Her Name Was Renee
Her name was Renee Penee
She was a sweet old cat
Friendly and vocal
Even though our meal schedules differed
We did nearly everything together
But mostly without feathers-
We even conversed
She gave me some advice
Before she passed away
I just need time to figure it out
Preferably without any pouts
Yes, her name was Renee
Not Fay or Kay nor even Rey
But it was better than her original name
I so admired Connie Wong.
Each poem she wrote was like a song.
Her love of nature was so strong.
As was her kindness, passed along.
Amazed by her “Constanza Form,”
writing poems, outdid the norm.
A challenge to create, perform,
And paint an image, dark or warm.
A poem she wrote in the past,
Theme: “If this contest were my last.”
Then, two years later, she had passed.
Perhaps her vision was forecast.
The first line of each written verse
Creates a thought that may disperse
Her feelings held, which then submersed
In words, “Enchanted Earth” conversed.
“I have known ethereal bliss.
Endowed by heaven's cosmic kiss,
By starlight from this great abyss
How could I not be changed by this?
The glory of this earth I'll miss.
I have known ethereal bliss."
__by Connie Wong
eventually the overthinking had stopped
meditation and prayer had settled emotional scores
and bygones became a bright shadow of hope
past performance was no indicator of future success
the Tarot cards merely pictures of a possible path
a fool on a journey of becoming wise and serene
he settled for what was there at this moment
in immense gratitude and with blossoming faith
in his dream he was transported by a yellow convertible
surely a yellow brick road of transformation ahead
and he settled for amber curiosity and anticipation
conversed with Higher Powers to be in absolute charge
he dusted his boots and polished up an experience
that he had not chosen but lead to freedom and mileage
laced his walking shoes and ventured in patience
floodgates had closed once the earthquake diminished
as a rainbow and solemn star in the sky offered guidance
to move on and embrace a waxing moon of departure
destination not yet disclosed one day at a time
and yet his emotional concussion bore a spark
to ignite flickering hope faith and patience
to climb from rock bottom face of novel foundations
it is always so dark before a new dawn in surrender
when he grasped the granite in ascent
he found it softer than he had imagined
it salved his wounds and centred his journey
just then a shooting star came to his rescue
his own shadow conversed with a rainbow
unlocked the secrets of unbound spiritual wealth
unveiled that the Phoenix would fly from the ashes
we were crossing the bridge with no worries that day
When I heard a thunderous voice say “Stop there! HEY!”
A two-headed monster gave both of us the eye.
Pay us twenty-two cents, one said, or you will die.
I can pay you fifty cents, I told them, but I don’t have twenty-two.
He and his other head conversed and decided that would have to do.
We always bring money now when we want to cross that bridge.
And we have made friend with the monster, we call him Midge.
She was open day and night
But no one came in the late evenings
Some lovers laid on her sands at dusk
the ocean conversed with her when the humans slept
she loved summer, and the tide that brought things onto her sand
this morning a dog was running up and down her back, tickling her
his owner was far behind, also running, but not with gusto like the dog
she knew it was going to be a fun day full of children and laughter
the volleyball nets were already in place, thank goodness
She despised it when they plunged them into her tummy the first time
He talked and talked,
gig talker,
on and on.
Didn’t hear about Julie’s love for Gordon and Jilted John.
Conversed selfishly throughout the Buzzcocks explaining Why it had gone wrong.
Missed Shelley’s quips,
Missed all the song.
Held a debate through The Bunnymen’s Ocean rain.
A heated discussion missing how The Cure were Jumping on someone else’s train.
An absolute pain.
Didn’t take the hint from a backward glance as Kraftwerk rode mountain passes on the tour de France and the Ramones asked if we wanted to dance.
Chattered incessantly whilst the Stranglers hung around and ruined tomorrow’s parties enraging Nico and Velvet underground.
Too loud.
Prattled away as Joy Division played,
killing the Atmosphere.
Morrissey pleaded Please please please but he still didn’t hear.
Bad gig combination Charlie and beer.
To cap it off on his way home,gabbling into his mobile phone, the irony wasn’t lost on us. He never heard it coming, the night bus.
Hit him square,his brand new Primark Nirvana t shirt matted with blood and hair.
(Sing)
“Keep you mind on your driving
Keep you hands on the wheel
Keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead.“
Should’ve f***ing listened.
they say …
you cant take it with you
but you took so many little jewels
when you left -
your smile
your pure, unqualified love
your creativity and expression
your engaging mind
your encouragement, your empathy
your extraordinary patience …
but what I miss the most is
your exceedingly unlimited kindness
and … our talks -
about anything and nothing
and everything …
there was ne’er a doubt my heart was yours
and yours, of course, was mine
the truly ironic thing is
that we conversed SO much -
for many hours on end
when not a single, solitary word …
was ever needed.
oh, how I miss you, Mom
like a clown …
misses tears.
