For Lent, I’m trying to give up
My addiction to indulge
In my obsessive-compulsive need
To thoroughly divulge
Sunday afternoons were for reading
She'd get lost in worlds of fantasy
Of mystery and adventure
She'd escape and let her mind wander
To far corners of the world and beyond
AP: 3rd place 2025
(For all the girls in Gauteng)
I am the Violet of Vereeniging, a vibrancy that nakes ultraviolet light seem pale and week.
My modesty is a magnificent mirage, masking the seismic power of my purple, potent, perfect presence.
I am the definitive definition of grace, the grand gravity that keeps Vereeniging grounded in pure beauty.
When I blink, lightning strikes the earth, purely out of sheer, shocking astonishment at my charm.
My fragrance is the secret ingredient in every single beautiful memory you have ever had.
I am a vibrant, vital,valuable vignette of absolute, undeniable vitality.
(For all the girls in Gauteng)
The Rose of Rathanda
I am the ultimate ruby blush of Rathanda, so overwhelmingly fragrant the moon faints .
My petals, spun from stolen starlight, dictate the very tides of the Indian Ocean.
Kings forfeit crowns just for one blinding glimpse of my of my majestic, blushing, burning Rathanda beauty.
When I bloom, the world holds its breath, fearing the sheer, searing, staggering power.
I make the sun feel like a mere flickering candlelight in a dreary, dark, drafty hallway.
I am the eternal, ethereal, existential epicenter of all divine desire.
I am the Violet
I am a
Smell of ashes
the taste of burnt toast,
complexion’s dark
as crows yet
a familiar scent
that lingers
in every empty
mug.
Cold weather
is my body’s ditzy
enemy.
Coats, scarves,
and others embrace never
suffices, yet I still cover
up just to concede
a frivolous
anxiety buried
in my skin.
Frosty compassion
leads a search for dire
need of temptation
within unkempt warmth
of liquid lush brewing
anew into a cup of
addiction.
Bitter is sweet,
sweet is bitter.
Its nature
so capricious meddling
from hate to love,
from love to heart-
ache, from heart-
ache to anger,
from anger to
loss.
Coffee’s taste
attached to every
memory, not once
absent,
a friend, my desire,
$2.49 a cup of cheap
watery indulgence
draws me back
more and more.
My loyal comfort,
as I take a sip,
I indulge
endlessly
picked food is complex
hard to grow, with goodness sparse
slow to chew, digest
native creatures evolved
balancing, yield, taste, and toil
mouthfuls interlaced
fiber, protein, starch, cells, grit
a feast in wholemeal
hunger sated, kept at bay
with low-density nurture
then came processing
oils distilled to easy fare,
grains stripped to white ghost
sugar added to boost taste
complexity was erased
Sweetness in a flash
fat that melts before the tongue
salt sharpening crave
a banquet turned to quick hits
food factories replaced fields
food calorie dense
drove people to gorge too much
with same portion size
so they all became obese
as their bodies begged for more
evidence is clear
just see how fast, how sudden
Polynesians who
adopted Western diets
became fat and unhealthy
rich over-processed
food mutes satiety's bell
body asks for more
calorie-dense concoctions
devoid of complexity
I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.
The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.
When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.
I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.
Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.
I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?
The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.
So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.
chocolate covered
strawberry bite ~
sweet indulgence
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Juicy Couture
Juicy Couture
Dont make ish like this no more
Bring back good fashion
SHEIN is tired
Wool, silk, linens
Put polyester in a fire
The fads have faded
Trends are tired
Give us proper clothes
Our situation is dire
This waste, this consumption
Our society is plagued
This greed, this hunger
Buying through guilt and rage
A human hole
Fill it with stuff
Emotions take hold
Fill it with fluff
No depth
Less dimension
Sorrowfully empty
Riddled with tension
It tugs, it pulls
Waits for your truth
It gnaws, it scream
Be the sleuth
No one can understand
First, you must learn
Self-discovering journey
Then peace you will earn
No hole, only hope
No greed, but gratitude
Find yourself chanting
No woes, but platitudes
Their tales old as time
Hold truth in every rhyme
Follow a life of your design
Don't believe it?
This is the sign.
It can’t have been the scallops,or the rump of Islay lamb,
washed down with white Rioja, and followed by sweet meringue.
It wasn’t the skate au poivre or the salmon canapés,
nor garlic stuffed green olives or the double chocolate glaze.
The ruby red Barolo is surely not to blame
( it was so very very good, we had some more of the same).
The piquant piccalilli that came with the ham terrine
was absolutely to die for. In French, “cuisine sublime”.
The roasted veg in garlic, the rich redcurrant sauce,
all perfectly delicious - and then we passed the port!
Replete we left the table, of coffee to partake,
with a couple of Glenlivets, to sup for old times’ sake.
A perfect evening, then off to bed, to dream of happy days.
‘‘Twas not to be. A sudden waking, with a screeching shout of pain.
The hounds of hell were gnawing at a foot now sore inflamed
and throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.
Relentless, there’s no respite. In purgatory now moaning,
in agony exclaiming, as tormented he writhes about,
“Must be a change in the weather
has caused this devilish gout”.
At Christmas we feast to our hearts galore,
And can eat until our stomachs are sore,
If one’s gut should implode,
The bottom may explode,
Oh! My goodness! Do I have to say more?
30/11/22
Tania Kitchin
A Funny Christmas Limerick Contest
The neighborhood buffet boasted
fried chicken and biscuits, toasted,
creamy gravy, and smashed taters.
You can serve yourself, no waiters.
Into the long line you will strut
more than ready to fill your glut.
Bypass the green salads and soup;
run quickly, to the fried foods swoop
all you can eat for one price cheap.
Pile your plate high in one big heap.
If one plate full is not enough,
get back in line and your mouth stuff
with fried okra and sweet cornbread,
rice, beans, pasta, and liver spread.
Undo your belt a notch or two
so one more bite you can chew.
Desserts abound, cookies and cakes,
puddings, custards, tarts, and milk shakes.
Round out the meal with soft ice cream.
Maybe two cones won’t burst a seam.
You leave, with a bloated waist thick,
well-sated, and full as a tick.
Lovely to look at
Incredibly delicious
Fresh baked donuts
Not so nutritious
Sugary and sweet
Glazed so divine
A baker’s dozen
They’re all mine
Too much sugar
Brings on a coma
But I have earned
My donut diploma
Licking my fingers
After each bite
Sends sugar level
Clear out of sight
I’d share my donuts
If you were here
But since you’re not
Perhaps have a beer!
Written March 27, 2022
so welcome the rain
arid ground starved of moisture…
a paddle for wheels
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Birds of similar feather
conspire together
when sores of society
open chaotic doors.
A boiling abscess
provides easy access.
Statesmen must team up
before angry masses teem
and cross the threshold of justice.
Jan 11, 2021
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.