I said to the class,
"Now the first thing we're going to do, is feed this poem."
& I asked my friends, "Do you want to help me write an Arthurian epic?"
They replied, "Do we?!"
My son is writing a story, with a character called Professor Question-Mark
My daughter believes we're taking a plane somewhere every night
I picked up my children on the last day of their summer camp,
With my son running out the automatic doors uttering, "Let's get out of here."
Hundreds of pounds down the drain
Mad cheddar
Mad stacks of cabbage and
Post traumatic Christmas disorder
In the King's chamber at Windsor Castle
The audioguide informs tourists of its decorative history
Before announcing the bed in question in front of us is not the actual bed
A man groans and walks off
My mum asks me to go check on my dad in the public bathroom
I knock on the cubicle and say, "Dad, are you in there?"
He replies, "Yeah."
We find him at Victoria Square and I realise it wasn't him
There is mad screaming from another carriage on the train
I know we are near our station
We’re spinning in circles, more of the same
induced to cut loose from this coiled regime
As our heads are enveloped with this unending earworm:
the land is burning, hope is going, when can we get out?
Dining on our daily portion of despair
suicides ripple through, crippling the status quo
We hear an ever-crescendoing whisper to a roar:
the land is burning, hope is going, it’s time now to get out!
Answer what informs your constitution,
Gain it back–traverse! And disperse it even more
Respite seldom hinges on overcoming what’s to come—
when the land’s burning and hope’s going, it’s the time to get out
The gentle sunlight
On a winter afternoon
Shining on my face
Informs me how soon
Fragrant flowers will replace
The last soft snowflakes.
Laughter of children and the dull clatter of small feet on aged wood. The congestion of men's voices with talk of crops, rain, and "remembering when". The faintly drowned out sound of a stray hand unafraid to tickle long unused ivory. There, the aroma of well-planned dishes lay in wait to ambush and overwhelm the senses of those who will partake. The pride of a husband as his wife is washed in praise for her contribution. A communion of kind souls, the fellowship of close neighbors and friends. A vision carried on from a not-so-distant past. Where one could marvel at the magic of a fond smile and find comfort in a firm handshake that wordlessly informs, "you are a welcome sight".
The Enemy Within
"All cruelty springs from weakness." - Seneca
Oh Yes.
There is an Enemy Within.
It lives within, feeds upon, you.
Senseless, yelloweyed
It informs all that you do.
Born of your Hate, Pride, Ignorance
It warps you daily,
Makes every decision a folly.
The pity of it is,
You spent a life rewarded
For every vile transgression
Cheated of every lesson
Worth knowing.
So when the Darkness comes for you
- As soon it must -
Its black shape, the shape of your inhumanity,
Will be awaiting by your bedside
To claim you,
Unlamented.
I'm supposed to create a few lines each day,
And arrange them into some kind of poem.
There's always a new way to write them.
Especially when it scans. It should rhyme.
But today, the guide I need most of
Is the coffee I perked this morning.
But Alice, the cat, informs me
That she's ready to dream on my chair.
The extra-long walks in the park help,
I've been there so many times.
I like to watch the kids play
They're distracting, and fun besides.
I'm home again. The cat hunts, the coffee's gone,
My wife comes home from work.
"How'd it go today, dear?"
"Great! sixteen lines in a row!"
"That's nice, dear! Does it rhyme?"
When I read poetry, I have no clue;
so, I imagine that the poet meant
he would soon, to the afterworld, be sent,
and wrote to his dear love before he flew.
Dying young, he would sadly miss her life,
and hoped that his beloved one would know
that he would watch over her down below,
the one who, one day, might have been his wife.
Experience informs that timeless love
of the soul, sans aging or appearance,
lives on forever with perseverance.
Wherefrom comes such love - maybe from above.
suddenly the bird sings, quite suddenly, startling
the stranger-to-the-dawn of day; he thinks the bird
is where the bird shouldn’t be; but knowingly,
with amusement, having quite habitually heard
the bird tweet, as the morning sun stretches its wings,
the wife informs the stranger to the waning dusk,
“oh dear husband, the bird sings from the tree,”
but he must widen the slats of the levolor blinds,
to open his eyes, to the world that exists above
his office in the split level basement. where did he think
the melody resounded from - the deck? no,
the great by and by, the bluest sky, the sun’s rays…
its hazy, at best. the mind needs a rest…startled
"Why!' The 'why' is irrelevant!
