The sun casts red upon the myriad dead,
The heavens die, departing shadowed shades;
The bloody duty’s done, but what ahead?
For prosp'rous peace rests not on sharpened blades.
And "Cincinnatus!", some now cry, "Be king!
To lead in peace, as you have led in war!"
But this a thing no friend of Rome should bring,
For army rule is not what Rome is for.
O, well enough, I know how well to lead,
But in my shadow, how could roses grow?
My absence is the thing that Romans need,
For in the sun, shall Rome itself best know.
Let others sharpen wits, for good or harm,
I'll sharpen plows, upon my humble farm.
TRUMP IS HITLER’S GHOST
CRUELTY THEY BOTH CAN BOAST
BOTH END UP AS TOAST
You in the shadow of your room
A young woman, not yet in your prime
Following the ways of your mother
Pulling strands of deepest indigo blue
And richest madder reds
Across the woolen warp of the loom.
Knotting nimbly as you go,
Mind relaxed, absorbed, immersed
Transported hour after hour
Day after day, month by month
A youth protected and well spent
In the deepest reaches of ancestral time.
When it’s done
You will have woven a masterpiece
Something you will quietly glow with
Something that will long outlast you
Your children, grandchildren, great
Grandchildren and culture.
You will have created a portal
Reaching across time
And space, across cultures
To suck in and absorb
The world weary
To another world.
In this other world
Children laugh and play as children do
But also learn the ways of deepest time
And spend their days apprenticing
In the ways of subtle earthy magic
The ways of warp and weft, knot and dye.
A world beyond time
In a space where lovers meet
Babies sleep
And the old die in peace
Held together on the sturdy loom
Of traditions, bound by hardship and love.
(9/18/26)
Centuries ago, women suspected of witchcraft
Almost always met a fiery end
This brutal practiced seemed daft
As rules for proving witchcraft would never bend
Women with a mole or a scar
Is all the proof they needed
It was really quite bizarre
As common sense was never heeded
Torturous methods were used to force a confession
This of course would seal the woman's fate
Witches seemed to be their obsession
No mercy came at any rate
Echoes linger where injustice once thrived
As history turns its faded page
For many justice is still deprived
Are we moving from or toward a darker age?
Where South China waters churn heavy and wide,
A widow rose up with the ocean's own tide.
No emperor’s decree could govern her hand,
She ruled forty thousand across sea and land.
Her laws were of iron, her word absolute—
No plunder unshared, and no thief with his loot.
With hundreds of junks bearing canvas of red,
The empires of Europe beheld her with dread.
The Qing and the Portuguese launched their attack,
Yet her fleet in the bay drove the battle-line back.
She outfought the crown and she outmaneuvered the state,
Till they offered her peace at the emperor's gate.
She surrendered her sails, but retained all her gold,
A pirate supreme who grew peaceful and old.
Though dynasties crumbled and admirals fell,
The terror of Canton lives on in the swell.
Her three tall masts pierce through the gray,
Where swells of sapphire rise and fall;
She rides the deep in grand display,
Answering the high sea's wild, cold call.
Her canvas full, each sail blown tight,
Stretched firm beneath a heavy breeze,
She carves her way with graceful might,
Across the rolling, restless seas.
With rhythmic ease, the waters swell,
And lift her dark frame toward the sky,
While white-capped crests surrounding tell
Of rolling deeps as she glides by.
From high atop the crow’s nest railing,
A lookout spots gray shadows near—
A pod of whales, majestic, sailing
Beside the hull without a fear.
At helm stands Captain Jack, steadfast,
His weathered hand upon the wheel,
Reflecting on her storied past
And every seam of iron and steel.
Born in the fires of sea-bound lore,
Rebuilt from ash, reclaimed from fate,
The Black Pearl haunts the coast once more,
A ghost of legend, proud and great.
WHY AMERICAN COLONIES WERE LOST a lyrical local guide by US PoetrySoup poet is
Massey's outstanding sonnet poetry piece (second of the series) penned in the cross genre 'literary poetics ' follows in the footsteps of ground - breakingauthor Martin Gray,but extending it structurally ,beyond iambic trimeter ,thus bringing into play both rhyme&sonnet syllabics.
A 160 page poem with15 chapters ,each with a historic background intro) The poem has the dual bonus of being for loversof the combination of both poetry&history .
The detective steps into the room,
I know the questions that are coming;
No bright lights of intimidation,
yet the anticipation is humming.
We stare at the evidence provided,
trying to pick the story apart,
and put it back together, from the end,
right up until the start.
So detailed statements are being made,
some may even contain the truth,
but the further back, the reasons fade:
it's been a long time since my youth.
A boy living alone
Never gave up like a stone
Struck by stern and stormy weathers
Yet surviving like a full grown-dog, playing around heathers
Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon
ordered marinara with parmesan.
When he finished up his plate,
he burped and hopped a southbound freight.
Writing history can be a crime,
when you insist that it must rhyme.
Twenty-five years have passed,
yet the memory still remains,
a morning filled with sorrow,
a nation washed in pain.
The towers reached toward heaven,
then disappeared from sight,
leaving behind a silence
that still echoes every night.
We remember those who never
made it home that day,
the mothers, fathers, sons and daughters
who were taken far away.
We remember every hero
who ran toward the flame,
while others ran for safety,
they answered when we called their name.
The firefighters and the officers,
the strangers helping strangers too,
the countless acts of courage
from red, white, and blue.
We remember those in heaven,
and the families left behind,
the empty chairs, the photographs,
the memories frozen in time.
Though years may pass before us,
their stories will not fade.
For every life that was taken,
a promise must be made:
To remember their names,
to honor what they gave,
to cherish those beside us,
and never forget the brave.
So today we bow our heads,
with hearts both proud and torn,
and whisper through the years:
We remember.
We honor.
We will never forget.
Sometimes a poem only needs its title.
Sometimes though it’s clear
The lessons of history
Were never learned
In the first place.
(9/11/26)
The bridge
to the future
a song
Living in the past
can only last
~ So long
Where is room for sublime
in Trump-Modi era
if we talk about
grief, trauma, social justice
liberation, health, job
happiness in a culture
of divide and rule through
rightward extremism?
comics of history
in lanes and bylanes
search lingams for new world
threat murals of mutiny
recreating new forms
unearthly light and space
in old tales sacred for
visions of heritage
I don’t share their tangerine
nor stream in their landscape
even if I’m consumed
in blankness of fire or flood
There are two Americas today
One that puts its faith in the system
The other that puts it in the people
The first is the Left
The second is the Right
And this is the way it has always been
One side relying on the power of the State
To impose its will on the individual
The other side relying on the individual
To build, protect, support and celebrate this nation
The irony of course is the system
Relies on, and feeds off of these very individuals
One side wants to tear this nation down
To rebuild it in a vision of hope and change
The other wants to build on its traditional foundation
To simply make it great again
And make it even better
The Left and Right are not two wings
Of a single birds
Not two sides of one coin
They are instead two fundamentally different
Visions of what is right and wrong
What is the light and the dark
America, we are at a crossroad
What will it be, fun and freedom
Or anxiety, depression and terror of tyranny
(9/9/26)
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.