Blood on your hands
The heart of a killer
Corrupted your senses
How does it feel?
Blue eyes turned red
Vomiting on a pile of leaves
But the trees don't care
So how does it feel?
Trading pearls for ebony
Clutching them no longer makes sense
Because this isn't you
I wonder, how does it feel?
The angels flew away
And even demons grimace
You belong to neither
Pray, tell me how does it feel?
That blind kid dances like the floor knows his feet.
No watching his footsteps, just following the beat;
While everyone is looking for somewhere to go,
The music does the seeing — his body's in the know.
We look at our partners; we measure the floor.
He hears where we're going, and listens for more.
No eyes on the rhythm, no watching the crowd.
He sees every movement by hearing out loud.
Music does the seeing!
Music knows the way!
Shut your eyes and hear it!
Let your body play!
Most people dancing will close both their eyes.
As though shutting out vision lets rhythm arise;
They surrender to something their eyesight concealed—
The music does the seeing, and dance is revealed.
So who are the blind ones when the dancing begins?
The watcher outside, or the listener within?
The best feet need music, not eyes keeping score—
Close your eyes, let it see you, then dance even more.
Music does the seeing!
Music knows the way!
Shut your eyes and hear it!
Let your body play!
history has a way of repeating, that should never of been changed in the first place
Easter bunny sent his eldest to me to brag
Her name was Charlene, she had one small snag
I created this wreath but I have a problem too
The back keeps slipping, so we added glue
I flipped it over and helped her fix the wreath
She was so grateful, she grinned with a whole set of teeth
So, your name is Charlene, I said. She nodded her head.
What’s your Daddy doing these days? He’s probably in bed.
We are tossed by every uneven street
And I try not to recall the ocean
In the heart of this great city-
The cobblestone! The church! The mansions! The soviet blocks!
Wordless stanzas.
Watch the ink
Scratch at half-utterances
World churning
In Grandma's kitchen
1998-
Memory please
Catch the hot wind.
I will be airborne
One day fly back to you
and patience
My virtue dies.
Billboards scream
But I have
Just
Like love, don't want.
My keyboard, the typewriter.
My hand quills
My two-lung stone slabs
Mindless etchings.
Faint anger
And the distant sound of you-
Singing?
free will
it is silly to give it to everybody
So many don’t deserve it
Don’t appreciate it
and would waste it
I think the only people who should get it should meet this criteria:
be five foot two or shorter
be Irish or English
Be from Kansas or Illinois
Be beholden to me
The rest of you do not need to pout
My insanity allows me to add or take away rules as urges come to me
Stand by for daily updates if you think you would like free will
I cannot give it to everybody
Kudos to Albania, in its peoples resolve
I rejoice to see union, and Albaninans massing
So bold, against soulless mouguls whom
I am sure God does abbhor.' kushner brings not diversity. Yet a power hungry
Maw.! In hellish agenda..He plans are
to rape'
The bounty of Albania, with his
Bribed henchmen
Of that state.'
Does he really think about us, God?
When Lyhanna is murdered,
When the earth shakes in Caracas,
When JOHNNY suffers from cancer,
Does he want to make us doubt?
Yet the stars continue to shine,
Galaxies are rams
Who strike the unfathomable void,
Yet the sun, burns us,
Makes us see the light, from Hercules
Yet a pope prays alone
For the salvation of all sinners
Does he really think about us, God?
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
Quand Lyhanna est assassinée,
Quand la terre tremble à Caracas,
Quand JOHNNY souffre d’un cancer,
Veut il nous faire douter ?
Pourtant les étoiles continuent de briller,
Les galaxies sont des béliers
Qui frappent le vide insondable,
Pourtant le soleil, nous brûle,
Nous fait voir la lumière, d’Hercule
Pourtant un pape prie seul
Pour le salut de tous les pêcheurs
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
As I have wondered through the halls of old,
the minds of famous scribes in academia
had made me fearless, oft carelessly bold
when Mind betrayed lexical anaemia.
Soon baying at the Moon as it weeps,
a different view, depending on aspect.
