The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
I saw her in the marathon
She was limber and lithe and slim
Between mallards like a swan
I had the urge to show off, to win
She glided over the London route
Like water flowing around a stone
Like an ethereal tune from a flute
I passed her, and I ran alone.
I got to the ending tape
There was a man waiting with a kid
He hugged her out of shape
Because of the time she did
Then I realized I'd run the best
Even if I felt like a dupe
Chasing that wisp, I'd beaten the rest
Of the motley crew in my age group.
Around my neck, a medal for the course
The cameras clicked, people cheered
Newspapers said I was a dark horse
Out of nowhere, I had appeared.
I saw her walking toward the park
Her husband carrying her gear
She didn't know she’d been my spark
And suddenly my head was clear.
Oh, I saw her in the marathon
A silver stream for the duration
And now that breathless day is gone
I'll take the motivation.
She was a phantom in the crowd
A beautiful, fleeting sign
She made me run till I was proud
Until I crossed that finish line.
“as both this form and boundless space
cravings of ego negated
awake, vibrant yet nonchalant
bliss drenched heart remains elated”
—Unseeking Seeker
Feast and revel in ordo amoris,
the seether within stirs its godless bonds,
If not, what sings in harmony we’ll miss
thick or thin without sympathy desponds
We paint careful brush strokes without callus
slothful paint by number’s dupe self-spirals,
and not to fool one as the tenebrous,
whilst stratagem caliginous virals
We pen lucid images from the soul
without subterfuge there’s true belonging,
Clean and composed dignity merits gold,
gone—deep-seated universal longing
Emptiness stripped by turpentines amiss,
in fullness it streams harps euphoric gliss
(a weedy problem)
They know, they just know where to grow, how to dupe you, and how to camouflage themselves among the perfectly respectable plants.
~ Dianne Benson
Sprouts without doubts
Pretending to know the abouts,
Ready to grow into louts
Of the most nefarious sort~
Useless as fuzz on the spouts,
Tedious noise-maker flouts,
Sending flowers into the pouts.
THE FOLLOWING
You're a good little follower,
loyal as can be found
You take the side you're told to take,
let the vile lead you down.
Never tried to think for yourself,
it matters not the course.
Incompetence is held most high.
The cart before the horse.
They would not deign to know your name
or spit upon your face.
They give you nothing in return,
the sycophants disgrace.
So effortlessly they play you.
They've trained you from the start.
Ignorance, faith, malice, and fear,
forced down deep in your heart.
You're on the bench and there you'll stay.
You're just another dupe,
a thing to use, and lick thier boots,
you loyal nincompoop.
Of her distress she couldn’t get rid
Did Dean aid Diana? Ed did
Poor Dan is in a droop
He knows she thinks he’d dupe
From his sly domain she has slid
scarecrow took his watch seriously
crow said he acted mysteriously
those eyes are creepy, always watching me
It’s his occupation, said the old oak tree
Crow invited his friends to stare scarecrow down
They came from all over, every side of town
Scarecrow felt like a failure, a dupe, a clown
Too much teasing, said oak tree with a big frown.
Enticed, seduced, and speedily distilled,
stumbling dumbly, she trips into the arms
of decadence—(such hedonistic charms!)
—and finds her stubborn inhibitions spilled
in a puddle around her thoughts—and, stilled,
her mind is free (of any and all alarms (!) )
of worry, fear, and doubt—beyond all harms
she thunders for a fresh martini, chilled.
Teetering at the brink of another drink
she’s helpless against gravity’s stout
strength—down(and further still)into its wink
sinks the hopeless dupe into the abyss;
with more and more foaming from the spout,
she slips into a lethal, silent kiss—
Let your adornment not be external
our crowning glory must never be camouflage
Into the hearts of dupe believer's cultures
Did the holy wreath hurt as much as my broken heart?
A shrike can outdo the Pied Piper's bewitching flute anytime
Safeguard our hearts from these foolish acts of men
Let your adornment not be external,
purge out the evil within their soul: saying I love you is unrealistic.
