I remember little of my childhood.
Or perhaps I remember too much, but all of it in fragments.
Marabá Paulista would wake up before God lit the sun.
First came the smell of packed lunches being prepared—mingling scents
that slipped uninvited through the cracks in the houses' weathered wood.
Then, the diesel fumes and the red dust.
Old trucks, like monsters, rumbled through the streets,
swallowing up the adults and vanishing down the dirt road.
During the day, the town belonged to the children and the elderly.
We thought that was freedom.
At dusk, the trucks returned,
spitting out bodies that were barely alive;
my parents would arrive—worn out, stooped, and weary.
As a boy, I didn't yet know
how to put a name to it.
Today I know:
the trucks didn't just carry workers.
They carried away pieces of childhood.
/Boom Bap Reverie
Crates cracked open in dusk-lit basements/
Needles tracing dust on grooves of gold, Soul samples looped—forgotten statements resurrected from wax, stories retold/
Basslines thump like city heartbeats, Hi-hats flicker, snare drums snap, old school wisdom in concrete streets, Cyphers ignite in a boom bap trap/
Chopped horns echo in subway tunnels, Scratch of vinyl, a DJ’s prayer, Freestyle poets, words like funnels pouring truth in the midnight air/
Apollo Brown dreams in sepia tones, Soul-worn records, crate diggers’ pride, Underground kingdom, built on bones of legends who never died/
So, spin that hour of rare instrumental. Let nostalgia ride the groove in every sample/ Hip Hop's past is still on fire/, and hip hop’s spirit finds its truth/
The scout tent lit alight,
the dear diary burns bright,
go ask Alice,
mortal fears
no longer children.
Thou shou not weep
Thou shou reap
Strangers lurk in playgrounds
echoing such innocent sounds.
Chain me up sister,
its a red fiery full moon tonight,
and sunken no longer are my eyes
as you dance in the pale of sun,
with the full delicatessen
of glowing freckled numbing pins.
The porous strands of devious sins
My werewolf hairs stand up within
there is a light which grows
it holds itself close
luminance low, barely a flicker
yellow radiance
lighting the darkened path created by the trees,
they twist and wind with rocks following the roots,
birds rest their beautiful whistles,
and the light stands at the end of the path
as I walk closer it grows brighter
feet held by weary caution
my hands keep my balance
the night grows larger and soon I find myself lost
but the light which flickers locks my perseverance
citrus hues flicker through the dense forest
branches lash and stones stumble
guided I saunter, lit by a flame
.
ooooh
my my
mine
mine
enlighten'd
with
one glint
yourn
sparkle glister
wink
')
The woman of the house glances at the clock
Sabbath must be ushered in chic-chac*
Friday eve, hers is the lead role for the People of the Book
Sabbath one minute late, the Queen simply will not brook
___________________________________________________
*Transliteration of Hebrew slang for 'right away.'
her hands
did not turn on light bulbs.
they were light bulbs,
they were clay vessels through which flowed
a light tired from too much godliness.
when she entered the room,
it wasn’t her who entered,
it was a silence that had lost its voice
in a burned temple,
and had come searching for it inside me.
the angel beneath the bed
came out like a healed shadow
and whispered to me:
“Now you can sleep,
your mother’s hands are keeping watch.”
and I,
a child uttering
his first prayer,
looked into my mother’s palms
as if into a holy book,
unknown,
but true.
once,
an old woman from the village told me:
“Women like your mother
do not come into the world, they pour forth,
like light from icons
or like God from a child.”
since then,
when I think of light,
I do not see the sun,
but my mom’s hands
wiping the dust
from the face of the world.
Some time just before the sunset,
When the butterflies were gone,
The moon was on its way,
There was no eclipse, but it felt that way
When there was darkness all around,
A beam entered in their life,
Turning the time around,
With 11:11, no longer on the clock
Beneath the sun's glaze, we often turn blind eye,
While seeing the perspective through the moon's eye,
We often forget to see from whom it borrowed that light
But the sun will always set right?
The moon will come again too,
For we will always appreciate the moon
Who will appreciate the sun for giving up its youth?
the lady bug lit
on me each step by step stuck
tiny wings waved hi!
~
fluttering moving
gently suddenly took off
fled didn't say bye
~
as the lady bug flew
disappearing from my large view
abrupt not subdue
6/5/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2025©
A flame is lit
a flame of freedom
Will it become a blazing torch
~ or slowly lose support
Lit a Light
For arousing the Curiosity
Ignite the minds
For encouraging a new scientific discovery
Empower them
with basics of Science and technology
Who knows there may be a budding scientist
Amidst this serenity.
Prepare our students for Global Competency
To fight against all adversity
As we are meant to impart
Quality education for personality and for Nationality.
#Poem written by a science teacher to all science teachers on the occasion of National science Day
Ketaki Patankar
Lit
If You
Have To
Be
,
Be
The
ONLY
Weird 1.
-Gray Squirrel
10-21-2024
About scriptural paradox, "No one who
comes to Me will hunger," book of John
answers, albeit at surface value, aplomb
nature believers' satisfaction that they too
disburden all. Book of Matthew in that it
lights, "Blessed those who hunger," oath
everybody who seeks in need will receive.
Lesson: Teaches a somewhat juxtaposition
insights side-by-side parity as it's entitled.
True believers hunger for God, He satisfies.
Misfit always out of step with the world,
Outsider longing to run forever;
Then into my reticent life you twirled;
Proximity my only endeavor;
Eyes lit on fire and my appetite swirled,
there was no confusion whatsoever;
The vampire in me kindled a sparkle,
Edward Cullen please make me immortal.
In bed I feel
I gave up on you
I have been lying to myself
If I told you I'm sorry
I broke your heart
the cadence dont rhythm
What am I to do
to err on love
like some lit fuse
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.