Is insidious
the color of honey
adds texture to
my thoughts of you
all my glossy
intentions
drip with true
viscosity
I am weighed down
by the carpet-heavy
deigns of future plans
Time to realign
Start dinner
Truth and Falsity
destiny’s twins
Living together
in virtue or sin
Credence once glorified
deceit left in flames
Redemption and virtue
the devil profanes
Verity trumps lies
by its very intent
Disclaiming its sibling
who still unrelents
Existence dependent
as prophecy deigns
In mutual exclusion
— like Abel to Cain
(Villanova University: November, 2025)
First of all, I must say that I love the sea so much
in the past, I dared to repeat words from the poet Areias,
"Sea, my ground"
RETURN
If the sea deigns so much
to lose a little water
to wash my feet...
I reciprocate, filling it
back with my tears...!
I know the sea's salt,
so many shipwrecked ships...
I know the sea's distance
so many distant loves...
Water that gushes from me
only increases a sea between us
a lonely man without his love!
I know that the sea, my confidant friend,
will feel my death...
I, little innocent river!
Autumn, a time for reflections on reflections,
and they are rife, linked to pearly grey sky,
lake, puddle, mud strewn path or no,
while each steep cliff face boldly juts,
sheer defiance without concession or a budge,
through jagged edge loadstone chipping,
as the chilling froth-tipped sea mounts its saline tumult, irrespective of an iron cast continuing rebuttal.
One can pass the baton to u turn so turbulent,
within our mental recess at end of summer phase.
September signpost deigns to whisper,
of a scenic telltale hint and tint,
this somber colour gloss an imposition on July,
sunburst relish, such a sullen flashback,
amid the garden suite indigo plot,
beyond a purposeful utopian expanse,
which every avid green-fingered artisan must doff,
their pale straw rimmed hat to,
that transit between seasons, annual curtain drop,
awash with predetermined wish fulfilment,
glow upon each glitter that sparks our child,
eternal down the ages,
somehow yet an underlying dread might spoil
or pamper,
in such icicle entanglement so wicked in its frozen mosaic,
chase indelible precursor now more than ever so inevitable.
Let us at Risk-Taking Dave
Lengthily rave
For choosing to live in a cave
Also, The Choice of a Gorilla
That could demolish a stout slave
And wrestling Victory not release to a Godzilla …
To Risk-Courting Dave
Now in Echoing Cave
To improve on His high Octave
Mention that he’s risking an early grave
For not being The Muscularly Brave
That termites his fresh corpse shall crave
As he deigns to ways for it pave …
The soonest of requiems in a nave
For his life he never could save
With pleas Gorillas aside wave.
Surrendered by the ebbing tides
Shards of those who passed this way,
The yielding mud deigns to confide,
Its secret things now on display.
Sifting mud, seeking connections
To touch a memory strewn asunder,
A pipe, a toy, brings forth reflections
In a mudlarks eyes, a bygone wonder.
To rescue from the clinging mire
A fragment of a thing once cherished,
Now but scrap, yet once desired
The bauble of a soul, now perished.
Entry for
Mudlark Poetry Contest
27/3/2020. Placed 2nd.
~ Pale moon and bright stars ~
Though I wait for the sun
it's the moonlight
that shines, on silhouettes'
stealthy steps 'neath my sight
The sun sleeps late
in cool northern climes
and when she deigns to ascend
she's on borrowed time
Pale moon and bright stars
panoply of heaven's host
her planets and angel-dust
~ at night do I toast
I see her wink
My heart flutters
She bats her eyelashes
My knees are butter
Sultry, she strolls toward me
O, sublime, supreme ecstasy --
She deigns to speak, "Prithee,
Who you staring at, retiree?"
Inside a bar in my town
I drown brown sorrows, swilling beer after beer
Feeling tall in my gaunt gown as I play the clown
Wishing I could wipe away her memory into a low gear
Which in my Corolla I engage
Thoughts tumbling, feelings grumbling
As mind and conscience I enrage
Fumbling, crumbling, gambling
Until eyes get bloodshot
Mind goes bleary
Brain overheats so hot
I get weary and teary
But what the heck! What to me’s a little peck
To shout consciousness back into business
No hard feelings at all for the neck
That cranes and deigns to break
The cycle of reveries I indulge
Imagining I’d washed away the wreck
Thriving on the madness I encourage
Drinking my life silly
Driving my happiness away
Praying I’d longer remain the hillbilly
Held in a straitjacket bay
Which in my saner moments can’t countenance
Unless up around the bend I conspire to expire
Condoning and contemplating selfies without substance
As in my throat roar and soar eddies of mounting ire.
