Gossip is junkfood-
Cheap talk dressed up like a
Meal,
Served by people who stay
And seasoning them
Hungry
For somebody else's
Downfall.
It hits quicks
Salty,
Messy,
Leaves the tongue filled
In things you can't swallow
Back
People snack on rumors
Like chips in a defective
Bowl,
Crunching half-truths
And seasoning them-
With their own self-doubt.
They pass around
Somebody's pain
Like hors d'oeuvres
At a party they weren't invited to.
But I spit fire now-
Clean fire,
Classy fire,
The kind that burns off
Nonsense
Without lowering itself
To their level.
I don't eat lies
I don't serve them.
I don't sit at tables
Where truth is elective.
Gossip is junkfood-
All flavor, no value,
All noise, no weight
Truth though...
Truth is a plated dish,
Made slow,
Made with hands
That know precisely
Who they 're feeding.
simple
refined
unapologetically elegant
words used to describe a beauty that lingers within
buttons
freckles
width of a finger
hidden in quiet places for only the astute to see
folds &wrinkles, shadows &seams
soft borders that hold back a grace that overflows
sifting
straining
gently seeping flow
a pouring out of details to light the world around
Hard, Cold, Unkind or Uncaring.
Unknown things that cannot encroach upon brilliance
tender
thoughtful
meek &mild
understated pleasures both in gift and in receipt
shifting then lowering… an upturning of the face
balancing by the unspoken order of levels in space
asymmetric and undulating - slightly askew
unexpected effects of a stunningly natural stance
corners
quiet
peace or solace
found only by those who would venture to seek
Lowering her eyes, deeply she blushed
Perhaps my stare a bit too rushed
Turned her pretty shoulder away from me
Left no doubt of what would be
Every gosh darn morning I draw water from the well
Not having indoor plumbing has proven to be hell
If ever I find a way to afford it, that would be swell
I'm annoyed with carrying the buckets. Can you tell?
Lowering the thing is easy because it's so light
I'm chilly on Winter morns, even when the sun is bright
It's been the main reason for many a marital fight
Especially if more water is needed during the night
The hubs declared that it should be woman's work
His chauvinistic attitude shows that he's a jerk
He's a bit lazy at chores, and finds reasons to shirk
Sometimes he makes me so mad that I go berserk!
Usually, I can't carry the water without making a splash
He said he would do it for me... if I paid him in cash
His relentless sarcasm is nothing more than balderdash!
The rudeness is so irritating that he's given me a rash!
Ribbon beach,
displayed in mellow ochre tones
a thing of lowering sky,
beneath the rain which blows in petty drops
that neither wets nor moves the flat and discontented sand,
an ocean milky calm withdraws itself
a lover growing cold
neglectful of its faithful margin land,
the restless rollling surf their child
which permanently shuffles in between
a yellow mother anchored to the earth
and errant father wrapped in waves of blue and green
A gladsome tree, you
Or far less amused
Lowering these, your limbs to
Snatch that in them held?
I can't tell. Except
With no wind to blame
Mushiest, as for it kept
A head, one apple
Of a size none can grapple
Has on it just ' felled'.
Real Tea
We steep it far too long,
lowering thermometers,
holding rulers to steam,
timing the swirl of leaves
in glove-warmed hands
in our cosie cuddled pots.
We revere the cup,
catalogue the aroma,
argue whether the color
means what we think it means—
what real tea ought to be.
Meanwhile,
the real tea drifts,
up and away
with the vapors
that escapes
our nostrils
inhalation!
Wandering off
beyond the grim
plain-glazed rim,
It flaunts its time
it chimes its rhyme
it grins at our
uncertainty
out of reach
of a real cuppa tea.
bit by bit,
itty-bitty—
sip by sip
slip by slip—
whiff by waft,
one leaf at a time.
away from the cup,
away from the tongue,
away from its solemnity
away from the label—
Real Tea!
It's Real?
This Tea!
It's Real Tea!
My Legs kicking toward the orange sky..." The scent of damp wood and twilight..."
The sun lowering, painting the sky with orange, pink, and purple, reflecting on the water, the silhouette of the tree, the ropes of the swing.
Rhythmic creaking of the rope, water lapping against the bank, birds settling down, silence/hush of evening.
I feel it’s texture of the rope or wood, breeze on my skin, the freedom of lifting off and dipping down, the cooling air.
The aroma of damp earth, willow trees, water weeds.
The old rope swing still hangs by the old hollow tree, its insides a refuge for Gods creatures..
The pond so still it is as a mirror, a black pool, a silver surface reflecting the sunset, "liquid light".
An anchor, a guardian, a silent watcher, gnarled oak, weeping willow.
As the swing comes to a stop, so does the sun setting on another day, its rays coveth the ground like a blanket of fire, my bare feet drag the ground as if saying goodbye, I slowly loosen my grasp of rope of the tree swing, bow my head to give thanks, Lord thank you for this old wooden tree swing my solace of Your undying grace…
Walls protect you as you move,
I’ve built them too high to scour.
