Categorized Poems | Examples

Longevity of Hate

Written By:  D. Collins 6/21/25


The longevity of hate has a wide-ranging girth.
It lies dormant for a while then has a drastic rebirth.
Since the 12th century hate has destroyed many populations.
The glimmer of gold, theft of land, and complete annihilation.



Anyone that is different are categorized as lesser men.
Yet, those responsible claim they're devoted Christians.
A skin color, your religion, or whom you choose as a mate.
Will certainly expose you to the longevity of hate.



It's a multi-tentacled beast that goes into foreign lands.
After not controlling the Poppy trade they fled Afghanistan.
Rare earth minerals is now top priority on their list.
Should you choose not to concede your life is at risk.

Rats

Rats

Weeds Are Just Flowers
That Don't Deserve To Live.
Maybe They Are Ugly,
Or Just Don't Flower Right.

Maybe They're Aggressive, Or Invasive
And Not Pretty Like What They Replaced!
You're Ruining Everything With One Word:
Ecology! You Don't Belong Here!
Natives Only!!!  BIG Picture!

WEEDZ

Maybe They're Just Called That For Fun,
Or Something...
Maybe It's Not Funny, Though.

You Know: Grow A Pair! LOL.

Maybe They Are Just Categorized Like That.

Sigh.

Could Be.

-Gray Squirrel

05-13-2025

They asked me

They asked me, “Why do you love her?”
As if love could be taken apart and neatly categorized,
Like items on a shopping list.
They wanted me to speak on your eyes,
The way they draw me in and keep me lost.
They wanted me to speak on your smile,
The very smile that I would kill to see.
They wanted me to speak on your voice,
The sound that quiets the pandemonium within my head.
But the truth is, I never needed a reason to love you.
It’s simply a part of me,
Etched into my skin the day I was born.
From my eyes, love isn’t about reasons or checkboxes.
It isn’t about slotting perfectly into some predefined notion.
I don’t love you because you are beautiful.
I don’t love you because you are intelligent.
I don’t love you for what you give me or how you make me feel.
I love you because you awaken something within me.
With you, I don’t just exist, I thrive.
My world isn’t dead flowers and rain clouds anymore.
It’s perfect roses and daffodils.
It’s sunlight that shines peaceful rays down on my skin.
And that’s why I love you.

Shapes

How can we be expected to "think outside the box" when so many of us have been categorized, neatly labeled, and perfunctorily "stuffed" inside one, and have little or no idea what "outside" is like?

The world is full of shapes
That have no place in nature:
Circles,
Triangles,
Rectangles,
Squares.
Circles are pointless;
The triangle 
Is the only
Stable form.
Squares and rectangles
Comprise the obstacles
And set the limits
Imposed by the world
And mold the very shape
Of one's identity.

A Natural Emptiness

The closet, once crammed with the styles of youth,
holds not so much as a coat hanger.
Dents in the carpet are the only evidence
that a bed, dresser, and nightstand filled the room.
The frilly window dressings and wall art are gone. The truth
weighs heavily on my heart; my sense of loss is intense
as I gaze through tears at the emptiness.

Five years ago, just down the hall, I stood in a room
stripped bare of furniture, clothing, and all hints 
of the masculinity that had thrived there. The gloom
set in as I visualized the weight-lifting equipment 
and the “man cave” corner that was always messy.
I reminisced and pondered where the time went.

My sentiments may resonate with others
who revisit vacant spaces—the fathers and mothers
now categorized as empty-nesters, who must accept
the reality that vacant rooms are part of the 
natural scheme of things; they are survivable.

Swans

I wonder how aware they are,
what shadowy sense of self
occupies their brain. Perhaps 
no more than a flicker 
of consciousness glows 
in the far reaches 
of an inner dark,
sufficient to propel them 
here and there for food
and find a mate,
just printed circuits of flesh
programmed for survival.

They seem content 
in their grace, moving gently
through the sunlit water,
swimming towards me. 
What picture do they have
of me. Am I just a shape
categorized by the level
of threat I pose, a button 
for them to push to get
a piece of bread, an oddity 
in their way.

