No person can ever win if they always give up!
You tell yourself you're not afraid but you know it's a lie.
He throws another punch but it doesn't connect.
The entire world slows down and now you feel like you did in first grade when you beat up
twelve guys all by yourself.
The fight resumes *BOOM* he's on the floor bleeding a flowing river.
Your "girl" run next to you, you wanna hit her too but you know that's not the right thing to do.
So all you say is, " the bell's about to ring."
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.