There’s constant decision, decisions,
choice and choices.
How do you quiet all the voices?
What should I do?
Which way do I go?
These questions I’ve wrestled
more than anyone might know.
Am I alone,
or is someone there?
A quick look around
and the room is bare.
What to do?
Should I stay or leave?
Nothing is for certain,
not even the next breath I’ll breathe.
I arise daily
with the decision and will to live.
I’m forever lost
in a series of moments,
trying to make peace be still.
OCEAN
I wake up everyday on the shore of a great ocean
I stand on the edge of the ocean as
the waves come up and crash against me.
I stand there everyday without fail
And, without fail, the waves come.
Sometimes there are small ones
Sometimes there are fun, medium
Size ones that I play in and
Sometimes there are giant ones that
Come and knock me down.
But I know that even the largest of
Them will all return to the depths.
I do not resist.
The depths are the source for all these waves,
But I never see these depths.
I only see the ones that are crashing
Against me here on the edge.
I do know, for certain, that every wave,
Without fail, returns.
The ocean is vast.
I only know about the waves
On the very smallest edge.
Beyond these, is the source.
My destination
trying to keep sinking relations afloat
is like patching an old boat with stones
for certain It'll go under
sharks will move in to plunder
then crap out your miserable bones
Just outside Mountain, Wisconsin
the forest lies. It invites me inside
to hear the stories, it longs to tell.
Around a curve a puddle of water
from a fall of rain.
At each turn I never knew
what I would find.
A photo of a bear in the dark
is posted at the gas station.
The clerk said it is deep
within the forest when I
stopped inside for a snack.
No one can say for certain
where the forest ends.
I’m going inside to see
what it reveals. Another level
of secrets lies in undergrowth.
All trees stretch their arms
upward reaching for the sun.
I’m driving around the state
to find my time and place.
Lands once stripped, replanted
in a public works project
during the Great Depression
to give the land new life.
A glance through a crown
shows the sun as it shines on me.
Each morning asks me to start again
after I step outside the motel.
Would You Now?
It's A Hard Nut
To Crack!
It's Better
That Way.
How Nutty!
Right?
Soothing Refreshment
Free At The Well...
I'll Try The Bucket
See What I Draw...
I'm Always Wrong,
Maybe; Right OR
Wrong...
For Certain
I've had my fill of the surface scene for now.
Navigating this new age mania and tectonic indifference.
I'm sailing underground to anchor up in glia monster town.
They're all poisonous down here but mostly harmless.
They flash colors, so you know where you stand
There's a steep learning curve, that's for certain
But everybody minds their own, without demands.
There's no sparring for the attention of the sun.
Everyone is in shadow; we're equally grounded.
No keeping up with the Joneses and Jetsons.
We're cool as ice bears and snow penguins.
No biters here to abbreviate your fate.
No gamblers to piss away all your pay.
No sniffers or grifters playing smelly games.
No angels on milk cartons, the young are all safe.
No stompers or sliders in red surface shoes.
Bleeding out on our palette of sweet, baby blue.
Sometimes the clack on the surface
seeps down through the cracks.
That's when the Gilas become a bit restless.
With a flicker of grace, the polluted are purified.
Soon enough, peace is restored to its place.
Sliding back into the charity of silence.
I'm thriving and have no desire to surface.
I know for certain that memory’s a virus
We’re susceptible to in varying degrees
Infecting some, randomly chosen, like us
Memory drifts in on a gentle breeze
I’m switched to the channels of subtle perception
It’s due to the memory my life carries on
I flick through most precious of my recollections
They’ve been given to me until I shall be gone
Then I’ll be removed to the isle of the dead
There I’ll meet you, thanks to our memories
Something will be missing, though it must be like that
After long separations and many calls missed
But I reckon, subconsciously we’ll reconcile
With the loss of those lovely details, for we managed
To save some of them in our favorite style
Aren’t we also the details that time couldn’t damage?
Remember we gazed upon the green hills
From your bedroom window with breathtaking view
In our case they’ve been grinding too fast, those fab mills
So we’re not that exceedingly small to come through
Many trials and hindrances, daily calamities
All those stormy Mondays and Sundays alone
Here we’re bound to wait now, among the tall cypresses
For the ferry to moor, to deliver us home.
The Guinness Book of Records
once recorded your name
I never got to meet you
It's a pity, such a shame
You put your longevity down to
never ever getting wed
And a big tot of whiskey
before you went to bed!
You lived to an incredible age of
one hundred and eleven and 121 days
Longevity was on my mother’s side
it’s for good genes I do give praise
I’m not sure I’d like to live that long
I hope to make four score years and ten
But I know one thing’s for certain
lives were so much simpler back then
I lay, I stare, I look around… it's black as pitch. I'm underground.
I'm chained, I'm bound, the walls are tight. Someone help me! Give me light!
