Never knew this was real
it's kinda like something unspecail
there is no you and I
My awareness of being single
she smiles like a devil
glad to bruise my ego
happy to keep me lonly
an emotional destroment
but whats better than this
the discount makes it a gift
My status still single!
Eros-Philia-Ludus,
Pragma!!!
Valence released,
We are like atomic bonds,
And I am the Squared Hydrogen,
She's the Oxygen.
Held up together in the field,
She breathes life into me.
And liquid as we flow,
Solid we remain just equivalent.
Distinct,but complementary
flowers of mutual fusion,
in perfect harmony;
Sensibililties will embrace,
incensed by aromas of love,
the bond is revealed;
Opposites,yet in alikeness
the attraction of natural
magnetism is sealed;
Within the uniqueness of husband and wife
in union,complete,as one,for life.
| Year Posted 2010
Make Mine a Moral Equivalentn
Do make mine moral equivalent,
Which to all we shall have sent,
And not pun;
Equally done,
Hoping money will be well spent.
Jim Horn
The heat was scorching today
its flames licking the ridges of every soul to a boil
i was busy searching for a chill from an electric fan
an ice cream, the sea, a fridge, an air con, the azure pool
suddenly i heard a vagrant knocking at the door
”Pardon me, sir, I’m burning with heat
would you be so kind as to lend me your cold handkerchief?”
”I bet you are. So long as you’re on the street,
you always are. Only, I don’t have a cold handkerchief.”
”But the heat is really, really killing me, sir.
A cold handkerchief might just cool me down.”
”I don’t have a cold handkerchief. But, I’ll give you a jug of water.”
”Ah, thank you, sir.”
But I handed the hobo a cold handkerchief anyway
which he received from my stiff, frozen
glacier-like fingers
as his frail body was melting to a springing
kalkausar
that drowned me in
to a chill
Puck puck puckle at a public convenience is equivalent to eight or nine serpents at a tea party,
Whoah there wild pony traps this day is not to travel it is to sip tea and taste the homespun scone,
Homespun scone,
Because in the end a spinning wheel,
A spinning wheel,
Turns more rapidly than a circular saw in a brothel,
A circular saw in a brothel,
In the end a spinning wheel turns more rapidly.
So speak the nighttime visionary monk,
"The road is neither long nor short,
and instructions on how to build should never be given to rabbits"
Should never be given to rabbits instructions on how to build.
And GRABBED AND GRASPING GASPING GRAPPLING GROG GNOME GOING GONE,
GESTATION GESTURE GIVEN GO GET GOT
OH GIVEN GO GET GOT
And Puck puck puckle at a public convenience is equivalent to?
I see brown leaves drooping, burn marks in the bark,
the populated gala, ignorant in the park.
...With obliviousness, boots are crushing-
the dreaming leaves that died before.
Wild roots, a strewn abroad,
rot from tip to base, a sad sad song.
...And the core
it's weeping, a noise severe that ears can't hear,
painful howling from the wood,
that individual ears misunderstood.
Yet over the tumult,
uproar crowd without remorse,
I wonder how the tree there died.
was it a plant's equivalent cyanide?
Staring at the husking shell,
littered with burnt butts and ashes-
the center of party hats and flashes,
a tobacco funeral straight from hell,
poor tree, I bid thee well.
A victim of stupidity and arson,
alcohol violence and poison.
Proof that nature hates the flaws of man.
I'll never know the pain thy has endured,
from life, reduced to shards of wood...
And all for humanity's entertainment,
...I think I understand the plant's equivalent cyanide.
Author's note: I am not sure about this poem. Does anyone think it's finished or does it
need more work?
All my inspiration
Comes from my lack of medication
If not for my ball of nerves
I would never have any words
To put down as a rhythmic flow
And enable me to keep my mind in tow
I can’t say for sure
But writing has become my cure
It’s the essence that boils my blood
And keeps me fighting in the world’s mud
But when the hostilities cease
Will I still be able to keep my lease
That being the little talent
Becoming very gallant
In my hand
To the growing book on my nightstand?
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.