My aunt Pat sewed one for me
She loved my aunt Louise
Neither of them were aunts to me
The frog full of corn still dangles
over a trophy for a marathon of mine
I didn’t win or remember,
but I hope she is remembered more
than what she left me
when I was too young
to see that frogs
and being
are more than uncooked corn
This heart keeps beating
even when I tell it to stop
You deserve more than corn
I cannot count your kernels
to match your character
but I will try for longevity here
while lines match
the strenuous longevity
of my limited kernels;
vocabulary
As if I'll whiff a sack of onions fried
brown from years of cigarette smoke,
a stolon-shaped cobweb dangles from a ceiling.
A woman's double hello and smile upend
bookends of a full-blown dream.
A bank and a doughnut shop seem
to arrive as she'll pass them from around a bend.
A spider plant below eye level,
a flashlight floats past
a dormant light switch.
I don’t remove or change my rings;
All four I’ve worn for years,
Unlike my huge collection of
What dangles from my ears.
My necklaces and bracelets
I switch out and do with care,
Depending on the style of clothing
That I choose to wear.
Around my wrist’s a watch;
I own a few (one even winds!)
And when I’m sockless, on my ankle,
Chains of varied kinds.
My husband wears his wedding band
And that is the extent
Of jewelry he sports
(Though somehow watches came and went).
Displaying our adornments
Is quite personal, it’s true,
But it’s also a reflection
Of ourselves that others view.
I’m chocolate kisses in mid air
Lillies get stuck in my licorice hair
Not a beauty by American standards
But I intrigue courters and enchanters
I like to fancy myself a purple poet
Though my muse is often stoic
He dangles ideas above my head
Just out of reach making me beg
For one hint at greatness in a night
A song a poem the world’s delight
But I’m stuck in maroon mediocrity
Sailing to blue moon from black sea
We once called Dogs guardians of our compounds and our heart,
Heart of the household, warm as bread and bright as blaze,
Blaze that bowed at our feet in the inaudible obscure.
Obscure fell like a butcher’s shutter across the tetragonal,
Tetragonal where fidelity once flapped its tender tail,
Tail now dangles like a query in the market air.
Air profuse with starvation, a wolf wearing a hominid face,
Face of famine, carving memory like stiff bone,
Bone soup boiling where trust once had its residence.
Residence at the table set with silver and with disgrace,
Disgrace salted into every affectionate, rented inhalation,
Inhalation of a comrade we entitled as love before it became meat.
Meat of dogs have become preferred and delicious food,
Food for some people, for lunch or diner in homes or eateries,
Eateries' existing due to man's business of murdering and hating Dogs,
Dogs suffering betrayal yet they have been loyal to man.
Poem by N. Mugisho
The brittle leaf of an old oak tree
Dangles off a fallen branch
Like hope that catches wind
One gust away from touching ground
Being dragged across rain-slick, cobblestone
Shredded, throbbing veins
Pulled apart by the teeth of wailing echoes,
sucking the color straight out
Dusted and bruised—gasping for air
It trembles
Desperate to hold on
She sits so still among the crows,
witnessing their upgraded view.
Sitting in first class is brand new,
relax to stretch fingers and toes.
Abundance is slow as it grows,
before you that carrot dangles.
Tangled up mischief bespangles,
bringing a shimmer to her eyes.
So much valor in evening skies,
a new start lies within goodbyes.
Some blah, blah time.
Winter is weird again.
I had a million years to accept that I might be energetic in my personality.
Which makes things happen by accident.
Some things just move or at least hum.
Maybe me.
Episodes.
I started having them the way centipedes realize hopelessness, I guess.
Episodes.
On a Monday there shouldn’t be any door hinges left, I pried them away.
And evaporated stuff that dangles like spring’s whine.
When you start having episodes.
It’s like when a wolf learns about books somehow.
And you can’t read unless you really are the one.
In a word-daze, and he can’t really get annoyed in a human way.
It was never an accident that stuff happened like crust in my eyes.
Episodes.
I can move or at least hum.
In the cloying, glazed over way that an engine wavers.
