Where is room for sublime
in Trump-Modi era
if we talk about
grief, trauma, social justice
liberation, health, job
happiness in a culture
of divide and rule through
rightward extremism?
comics of history
in lanes and bylanes
search lingams for new world
threat murals of mutiny
recreating new forms
unearthly light and space
in old tales sacred for
visions of heritage
I don’t share their tangerine
nor stream in their landscape
even if I’m consumed
in blankness of fire or flood
sweet white plum blossoms…
softly floating in the air
they look like light snow
distant Fujiyama’s peak –
fleecy clouds so slowly flow
willows silhouette
surrounded by blue sky and
country's fall foliage
the sky drops the mountains
hopes for lemonade bruise on grass
birds crying not heard at this depth, high
as trees stick together; green contrast
morning sun dark and small
out of these woods, could I stand as tall
and how uncoiling is any street beneath
above shadows looking at me
the mountains running whitewashed under tires
her ghost apart from sky, dead weight
heaps of rocks hold up my hours
then falling, come to devour
Bradford pears line the drive
Golden mops, dense supply
Ivy climbs, in designs
Elegant, are these vines
Cyprus trees, thrive with ease
The goods of woods minus leaves
Spongey grass, rich in hue
Heaven for morning dew
Purple trees adding spice
Alternation feels nice
Variations zig and zag
A dash of contrast, adds swag
An oak that’s lived many years
Rings align,descending tiers
Base is broad and trunk, stout
Pushed through frost, flood and drought
Just beyond this house of mine
Rows of pines, you will find
The beauty of it blows my mind
Twas a dream, once upon a time
I can see the waters
but they are beyond my grasp
the trees are getting skinnier
their leaves have turned blood red
a reflection of my disappointment
in the far distance I see healthy verdant pines
they are the right size, not distorted like my trees
there is no water here, no faith, no hope
the earth is cracked, barren, desolate,
a reflection of my disappointment
Snowplows rumble through the night.
A distant tomorrow
already applauds a surprised sunrise.
Later, Sol turns the slushy ice to diamonds
while it digs the world out again.
For a while, the land is shoveled up,
cleaned and rolled into paper-light reams.
Whether the earth melts
or grows backyard glaciers,
skyscraping winds will blow down
deeper than ever before.
Eventually winter pileups
are pushed back
by the steamy breath of labor
and the prayers of those who only watch.
Machines continue cleaning up dead spaces,
constructing viewing platforms
for the fur-fluffed and swift winged onlookers.
Lazarus moments come and go
between the humped heaps of ice and snow.
I’m currently far away from where I should have been buried.
I’ve been as vulnerable as a pine tree with no sap.
Stepping stones turned me away.
But both are bad.
I am as divergent as crochet hooks stuck in a pot of honey.
Or a sandwich made of carpet fibers and anger.
I didn’t bury myself back then.
Just the rotting landscape that fell from my ears one day.
Never told anyone except a potential grave robber.
And I think he got caught anyway.
That spot is still unmarked.
So is he.
I
San Clemente is always a nice place and tonight, she was something
different.
wound up by a Creator’s hands to such beauty around how could one be
indifferent?
I vividly remember how beautiful the full moon was, while a slight breeze
was blowing,
serenity in the form of waves crashing; the pier empty as the moon was
glowing.
on that cloudy night, into the black backdrop, battering breezes sent
chills up my body
put on my coat, and in my ponderance, setting like J Gatsby at the dock
less gaudy, caught the moonlight reflecting off the waves.
it formed a line that seemed to go on forever, even though the dense
coastal haze.
the night looked like the cover of Ride’s Nowhere I suppose, and
I wrote this poem so that this moment in time shall never decompose
This is what created us. This light,
dappling the columned forests with petaled gold,
these nourishing and nourished streams, these bright
sun-laughing lakes, ruffling under an old
and infant wind, this intercourse of pine,
air, beam, mulch, bough, loam, moisture, say we fit
into the mothering niche of this design.
This does not belong to us: we belong to it.
If there can be a god, that god must be
what we are made to live for and within;
so in this pure cathedral we may see
our earth-determined being, and begin
to learn that we are water, light, and air:
our breath is homage, and our heartbeat prayer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: All American poetry is a dialog between Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman.
When is demage beautiful
When it lies in ruins
When do we admire its history
When we learn more about its architect
When do we truly see the test of time
When it lies dormant
How do we tell the strength of its foundations
When it stands tall in the shadow of the day
I've seen runs I've lived in their wonder
But if love is like the coliseum does it last beyond It's use
I believe yes
I believe someday it will be there again
The memories will live on
The stories will be written
What we may see as ruins may just be what time cannot replace
We are suppose to admire its strength its durability
We are suppose to remember what scars we have
What cuts still bleed
What dreams have yet to be lived
We are meant to carry on with history tell stories and remember all this life has given
Because in ruins the sun still shines bright on the landscape of hope for everyone of us
Our thoughts, like the sea with its white pebbles,
painted by its foam.
The waves come little by little, to halt them.
There, I see Greece.
Beneath the clouds that hide the sun,
its furrows moving back and forth like visitors.
They were forgotten on a pale islet at the horizon, where the gaze can reach.
In a small glass of red wine and a slice of bread,
behind the cornfields.
There, I see Greece.
In my grandparents’ house I left my memories in the yard,
in the scent of Sunday lunch.
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
I stand beneath the partly cloudy sky
for hours mesmerizing at each night
looking at neglected concert houses
I know you’ll never forget me over there
I’m always missing out dancing
and when blood is in your head
you know what you’re about
you want to find someone
who’ll love you and that’s easy
but I want a woman I can never have
a woman who’s stolen my life
who’s sleeping in her grave
I can’t be
sharing
my body
with you
who’s now a shallow pool
though the room is offices
I can hear them panting now
his saliva wet every bedsheet
he’s your boss
your CEO
I’m quite
resistant
to reform
proposals
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.