The city exhales steam like a tired beast,
its breath pooling in alleyways
where no one walks anymore.
Cold, wet cobblestones gleam
like the backs of forgotten coins,
each one holding a secret
you must step lightly not to disturb.
Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering
how to dream—
orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt,
casting shadows
with no one to belong to.
Shop windows sleep behind
grimy glass and rolled-down gates,
whispering to each other
in the hush of the sodium dark.
Rain slicks the world into a mirror
and I walk through it—
a ripple in the ghost of a market square,
where footsteps echo
as if they're unsure
whether they’re mine or someone else's
long gone.
Neon signs flicker with old jazz—
an inaudible tune,
all hush and blue
and the smell of wet iron
lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf.
I am alone, but the night is not empty.
It is full of watching things—
brick mouths and sewer grates,
broken clocks stuck at almost midnight,
windows that sigh when no one’s listening.
The city speaks its truest voice
only when no one asks.
Polish
by Michael R. Burch
Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.
Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what's the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.
You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature's law:
red, like tooth and claw.
I thought about titling or subtitling this one “A mini-ode to manicure” but thought better of it. Please note that this poem is not about female predators or lipstick and nail polish, per se, but the way the human race “glosses over” its predatory nature. We may appear to be “civilized” with our constant grooming and high fashion, but what are we doing to the planet and its other inhabitants? I suspect many animals facing climate change/global warming and possible extinction would prefer less "civilization."
Peach colored lips but rose colored tears
Red apple cheeks but cherry colored fears
She painted her face
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four
A need to feel perfect was felt deep in her core
Cinnamon colored eyes but amber insecurities
A frosty glow on her nose to hide her impurities
She hid behind her gloss, her luster, her shine
But monsters in chains were still held captive inside
With a little bit of gloss
They are gods to those
Fooled by the pronunciation
Of a word
Or expensive clothes
Fit for a social king
How fickle are we
When a man's worth is
Akin to his accent
And the vintage he drinks
Praise to the man that can hide
Himself so well as to not be found
The outside
That covering that hides so much
Outshines the dull overlooked innards
He is but a snake in sheep clothing
Money they say can buy anything
Even those that feign over the king of the hill
Can be fooled by the flashing of the trappings of wealth
But all that glitters can on occasion be less
Than intrinsically gold
The man who can sing a tune that the foolish love
Will have washed himself of all his sins
The praise of his minions his baptism
No harm can be done by him
Cracks in this gloss are evident
But the glamour of the moment
Is enough to blind
We see and hear
What we think is best
The better to digest all this flam
If it is sugared
Those loyal will almost never leave
Or believe that the hype is not real
Praise be to the king of the social hill
Whoever he at the moment may be
my lip gloss is propen my lip gloss is cool i come to school to brake the rules.
and you think you bad ya!
cuz your a *** ya!
you need a rag
to wash your ass.
Golden water glittering through
delicate weeping willow leaves
Swans swimming on the lake
Grand house on top of the hill
neatly framed with many trees
Shingled roof peaked gables
Large arched windowed eyes
Carpeted flowers staircases
Marble floor, chequered hall
Dining room living room den
Settee Louis XVI parlor chair
Deep yellow blue pink letter
Clatter of six sets of hoofs
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.