Rhyme Royal - Iambic Pentameter
Here's my cup, Jackie Marie, happy day.
It's time to raise our toast and honor thee.
Drink we that life's good fortune goes your way,
and Kismet deigns e'er thy walk trouble free.
We're wishing thy heart be filled o're with glee!
Sing we an old song sweet this day for you.
Our voices raised are many no small few.
Late-September tingles on wispy nights,
blowing a mild drizzle from crisp, eastern winds
and lays on the hammock of gilded foliage,
to decorate a new season's mantle:
Its fire and earth mesh with time's luster,
weaving a texture which displays
a soul’s contentment from nature's hymn,
that deigns to fully acknowledge
such Virgo charm boundless, unbidden
in a cycle lacquered with marmalade sunsets ;
kindling fine autumn's enchantment.
Until moonlight glints a lustrous face
on lanes where birdsong and lovers croon,
through a rush of its tempo’s eloquence
gifting the days, oh infinitesimal peace--
then bathes whispered prayers, as russet glow
tenderly slips into heaves of its final moment.
Form U—U Pick the Form Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings 9/21/2017
How lovely lies this gentle season's face,
upon the fields and plains that fore were cold.
Renewing life for trees and kind with grace,
her sway turns winter scenes to days of gold.
Now she stirs amid mountain peaks on high,
oft melting snow to glisten streams and lakes.
This breeze that rustles sylvan glade with sigh,
returns to home the geese and mallard drakes.
The ocean's fury quiet close to shore,
responds in like to sweet Elysian dreams.
The sailor keeps appointment times once more,
and trawlers ply their trade again in teams.
Springtime with great imbuing grace to heal,
your humble peasant deigns this time to kneel
7-3-17
MAUDE
Her red plump lips doth tease releasing mood,
And glasses squeeze the shark-like eyes of Maude.
My tippy-toes reach her tall tattooed knees.
Maude’s eyes slide down Her beak-like nose.
She shakes aluminum-like paper pad,
“Why poet,” she sneers, “are these your quaint words?”
“Um and uh,” doth depart my liver lips,
“I…and…,” I nervously stammer reply.
She throws back her enormous head and laughs.
She bends those tattooed knees, and pats my hair,
“Oh poet, little friend,” she deigns with smirk,
“Those words are quite your size,” stands straight back up.
I mar the makeup on the trellis limb.
Thus composed I will “face to face” this alp.
“Outrageous!” I begin, “Now face your sin.
A prideful chest of pious smirks, you have,”
But in the end I’ll win. I’ll work for words.”
Maude dare not speak. My eyes pierce hers. They’re fierce.
So close to me, she trembles, says, “Sorry…
You’ve got the job.” With sunken chest Maude quits.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
She lands in April, like the eglantine,
and daisies flourish where she deigns to tread.
When apple-blossom blazes overhead,
I know the scented summer will be mine.
As jasmine and clematis intertwine,
and wine’s inclined to vie with sunset’s red,
my heart is full, and much that goes unsaid
must wait until new vintage weighs the vine.
For, when the river wrinkles in the chill
of obdurate October, and the mist
enfolds in skirts the base of Whitney Mill,
my love and I must cease to co-exist.
The crows cry from the stubble, sharp and shrill,
Like morning sun in twilight reminisced.
Pressures of Life
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
That having no perfection but being confident makes you appear bolder.
Reality is far better when my eyes are closed
I see burning arrows coming at me looking at the life I chose.
Held down by gravity forcing me to succumb to this life
And I'm back to being bothered with the pressures of life.
Just thinking of her deigns my heart and mind
Believing there's hope, the more I bleed the more I tried.
Her imperfections turned to memories clouding my mind
Becoming a shadow even during the day, accentuating my strife
And I'm back to being bothered with the pressures of life.
Is it okay to care... or is it such a fault?
Our imperfections are what keeps us from a complete halt.
Looking outside the box, I realise I need to learn more about me
No more pittance for my thoughts but rather a large fee.
So until the day death takes me for her life...
I will continue to be bothered with the pressures of life.
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.