A dapper squirrel in a top hat sat
upon a throne of porcelain white,
amber leaves descending around him
with all the ceremony of autumn.
In his small paws rested
a roll of toilet paper~
an object so ordinary
most creatures would never pause
to consider it.
Yet there he sat,
moonless-eyed and thoughtful,
turning it slightly,
pondering its mysteries.
Perhaps he wondered
why do humans create such things.
Perhaps he mistook it
for an oversized pale winter acorn
that had somehow forgotten
how to become a tree.
Or perhaps,
being wiser than most squirrels,
he had discovered
what humans often overlook:
that every object,
no matter how common,
contains a story.
The leaves understood.
They drifted downward
through shades of russet and gold,
surrendering themselves
to another season.
The squirrel nodded gravely.
The toilet paper remained unexplained.
The leaves continued falling.
And somewhere in the gathering dusk,
it seemed entirely possible
that wisdom begins
when one pauses long enough
to become curious
about the absurd.
What is philosophy,
after all,
but staring at an ordinary thing
until it becomes extraordinary.
THE MEANING OF ME SHALL ALWAYS BE
JOINED BY THE GREAT AND SPIRITUALLY
THE QUAINTNESS AND AGES IT HAVE TOOK
TO REWRITE THE PAGES OF SAM COOK
I GRAVELY TAKE CHAPTERS AND LIVE THEM TOO
FROM EVERYTHING IN ME THE SOULFUL THE BLUE
SHALL THE VINTAGE TIMES READ MISTY AND YET
THE LEGENDARY ME FOR I SHANT FORGET
WHILE THE PURITY MOVES INSPIE A HARSH FLOW
PNLY GIVING THE MEANING A PLAN TO GROW
AS HERITAGE IS GREAT AND SO FULL OF HOPE
AS THE GUIDANCE AND STRENGTH ALLOWS US COPE
WHY THE LAZY DAZE OF MISSING HEAVEN ALL GOODBYES
AS THE TRANQUIL BLESSINGS GLEAMS IN THEE EYES
WHILE THE PEACEFUL NATURE CONTINUES TO RISE
AS THE MEANING OF IT ALL TAKES FRONT STAGE
WHILE THE JOURNEY GROWS PAGE AFTER PAGE
WRITTING BY YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
MARCH 17 2005 IN AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
I SIMPLY ADORE BEING A POET
THE MEANING OF ME SHALL ALWAYS BE
JOINED BY THE GREAT AND SPIRITUALLY
THE QUAINTNESS AND AGES IT HAVE TOOK
TO REWRITE THE PAGES OF SAM COOK
I GRAVELY TAKE CHAPTERS AND LIVE THEM TOO
FROM EVERYTHING IN ME THE SOULFUL THE BLUE
SHALL THE VINTAGE TIMES READ MISTY AND YET
THE LEGENDARY ME FOR I SHANT FORGET
WHILE THE PURITY MOVES INSPIE A HARSH FLOW
PNLY GIVING THE MEANING A PLAN TO GROW
AS HERITAGE IS GREAT AND SO FULL OF HOPE
AS THE GUIDANCE AND STRENGTH ALLOWS US COPE
WHY THE LAZY DAZE OF MISSING HEAVEN ALL GOODBYES
AS THE TRANQUIL BLESSINGS GLEAMS IN THEE EYES
WHILE THE PEACEFUL NATURE CONTINUES TO RISE
AS THE MEANING OF IT ALL TAKES FRONT STAGE
WHILE THE JOURNEY GROWS PAGE AFTER PAGE
WRITTING BY YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
MARCH 17 2005 IN AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
I SIMPLY ADORE BEING A POET
Unfortunate accidents.
Lucky incidents!
Slipping, tripping, when all that's held
Gravely tense bursts out.
Sprinting down what, long presumed
Of joys, unresumed
A laughing child's giggly mess
Was so blown about.
Society punctured into strands of hell
The fracturing of innocence for a living dark spell
A mourning of youth wishing hard for new life from a well
A generation of abused who could not speak up and tell
The air is ablaze with the military lights of fire
While international talks seem to delay and retire
The people are caught in a catastrophic quagmire
From the helm comes the truth that was told by a liar
Magnitudes of humanitarian aid will be of great need
As the warnings of wise ones have not been paid heed
And the formations of new life are being starved at the seed
All for the agenda of man’s unconquerable greed
There’s a look of solemn despair in the old man’s blue eyes
As the generations of youth bellow out frightened cried
And the broken and poor meet the rich man’s demise
While we wait in the background with anxiety riddled sighs
So gather up your hope and your courage for the brave to stand
And take strength from those who have the presence of mind to command
While the missiles hit targets upon sea and land
The fate of humanity is now gravely at hand
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2026
deliciously dignified distinguished dignitary
enthusiastically elevated Edward Canary
ferocious foxiness flummoxing a field faerie
gravely grandiose grappling gripping Greg and Gary
high-spirited high-brow handling of Helen and Harry
infamous idealism inspiring Inez, indignant and airy
juxtaposition juggling jumble tumble of Tom and Jerry
killing kind thoughts once held by crazy Kerry
The man in the elevator was smartly dressed
A red carnation was on his breast pocket pressed
I asked him, just jesting, on which floor was the feast
“Thirteen,” he said gravely, forcing a smile at least.
