To the tatterdemalions of the mind
Contradictions cannot be combined
How does one account for abstract entities
When a worldview is based in only what it sees?
Between fallacies and faith the debate unfurls
Atheists and Christians see each other as churls
Questions of mind or of matter and motion
Generalizations swim in a transcendental ocean
Redefining claims accusations arise
But spiritual growth is not veiled in disguise
Stages and standards Jesus said of fruit and tree
Critique falls short where reason should be
Tu Quo Que and ad hominem fallacies wined and dined
The atheist worldview can’t account for the truth we find
Agnostics linger on the threshold of knowing
Come on in atheists to the river that’s flowing
Yet in the end faith stands in both camps
A humorous note for philosophical tramps
For abstraction both sides do lay claims
Rise up to God standards or go down in flames
Often
words that
condemn
offer salvation
Their
juxtaposition
the blink
of an eye
What starts
to indict
turns into
redemption
The turn
of a phrase
their meaning
— belies
(The New Room: March, 2025)
There once was a cocky male frog
Who met a cute toad on a log
She thought he said “Ribbit”
In fact, he said “Rub it”
Now he’s belly-up in the bog.
Our eyes met across the marquee and I noticed her lovely pair.
The owner was a pretty girl with a shock of auburn hair.
But my eyes could only see two things the objects of my desire,
and they quickly caused a spark inside which built to a raging fire.
I couldn't wait to get up close and touch those wondrous spheres.
But how to keep in check my lust was amongst my biggest fears.
Those delicate orbs could easily bruise if I fondled them too much.
No, what I need is temperate speed and a soft and delicate touch.
Ah good the marquee's thinning out, the crowds are now dispersing.
Time to move and 'do my thang', the one I've been rehearsing
I look around the empty tent and pretend to look distracted,
but all the while I'm closing in on the orbs that first attracted.
At last, it's time to make my move and I gently cup them lightly.
The smallest squeeze, a tiny lift, I daren't hold them more tightly.
The deed is done, my touch confirmed just what I needed to know.
I proudly place first place rosette on the best pair of tomatoes in show!
My heart has Conditions
It moved off my sleeve--
Five* years ago:
I planned their itinerary
I slept under the sun
Then, Masqueraded in the moonlight--
Just four* years passed:
I stumbled into a sea of aluminum and glass
To be Anaheim's captive
I frequently danced with death--
As if with three* more years to live:
I ardently searched for death's cousin
I awoke in sweet sunlight
With a ghost of my conscience--
Just two* years had shown for us:
Though our demons would assemble, silently
I felt the frigid air within my bones
Stumbling, feverishly, with Epimethius--
I affixed to the vexing, with ease, in one* year:
To plummet, head-first, back into obscurity
As this room's only occupant
I distort and redefine Regret's parameters
In order to create more chaos:
My mind has Conditions...
double-entendre
double-meaning
insinuations
full of suggestive
vagueness
scattered ambiguity
sprinkled through out
obscurity of inconclusiveness
of train of thought
creating the lore of lies
of a future together as one
within a land of make believe
that one is trying to create within
the mind
Their was once en olde boozer named Mable,
Who inn her dotage was sow unstable.
She was thee village buffoon,
Swilling at ev'ry saloon.
Mable cud drink ewe under thee table!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Writes Reserved
Does it really have to rhyme?
I'm not entirely sure
It simply takes me so much Thyme
Like it's a herbal cure
Perhaps it is to make you laugh
Is merely what is kneeded
Like dough and other moulding stuff
No creativity impeded
What is it you've said when
you never said that at all
and why did it read between the lines
you're dead and never written?
I'm confused.
I thought you were being used
to channel heaven-sent the scent of mystery
yet here I see upon the scene
the angels are abused.
Tell me I'm not in trouble
with all this double mumbo jumble
means of a meanie to gain your attention
and thereby sway
to the dance of the absurd.
Yes, tell me its all okay to lay
upon the papered sage (or is that purpled?),
or lie if in the end its all pretend anyway.
Huh ... what'd she say?
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.