The wisdom I crave inexorably seeps,
but seldom culminates into respect.
The misprision's become my badge of honour
as hyperbole swills in lexicon o’ Man.
Long years of uninformed populous dour
with magniloquent thinking that poetry can.
Yet I contemplate books in warehouse—
dyslexia transformed it into ‘wh…house’—
endless mirth that others could never douse.
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.” — Allen Ginsberg”
What drives them to put pen to paper?
To be famous is that their caper?
The world to change?
Tell a story so strange?
Is it a more personal flaw?
Drawn the short straw?
Life made them feel dismay?
They have to live this way....
Prone to despair
Pull out their hair?
Caught in a landslide
Can't escape the ride...
They can analyse
Maybe even surprise
Put words to their feelings
They may even do healings
A pen you did choose
Your ideas more than clues
Why does a poet write
Because they can..... alright
We are often sold it is cricket’s true home
The gold tapestry we toast hallowed tome
Legends ghost last post told free to roam
Groundsmen boast on outfield wield a comb
Host should do a search on Google chrome
Would yield the strip is most about the loam
Frippery and filigree are so suitably kitsch
Coiffured rest of ground then got a stitch?
Eating kedgeree no pedigree critics snitch
Pundits pounce the bounce does bewitch
Batters flounce in tatters is a serious hitch
Not a titch moves alot watch them twitch
Trounce the culprits it is time for a switch
Not in pulpits being a bit*h MCC’s so rich
Scratch fans itch give us a Test match pitch
What does the future promise
that the present does not have
A gentle moon, nights serene
lambent insights, starry scenes
What the present has, the future scorns
possessing what’s not yet born
A glimpse of paradise here on earth
~ if death be infinite worth
Experience is that math teacher
who gives you tests before teaching the class
marks it in red
and still expects you to clap
It is that bad friend
standing in the corner with folded arms
showing you its tongue
saying I warned you
but never stopped you
Experience is like hot soup
it never burns from afar
you must taste it wrong
before you learn how to blow
It is a stubborn landlord
that collects rent in advance
no excuses
no balance carried forward
Experience is like a tight shoe
you won’t know the pain at the shop
you will only understand it
halfway through the journey
It laughs like a drum with no cover
loud
unapologetic
especially when you repeat the same mistake twice
Experience is that exam
you cannot cheat in
because the questions
look exactly like your past
It teaches like rain on a zinc roof
noisy
disturbing
but impossible to ignore
Yet somehow
it is the only teacher
that stays after class
until you finally understand
Because experience does not smile
it proves
and if you listen closely
you will hear it say
next time
you will know better
Experience is that math teacher
who gives you tests before teaching the class
marks it in red
and still expects you to clap
It is that bad friend
standing in the corner with folded arms
showing you its tongue
saying I warned you
but never stopped you
Experience is like hot soup
it never burns from afar
you must taste it wrong
before you learn how to blow
It is a stubborn landlord
that collects rent in advance
no excuses
no balance carried forward
Experience is like a tight shoe
you won’t know the pain at the shop
you will only understand it
halfway through the journey
It laughs like a drum with no cover
loud
unapologetic
especially when you repeat the same mistake twice
Experience is that exam
you cannot cheat in
because the questions
look exactly like your past
It teaches like rain on a zinc roof
noisy
disturbing
but impossible to ignore
Yet somehow
it is the only teacher
that stays after class
until you finally understand
Because experience does not smile
it proves
and if you listen closely
you will hear it say
next time
you will know better
When faced up alone the sky unto sun
To seek its coolness behind healing earth
For worries cum anxiety briefing fun
To stand the insultive stake of known worth
Why does your heart beats faster than usual
When thoughts won but actions fail at the end
If not that the means got to be sensual
The feat would have been difficult to blend
Why does your heart beats faster than usual
When moon took over in turn for the day
That lurking fear grabs essence in actual
Then switch on a new mode to have its say
Faster beats earth the heart of loyal boy
That would never take your heart for a toy
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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.