Cuba weeps.
And the world
observes in silence.
Suffering does not shout.
It endures.
United States,
power has been your language.
But power
is never permanent.
A nation may rise
on strength—
yet fall
by its excess.
The weak remember.
History remembers longer.
Sanctions tighten slowly.
Hunger moves quietly.
But both
leave marks
that time cannot erase.
You act today
as though authority
is eternal.
It is not.
Cruelty carries an end.
And every empire
meets its measure.
The world is watching.
Not with noise—
but with judgment.
Blood once spilled
does not disappear.
It returns
as memory,
as resistance,
as consequence.
Majorities shift.
Alliances fade.
Power changes hands
without warning.
What stands today
may kneel tomorrow.
Remember this:
A ruler feared by many
must one day
face them all.
And when that hour comes,
no strength remains
without justice.
God sees.
History records.
And in the silence of suffering,
Cuba waits.
He rose from the East.
Torch in hand.
Not by conquest,
but by sweat.
A kingdom built
on labor,
on patience,
on memory.
Once a servant of empires.
Now a master of time.
I saw Britain
with a begging bowl.
France bent low,
asking for bread.
Madam Canada watched,
silent and uneasy.
Kings of the West,
learn this truth:
no throne is eternal.
What rises first
may fall last.
America will arrive here too.
Power is never owned.
It only changes hands.
Beijing stands
not as a conqueror,
but as a mirror.
Showing the cost
of arrogance.
Europe,
your wisdom begins
with humility.
Harmony is stronger
than pride.
To the King of Beijing,
rule with restraint.
Victory without mercy
rots the crown.
Forgive the past,
not to forget,
but to govern the future.
For humanity
is the first law of wisdom.
Power never disappears.
It only changes hands.
A new world is born.
Not with applause,
but with consequence.
The West ruled by division.
By naming itself first.
And others expendable.
Empires are not destroyed by enemies.
They collapse
from excess.
You governed by fear.
By debt.
By controlled hunger.
And called it order.
You mistook dominance
for permanence.
But power respects
only balance.
Those you weakened
learned your methods.
Those you humiliated
studied your system.
What was taught in cruelty
returns as strategy.
An unjust world
cannot remain stable.
It must fracture.
A single throne
invites rebellion.
Shared power
creates restraint.
The wise ruler knows:
It is safer to be balanced
than to be absolute.
This age demands equilibrium.
Not saviors.
Not masters.
For when power ignores justice,
justice eventually
replaces power.
The future will not kneel.
It will negotiate.
Alone in my room
Pling, pling, and pling again from my phone
I ignore the sound, but it has
broken the poem I was trying to write
a fragmented poem
in a thousand pieces like a vase dropped
on a cold stone floor
Never mind!
WordPress tells me I have written over
3000 pieces, over the years
I spend Time editing poems I wrote in
2008, when I was at my best
relatively young with a hope of success
They are there, unpublished
accusing me of letting them down
Do you not love us anymore?
Yes, I do, but a few other does
Like having an eccentric girlfriend
and rude people asking, How can you
Go out with her?
I think this is disrespectful, besides
Odd women are good in bed
and interested in other things than
how they look.
I have tentatively tried to be published
money changes hands, I hear no more
except for the echo of laughter
This is easy money.
My poem, or little stories, I will continue
to edit, they have become cherished
friends
Terrified innocents, departing indigenous lands
afraid to end with a sad ullagone…
merchandised as cargo.
Once money changes hands…all hope is gone.
They are herded into dinghies on an empty shore
united through a desire, a longing,
dreaming of peace, education and love.
On board each one clings anxiously to ice cold hands
elderly faces stare blankly. Children ululate
Silently one by one they fall overboard
bodies thrash as the cold invades their bones
until silence is the only sound in darkness
Once proud inhabitants, bound in dreams of
a better life away from impoverishment
To end life as ghostly apparitions…
Building bricks
Brick by brick we build our nation
And stone by stone we build a generation.
The children are the future, the old our voting class;
The young have given up voting because politicians have no class.
Building new laws and building new houses;
Nothing this government does smells of roses.
Leaving the EU seems like it will come back to haunt us.
Rosie is in the hospital, the NHS is seeing closes.
Sack them all because they choose money over patients;
Every generation loses faith but nothing ever changes.
So they plant a tree as they knock down a forest;
Stop with your lies, just give it a rest.
Let the people vote and then try to take the decision back.