I pressed the button for us because it was clear
He could not reach it though he would stand on a tier
“Must be a huge party,” I said, “enjoy the food,”
And stopped in time from asking, “Would there be some nude?”
We stood in total silence ‘til we heard it “Ding!”
The doors parted fast to a party in full swing.
Someone playing Für Elise stopped and gruffly asked,
“Is it bloody Igor, back with our food at last?”
Heaven.
From its spout.
It’s so luxurious everywhere,
But I’m still somehow a puddle all over.
The alarms have been going off for hours.
This avenue used to be part of me.
It is now a street for others.
Fruition.
Other ideas don’t make sense here.
The ground is no longer earth.
And love is trickling through and speaks gravely.
Turn on the windshield wipers.
When you turn on the headlights.
Like a luxury sedan that I live in.
Traveling all over when there’s no reason to.
Heaven is random.
Squealing sounds of a violin.
Heaven grows exponentially.
So there is room.
Me and all my friends too.
Expansive feelings.
Spouts we don’t know of.
This avenue of alarms.
I have other ideas too.
Heaven has its own ideas.
Might someday turn us into raindrops.
Like my friend who got in too.
actually aware that times are changing
i go back to the norm and the gravely familiar
comfort and warmth there works for me
regardless of all that i am obviously missing
that is, until i decided to grab some of the keys and turn some of the locks
the amazement of the ease of all the experiences and the life skills and life lessons learned brought forth unexpected regrets that were already there as an invisible, gripping pain
before i get to old, i think that i will blow the off the dust and clean off the rust of some of the remaining keys
once i see what is on the other side of some of those remaining doors, i may keep going and change my name to sam beckett
actually more clarified that my time is running out much quicker than my sleepy mind thinks
I’ll never finish the best poem in the world.
Not because I’m depressed.
Depression that stalks me like a gravely voice.
Moving so slowly that it feels drastic.
Depression is when I wrote a great poem.
Sinking in.
When the door shut on me.
I realized that I got the assignment wrong again.
And cried.
And ran while throwing my shield aside.
I didn’t know how to write the greatest, best poem.
But then it happened for once.
Depression makes great poems sometimes.
The drooping feeling makes great words.
The groggy feeling turns to me.
I think I got the assignment wrong.
No grades in this world.
I still tumble.
Write the best poems.
I got it wrong again.
Give me a robot voice.
Gravely and soft.
Covers up everything they are thinking.
And everyone is asking how sick I am.
If I turned into a robot.
The first thing would be my vocal chords.
The old tune.
Shredded away.
Everyone is asking how sick I am.
Confused.
Golden like vocal fry.
The most perfect sound.
The most perfect robot ever.
Cannot do much except sing a couple songs.
And sing worse each time around.
We can’t explain it.
I have a robot voice.
There’s no magical transformation.
There’s just what they assume has always been here.
My “always has been” voice is convincing.
In my human voice.
I said to her:
I’ve always been a robot.
How?
No earthly mortal
Nor any intity can
stop the flow.
Like a river, it gushes
Through the toughest
Barrier and crosses
Boarders with no regards.
Its causes are mixed and multiple.
But every nation lives in denial,
Blaming everyone but themselves.
Yet, every country will reap what it has
Sown as we all witness the trail of blood.
The world is bleeding.
She bleeds from self-inflicted wounds
As well as from forces seen and unseen.
And the best that we have to offer as a cure
Are bandaids which are gravely insufficient
to stop the hemorrhaging. The cause of the
Bleediing is a secret to none, But the solution
Is distasteful and unacceptable to all.
Sliver of snow remains
No longer pristine or pretty
Gray and gravely, gray-scale ugly
Dog rolls in it, loving the cold wetness
As I hear the familiar first line of an 80’s song
I realize that is how I am feeling
Pierced, gravely injured
not in body, but in spirit
I can’t make myself attend an exercise class
when I need it so very badly
but my spirit is injured
and I just don’t have it in me right now
to meet new people,
and extend an effort to engage,
putting on a smile that I don’t feel
I refuse to wallow,
so I will go on a walk
or do an exercise video
and push and stretch my body
I will put my pen to paper
and stretch my mind and
restore my soul with prayer
I can take steps to heal my heart
but since someone else
put the hole there,
I think they are going to
need to help repair it
Intriguing thought begins to waltz,
With baby steps, timid and coy,
Twirling into a master ploy -
It hesitates and then it halts…
The thought is tamed, the game is on,
Fervid, wild word search is in play;
The frantic quill redrafts all day,
The mind’s in frenzy, dusk to dawn.
Masterpoem is to be born!
Or is it vehemently verbose?
One despised doubt… it hither goes -
Into the waste bin, gravely torn!
Genious has his highs and lows -
The price of greatness, I suppose!
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.