The 'why' is counted for everything,
The Satanic stands for; to bid his.
His soul: aimed at the chaos of humanity.
His nectar is disparity, he harnesses.
He walks and breathes with fervency!
He stands for rebellion, unto which:
He grows bigger and stronger,
Against everything good!
He falsely informs love:
Whereas he is incapable of doing so.
He walks and breathes cunningly!'
Though I walk in the shadows of death;
I shall fear no evil doing unto me.
I am armored; I will be able to stand within.
My battle is hard; his chaos is so strong!
What's this I walk through?
He walks and breathes so cunningly!"
We answer big questions one by one
As scientific progress marches on.
When we find an answer, we’re not done.
Up spring two new questions to dwell upon!
Math then informs us of a sad pitfall.
While the pace of learning does not relent,
There comes a day we know nothing at all -
Rounded to two decimals, expressed in percent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawns a courtroom closing in on midday, and a cheery sun
uncovering its place being less demanding--a sage who
dons sufficiently in her vocation that imparts one who bears
a respectable position, and one of a high office--so without
delay, the judge withdraws to his chambers for consultations
with the defense attorney and prosecutor, et al., she then
advances towards the lone defendant from her private seat
in the gallery--an officer of the court, immediately takes
notice of her movements and in anticipation presented her
with a chair for her pleasure--the defendant who sees her,
respectfully stands, whereto, she politely informs him that
he may remain seated and air him in a one-sided
conversation being the soul speaker, and he as the soul
listener. Albeit, exceptions to that disclosure evolved at the
end as there is cause for the conversation to become ironic.
*The opener of My Short Story: White Lies, in two parts; I'm
afeared of old habits unchanged as alit surface, amid dim, and
aligned depth of mired cliché, sways a gavel 'ere ...
Possibilities, like children, navigate the classable realms,
settling upon the measurable.
Amorous piglets, their peachy snouts delve,
rooting through the trash heap of desire.
"In a time beyond now," wheatenly speaks the tale-spinner,
plucking a clover, pale and crowned with stardust,
among the untamed grains sown in the depth of breath.
She informs a story of the jewel hung in ghastly night,
makes dark fright beauteous and her old face new.
I crave an eye bathed in Bengal's blaze,
eternity riding a celestial pyre,
Cetus dancing on an ocean canvas,
whose seas flow no fresher than the confessions' wicked drippings.
These realms are places of wonder,
where pigments of reality and fantasy blend,
and I am compelled to dwell within my cresset,
explorer of the shining glimmers.
Sipping the subtle freshness,
a learner from the lessons of Experience,
I gaze through colored glass,
where each tint reveals and re-veils truth like a story.
I wait to touch of hem of a thunderbird,
whose wings span the horizon,
whose voice shakes the earth and sky,
whose feathers spark the fire of inspiration.
And I believe I will, someday, when I soar beyond the dawn.
The best sort of wonder
Stares blankly, not just at
Rain, and its pooled splat;
As informs mesmeric
On how each act projects
Its ripple effects.
My favorite Poetry Soup poet, the most honorable L Milton Hankins
His avatar is predominately on the home page, he’s the big tamale
Obey grammar rules and suggestions or you’ll get written spankins
No matter who you are, or where you’re from, the U.S.A. or Somali
A great mentor; informs us about syntax, if you know how to spell well
“Addicted to unnecessary words” superfluous on any subject, in all forms
“Sasquatch” to stirring “Apple Butter” renowned for his fav—the villanelle
Painting lovely scenes in the City of Lights “Christmas at Paris” he adorns
Says it’s so nice to be complimented, it always makes his innards squirm
Distracted by a miserable bully, while enjoying his time here at the Soup
I only get three stanzas, otherwise an essay I’d write like for a mid-term
Or I’d tell you more of the poetess dishing out nasty like a nincompoop!
Berqueeta decides to sage evil from the wind
She is warned by her elders it has not been done
Because people did not believe, she informs them
Chanting her love song into the wind, she changes its direction
It ebbs and flows, finally landing at her feet, begging forgiveness
Belief is everything, she tells the astonished elementals who witnessed it
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