The load bearing capacity
Load bearing consistency
It lack such but provides
the artist the ability to create
It's need for insulation
He stood before with
Such a grin
The conversation would be
needed to talk in a standized
Way.
Grams into ounces
Kilos into pounds
Liters into cups
They stood there smiling
Like gold miners we
Struggle with the same
Math.
Might these conversations
Make the fear of gypsum
Block making easier or
easiest that we fear not
that thou are with us
To speak these manga stations true.
That those who wish us parted
May frown in the fact that have
been undermined in a reversed fashion
Might they then speak us as
Lord and Laird, yet we pray
Yet we pray!
New year starts from prayers to cheerful soul and nice eating habits
Nutritious foods, balanced diet and purity of life always keep us fit.
Every morning, let’s all stretch, bend, jump, walk, run or dance
Exercise controls weight, heart and brain cells are enhanced.
Working every day at long hours…so exhausting, we sweat a lot
We need to drink 2 to 3 liters of water especially if the weather is hot.
Sunshine-exposure each morning strengthens muscles and bones
Stronger body resistance to diseases boasts soundly like horn.
Temperance regarding foods, smoking, alcohol or liquor
Trash vices! Health is annihilated at a drunken stupor.
Air is fresh and soothing at beaches-- take time to walk, inhale
Always check air quality index, wear mask if AQI is low, fails.
Relax once in a while, watch movies, listen to music or sing
Rest from long days’ work, refresh mind, have enough hours of sleeping.
These health laws add life, bring peace and joy, dodging all tears
Trust God above all, for spirit and body’s strength throughout the year.
The Who’s were all gathered one Thanksgiving day.
Their little brains pondered what games they might play.
They’d already feasted so royally that
they couldn’t stand up from the place where they sat.
They’d hobgoblin-gobbled their fish with no break
when they pigged out on pork and a juicy beast steak.
On Yorkshire pudding so puffy and yummy
they soaked up their gravy and filled up their tummy.
They tore into trifle. Someone blew a raspberry!
Toffee pudding so sticky made each Who so merry.
They guzzled mulled wine - those Who over-eaters.
Oh how they guzzled those big wine-filled liters.
They’d wanted to think up fun games, but each Who,
by the time they stopped feasting, could not a thing do!
Their tooting and pooting turned into their game,
and I’m thankful no Who in that room lit a flame!
Parents raise children:
a thousand sleepless night
a thousand liters of sweats and tears
a thousand words of advices
a thousand hugs and kisses
a thousand hundreds of money for education
a thousand hardship and few success.
Ten after four in the AM. I wait for
my daughter’s death with a cup of coffee
at the kitchen table, thinking maybe
tonight’s the night.
She hasn’t been breathing well at all,
all day and tonight I fear just might be
her time.
Her oxygen concentrator is set at ten liters
the highest it’ll go.
Bringing oxygen up the staircase to her bedroom
through a tube to a nasal cannula in her nose.
Now and then it makes a funny squeaking sound
sort-of like a mouse crying out stuck on a glue trap.
I’d much rather write one more poem about those tattoos
she came home with all those years ago that pissed me off
to no end, but.
This is my life now, and like a true democrat, this poet
embraces.
Never let a good crisis go to waste, so I write this poem.
I would take in liters of air of
confidence and honesty,
after that, I would dive
in the deepest parts of the
political ocean
to hunt politically apathetic, callous
dishonest squids
I used to diet.
Wrote down every crumb I put into my mouth.
Drank twelve glasses of water a day.
Wrote them down too.
Exercised an hour a day at Curves.
Got buff.
Found muscles I did not know I had.
Looked like a coach in my legs.
Barely remember any of that now.
As I reach for my chips and dip
after sucking down three Hershey bars
and drinking two liters of cream soda.
Happier now
fluffier too
Try to picture one who repents.
It's like one who oneself repaints
Ten liters of paint is lot of money
Try to price it: It's not funny.
While good and bad paint cost a lot
What God just wants is "What we've got."
