I was raised, like many others, on the wrong side of the tracks.
Parents poor, thru generations, hopelessly, broke their backs.
The holes in our walls, patched, with mud and road kill skins.
Our roof made up from cardboard boxes and corrugated tins.
We ate old, ice cold, cockroach stew, tho pigged out on toad.
The rusty bucket, we used out back, lovingly called commode.
As a young lad, I went bad, ran with wild gangs in the streets.
But soon, found myself running, with drunks, liars, and cheats.
In time, untrusted, got busted, cuz I was the one who went in.
The Judge, graveled, quickly gaveled, got five years in the pen.
In one cage, pent up rage, every day had to fight for my life.
Dreading showers, rival powers, and a toothbrush for a knife.
Made up my mind, when I got out, to fly straight as an arrow.
Like a fool, was hard to get by, on just the straight and narrow.
My life's been no picnic, it's true, but I won't sing a sad song.
Now busted again, back in the pen, I'm sure I probably belong.
For the Haven’s advancement,
the Elite may extend a courteous backhand,
or a fist wrapped with opinion
that some may mistake for abuse.
Dante’s girl fell from her steeple
head first into a cauldron of pride,
now her feeble corpse twitches
trying to vomit the blackest pitch grey.
Stains her soldier’s dress blues
duty has him answer the bench’s call.
Gaveled verdicts now deleted,
appeals one site’s ambitions.
Often found in a library,
their little boy plays with
his toy box full of straw men
and overused emoticons.
Each breath billows the forge,
black smoke void of The Father,
they beat a gift’s beauty into a weapon,
the cutting edge of the Deceiver’s con.
How fleeting life is and what it brings
How small is engagement to its cause
How cluttered minds are with foolish things
How we never look within and pause
How trapped we are in years we wander
How reason and passion turn to rage
How short the time for minds to ponder
How we've built cities to be our cage
How thoughts have need to be entertained
How minds fall in its empty crevasse
How time is memories self contained
How the years and minutes quickly pass
How quickly birth to death is traveled
How we believe we own everything
How silent last breath when its gaveled
How time's a motionless moving thing
for my Mother
After the failed attempt to kill herself,
She gaveled up a parliament of owls,
Repurposing every cabinet and shelf
To house her blinkless treasury of fowls.
What comfort came from a gross of hooded eyes
Strewn through her home, I could not even guess.
Yet urgently she unboxed every prize
And for it found some suitable recess.
As executor, I audited the owls.
Seventy-two, my final reckoning.
There was one I liked. He'd pivot in his cowl
Like a startled monk, when shook. His shuttering
eyes, like cameras, seemed to document the night.
Her night, I thought: her burden, and her flight.
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.