If you’re old enough, you might remember
Records that we played
On Hi-Fis or Victrolas;
If you’re not, I am afraid
You won’t quite understand
Exactly what this poem’s about,
Which is candy shaped like records,
Treats I cannot do without.
Each is made of strips of licorice -
The real stuff, strong and black,
Which is curled into a circle,
Like those records from way back.
I bought them for a penny in
A candy store near school
And the middle held a sugar dot,
Bright reddish, as a rule.
My husband searched for them online
And buys me three pound bags.
I have one every night I’m home
Or else my spirit sags.
They have no sugar dots, but still,
Their taste is just as sweet
As the ones I brought so long ago
On a local Brooklyn street.
The power of written word empower more strength than mere words of voice.
Spoken words, though impactful, resonates for a moment, then fades.
Requiring at times a forgetful memory to regain a meaningful moment.
Where as the the inked characters of permanence, create a permanent record.
One that may be filed, and retrieved for review throughout all time.
A record of how it is
May suggest how it will be
A record of how it was
Shape how you’ll perceive
In this world of information
In this recorded time of day
You can review the situation
And receive a little say
I’d rather not know how it would end
Even if history repeats itself once more
I’d rather create something new
Then bow to its rule
Don’t close your mind to its thoughts
Nor your soul to its dreams
For it creates what you have meant
And that’s been all to you and me
To you,
I ask my pen to delicately write,
On a tender soft petal of clover,
A gentle word or two!
To mark sweet history together,
To remind your heart,
Of times we held hands
Michael
For the Record
We are Guilty of Loving
We are Guilty of Believing
We are Guilty of Trusting
We are Guilty of Hope
We are Guilty of Dreaming
For the Record
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
You are Guilty
For the Record
My Baby still Cries at Night
For the Record
You Will Not Apologize
For the Record
LET THE JURY DECIDE.......
Birth is obviously not when life gets its start
For long before, this baby already had a beating heart
They had their tiny little fingers and even smaller littler toes
But of this simple fact society acts like no one really knows
Birth is simply God's Way of unveiling
As that innocent little child comes out waling
Yet this is not the true beginning but the continuation
Something so unrealized by this sick and lost nation
Just knowing that one out of five children will not survive
For they will be slaughtered fully aware and certainly alive
Yet so many will just stand by not willing to even bat an eye
Oh that life begins at birth is such a wicked and evil lie
So while in one room she is celebrated and born
In the next one over he is mutilated with each and every limb torn
Yes birth can be such an amazing and wonderful joy
But it was at conception that God created both that little girl and boy
Before dawn becomes our reality
Let's watch the moon rise and follow its light
The stars shine above as the night
wraps its arms around us
and leads us to the dream - world
where our souls travel
to other dimensions
Our sweet night will come to an end
yet not before a trip into the
seas of unreality which will
refresh our souls and
bring new meaning into our lives
Night always morphs into day
But it leaves shards of joy in its wake
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.