I was in the mood
for a real page-turner.
My bibliophile friend
handed me a book of white-knuckle suspense.
"Read this! It's quite a doozy!," she promised.
And she wasn't lying....
I blew off many a phone call,
filed away my to-do lists,
prioritized book above all hobbies,
yadda yadda.....
I was surprised how fast I got to
the final chapter.
Alas, I didn't get to close the book.
Not yet anyway...
A surprise I never anticipated, you see.
Ugh, never have I
groaned so loudly in my life!
Jane knew I'd come to her
confused, demanding an explanation....
"Hey, is this your idea of a practical joke?", I asked.
She guffawed her "Yes,"
handing me
the last page she tore out.
Silly gal, best believe I'll get her back.....
“Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.” ~ The final sentence of The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.
A child was gone forever…
Was I, too, once a child?
Would it be that never,
I’d again run free and wild?
Would I simply pass away
like little Fodder-wing,
not to see another day
where I might fly or sing?
Lately, I’ve been thinking of
a brand-new hopeful dawn,
and the feel of earnest love -
of Jody and his fawn.
I saw a waterwheel, saw a rabbit,
took more than just a look.
Another’s soul, I’d inhabit
in the chapters of a book.
Lost forever to the ages,
a long, forgotten “when” -
four hundred thirty pages
gave me childhood again.
The workshop doesn't teach poetry.
It simply preserves
the threads of voices
woven into
words and emotions.
The diwata believes that every poem carries
a piece of its poet's soul.
Time stands still
in this enchanted world.
In the cloudless sky,
the stars dance
around the moon.
Beyond the window,
alitaptap drift
across endless fields
of sampaguita flowers.
Their fragrance lingers
in every corner
of the workshop.
You will discover how my keen mind works
Through books I’ve read, or rather, through their quirks.
I leap into unknown as pages turn,
As chapters fly I find where I belong.
To fight and win the hero’s wars I yearn
While my adventures move the plot along.
I roam through distant worlds in every book,
I delve into the author’s shared insight.
I’m Tom, I’m Robinson, I’m Captain Hook,
An English orphan, a Round Table Knight.
I taste survival grip in Love of Life,
My Gatsby’s in pursuit of a green light,
Edmond Dantes’ obsessive revenge drive -
His vengeance burns until the wrongs are right.
Can’t help falling in love with Princess Bride,
I wear an Iron Mask - my grand disguise,
With loyal Dr. Watson by my side,
I’m charismatic Bond, spy of all spies.
I laugh out loud at cantankerous Grinch
Who holds angelic villagers in fear,
Bet beloved Dr. Seuss didn’t flinch
At placing Grinch’s sneer against Christmas cheer.
As pages turn into unknown I leap -
The realm I enter is mine to keep.
September 7, 2026
I know a fine gent named Bartholomew
Quite a literati, I promise you
He always finds a way
To read ten books a day
Barth, how can we possibly honor you
I don’t want to ‘curl up with a nice book by the fire
on a long, cold, snowy winter’s night’
No! I want something riveting
a story with some punch! to challenge me
and my prehistoric convictions
Can it sit me up straight in my chair,
hair, not hearth, on fire? If not, count me out
~ my heart's not retired
Attraction between us?
Admiration for you?
Devotion for one night?
Obsession for a lifetime?
Aphrodite has cursed me?
Unprecedented, this desire to love, you say?
To spend my days beside you?
To flee my desires, my very self?
It's amazing how I resist change,
not all whispered promises are sublime;
they can make somebody cringe;
it's that poet who struggles for a rhyme.
Tricksters have a word for everyting
to cover up their embarrassing schemes;
I keep away from fakers who sugaroat dreams
with believable words that hide cheating.
Making me guess is the strangest suspense,
it's a selfish way to love yourself
and not care for anyone else;
shouldn't you hold me and love me to death?
Some tricksters have a word for everything
to over up their embarrassing schemes;
I keep away from fakers who sugarcoat dreams
with believable words that hide cheating.
I've been down the road of pretentiousness,
I expected but I got kicked in the ass;
that's how tricksters get what they want,
in the long run, they fail and remain defiant.
Fairy tales were written to make one dream,
did reality reveal their meaning with pretentious theme?
I read them with boyish curiosity, they brought a gleam,
not enough to make me jump up and scream.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
fell into my field today.
We sat beside a lovely flower
and whiled away the hour.
Call me Pinocchio, if you will.
Going to school gives me no thrill,
and my worst enemy,
a cricket named Jiminy,
I'm about ready to kill.
The city swallows up the lights,
The night spills gasoline,
I walk past the shopfronts —
Smoke is reflected in their glass.
Someone is shouting about love,
Someone is silent about war,
While I keep searching among them
For the one that burns in the dark.
Unknown star —
Who are you shining there for?
Maybe for those who are tired,
Or for those who never knew.
I raise my eyes —
The sky is like an old screen,
Someone is changing the plot,
But I play the game myself.
Let them say it’s only a dream,
Let them say I’ll never get there,
If my home goes dark,
I will be the light within.
Unknown star,
You won’t answer me “yes,”
But if the whole world falls apart —
You won’t go dark alone.
Author: Dmitry Lyubishkin
You made me to your making
this hideous hide of being
I roam the world
of ice and barren trees
starving
(more hungering)
than food will fill
or sustaining reason
I find myself, by taper light,
a more hollow skeleton
than bones of baren solitude
Chase me, Frankenstein!
Your despondent soul, can still see me
a blot away on a desolate sea,
a stiller ice, an unfathomable sand
I will be where dreams shall see!
Art is not a profession,
it is just the beauty of life.
Poetry and literature are not professional works,
they are the beauty of the soul.
Art is not for sale,
because it connects to our souls.
You cannot destroy art
because it lives in our hearts.
Art is life's beauty,
making life itself beautiful.
Art is everything,
and everything is art.
If you find art in your life,
your life becomes art.
At birth I enter the cell
Heaven and Hell
Here on Earth, it’s hard to tell
Heaven and Hell
The reading from the Holy Pell
Heaven and Hell
A highway or a stairwell
Heaven and Hell
Milton and Dante, do tell
Heaven and Hell
Screwtape’s nephew learns well
Heaven and Hell
A king and the witch’s spell
Heaven and Hell
Emotions a hurricane swell
Heaven and Hell
A voice left in quell
Heaven and Hell
Watch out for Luther’s inkwell
Heaven and Hell
Past the shadow and death’s dell
Heaven and Hell
The bell’s knell
Heaven and Hell
The 13th pealing as well
Heaven and Hell
Resolution:
Covered by a pall
And that’s all
A death and pangs on Earth
And then eternal birth
Death,
Come not in haste!
For You are monstrous Mighty;
For your hand were deep, Long over our innocent hearts!
Death,
All your paths
Shall breed mournings!
Upon man’s endeavors in the sun, Above their presence;
Mission and vision.
Death is a great ocean!
Sub Categories
Definition | What is Literature in Poetry?
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.