From the very depths of my inner being I cherish Poetry Soup,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen sheds her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began,
how I cherish every moment spent on Poetry Soup
From the very depths of my inner being I cherish poetry,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen shed her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
shortlisted for Creative Writing Ink poet challenge,
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began
I see you
Now stuck in two dimensions
They sit you up
They lie you down
Semi vertical
Fully horizontal
Yet, I have the coloured lenses
Of memory
They don't know the man I can see;
Cycling, dancing, singing
Living a fully rounded vibrant life
Kind and gentle
Father, husband, friend
Grandpa, colleague, leader
Teacher, wise councillor
Bright and beautiful
All things
Now hidden
Under thin grey sheets
A cruel captive
Pencil sketched in
Monochrome
A palliative prisoner
Yet, we celebrate
A vibrant life of joy
A legacy of light and love
A space that will never quite be filled
Except with colour
Pertaining to the nuances and subroutine of said liquid lunch
And after many waxing hour's of forensic deconstruction
I feel it's only right to say
I was very, very drunk at the time
And cannot in all honesty even remember exactly what the final outcome was
Nor in fact what the actual meeting was
pertaining too in the first place
But i do feel thanks are in order
Let's do it again as soon as
I still have credit left on my expense account
Be a shame to let it go to waste
Kind Regards
Yours Sincerely
M.P
Mayor
Councillor
You’re only a mum,
But that’s all it takes.
To be super human,
You don’t even get breaks.
You’re a cook, A dish washer,
A cleaner, a nurse.
A teacher, a councillor,
A referee, an open purse.
A sports coach, a cheerleader,
The taxi of mum.
At 2am in the morning,
Just a call and you will come.
Party, event organiser,
And holiday planner.
Clothes and food shopper,
Listener, and even fake tanner.
No time for yourself,
No breaks and no wages.
Dealing with toddler tantrums,
And hormonal rages.
You always come last,
and you always feel tired.
You should have a rest,
But it’s not how you’re wired.
A thankless task,
That’s never ever done.
You’re often left feeling,
Where is the fun?
Hot drinks or warm food,
Now rarely cross your lips.
And your underwear
All tattered with holes and rips.
To cap it all off,
you go out to work too.
It’s nothing short of amazing,
Just what you can do.
You are super human!
Admit it you must.
You must be a saint,
For the gut you must bust.
But it all becomes worth it,
When you look at their smiles.
Being a mum has to be
the best job by miles.
Be Yourself (1984 )
Be yourself, just be yourself said my councillor
My analytical mind raced in every direction
Attempting to discover what was that supposed to mean
I'd never really understood what or who I am
Nor do I understand the who and what I've been
For which self, I wondered should I choose to be
IF I ever did figure out which self is the real me
Should I be the Lady, polite and so refined
Or the child playing most of the time
The witchy woman, winking fearlessly at sin
Or Saint Joan and God's approval win
All night long I tossed and turned
Struggling to figure out
What this Be Yourself, Just Be Yourself was all about
When suddenly the answer rushed through my mind's exhausted door
Just think how intriguing if you choose to be all four
Your mom says you’re pretty,
The mirror says you’re ugly,
anorexia says you’re fat,
your friends say you’re skinny,
but what about what you say?
Does that even mean anything to anyone anymore,
i mean its all she said this and he said that
but what about the nights when you keep yourself awake trying to tell yourself that everything is going to be okay even though its not because you know that your life is a mess
and nobody can fix it not even your self
and councillor after councillor
but everything is just getting worse because nobody listens to what you have to say and they just continue to say these “inspirational” words but the only inspiration they are is to themselves,
thinking they are making your life better but its not changing at all but you smile because it only matters what they say and what they think right?
Because
Your mom says you’re pretty
The mirror says you’re ugly
Anorexia says you’re fat
Your friends say you’re skinny
And you say..you’re done.
The Church has a far greater obligation
Than the Priest running a profitable congregation
And the Councillor seeking re-election
To uplift the communities and build a strong nation
The Churches are far more powerful and numerous
Than the corruptors who twice a decade ridicule us
Procrastinating in the potholes of the road to progress
God shouldn’t also be a candidate on a ballot at the polls
We praise God through and, in the name of a Pastor
Choose a government to ‘Party’ instead of fulfilling a manifesto
The Bible hasn’t changed for 2000 years, but still we moralise
And He hasn’t failed us yet, are we losing patience?
I see suits and ties with robes and white Roman collars
And there’s no distinction they are part of the same order
Tithes and taxes imposed and shared over tea parties
To luxuries of big business, mansions and German cars
Limerick : Once a Privy Counsellor at Lord’s
Once a Privy Counsellor at Lord’s*
Watched a bowler* throw balls like gourds
Convened judicial com.*
Summoned bowler to come
And sentenced him to eat bitter gourds.
Lord’s : The Mecca of cricket grounds in London
where the Marylebone Cricket Club has
its seat.
bowler : The player who lances the ball at the
batsman ; yet during the act the elbow
must not be bent – at the risk of being
called by the Umpire a « no ball « , that is,
even if the ball hits the wickets and the
bails are dislodged, the batsman is not
given « out.».
*Judicial Com(mittee) of the Privy Council, the highest
Court of Appeal in England (and the former
British territories) until the Supreme
Court was set up in 2010 to hear some appeals.
The Privy Counsellor/Councillor
is a Member of the House of Lords and a judge.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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.