Naked witchlings rooted in my head
While the sun was sleeping under my bed
Counting their fingers, scribbling spells
Burning candles, ringing bells
Killing cats and gutting rats
Reading runes and epithets
Did I say they were naked
There is that....
they've been a thousand lifetimes getting here
I'll give them a thousand more
To get out of my hair
D.C. Jordan
Look what I've found Mum!
It was waiting right here.
You won’t believe it!
I don’t feel any fear
It feels like a good fit.
I didn’t go looking Mum?
I promise I didn’t stray,
It was waiting for me,
It said it would stay,
It was right by our tree.
So what do you think Mum?
It would never do me harm,
Your warnings I still hear,
It stays so peaceful and calm,
I feel safe with it here.
Do you think I could keep it Mum?
It’s just the right height,
It’s just what I dreamt about,
It feels so perfectly right,
I really have no doubt.
Oh please, can I keep it, Mum?
I’ll be careful, you’ll see,
It’s gentle, and warm,
It belongs here with me,
I would be safe in a storm.
Oh Mum, please, can I keep it?
It’s just what I want in a man.
This one is not the insect of the garden,
But the Grand mistress of the Priests of Pama,
Raised in the shadow of a Vietnamese temple
To become the pinnacle of a human soul.
She refers to herself as a shadow, a distant third,
"This one" moves with a grace that humbles gods,
Finding the pressure points of the Thunderer,
Felling Thor with a single, practiced strike to the nerve.
Her green skin is the mark of a cosmic union,
A spirit merged with the telepathic Cotati,
The sentient wood and plant-mind of the stars.
She is the bride of a legend’s hollow shell,
Marrying the spirit within the Swordsman’s body
Beneath the watchful eyes of Earth’s Mightiest.
A mother to the Messiah of the leaves,
She is a fragmented consciousness,
Scattered across the universe like seeds,
Representing the freak, the mystic, and the Avenger.
She does not merely feel the wind;
She senses the empathic vibrations of the biosphere.
A predator of fate who saw the coming of Thanos,
Mantis stands as a jagged saint in the cosmic cathedral,
The mother of everything that will one day grow.
graphic novels
we called them comic books
capris
we called them pedal pushers
flip flops
we called them thongs
action figures
we called them dolls
blue jeans
we called them dungarees
slacks
we called them trousers
electronics
we did not have to have words for those back in the day
what's wrong with people?
it happened on a friday afternoon,
when i crashed through the gates of our compound
and saw my wife and son walking along the pathway
and i turned the corner
and hurdled over the speedbumps
to beat them to the front door
i reversed into the driveway
as they appeared from around the bend
walking with pace towards our house
i parked and proceeded to slowly
open the driver-side window
as they stood on the steps before the door
and at full volume came Largo al factotum
Figaro here, Figaro there,
Figaro up, Figaro down.
i looked at my wife expressionless.
my wife looked at me,
and proceeded to lead our son inside.
Recall that rib-tickling comic named Dick
Boundlessly, he performed many a schtick.
He could trip over his own feet
and dance never missing a beat.
Me? I just fall on my face - Fiddlesticks!
Clumsy oaf that I am, I get in my way;
sometimes when I move, my feet want to stay.
It's an art to stumble then rise.
I blame my shoes which are queen-size,
rub my head and say, "This just ain't my day!"
Popeye
The Sailor Man comic strip Popeye
Superstrength from a can, Aye! Aye!
Mumbling’s —I’m strong to the finish
Toots his hornpipe— ‘cus I eats my Spinach!
How do I eat thee? Let me count the ways:
sauced, buttered, plain,
sprinkled with Parmigiano Reggiano,
pesto, pancetta, bacon.
Rowdy rigatoni, flamboyant farfalle,
perky penne, funny fusilli, lovely linguini,
spunky spaghetti,
personality abounds.
An atavistic love affair
with semolina goodness
in all shapes, sizes
like my three Aunt Rosas.
Dear pasta,
I count on you
for your depression-lifting goodness,
accepting no impastas!