For those who finally repent
Your big house lost to a tent;
You return all the money lent:
Not just like that, voice of a gent,
For each new sin your fine robes rent,
Your guilty head readily bent.
Your eyes have more depth then the oceans have liters
My affection for you is larger then outer space is in meters
For you my sweet I would fly to close to the sun
Just so I could spend eternity drowning in your ocean
Blue eyes like sapphires that shimmer and glisten
The sound of your voice my ears could forever listen
For Icarus was over come with giddiness too
Just as I am at the mere site of you
With you & I the story is just at its beginning
But in meeting each other I find we are both winning!
I know I shan’t try it, again:
Plunging into water of any sort
For the thrills by the crazy sought:
The Obviously Robbed of True Gain!
The last time I did
Drank two liters I didn’t need,
The pond ever holding out an opened lid!
The fullest pints of untreated water,
Daring me to a single word mutter
Or even a mere syllable utter;
The beats of my heart, a wild flutter!
What a plot
To have one in water rot,
The press serving the headline, very hot
About the Brought to a Naught
By greenish water, 200 pm on the dot
All too soon frantic legs kicking
And chaotic thoughts fanning,
As death continues its presence asserting.
It is less of redemptive energy
And more of a loser’s lethargy
Oxygen-withholding waters vouchsafing no apology.
So, I should be readying for the longest sleep:
For a bed in the mortifying deep;
What shall my Loved |Ones cause to weep
And many hearers their skin creep.
I once knew a fellow from Pensacola
Who drank liters of fizzy Coca-Cola
He peed in the street
And on his bare feet
Now I think he is enrolled at Loyola.
written June 27, 2021
To worship God Shiva linga hundreds of kilo-liters of milk being wasted
Imagine how many hundred of proletarian child could have been served with nutritious food in such quantities of milk
for some days.
Please hang me as a heretic
Such as Copernicus who was killed by the fanatic
But know that I was
the truth.
(Shivratri is one of the ritual of the Hindus.
In this day lakhs of woman pour a lot of milk upon an idol called shivlinga in the temple)
He carries his life with himself,
And bullets to fill, once he’s done,
Water is measured in gulps rather than liters,
He witnesses his own friends’ burn.
He is sleep deprived,
Physically and mentally tired,
He fights with himself to save his life,
He finds;
Killing is the only key to survive.
He dunks down, rolls around,
Is bruised and tattered,
His meaning about life, all shattered,
But his eyes know where his enemies can be found.
He aims with his one eye closed,
Finger ready to pull the trigger,
With one pull, one falls,
The count keeps on growing bigger.
He cannot afford to relax,
He knows about the price,
Death can come from any direction,
And he’ll not know until his flesh is sliced.
That’s the ultimate thing,
The ultimate price,
Heroic is how his death will be described,
Twenty one guns to the sky,
Takes him high, high above,
But what about his family?
What about his love?
- Avee Hang
Premium members
can read the words below that
you see as three x's
There once was a French
girl named Nanc who set sail from
the west coast of ***
Seven sisters swam
in a race, but only one
finished in first ***
Cym went to the store
to buy shoes—but instead bought
two liters of ***
I saw her today
at the reception, waiting
for her ***
Drey was driving her
Lexus when she saw the sign,
"Don't mess with ***!"
Rhonda was riding
in a Caddy driven by
her Sugar ***
Who would have thought
that so much money could be made
from humans killing humans
And how ingenuity could be harnessed to
the industrious fabrication of weapons
The unconscionable necessities of profit
design the shrapnels politics
Who would have thought
that so much luxury could be bought
from humans killing humans
Pitiful deluded patriots of weaponry
so worship the anti-life money
But in the festoon of lacerated death
target genocide on the innocent
Bitter salt to those so easily encouraged
filling bank accounts with their marching corpses
Count the coins by bloodied liters
weapons dealers are never soldiers
And who would have thought
that so many humans could be brought
to serve the armories of weapons industries
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.