Let's toss some poets into a soup like a gumbo
to make a concoction of proportions quite jumbo,
with a variety of flavors, so delicious,
yet, for our hearts, minds, and spirits, highly nutritious.
Let's call this exotic concoction, PoetrySoup,
and then welcome that ridiculous Dave Crandall dupe,
with his oddball poems of distaste and aberrance,
making him grateful for everyone's forbearance.
Like a fly, I do the backstroke in this soup as I read
poems that sow beauty and happiness's seed;
or, snorkeling, I think hard as I dive down deep,
and devour a profound poem before I sleep.
The speaker of the poetry verse…
tra-la-la happy
or spinning on bicycle
endlessly seething
the poet’s plotting
the speaker’s demise or life
without permission
…is in dread
the poet rubs her palms
wiggles her fingers in dupe
haiku in motion
the reader forgets
the muse is behind the gears
the film’s flickering
…resigned to my whims
somewhere the poet
is hidden in the message
in darkness and light
the speaker
of the poetry verse
is in dread
resigned to my whims.
reader deciphers
shuffling pages & pages -
the muse or poet?
up to you reader
make me ill or be amused
it’s all up to you
resigned to my whims, is in dread of the poetry verse - the speaker.
They say a poem can never be
As lovely as, can be, a tree.
But what if a tree should be felled
By a dupe with a power saw, hand-held?
I wonder if it would be fair
To, this poem, that tree, compare?
'Twas not long ago, I did retire -
Time for me to regroup.
And like a buzzing fly, I fell into
A bowl of Poetry Soup!
My IT job did not prepare me.
Artistically, I'm a dupe.
My reading list has only Dr. Suess.
Don't scoop me from Poetry Soup!
My greatest influence, I must say,
Is the brilliant Betty Boop.
I would surely like to swim with her
In some Poetry Soup!
If you're wondering, you'll soon find out
Just how low I will stoop
To find a rhyming word that I can use
Here on Poetry Soup!
Perhaps, writing poetry will help me,
My marbles to recoup.
If so, I'll save on therapy bills
On good 'ol Poetry Soup!
I don't just joke, Joe, I can write like Poe,
In one ghastly fell swoop!
Oh boy, did I really frighten you
On scary Poetry Soup?
If I want to learn about poetic forms,
Right here I get the scoop,
And I can get help and feedback too
Here on Poetry Soup!
I even found a collaborator,
I kept her in the loop,
We made a delicious recipe, called
Gumbo Poetry Soup!
Poems of others, also make it nice
To belong to this group,
And so, I'm a lifetime member of
Glorious Poetry Soup!
Written: March 10, 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A butterfly yearns to escape my heart,
But my stubbornness holds it back,
Stay inside; I won't abandon you,
On exhibit for everyone to view,
A butterfly yearns to escape my heart.
Am I doomed if I remain upright?
Do you intend to cause havoc?
I feel a fluttering sensation in my heart
Too savvy to let him out all night,
When on the brink of slumber
Stay positive. I hope you're here.
Freedom is the failure of fear
I pledge loyalty to my homeland!
Unburdened by time, raise your head
Backbreaking, blinded you to beckon,
A peek into what holds the future,
Release from the chains of slumber.
The Peacefulness of the night draws you in,
Don't mistrust stars guiding toward truth
Escape from confusion of destiny.
The winds are erratic,
Cold and sternly, the helm is grasped
Living without becoming a puppet
Where motions are overseen by,
Wires habits and figures predict
For a master of the show
to dupe them into actual mimicry.
The tulips in the vase,
a clan of lassies fair.
Their buds they hold the gold,
the pollen of their youth
and promise sunrise told,
the tulips in the vase,
they lounge in waisted glass
with petals kidskin sleek
in shades as warm as fire,
oh, glamor girls trés chic.
The tulips in the vase,
romantic redheads bloom.
Their teacup tepals filled;
ideas nouveau riche
with secrets sunset spilled,
the tulips in the vase
as Venus feeds their dreams.
Demure, in damsels’ dupe,
a still-life painting prop—
enslaved for art they droop.
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.