When you end up in hot water,
you come out better than before.
You’ve stuck with me
through thick and thin,
mostly thick around my hips.
Pasta al dente, the choice
of strong Italian women!
Maybe I walk in your shoes,
Perhaps you sleep like my loops,
Probably, this is an unimaginable satire,
Inside your head, I can never born again and be a disaster.
Perhaps I am only your necessity,
Probably, I walk on springs,
Maybe you don't possess earthly possessions,
In your hands, my name is nothing but an arcade.
Maybe you know I am your closest friend,
Perhaps I am not a suitable companion,
Probably, your thoughts about me are just a cliche,
In your mind, I am nothing but a sense of consciousness.
I know you will not follow my path,
I understand you value yourself more than my prestigious circles,
You belong to the official comedy,
I beg you to sacrifice your passion for one last time.
I cannot be your passion,
Perhaps I am more than that,
Maybe you've got none,
But you will get a better one!
dwelling in singularity
complete but arid
at peace but loveless
living light in renewal
having no urge to act
yet feels a need arise
to feel contrast by touch
for which it must shed
it’s resplendent splendour
walk barefoot on hot sands
in decaying organic form
with memory erased
clutching onto but hope
of its essence in the heart
pangs of separation
exhilaration of divine union
embraced by innocence
in astonishment and wonderment
provides an impetus
to the tremulous heart
to seek bliss in permanence
embodying zenith rapture
in form of dust so ensouled
and thus the search begins
requiring lifting of the veil
mirages manifested in dreams
requiring erasure of identity
to which Self now clings
Trick-or-treating comic strip gals walked down the street.
The rest of us got out of the way of this wholesome treat.
They were sensuous for sure, these comic strip gals.
All the way we could hear comic strip boys yelling their wows.
By God’s grace, I have seen my soul
It is a soft white, brilliant light
Being as such, I feel complete
Back to form, in my earth life role
Daylight too seemed like a dark night
Without God’s grace, I faced defeat
Silence alone, made me feel whole
Whence each breath heightened bliss delight
Like a divine sublime love tweet
I Am the light, I did extol
So why for did I crouch in fright
Needlessly life lessons repeat
Wake up oh hermit, wake up now
Allow God’s blessings to endow
29-May-2023
Trilonnet
In a land of troubadours and song,
A young man dreamed he would belong,
With heart afire and passions strong,
He set out to join the throng.
He practiced every single day,
Learning scales and melodies to play,
And practiced singing in every way,
Hoping his talents would soon sway.
But when he joined the troubadour's guild,
He found his hopes and dreams were killed,
His voice was croaky, his songs were shrill,
And his rhymes would make your ears feel ill.
The other troubadours mocked his skill,
And called him "wannabe" with a thrill,
But he refused to let their words still,
For he knew he had a different thrill.
He turned to comedy and satire,
And found his voice began to inspire,
With humor and wit, he set the fire,
And his listeners soon began to admire.
So he may not be a troubadour,
But his poetry still has allure,
With comic lines and laughter pure,
He knows his calling is to endure.
Spawny, Spawny, he’s our man!
Bought the farm without the land,
fury-fueled, he took his stand.
Life had not gone as he planned.
Evil came to him unjust.
Sent to Hell in sudden thrust.
Return to Wanda, he must
become foul Hellspawn or bust.
Right the wrong unfairly dealt,
he sought evil where it dwelt.
Moral rightness is his belt,
doing good is how he felt.
Stopping evil now his quest.
Evil men he does detest.
Justice comes at his behest,
anti-hero full of zest.
A manager worried about how many pens
used in a month
can barely sleep, dreaming of running out
of ink, and how pencils aren't professional-
shouldn't everything be typed now
anyway? Even this poem
is Times New Roman, pondering
the merits of Comic Sans,
while a memo is sent on behalf
of an executive vice president,
wishing everyone Happy Holidays,
but also warning of the need
for cost cutting in the new year.
From: Dollar Store Blues (Published 2022)
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.