Written for D;
I devoured the dust of deceptive devotion,
a plague of perfumed promises ~
a destructive dialect
that drained the music of my muse…
O heart-soother, pulse-seeker,
d e l e t e me ~
I’m a dangerous dream,
drenched in delusion,
disguised as a desert-rose dawn
within the dusk I wear,
dressed in honest lies ~
dramatizing deadly desire
and infernal flame,
a mirror framed in thorns and ivy…
The victimized villain
who once believed in me
knows my soul’s seething song,
this heart’s burning blaze,
and I’ll remain as a gothic sunset,
stranded in the
beloved Sahara of angst and silence,
for love never felt my rhyme...
Before everyone else,
dreaming of heaven
and blooming with desire,
poet rhymes with pleasure
the road to heaven.
No matter, even to Hades
poet goes first; rushes back;
tells the gruesome news;
and dramatizing the scene,
discourages evils.
Poet enjoys being a guru:
he gently kisses a flower;
smells the fragrance of love;
sighs like a furnace;
and models how to live love.
The beauty of the flower,
blooms with cocks’ crow
and flies away with sun’s fall,
yet words by a poet
never, ever glooms,
but blooms at every moment.
Nov. 28, 2020
Where do we poets go? Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Silent One
The media told us for years Brexit was a crisis
Covid came along and mankind aint seen nothing like this
Showing us the media are talk spit ill advisors
dramatizing story lines to reap financial prizes
Illumination from the entrance
Make it vivid that Jefferson is ‘crazy’
Scripts splatter on the bare floor
Engulf with writings from the mind
Dramatizing the lines with emotions
Aghast! I stand watching the Jefferson
Displaying competency in a dramatics loom
Madness of characterization of the lines make the
Poems visible from his drama the dance steps
in resonance with the utterances as he maneuvers moves stealthily
is Jefferson crazy?
Before I could write the last line
Suddenly, he falls and breathes endlessly
He lay like a tired butterfly…
Have you seen one before?
‘I don’t have a pen’ he recounts
‘I don’t have a pen ‘ he utters breathing heavily
I don’t have a pen too I respond
I was just writing from my mind
On the table I see the line
‘I don’t have a pen’.
All poets lie:
Self-dramatizing every hurt,
Or otherwise, exaggerating bliss.
All poets lie
(When life extinguishes) in dirt,
And lips that used to sing, the grave-worms kiss.
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.