perpetual
is my love for poetry.
without it
how would life taste to me?
i bet it'd be so bitter
i'd spit it out.
I'd choke
on thousands of words
unexpressed.
what would free
my arrested words then?
pages would be
as blank as
a tabula rasa mind
as I was meant to bruise paper
with an Ink-filled pen.
heaven knows
what I'd be doing
if my ink runs too dry
to skate on a page.
who would hear
the child inside me cry
when my muse goes missing?
lord knows passions
roaring loudly
inside me
would be a silent
as falling snow.
i need poetry
perpetually
so that people see
what my eyes see,
feel what I feel deep within
and go places I go.
without poetry
would life ever taste sweet?
the jury is out
perpetual
is my love for poetry.
The jury is out!
Something bad happened
and something good has to pay.
We wait, anticipate til late.
Outside, concrete mine fields multiply.
We don't need more sticks and stones,
send the rifles home for now
for everything is getting too heavy to carry.
When the snow falls
we will huddle in a muddle
count the beans until something adds up.
No matter what, nobody wins.
THE JURY IS OUT*
There once was a simple rhyme
that made up a jury's mind.
They gave it great thought
for a verdict they sought
as the clock in the courtroom
passed time.
They had to determine
how true the allegation
that the man really killed his wife;
or if he could go free
and go on with his life.
They listened very closely
their minds made up mostly.
But their brains the lawyer
did sway,
as they listened and then
heard him say,
"If the glove doesn't fit
you have to acquit."
and "not guilty" became the
verdict.
And that was the rhyme
that turned the jury's mind.
'Twas a shame, and a sham;
what a crime.
* The O.J. trial prompted this poem when I saw a commercial for the Johnny Cochran Law firm on TV (after Cochran died).
A child, innocent, pure
Eyes wide with wonder
Heart full of unconditional love
Soul full of boundless trust
Hungry mind, like a sponge
Soaking up the knowledge I spill
Values formed, instilled, learned
As much by deed as by word
This new life, a blank canvas
I hold the brush in my hand
The outline for a life's portrait
Drawn partly from my guidance
Hurts to soothe, pains to ease
Love to give, lessons to teach
These thoughts consume me
Indict me in the court of my mind
The case is heard and the jury is out
Conviction or acquittal
Still deliberating
What kind of father would I be?
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.