Trickles of liquid run through my chains. I smell the blood as it seeps from my veins.
The air hangs heavy and smells of damp earth,
Help me, hear me, give me rebirth!
Despair; it is taking me, my blood draining low, when a rumble above me, it renews my soul
My was my tomb, bound here for certain,
But now I hear them: dig, dig, pull back the curtain.
Its close now I feel it, then the door did burst free,
Someone was sneering, yes, sneering down upon me.
He said not a word, he made no move to help me more.
He simply stuffed a rag in my mouth and with a wicked chuckle, closed the door.
It really looks peaceful when you see
A man on a bench sitting reading his phone
But it could be the act of contumacy
His vehement dream to stay alone
Similarly, what do they know about me
May have nothing to do with reality
I don't bother to conceal a mystery
Anyhow I'm a missed personality
So what’s real, no one can say for certain
They can only guess and suppose
I say howdy and smile, an invisible curtain
Slightly moved, but remains closed.
I’ve heard that in the early years
Of traveling by air,
The passengers would get dressed up
To get from here to there.
That was before my time and yet,
The dress-up rule applied
At many places where that custom’s
Simply up and died.
Like going to a Broadway show
Or ceremony for
A graduation where it will
Be noticed what you wore.
Religious celebrations, too,
In temple, mosque or church
Might reveal a dress-down pattern
Among many if you search.
Still, for certain nice occasions,
I like dressing up so I
Am reminded of decorum,
Which was part of days gone by.
he was on a tram looking for guidance
travelling alone for that is how it was
quite a fancy carriage a very new occurrence
an advisor spoke to him full of conviction
stating things need to be proven beyond any doubt
science and research would answer all of his questions
then the streetcar was gone and the leader had disappeared
his belongings had gone and he was bare of material possessions
yet a kind and beautiful woman had retrieved
his woollen blanket the one his ex had had crocheted with love
seashell lines on a now lonely beach ready for rediscovery
undulating waves of pleasure and passion dissolved in the sand
the image receded and he was aware that the throw of the past
would not be abandoned as it held the keys to a future
of some freedom and impendence of change and of growth
the lady of his dreams fainted and romantic relationships
became far down the line of his novel experience
when he meditated and prayed on the surreal visions
he knew once again and for certain beyond any doubt
that only a true spiritual counsellor would reveal
when and how he would be able to find release
closure and the aperture of beginnings and serenity
You're a charred sweet bramble
a mosaic of cloud and blood
a pantry of wound and balm.
You fester, heal, then repeat...
at times the flesh must protect the peel.
Straddle the moon-nobody to harm you there.
To judge your jagged necessities...
just you and the lint of time entwined.
You'll come back down, that's for certain.
Strong as a mountain at twilight
or a blue bird song in black bird refrain...
Retrieve your soul from the mossy stone.
As the parched blue eye bleeds out red rain.
With that spicy dab of mad moon woman revenge.
For now, lay low-while on the mend.
Debride from the mockingbird's glass song.
The murder will eventually hang itself.
Upon chords of your mad moon woman wisdom.
There is a women in some photos that belongs to me,
And although she’s not here no more she’s all I long to see.
She may have become a stranger to my current life, but I know
that somewhere out there she too is living my life.
The lady in these photos, has managed to control my world,
And all that I may go through I know she sees is right.
The lady in these photos I carry along with me,
And though she’s now a memory she still belongs in time.
The women in these photos is one I always miss
And even on my darkest days I know that she is here
She doesn’t judge what is done or even what may be
All that she cares about is that a smile stays with me.
The women in these photos is my best friend
And she’ll never be a stranger as in my heart she remains
When I meet this women again on a day that she decides
I know of all this id learn one thing was for certain,
My world had been guided by the women from these photos of my life
Christians aren’t so Christian now—
The Cross is strangely Light—
It weighs no more than Fashion’s thread
Or Vapor in the Night—
They speak His Name as one would coin
To purchase earthly Gain—
And barter Mercy at the Door
For Certain of Pain—
The Hymns are tuned to Vanity,
The Prayers to public View—
The Poor still knock with wounded Hands—
Unanswered—at their doors—
Once Faith was stitched with trembling Thread
In quiet rooms of Dust—
Where no Applause disturbed the Knees
That bent because they must—
Now Judgment lifts a Scarlet flag
Where Love once kept her Tent—
And Stones are cast with Scripture’s weight
But none with Tears are sent—
If Christ should walk these pews today
In borrowed Flesh and Breath,
They’d ask His Politics before
They asked Him about Death—
Yet still a Sparrow dares to sing
Above the Market’s Roar—
And God remains where God has been—
Behind the slammed Front Door—
For Faith is not the Noise it makes,
Nor Banners, nor the Crowd—
It is the unseen breaking Heart
That dares to whisper Loud.
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.