God isn't neat
He hasn't got it all sewn up
Tidy
Complete
He doesn't have a perfect plan
Preprepared
A place for everything
Colour coordinated
Sussed out, exclusively available
To the spiritual elite.
He doesn't have a bag of surprises
Distributed on a whim
Leukaemia for you
Long life for her
Alzheimer's or dementia or a road traffic accident for him.
He doesn't mete out chance events
Based on our choices
The sound of our voices
The town of our birth
Our place on the earth
The state of our hearts
Our love of the Arts
Our reliance on science
Our sin.
He never has promised that life will be fair
Or tragedies rare
Simply he tells us
Because of his son
All that he is
All he has done
In the light and the dark
In joy and in pain
Perceived or
Ignored
Trusted or
Doubted
He will be there
Her name was Venus. She was the matriarch of astronomy; clouds of gas and a thick, ribbon-like atmosphere guarded her from the chaos which surrounded the Milky Way. Her surface was rocky, yet she made sure no human would ever step their feet onto it. Asphyxiation didn't seem like a pleasant way to be robbed of life, and she admired her effortless beauty too much to want it colonized and distributed by the human race. So, there she remained, limiting her admirers to a mere glimpse, like she was an antique passed through her family's bloodline. On a night where she felt a bit more daring, she'd allow humans to view her in the night sky, like a child taunting a dog with a bone. No, she wasn't that cruel. In a world of dictators, she was only Chicago's mayor. For these reasons, she is viewed as Earth's older sister. She's not rude, simply in a later stage of development, moody, and alluring, yet a wonderful companion.
Bright and fully warm
Her aura invites and speaks
Looking for a mate
a Crown Oddquain poem
Strange
wind blowing,
a cold harbinger
of darker things to follow
soon.
Much
closer now
than the day before,
much closer now than sages
know..
Yes,
bad fortune
is nigh upon us,
and yet we will not listen
still.
Do
we forget
every past lesson,
all those we lost in senseless
war?
Blast
us into
mass oblivion,
let nature grow the garden
new.
Oddquain is a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of seventeen syllables distributed 1, 3, 5, 7, 1 in five lines, developed by Glenda L. Hand.
Crown oddquain-a five stanza oddquain sequence
Shadow Poetry - Poetry Types - Oddquain
I sit outside in the front lawn
So old and fragile
Enjoying being surrounded by nature like lush green grass and wildlife like birds
Then I see people
and they are talking about chopping me down.
I cringe at the thought and don't want to be chopped down
But oh no
it happens
I am chopped down and distributed around the town
to be used as fire wood in peoples fireplaces
This poem is being distributed under terms
laid down by galactic conventions of amorous angels.
By breaking the seal on my lips, you agree to be bound
by the following conditions: you will frantically search for perfection
in love and end up a snack for worms; you will never regain
that gemlike slumber in the universal womb
which is the only thing worth having; you will waste your existence
in howling pursuit of the phantoms of desire,
which will suck you dry as you ravenously feed on them.
No warranty, expressed or implied, is being made
that you will conquer cities of moonlit enchanted towers,
or bask in the homage of rajahs with perfumed beards,
or drowse in voluptuous pomp of erotic temples,
or be otherwise enabled beyond necessity.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sought the throne of honor high,
Where crowns and praises touch the sky.
I dreamed of titles carved in gold,
Of power, fame, and hands to hold.
But when I reached the mountain’s crest,
And stood where pride had claimed its best,
I saw a King—so pure, so meek—
Whose glory shone upon the weak.
His throne was not of earthly might,
But mercy’s flame and heaven’s light.
And there I learned, with trembling heart,
Where true exalted souls depart.
For higher than all thrones of men,
Is kneeling down before Him then.
The greatest crown one soul can meet—
Is dust and tears at Jesus’ feet.
The highest rank, the grandest call,
Is losing self to give Him all.
For glory blooms where pride retreats—
The highest place… is at His feet.
© 2025 Dennis Macusi. All rights reserved.
This poem is an original work by the author and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used without permission
Lutheran Social Services Thousand Oaks
Was responsible for issuing homekey, roomkey emergency shelter bonds etc and has failed in doing so.
This single clerical error and crime is why homeless people are not in apartments which they own.
Evasion in the first
Bribery count 2 30 year minimum
Public corruption Probe
All account holders California
Ventura county
In the demise of distributed wealth
The invisible hand is found
Devastated Stencil's nap with poet
Fireworks and Lake Michigan
Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow
If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.
Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.
Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.
I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.
No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.
I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.
Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.
Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.
Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.
Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.
I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.
?
© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.
My mother got mad
Why am I saying God all the time
Didn’t know I’m saying God all the time
Asked God what do You want to be called
Please give me a name either before or after God
To my surprised, He answered
ETERNAL
Whoa I was shocked
I would call You Eternal God
WANT THE WORLD TO CALL ME ETERNAL
WANT EVERYBODY NOT JUST YOU
You want the world to call You Eternal
Eternal God how do You want me to tell the world
I am nobody
Did not finish school not to have profession
Thought to write books to be distributed Globally
Poetrysoup you’re my other hope
To tell the world that God wants to be called Eternal
To be featured in Poetrysoup Homepage
Please help me
GOD WANTS TO BE CALLED ETERNAL NOT JUST ME
Hello, my most esteemed poets,
I am trying an experiment that I believe has not been done here on the PS site. I have posted a new poetry contest called "The Prismatic Self: A Gauntlet of Mirrors within the Arena.".
The JUDGES have now been selected:
1. Lin Lane
2. Ink Empress
3. Duke Beaufort
4. Vanya Evangeline
5. Anne Winter
6. Hiya Sharma
7. Andrea Dietrich
8. Daniel Rodgers
Since only one person can view the contest, all contestants' submissions will be distributed between the group for input and ratings. When the contest is complete and we have the final list of winners, we will have personal insights from all the judges for each winner and all honorable mentions.
Thank you for your time and patience
Blessings,
Daniel
Settling into a meadow brought about mellow flows of green and yellow assembled by memories they float freely on the breeze glimmering clearly off the trees lay reflections of memories like frailed Braille burnt on my mind my life looks back ancestral eyes look down on me through me and within me the realization of life before here and after here becomes crystal clear the land changes without fear the veil that once covered my eyes filling my life with lies has been removed so I set forth on this new land no longer tasseled by the lies distributed by media's eyes I am free to be
A small bank
When I visit my bank, which is a small rural one
the bank lady who warns me not to overspend
and my wife meets I go for a coffee across
the road, they are both from Congo and have
a lot to talk about
The business in the bank is done, forenoon
the prize of pig feed and grain harvest, and so on
When I am alone, I like to come early
and enjoy the concerned people with no dramatic political
meaning other than survival
the real people's experience that contextualized
not democratic that those who invest in
the future, should it arrive, be the beneficiary
that income should be distributed according to
input, it is not about equity
At the same time, my fellow investors do send
money to help Gaza because they read
the local newspaper that is biased toward Israel
My mother thought a Jew was someone in a fur hat
selling stuff from his cart.
These days, the most sought out advanced degree
In Extreme Higher Education is in Plagiarism.
A student can also minor in Overt Racism,
Sexism, Misogyny, Stupidity, and Bigotry.
Help wanted signs will be posted in January,
On every freaking corners in Washington D.C.;
Muslims, Mexicans, Syrians and minorities'
Applications will not be accepted. Senior citizens
Can apply unless they voted in the last two elections.
The reason for the change in rules and policies
Is to NOT 'Make America Great Again'.
Only Europeans and Aryans can apply for political asylum.
The Statue of Liberty will be returned to Marine Le Pen.
More pamphlets will be distributed at the next symposium.
Copyright © November 12,2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
i printed off
all of my poems
i distributed them
at the traffic lights
no one opened their car windows
except one poem i stuffed in a dog's face
a child laughed at me from his back seat
i laughed back
i stuffed the poems in drains
in supermarket trollies
i donated them at the
charity shop
i hammered this poem
into a lamppost
it blew away into the ether
i went home to pass a kidney stone
all the eggs in this box are double yoked
signifying nothing
My bones are creaking and my bed is squeaking
Im one short of eighty nine
Bosom friends come gather around me
Lets crack some jokes and drink some wine
Long lost relatives are looking me up
Their eye on my wealth, damn they really suck
I spend my days thinking what must I do
I want to leave it to someone who is true
There is a beggar on my street who wishes me well
I think I could leave him some and make him swell
Or the garbage man who comes knocking at my door
Cleans my porch and the verandah floor
Missionaries of charity, that’s where I will put some
For the cause of orphaned kids, lost and lonesome
Or to the church which I often visited
Where I’ve left my prayers and alms distributed
But to that crafty old woman who walked out on me
I will leave my rusty ring on the tombstone in the cemetery
Sub Categories
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