HOMAGE TO OTHERNESS
cultural
preserves
in
ambitious
secondary
reproductions
& reservations
imitate
the
inevitable
thematic
choices
with
distinctive
paraphrased
oblique
adaptations
apparently
& unusually
plausibly
unadulterated
yet
conspicuous
focussed
perceptions
On the occasion of Shakespeare's passing
At this remove, two score and one hence
What have I to show for recompense
For the gifts with the world you gladly shared
The likes of which none have compared
So I'll tip my hat to the one on the throne
Whose works surpassed all since we've known
And I'll gather what flowers are strewn my way
And stand up straight on these feet of clay
Knowing what thought might cross my mind
Will still leave me so far behind
To strive and stumble and wrestle my way
In pursuit of what little I have to say
On the occasion of Shakespeare's birth
Three words from the Bard illuminate more brightly than the sun
And standing in his shadow one is most likely there to fade
As a flickering candle placed beside the light of that bright one
And measuring one's own image thus will leave most all unmade
One wonders whence the ink was drawn that this Alchemist turned to gold
The moment that his sharpened quill touched down upon the page
As genius in sequential thought upon the parchment there unscrolled
Which lapped upon the shore of love where seas of passion rage
And yet the spark still licks the wick encompassed now in tallow
Not giving thought to where it might land one in history
Unlit 'twould render darkness cursed and all to wade there shallow
Should all stand cowed and trembling bowed without posterity
Surely mortals mere as me serve but to burnish what surrounds
The gilded steps up to the treasure, measuring there what still astounds
A daily walk beside the sea,
restores the mind, sets spirits free.
No day the same, yet so well known,
a moody, kindly voice—soft toned.
The waves roll in, then slip away,
their lingering tug, begs me stay.
Each wave resounds into prayer,
a mantra shaped in salt-sea air.
As they break, crash, hiss, surge and creep,
they caress shores with every sweep.
White bridal veils spread on wet sand,
trailing lace crescents on the strand.
The rhythm of what is seen and heard,
brings peaceful awe to what is stirred.
All who return to stand and see,
pay hushed homage to mother sea—
To mater mer, the source and womb,
the wellspring from where life did bloom.
The blood in our veins that sustains
our cells, is seawater remains.
The sea is blood, spirit and bone,
a deep sweet tide that calls us home.
Sad eyes glow in grief
as Carmen McRae's croons, cut.
My Foolish Heart lifts.
A telephone rings
At Druid Heights.
Nobody is home.
“If you already get this message,
‘Ego in a bag of skin,’
Hang up the phone.
For all others ‘tis the wrong number.”
The person at the other end of the line
Talking to their boss:
“Bag, ego, skin
Are ONE
or many…
whatever!”
The Sparrow
by Positive Mark
Torch-burnt quills never offer apology.
Scorched earth policies revive a dead polity.
Force fed intellects give rise to economy.
Those who don’t fit, I advise you to follow me.
First, let’s pay homage to walls that were climbed.
Put in the time, and you’ll shine like Coach Prime.
Kill or be killed at the devil’s insistence.
If you lack fortitude, strike from a distance.
Fiery orators once fit the bill.
Now, they’re a hallowed list of confirmed kills.
Dead at the podium.
Dead on the balcony.
Genocide rhymes have become the new alchemy.
Armies of men show their butt on the street.
Reeks of an old auction, selling Black meat.
Honest comedians cancelled for jokes.
This is the new definition of woke.
Now higher frequency thought has been shattered.
Shirts weren’t printed when Black lives still mattered.
No reparations for cultural rape.
Modern day poets ain’t bustin’ a grape.
Torches on quills that were once burning arrows.
Who watches you, when his eye’s on the sparrow?
My friend from Trinidad
has swagger like no other
Grew up drenched in music's rhythm
surrounded by storytelling musicians
who'd belt out proud social messages
To this day he lives and breathes music
Transports him to that soulful party place
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson
Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.
We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.
We passed the house where I once strove
to play and know no sorrow.
We passed a creek whisking ashes downstream—
something I was hesitant to let it borrow.
Or, rather, it passed us—
the mist in the air quivering with a dog's final breath—
for only I began to falter
on our beaten and lonely path.
We paused before some foothills that seemed
serene, yet all too demanding.
The soon-to-be graves were scarcely visible here—
urns in my arms notwithstanding.
Since then, it has been decades, and yet
it still feels shorter than the day
Death first took my warm hand in his own
and his comforting coldness became mine for eternity.
If you have them for me
If they are in you to give
Then give them to me...
If I've been good
Or, at least you thought I was good
Give them...
I receive them humbly and wholeheartedly
Don't hold 'em
For if you do, I will miss their beauty
Their freshness will wane and soon they will wilt and fade away
So give them...
Freely_
I'd do the same for you
My flowers...
Give me my beautiful, tender, aromatic fluorescents
Give them to me
I'd do the same for you
Give them while my eyes can behold their beauty, while my mind can reflect, and my nose can engross them
I'd do the same for you
Give them to me...
While the drum still beats in my chest
Give them...
Before I take my final rest
I want to hold them and gently engulf them
So give them to me
I'd do the same for you
Just give them to me
And I promise, I'd do the same for you
Homage To The Leaf
Miracle Man
10/28/2024
From buds they sprout in early spring,
providing the tree with its summer wear.
They shade the songbirds as they sing,
and provide an escape from summers glare.
Powered by sunlight photosynthesis occurs,
they’re living food workshops for the tree.
Each coming spring this phenomenon recurs,
they provide a shade for drinking iced tea.
From naked branches leaves sprout and cling,
Little attention is given until colors turn.
For only once each year they do their thing,
Each autumn, I rake, I bag, mulch or burn,
“Poems are made by fools like me,
but only God can make a tree”
Joyce Kilmer
It had strung its masterpiece
across my path and barred
my way not by force or by means
I couldn't break, but by a fragile,
spectral thread secured to a part of me
it somehow knew would not destroy
the beauty of its art, but would pause
in reverence to view, say a prayer,
then turn back to let it be.
In life’s rich, cascading waterfalls , they bathe!
Sun glistening on their tanned glorious skin.
If a rainshower,later, suddenly, their picnic ends,
They simply, smile, and rush to find a cozy inn!
They do not seek darkish thoughts.morose.
Neither write poetry, wherein life is all a joke.
Principled, people, in fine, feathered.prose.
Respectful,never profane ..maidens and blokes.
Unafraid women and men of earthly realities,
So bless them all as they create with eternal vigor.
Humble, no pretense to be a second Maimondedes.
Penning ever of gallantry and dauntless vigor!
Drop a rock into a still pond,
and the ripples echo.
A large enough rock,
and a pond sized tsunami,
waves echoing beyond the edges.
Every step I take creates ripples.
Sometimes, a tsunami.
After all, I'm not screaming in outer space.
And the trillions of steps before mine
that gave me the ground I walk on,
need to be acknowledged by the care I take with every step.
Oh sweet nothing, I really miss you
Just putting one foot on the table, or two
If I could just sink in to this sofa and stew
Oh sweet nothing, I do so miss you
What if you could see me now?
Running in circles like a professional greyhound
You’d not know me, life’s so loud
Oh sweet nothing, if you could see me now.
Dolce Far Neinte, I appreciate you the most
Once taken for granted, now as abstract as a ghost.
Just one small taste, of not making haste
I just need some space to slow down with grace.
Oh sweet nothing, I will always remember
Time to myself, to douse the embers
My goal will be to have a peaceful September,
Wish me luck, sweet nothing, and we’ll be together
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.