They walked very slowly,
The man and his pet;
The dog, with a harness,
Was ailing and yet
Each morning I’d see them,
Both inching along,
The limbs maybe weak
But the life force still strong.
You saw their connection,
The man leaning close
And giving support
In a much-needed dose.
We never conversed,
At least not ‘til today,
When I spotted the man,
All alone, on his way.
“Where’s your dog?’ without thinking,
I just blurted out,
Though the answer, “She passed,”
I’d expected, no doubt.
When I said I was sorry,
He thanked me and said,
“She was near 17,”
Then he lowered his head
And he walked away slowly,
But not like before,
Having no one who needs
His support anymore.
The mantle gleans a life,
all your friends are ochre in moods
A picturesque while too imminent a grasp,
loyalty burns many gone too soon
This ramshackle house,
hidden beneath recondite changes
A picture of the trendy girl from ‘65,
a telling smile amongst sages
You keep music closer than family,
every note reads your mind
I wish you were real again, a waking picture
Reminding me ‘’it costs nothing to be kind’’
Your rooms are estranged,
phobia fills all questions
Has the television static conversed?
Will your broken piano learn its lessons?
Mother, life has progressed in shapes
I am a fading place without a right
Blood of your mantle knows its safe,
to be ‘65 in sages light
So go to them. Find your friends.
Don’t keep them waiting
I will clean the house that is passing
Mother, your name is blazing.
Mythical Myra lived in my mind
She was my bestie – lovely and kind
A terrific listener when I had to unwind
Giving me honest suggestions, not easy to find
A wonderful secret, enjoyable to keep
She usually conversed during deep sleep
In my dream, drove a classy Barbie-like jeep
The kind never found in a junkyard heap
Mythical Myra lived in my mind
She was my bestie – lovely and kind
A terrific listener when I had to unwind
Giving me honest suggestions, not easy to find
A wonderful secret, enjoyable to keep
She usually conversed during deep sleep
In my dream, drove a classy Barbie-like jeep
The kind never found in a junkyard heap
One poem of mine that warms the heart,
And reveals wondrous secrets from the start.
If I am enraptured you by my verse,
Remember, I was born in Zhylioy first!
To those who delve into life’s deep essence,
And find joy in its boundless presence.
When my poems shake through the earth,
Never think of me as dead of worth!
I resonated with my ancestor, Tonykok's lore,
And conversed with Kultegin, spirits of yore.
I shall not perish while Kazakh blood flows,
Through centuries, with you, my spirit grows!
I awakened one day with ancestors' might,
Hence my tongue remains fearless and bright.
Freedom’s pulse beats in my veins,
A rhythm alive, unbound by chains!
Centuries-old traditions, steadfast and wise,
We sought freedom under open skies.
Let not outsiders corrupt with their filth,
The pure waters of our blood and its wealth!
Open your eyes, rise, awaken, Kazakh!
Your name was always free, bold Kazakh!
To roam like the wind, across the earth,
Do not break the oath of your ancestors, Kazakh!
At Jimmy Carter’s funeral
A senator exclaimed
He saw Obama “kiss the ring”
Of He-Who-Can’t-Be-Named.
I watched the clips and verified
The two of them conversed.
It was a bit surprising, but
It didn’t seem coerced.
Most others kept their distance,
Which is what I would have done,
For I’m sure I couldn’t cozy up
To someone I would shun.
Yet perhaps it’s just diplomacy
That people should expect,
But it’s hard for most to share a laugh
With one they don’t respect.
How slight
The petal of
A poppy,flowering-
So much like us,beautiful,yet
Fragile
Hurry
Takes its toll as
In our daily stroll,we
From deepest ruts of blind alleys
Quicken
Beauty
free from above
embedded in our heart-
His loving-kindness ..ready to
impart
The warmth
Of love's invite
Encompassed my desire,
In two soft whispered words of love,
Be mine !
Eyes closed
As lips caressed,
Mouths joined,impassioned
Tongues explore,in our love's embrace,
Time-framed
My love
Beguiled me,with
Soft sensuous lips,sleek
Long thighs with rounded hips,twinned heart's
Enlaced
Long days
Of August sun
Where nature blinks and shrinks
The dying grass,yellowed in sleep-
Held fast
Night chills
the aging bones-
blowing on the east wind
flurries fine and dry settle on
new graves.
These be
the keys to life,
faith,hope and agape,
love,the greatest gift of all three-
to thee !
Desire
welled within-
words became a promise
so sublime,to love now and for
all time.
We had
met and conversed,
a rapport on first sight-
a chance meeting to a life's time
delight
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.