And yet we are here,
knitted together in this gifted
moment, alive, each encased
in an identity, confined 
to our little bubbles of being, 
floating the surface
of some infinite
and unfathomable mystery
where all minds meet -
although I'm eternally grateful 
that I'm not a swan,
I don't like cold feet.

The Library

Among the systematic layout
Atop mirrored polished floors
That reflects the study of light,
Sharply angled shelves shadow symmetry
Like waves of open walls.

Spangled with books from scholars
Writers and dreamers
Labeled and categorized
Stacked upon the aisles of dialogue
Lying like little coffins numbered end to end.

A graveyard of words
Waiting to be opened by those who want to know,
These literary legacies of dormant poltergeists
Where the annuls of what must be remembered
Commemorate the living of yesterday

As eyes gaze upon each corpse
Engaging the ‘ghosts of words’
Reaching each heart, each soul
Captured in this moment of disclosure
Where miles of expression bring truths to life


June 16, 2023


A Brian Stand Premiere No 1223 Poetry Contest

A Home For Trees

Trees come from black forests in Denmark 
In small pink boxes with holes for breathing
They come on swift sails in tiny boats
Deciduous in nature, they cross the ocean
Invade foreign lands for a chance to grow

Baby trees of the genus Feminine are fresh
Friends and family call them plantets
Categorized in the order of Greenery
Without shedding a tear they shed leaves
Vegetation is all they know
Walking is a struggle for reasons unknown

Learning comes slow for plants
Rooted in the ground, hiding from strangers
Bumble bees and birds mock all tree species
It becomes harder to see the forests go
Denmark is a place called home
A starting point before conquering Earth

Blasphemes

Categorized inefficiencies
Ignorant illegalities
Promulgated promises
Vaculant  vacuoles
Timeless timeulents
Zealous zealounts
Populous priests
Stopual sentient sanctions
Live for todaydrums.
noculous neverdoms.

Melancholia

This bittersweet memories led me 
back to yesterday’s laughter;
looking back at the awakening 
and rise of the throb of two hearts 
that were once in love together.
The heavenly hues and 
shades were in sight everywhere.
The chirping birds, the blowing wind, 
and the murmur of waterfall 
delighted the open ear.
This mind scrutinized and categorized 
each and every fiber of the imagery.
We savored the reminiscence 
of the promising future happily.
As this sob now creates a dream,
the whisper complains 
of the gloom to the moon:
“I hope it’s still possible”.

Declawed

declawed but not lobotomized 
I can still think for myself
I cannot be branded nor categorized

Pussinality

?An awesome, incomparable human being 
 A divine scene
  No one can level to 
   For she is the sky ,no one can pursue 
    Categorized as the ultimate female 
      The ideal woman for any male .
        Everyone has a personality. 
          But she has A Pussinality . 

4th Sep 2021

Check Bag

Oversized in a surprise
a day of remembrance
lasting throughout the trip
an overload was in the midst
released of a million
categorized as a billion
overtaken by a surprise
in a disguise
taken into security
never to be claimed
unnamed
several hours later
a bag was discovered
wrong bag as oversized
forgotten
claimed to a name
elated amazed not ashamed
check bag was their identity
with lots to give to plenty.

Cats

While Cataloguing Catacombs
     in ancient Kathmandu
he chanced upon a Catamaran
     from nineteen sixty-two.

He Categorized Caterpillars
     in an old Catalpa tree
he grabbed a limb that wasn't there
     it was a real Catastrophe.

At night his Cat would Caterwaul
     out back behind the house
but he Categorically denied
     that he smoked Catnip with the mouse.

He had Cattle on his acreage
     and Catfish in the lake
he knew a mighty Catamount
     who went by the name of Jake.

He retired to Catalonia
     where he grew Catawba grapes
but Cataplexy did him in
     from which there's no escape.

With a Catafalque for his coffin
     inside the Cathedral tall
they Catered in a dinner
     and mourned him one and all.

A Scratch One Has To Itch

~ Self-Portrait of a Scratchy Artist ~


Oh, it's just a scratch one has to itch
  Even if in one's voice there's a hitch
    And in every attempt an annoying glitch
The finished product never going to make one rich

Yet if one doggedly continues to itch
  Onlookers, sooner or later, may twitch
    He will finally have found his special niche
As a writer of poems liberally categorized as kitsch

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