¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ lying in my bed
I heard ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ one solemn word ¦¦¦ said
A bird began to sing.
I heard a dog ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
And a ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ cock;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ It was five o'clock.
The ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ bird sang,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
The cock ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ had gone mad.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the dark skies,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ wind and wave;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ cried out ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ "Be brave!"
The ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ market-carts,
The pounding of men's feet
Were drowned in song; ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
The song was loud and sweet.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of The Church-Bell by Elinor Wylie)
Salmon over the fire, we put that out, the sore as ever white squirrel was no rainbow trout as so with ease we enter carts and carry stones to inter arts, beneath our belts with revelry we askance doors and permissively glean and truest artform ever-bent we learn like ghosts with spirits spent, for which one brooding carefree word arises, past-tense like before this coming.
I live in Leisure World where the grass is green,
and bunnies that munch it can always be seen.
For those little guys, it is essential
to breed fast, indeed, exponential.
So, a rabbit's life is never dull,
and their population is plentiful.
But, this ain't no kiddie cartoon show,
and every coyote that I happen to know
always makes it the strictest habit
to bag a furry bunny rabbit.
These canine delinquents and the crows, fast friends,
play, "who spots the rabbit first, wins".
Walking the sidewalks like shopping aisles,
coyotes are seen with contented smiles.
I say, "Bless their sly little hearts
and their bunny-filled shopping carts".
The woman at the shelter with 7 kids
I felt blessed in my mess
My infant won’t remember this
Her kids were cute from 10 to 2
Pitter patter a stepping ladder
How she loved on them swooned
The shelter gave her a few carts
They made do with those few
Sleeping was a Tetris game of art
I remember how cold it was
We huddle and cuddle
Warming our children with love
Watching like a hawk at lights off
Such a place often not safe
From two legged predators that walk
I told myself never will I share the story
Forget you’re here dry your tears
But trial to triumph God gives glory
I wonder about that woman still
Did her kids remember it
The cots the situation the chill
Instead of keeping it a silver secret
Told my son what was done
Hoping he won’t ever repeat it need it
Thank you for the heavenly volunteers
Working there donating care
I remember after all these years happy tears
isn't easy
because I talk about nothing
all the time.
It is late March and I love
everything I see
around me:
blooming trees
that I don't know
but appreciate
one color at a time,
bees that are busy and
industrious, sunsets that
are never identical and always
worth ogling over,
as well as
the bare buds
of creativity and song.
That was a mouthful
of a stanza
that I hope
you swallowed down
as smooth as a lozenge.
I tried not to embarrass
my cool kid.
I tried not
to get excited
about the birds
in the trees
who could care less
about golf, and scores,
and fancy pants, and awkward
golf carts.
I made it five minutes.
Then, I asked Ben:
"Did you hear
the goldfinch."
Immediate
embarrassment
ensued.
I learned my lesson
and went back
to my golf cart
to continue drawing
the goddess of war
because I admire
strong women
who face battle
when it counts.
They are the women
who don't shut up.
A single, white thunderhead
tainted slightly, with the pink-shine
of a late sun coughs
lazily in the vast grayness
of an elegant sea,
somewhere—
a sea still asleep.
Greedy cries of gulls
fill the saltiness of the heavy air
and through the early mist
people of the day appear
in straw hats and red and green covers.
The night-crowded streets,
baked and earthy,
move on among carts
and fresh purple blossoms
and over-ripe fruit from the sea,
to and endless sand-scape.
Staggered and restless,
the ocean-lights appear,
and a warning from the sky
floods and nourishes
the clay walls of an empty palace.
IVs and deathbeds
Line up like grocery carts
In a parking lot
Pushing daises up
From deep below the Earth's crust
Unstable terrain
I see nothing in
Where darkness is musical
And leads me nowhere
I'm an old man now
Looking up at the youthful
Young whippersnappers
Celebrating life
Over a blanket of clouds
That I crawl upon
Celebrate all life
Under a blanket of clouds
Let's snuggle below
Oh, woe to Death's blade
That swipes away at my life
Cutting it too short
Translucent twilight
Where doves fly forever south
By the edge of land
Luminosity
Slowly dying with the Sun
Setting fire to rain
'Til death do us part
So, I whisper, "I love you"
Before I depart
In between circles
I dance to the rhythm's beat
Deep below flowers
A celebration
Where rainbows bend at my knee
Proposing new life
Early gold elevates the Taj Mahal Restaurant.
Sun-rinsed beams bedeck its frontage.
The low strip mall is not yet awake,
yet it basks; it glows golden
through every light-enthroned window,
bejeweled signage floats
above a light laundered concrete
and new-washed litter.