Green-eyed emotion erupts from warm emerald eyes
A viscous volcano erupts in my haggard heart
It's magma-traction under bright azure skies
Let's charter a dream and an island we'll chart
We'll sail soft waves South, on specific breezes
While the stars and the moon dangles their art
On sea's lofty breezes, the Pacific teases
To an island where all of my fantasies start
My green-eyed wondrous wonder, where wonders await
Igniting my wanton wishlist, scorching my eyes
My volcano erupts, and our flames soon relate
Then Heaven's gate opens, revealing my prize
I'm on an Island, in Heaven, with a Queen
Warm breeze, and these coral seas, speckle my view
And those same magma-scopic eyes of lush green
Sparkled all my fantasies and dreams that came true
Orange peel. Scent fresh but bitter,
tangible in taste and air. A circle in fruit
that dangles and is turned, twisted from
branch. The challenge to keep the
peel whole, no break. Sink teeth into
sweet segments of dripping flesh.
Orange rust. A door, a gate. Age in crinkling
metal, steel ancient with salt and sun and
seasons beating what thought strong. Orange
rust of a family home, a flake for each child
who flies the nest. Rusted crisped wings. Upon
closer inspection the rust appears golden.
Not amber nor red,
neither start nor stop.
A forever-in-motion colour.
Loose ends left dangling make you nervous.
They crave a neat knot-tie for a conclusion.
A bow to seal, a ribbon to heal,
like shoe-laces they want to be retied,
to not trip you up.
For loose ends left behind,
untied and loose,
leave you distracted,
not seeing what's coming next.
But, secretly we love
loose ends left hanging, dangling,
like wind chimes in the wind.
Softly clinking and clanging,
unsettling and distracting,
buying us time to stall,
and delay their resolution.
For while a thread still dangles,
we can glance that way,
look at it, and pretend,
we have nothing loose,
to end and lose.
Know ye thy No-No’s, mark 'em well,
Lest their folly trap thee in their spell.
Lick ye not the pie before it be cooled,
For hasty tongues are so easily fooled.
Pluck ye not the fruit that dangles too low,
For ease of pick, may a sour worm bestow.
Nor partake ye of the fig from Eden’s tree,
Lest thou nudity be pricked by destiny.
Dance not with drunks past midnight’s chime,
Lest thy foot tippy-toe tap in Devil’s time.
Nor jest ye too late in yon darkly shaded room.
For such livid indulgence leads to doom.
Sing ye, call ye, all thy No-No’s, out loud!
Like ravens canoodling, wailing to the cloud.
Their lessons learned in wine, sin and woe,
Of tales so true, of what those no-no's told ye so.
Be wise my friend, 'Know ye thy No-No’s' guise,
For sirens oft sing out in sweet disguise:
"To be or not to be, now that's my question be?"
"Come live with me, be my love; share thy no-no's with me."
A crescent moon dangles in the distance,
whilst meteors jet across Prussian blue heavens,
leaving trails of grey ash in their wake.
An abnormal, elongated silence creeps through threadbare trees,
as an imperceptible breeze skims past my hair,
causing, for just a second, déjà vu—
a flutter between my muffled heart and a crushing ribcage
jolts me back.
Never-ending, frayed nerves keep me on edge;
the taste of insufferable copper taints my tongue.
Spitting it out—only for it to return,
haunting me like your last words,
replicating, repeating nightmares,
eating into my wailing brain.
That night: the broken glass,
shattered mirrors, overturned tables,
blood-sheathed floors—
became our point of no return.
when elixir of moon drips wine
into the crystal goblet of magic
this late night beguiles my skin, reeling
on a Friday parade of lights;
my hips oh so beckon, swaggering to and fro...
impossible to deny this playgroud of fancy
of a soul flitting in. and out of supple thoughts
when my imagination dangles
on anklets of stars
as naked rhythm grows, my free will abides
to sip the juice of this wondrous ambrosia...
and goddess Isis wheels into the forest
with neon banners,
spinning dream--like fables in my heart
tingling flesh against trickles of time,
where seahorses ride on carousels
where ' a crimson sky breaks the distant shore'
and vivid thoughts spill like silver rain:
in a tower of daydreams or night walks,
visions are spun without question.
The safety net dangles
blows, twists, and turns
in the increasing winds
cut from its moorings,
and the people fall
grasping for
the shredded and useless
remains
evisceration of social programs
Medicaid, food stamps
consumer protection
job security
cuts to vital research
alienation of long-faithful allies
emulating dictators instead
flouting of the courts
rescinding environmental laws
erasing history and
all vestiges of non-white
accomplishments
making America white again
issuing edicts to silence
all who do not bend
the media universities
judges Congress
art and social institutions
theater and concerts
forcing religion in schools
Constitution be damned!
and the torn safety nef
flaps in the wind
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.