Indicator Poems | Examples

To My Children, Be Anxious For Nothing Trust God!

I give thanks to the Lord,
Because he cares for me. 
His love, I can never ever deny,

Through His Son Jesus, 
I have been set free.
That day on the cross he died. 

Problems will come,
But I will not fear,
Because I know just where to turn. 

I wanted to tell it to you my kids.
Of one event in my life 
So that each of you may learn. 

I was up one night, 
Having lost lots of sleep, 
I was broke and it was no joke. 

Several cars indicator, 
Were flashing  their warnings, 
Saying that something inside was broke. 

Missed a bill payment,
My water was turned off, 
I thought, "I need peace and now!"

All these things hit at one time, 
It was stressing my mind
The answers, only God knew now. 

Don’t know what I would have done
To have a God, that didn’t care.
But trust me we have One that does!
 
Right when I began to despair
Some unexpected money came from nowhere! 
It was just enough for everything I needed to pay. 

We can trust Him to be there.
During times of despair, 
God took care of me once again on that day!

Igor needs a bigger lab IX

Don is the ultimate user
His deals seal you as a loser 
When Trump holds the cards
The lives now in shards
Bear witness he’s an abuser

The Don has a trick to reveal
He’ll dick you and cancel your deal
Like hands on your neck
Trump voids your paycheck
And feels ecstasy when you squeal

If acts are life’s indicator
Don’s a classic woman hater
Though cratered with flab
Trump will pussies grab
As rapist and a dictator

What will show how Don’s dick-brain thinks?
Trump’s thrusts come with lies and high jinks!
Amid this disgust
Some high and non-plussed
Have heads up his rump with what stinks!

Her Autumn Kimono was Goofed

Coal tar zombie mouth leaks town gas syrup 
Meat hook telegraphy indicator cameras hypnagogic 
Liverwurst elegy beneath the frosting 
Cinderblock reverie churns with mildew

Manus? Grilled cheese sandwich.

Cantonal enchantress, covered blossoms. 
Necropolis euthanized, springtime salad.
Rhinestone rookery smothers loquat

Gillian - A Birthday Acrostic

Giant heart, relentless kindness to all she imparts 
Intelligent, bookish, fashion-smart,
Leader, plants her trail with dedicated grace and flair—so you'll follow.
Laughter, as tuneful as the airs of larks or swallows.
Inquisitive, indicator of a legal luminary,
Admirable looks and acuity sounds in sharp commentary.
Neoteric, check the artistry in her stare; note the future at the tip of her fingers.

Gillian!

ribbons are memories

The fresh round-faced babe wears a teeny ribbon in her hair
Did they attach it with a bit of glue or what?
It is the only indicator she might be a she.

Little girls in Sunday school have ribbons on their socks,
Their collars, the edges of lace on their dresses
Their satin sheen shines up nicely, sprucing them a bit

Boys are not eager to get ribbons unless they are Iowa 4-H boys
Entering their livestock – lambs, calf, sow or steer in a fair
The white green and yellow ribbons do not mean much
But the blue and purple ribbons give them much to smile about

Girls are growing up, entering pageants, wearing a fat vertical ribbon
Saying Miss New Jersey, Corn Queen, or Pancake Princess
Brides dangle ribbons under their bridal bouquet
Ribbons are memories, tucked away in albums,
Brought out to admire when nostalgia prances about.

Some pointers

I like to Just get to the point in Word								                         The indicator showing the Way                                                                                                       Eternal guidance life and death                                                                                               leading to empty or full                                                                                                         convergence eminent                                                                                                                       I advise choose Life                                                                                                                      the Gospel true                                                                                                                           Only Truth                                                                                                                                             sets free                                                                                                                                                See

PRAYING TO THE CREATOR

PRAYING TO THE CREATOR

Praying to the creator,
With our heart so sincere.
Rejoicing without fear,
Tears as sign of indicator.

In times of joy and sorrow,
He is the author of tomorrow.
We bow our heads in reverence,
Our identity is a sign of reference. 

With his love so strong,
Nothing will go wrong.
We find solace in God love,
His love is divine from above.

In moment of darkness,
We hope for light in excess.
With gratitude in our heart,
God is the beauty behind art.

PricelessPEN

Farewell Poetry Soup

Attempts to defraud my
poetic values via
the varied poetic
formats

My eyes were drawn to a perfect one
yet 'Im' turned out as a mere prefix-
seeing my error, I was in need
of a third eye

I thought this was it
but it was another
mistake, so I tried
to correct it

But I created a
problem that I
tried to fix

But it turned
into a mess
and as all
trails do
lead, to
a trial 

And in truth 
on the stand
Bible in hand
I lied and on
I chose Elegy
appropriately

Today, a ...
poet died
using ...
A.I.

"p.s., Bible is a good indicator that the rest post/past, A.I. use, zilch, nada, nicht, nein, Trump-O-Biden tix."

Mandella had the right idea

Mandela had the right idea for sure.
How can the law get justice for crimes of a repugnant nature,
That are bought to light 30 or forty years in the future,
When evidence is scarce by nature,
And either party having a lapse of memory that has no cure,
With either party now believing their own lie as a fact of which, they are sure.

In these sorts of cases money may or not be the motivator,
And we may be looking at justice through a dirty window pain,
With Justice not looking to have much to gain,
With no side able to point to a reliable indicator.