Politics, dirty tricks; power of conviction you lack.
Money rules the world and money changes hands;
Ideology and philosophy, but still you have no master plan.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
She takes the stars up in the sky
And connects their dots at night
Like a giant Etch A Sketch
Her own Galaxy Lite-Brite
Using neon highlighter
All the colors she can find
Drawing close the Cosmos
She closes both her eyes
Adding a bit of the abstract
She changes hands from left to right
On this giant Etch A Sketch
Her own Galaxy Lite-Brite
Days of past and wintry times
The chill of night within my bones
Words that last and cling to rhyme
Crackling flames and yuletide tones
Birds of night sing one last song
Then capture flight to warmer lands
Where they shall stay all winter long
Until the season changes hands
Ribbons and bows beneath the tree
Neatly tied 'round gifts of love
Cookies and milk near Santa's seat
And the mistletoe hung
so high above
Hugs from friends who come to call
Children's faces filled with dreams
Good tidings and tinsel lining the walls
That share in my winter
with warm memories
Michael 2013
Thousands upon thousands
of postcards
lined up in boxes
People from different lands
milling about
Cards of political figures
actors, musicians
A DELTIOLOGIST'S DREAM
Money changes hands
and hard fought deals are made
Some scoff at this fine hobby
But take a chance - come to a card show!
If you remember the Beach Boys sang - those who don't just have
to put it down"
Postcard show
(for those who don't know a deltiologist is someone who studies postcards)
love like currency that changes hands,
that falls into cracks between the pavement,
protected by some, squandered by others,
unspent, overdrawn, overwhelmed
Summer waves goodbye, as it tip toes forward.
Autumn shadows the land, without saying a word.
The hues of fall gradually makes its appearance.
The traces of summer breeze by, saluting in reverence.
Autumn light rain covers over the splayed ground.
A gentle wind cradles the leaves falling all around.
Summer passes on by, taking the toil and the heat.
Autumn breathes in coolness, as the summer retreats.
Trees turn over a new leaf, as autumn commands.
The green plush ground fades and changes hands.
Grayish clouds appear and the sun is obscured.
Autumn abounds with mystery and full of allure.
Smells of boiled hot dog sausages,
beef burgers and onions.
Mingle these with - wafts of candy floss,
toffee apples and brandy snaps.
Whirring of engines
chugging over noisily,
half drowned by thumping music,
screams and laughter.
A multitude of lights flash and spin,
in time with the rides
that dash before your eyes;
round and round,
side to side,
back and forth,
and upside down.
Over and over, on and on they go.
Crowds pushing and shoving,
impatiently they each await their short turn.
Money changes hands,
speaker blasts; 'Hold tight, here we go...';
While greedy fair lords
count their cash profits;
before packing up at end of night,
to go home to their caravans;
sleep briefly
then hit the road once more.
Onwards they go to next town,
ready to start all over again....
As a poet I use words to facilitate.
Whether it is to inspire, for grief, love or debate.
A word to me in rhyming form is God’s gift.
I do not use it for my benefit I use it to uplift.
From my thoughts and spirit these words are written.
To use this gift for hate or to despise is forbidden.
My poetry is God’s stewardship.
My God given talents is to build spiritual relationships.
I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me
To write gives me peace and sets me free.
On His voice and His commands.
My pen time after time changes hands.
Through my trials and tribulation.
My pen is on a mission;
As God’s poetic disciple.
I write the truth from the bible
Perceptions By Taalib Brown
My New York lens is covered in grime
A filth large enough to receive a fine and pass the city dumping line.
Pedestrians are rushing and racing to their cubby holes.
Trees leak a yellow-greenish sap the way sewers leak when overflowed.
Dogs barking boldly and their masters will not admonish.
These people look like untimely rainbows;
Colors brighten and diminish the urban shine.
Concrete worry-filled both cold and hot—
It makes an interesting combination.
Musky, stale air fills this subway station
stacked with the second class,
Sprinkled with the first.
These windows shift from clean to dirty to water-stained
Whether in high altitude or on an underground train,
My windows are covered in stains.
They fog up like hot breath hit them and then remained.
Through my windows I see the hustle,
Fast cash changes hands,
Poor people where slave muzzles,
and color is more of a cover.
Pick up the man holes and let out the men.
Their homes are built from sticks—
Not bricks.
I feel like I’m a giant looking down from where I sit.
Too bad this view won’t last,
New York changes with every minute passed.
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.