Leading with survival instinct
demands the thickest of skin.
Flattened ears always on guard
lowering my gaze won’t happen.
Open range feels like freedom
without risking vulnerable parts.
Envious of those built to shield
rare are those called sheepdogs.
Wild doesn’t mean being obvious,
a quiet strategy is what it takes.
Labeled by image not by action
lacerates straight through reality.
Feral flourishes inside of silence
leaving chaos to bloom and grow.
On the run when I’m standing still,
what else did you expect from me?
Energy must eventually be expelled,
rather than remain inside to fester.
Competition is supposed
Lowering the price
We didn't hire them
For these the contracts
And they their win conceptualize
Intelligence aware
Which machine learning
And what is desired outcome
Production of products
Trades and agreements
Internal economy SRAM
This interesting lemma
And this is dilemma
And this real meaning of law
You cannot develop
The system of commons
Because those are for you foe
Find level
Attribution
You cannot exist in no context
To you I am talking?
Have life of your own
Is this the system of yours?
Who gave them the job this
In systems of meaning
For what is now yours the remorse
Yes that in order
Computing of purpose
Wrongly they want innovate
Defense cannot legal
Occur own computing
Where equality false
The most idiotic
Period in history
Machine does exist for machine
There is no authorty
Because it's incompetent
For what do they want any peace
What if AIs of theirs
Really aren't valid
Cannot the true purpose serve
What if in a system
Of many publications
There is neither the point
Nor the force
A hollow vessel contains one last pair of lungs.
Floating, traveling, a drift among a sea of stars.
One purpose, seeking redemption.
Or perhaps, forgiveness?
With no place to call home,
a new light must be found within the darkness.
To challenge the silent pull,
Is to court death.
“All callsigns be advised,
oxygen levels dropping below 5 percent.
I repeat, oxygen levels dropping below 5 percent.”
Tell them not to come back.
This is bigger than us.
Secure the new light.
Lowering to his knees, rage and fear take control.
Staring through solid glass into the vast emptiness,
No thoughts, no words.
Just an empty endless supply of dread.
“All callsigns be advised…
Those stars are already dead.”
119.
Leaf on Water
Gracefully descending
Downward it's coming
Southward it's going
Lowering, lowering
Thin and subtle
Light and gentle
Now on the shackle
Of water level
Chlorophyll coloring
In water it's brewing
White clam is opening
Tasting, tasting.
-04/24/2012
(Dumarao)
*for Vet.Med. poem in Salingsing Issue of 1st Sem., AY 2011-12
Issue of 1st Sem., AY 2011-12
Only last night they came again—
those pale, insistent travelers of sleep,
moving through the corridors of my mind
as softly as breath on glass.
I had never walked in Italy before,
neither by sun nor by moon,
yet there it rose before me—
blue skies opened like silk above stone,
and the hills lay bare of trees,
gold and waiting like an ancient promise.
She was there among them,
laughing as if time had no meaning,
her hands shaping the air itself,
lifting and lowering the moment
until my heart spilled out its wonder, upward
and I vanished into light.
They raced one another across the fields,
ghosts and girls and flickers of desire,
while I stood rooted in the dream,
aching with the sweetness of it,
unable to follow the succubus
unable to wake from such a wicked dream.
And when morning finally found me spent,
their footsteps still rang in my head —
proof that even where we have never lived before ,
can still haunt us,
and even what we have never touched,
still intensely touches us
It still can haunt me like that memory and.
moving day across town
I was incredibly busy
With two babies
moved much of the boxes by myself
babies were three and two
They took turns running around boxes
fighting over tape, laughing at the emptiness of both houses
I was exhausted, but happy about the move
We were moving from one rental to another
But it was bigger, and I had plans for it
I debated about the mirror
It was old and beautiful
Could I carry it by myself?
I decided to try.
As I came out of the house I saw this
The three-year-old was lowering the two-year-old out of the car
I had to make a choice.
I dropped the mirror and ran to save the two-year-old
from possibly hitting her head on the sidewalk
"Please, please give me some milk?
The Last words of Michael Jackson
(Milk was his nickname for the general anesthetic Propofol he took to sleep.)
A dream so wonderful it could not last
An impressive voice so vast lay mute in death
His light was stilled and my soul shattered
It dripped with grief for what could have been
The songs of a young boy sublime
So full of promise, health and stardom
A talent glorious- that in immortality it lasts
Some condemned, some were traitors, liars
His life became empty- his journey a struggle
But his amazing music is what he left us
His talent an inspiration to the young and old
and his dancing steps lead us up to heaven
In death his "milk" drug killed him
Oh, could no one help? His doctor?
No family, friend, manager ? I would have
I can still hear his voice- it comforts me
His journey was of waves rising and lowering
He sang until his quiet voice was stilled in death
Yes, I mourn his passing, the ravaged talent
and the people who left him alone suffering
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.