For a few clear moments
the shop-worn facades glittered
in vivid auric rays
I saw it all through a windshield,
I saw a kind of heaven
take a selfie through a once tacky lens.
When I returned later,
the litter was just litter,
shopping carts dripped above cloudy puddles.
The Taj Mahal was open, and already
sinking into a lunch-time special.
Every now and then, I hear the happy sound of laughter
when children visit next door
It's a sound that should ring,
it should be audible much more
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their rooms?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their homes?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned with a myriad of screens?
it's Saturday afternoon and the town is eerily quiet
not a single human sound is coming to the fore
Not from the parks. the playgrounds, backyards or from the streets,
a total contrast, to the days of yore
Today a ghostly silence
as I visualise these scenes
In my heart I feel some sense of pain
as a message loudly screams
Where were all the children
in the days of yesteryear
you could hear them in the parks, backyards,
playgrounds and often on the street
There was cricket. hopscotch, billy carts and bikes,
soccer, basketball, these activities, now all seem obsolete
And as I put my thoughts on paper
and exercise my pen
Can we resurrect community,
will it rise again ?
I looked into the mirror
and realised we pull the strings
Rich men dance to our demands
We must buy cheap
Cheap products full our shopping carts
We create the demand
Like puppets on a string
We pull the strings as rich men dance
Employment leaves our city's
As rich men learn
The people want cheap
The rich men learn
They can supply cheap
Move your factory
Into another county
Pay low wages and you can sell cheap
Little Johnny has no job
Because the elite
Follow the path we create
Clearly debriefed;
what if escalation.
Exhalation; don’t
relax. Remember
the facts. Living
dead flow on empty roads.
Remember the broad
streets of the mall,
where the dead lurk
and maul. Empty,
the shelves, two days
after malice of ice,
near and far. Skate
to the center, fall in;
what were you after?
Remember vegetables
don’t grow on shelves;
they arrive on big wheels.
One starts to question,
“where does good and plenty
come from?” A wholesale
disaster could be payday.
The living dead make their beds
under the fluorescent lights;
buzzing on open shelves.
There is plenty of room
for doom. I had to leave
the room. Breathing too loud.
Left with clothes on my back,
a card, a heart attack.
Grateful for provisions,
for meat in my freezer,
rice in my pantry,
cream of mushroom,
fried okra, lights,
water and electricity.
Electricity in Publix
unnecessary. Feet
moving, squeaky carts;
I’m darting out the doors.
Should I warn those
coming in. Should I
even look at them…
There’s something appealing
To waiting for snow,
Though Nature’s concealing
Just how it will go.
The weather predictions
State how much will fall,
But sometimes convictions
Won’t pan out at all.
The markets are crowded
With folks filling carts
As skies grow more clouded
Before it all starts.
As children may gather
Their boots and their sleds,
The grown-ups would rather
Stay snug in their beds.
Yet now we’re just waiting
To see that first flake,
For anticipating
Might be a mistake.
Chaos in the aisles where we shop
Can teach us better than Aesop
At Costco we’ll yield
To carts lions wield
With a smile while for them we stop
Night sparks open as the city stirs
Carts roll in with clattering metal and whirs
Charcoal pops where the isaw turns
Smoke drawing ribbons as the skewer burns
Kwek-kwek stacked like tiny setting suns
Crisp shells waiting for the rush of hungry ones
Fish balls jitter in their bubbling bath
Vendors calling routes like a seasoned craft
Balut passed warmly like a whispered trust
Salt and broth rising through the evening dust
Every corner alive bold and bright
Manila seasons life bite after bite
In lands where silence used to reign,
Where voices cracked beneath the strain,
A whisper rosea gentle cry
For justice true and freedom high.
From broken streets and shattered dreams,
To fields that echo with the screams
Of those unheard, unseen, unknown,
A call for rights began to grow.
The right to live, to breathe, to be,
To walk this Earth with dignity.
To speak, to learn, to hope, to thrive
To live a life, not just survive.
No chains of colour, class, or name
Should bind a soul or feed the flame
Of hatred's grip or power's thirst
For all are equal at their birth.
A child in war, a mother’s tears,
A silent crowd that hides its fears.
The cost of peace is often steep,
But worth the mountain it must leap.
For peace is not just silence held—
It's hearts and hands that must be meld.
It’s justice served with open hearts,
And building bridges, not war carts.
It’s teachers teaching without fear,
And truth in every voice we hear.
It’s choosing love instead of hate,
And opening every locked gate.
Human rights, our sacred flame,
Are not a gift they bear no name.
They’re not reserved for just a few
Sub Categories
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.