So, we come back to Mandela having the right idea,
With a truth and reconciliation forum,
To encourage an atmosphere where forgiveness is more than an idea,
And truth can be seen once more to bloom,
With healing now the only worthy sum,
To be pursued at all costs at such a forum.

On this for me the jury is well and truly in,
Hopefully never to be recalled,
With each member free of such an impossible task,
Of being just to either party after 30 or forty years.

Zenith of being human

Zenith of being human 
By Michelle Morris
09/11/2023

The echoes of the losses
May remain in your soul forever 
But remember that it is an indicator
That you were connected to other souls

The love and light and shadows
The heartbreak and joy and peace
It's all part of the experience
This human thing we need

So, don't be afraid to feel it
Don't be afraid of the abyss or the altar
Our emotions keep us human
But our divinity frees us to live exalted

The echoes of our faith and hope
The depth of our love and commitment
It's the zenith of being human
It's incredible and special and unlimited 

We are all designed to be magical 
For we are creatures created from stardust
We are warm and sparkly and inimitable 
A blessed part of our Universe's eternal vastness 

© Michelle Morris, 2023

Fall Splendor

Written: September 4th, 2023
Fall Splendor                                            Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin       
______________________________________________________________

August walks out, ushering in a chilly decay.
Buds on the shrubs started turning shades.
Winds mock foliage as they swing and sway.
Anyone who finds will feel ecstatic by serenades.

Aestivating under a full moon, an inner tune swells.
Fragrant leaves litter the aurous floor where one dwells.
Night-flying fireflies escape being caught.
Feel the splendor of nature without a squat.

A breeze from the scarlet trees cools the night. 
Before winter frost, the chill brings delight.
Crisp air, a yellow, crimson, and violet maze.
Jade autumn foliage whispered winter glaze.

Summer, now fading, begins to elapse.
A telltale indicator of fall mishaps and haps.
Dance to unheard carols; they flutter.
Hypnotic motions beguile a splendid stutter.

If Its Free, I Block It

If It’s Free, I Block It
By: Miracle Man
7/23/2023

Technology is making life one big scam,
The prizes they say I’ve won are all flimflam.

They’re on the truck needing info to deliver,
these daily emails make my skin shiver.

The prizes I’ve won are in various amounts,
I hear from Banks and have frozen accounts.

Banks need additional information to reopen,
they see an old geezer that they can rope in.

But age is no indicator of this man’s moxie,
and no I wouldn’t make another my proxy.

There is no truck with one turnip missing,
that I’ve fallen from so these I’m dismissing.

Every one I’ve helped has a hand out for more,
and often they’re so many I'm forced to ignore.

It looks like AI will be the biggest scam of all,
and government solutions do not enthrall.

Rin a Mor Ands Snazzy Jazzy House

Some neighborhoods have to have your color pallet approved.
You can have gray, tan or light beige, but no snazzy colors that moved.
Oranges and reds are frowned on, and purples are put in a sad place.
To mention the word emerald would be more than a major disgrace.

These houses look the same in a sea full of ordinary and bland.
I never want to live in one of them said my aunt Ring-a-Mor-And.
Ring-a-Mor-And bought land outside the socialized city.
She wanted to fix her house up in rainbow colors, extremely pretty.

The gray and tan house owners get in their cars and run out to take looks.
I see their sad faces, and feel sorry for them in their plain little ugly sad nooks.
Ring-a-Mor-And’s house is glitzy and spritzy, and ritzy, and brings glee to me.
To thousands if the parade of cars is an indicator said my Cousin Bree.

You Can'T Judge a Book By Its Cover

French proverb: L'habit ne fait pas le moine.
English equivalent: You can't judge a book by its cover.
My interpretation: The work one does is not always an accurate indicator of the kind of person he…or she…is.

Most strippers can't do more
Than just "bump and grind",
But I know one who reads
Every book she can find.
From Dr. Seuss to Schopenhauer,
She devours volumes by the hour.
She plays a bibliophilipic role
As she swings 'round that phallipic pole,
Which adds a high degree of class
To an act that's mostly t**s and ass.
And while she's raking in the tips,
She's turning pages as she strips.
As those who scoff at her soon find,
Her brain's as big as her behind,
And then they whistle and applaud
And all her attributes they laud,
For she's no intellectual fraud,
Nor is she some tawdry bawd.
I know her name is Ermentraude,
But on the grand marquee out front, she's "Maude,
A broad with a broad, broad mind."

Author's note: Remember, dear P. Soupers, reading is fundamental.

Excavator Gave Him Navigator

That’s the job that gave him Navigator
After goodbye to Lift Operator;
Months on the TV as Moderator
And a US firms Gum Distributor…

But Bruce had not wanted Excavator,
Rather Peace-Keeping as Mediator:
“All these awkward passions for artifacts
And choosing to celebrate old facts:
Inquisitive shovels disturbing soil  
One might think one is prospecting for oil;
Forbears working on their forgotten face: 
Intriguing findings they’d championed the race”.

From excavation grabbed ventilator,
Also, a machine with indicator
And soon a mansion with elevator;
Impenetrable to terminator…

Still, Brice’s true love: his black navigator
The Jeep he drives dressed like Gladiator:
Smart, American with fine radiator…

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