I’m a nice person
I’d help someone if they fell on the street
I’ve always given directions when asked
Of course I smile at strangers, it’s just polite
What do you mean a hospital was bombed today?
Anyway, my favourite artist just released a new album
I know she pollutes with her private jet but… she’s a feminist
I just don’t like to make waves, I’m a nice person
What do you mean kids were dragged from their homes and zip tied?
And I’ve heard we’re supposed to boycott or something
But I just can’t live without my coffee
And I don’t really understand why anyway
It was on the news but I turned it off, it’s just too sad
I have to protect my peace
What do you mean 72,000 confirmed dead in two years?
What do you mean 7,000 books banned in the world’s freest country?
What do you mean they’ve taken women’s ability to speak?
…
I woke up today and my fingers were wrinkled
My joints ached, my hair greyed
Faces sat below me, children, grandchildren
They asked what I did
How I helped
I don’t like to make waves
I’m a nice person
In a world where you have to watch your back
Unable to tell friend from foe
Tiptoeing around the big issues
Until you are sure it’s safe
To let your guard down
The easier path is to simply shut up.
And in our silence our isolation grows.
When you get censored, or censor others
You also start to censor yourself
Not wanting to make waves
Destroy relationships, threaten jobs and reputations.
And when you censor yourself
Pretty soon you don’t even think anymore
Outside the box, with its velvet padded lining.
Pretty soon the world we live - in and out -
Is reduced to silence
And then it doesn’t matter much
What the box is lined in.
(10/16/25)
My hair is a whimsical canvas my crown
It’s so versatile pinned up or flowing down
An expression of my natural creativity
Hair is a blessing of my femininity
Sometimes I let the pillow style it
Go with the flow wearing my wild wit
In this way my hair is a cocoa cloud
All soft and fluffy unruly truly proud
Sometimes the rain puffs it up
I don’t complain I just embrace love
If I wear a natural Afro style
Or twists with bliss will make me smile
I can never go wrong with braids
Long or short the patterns make waves
Take it down and enjoy it anew
Crinkled and wrinkled my hair is the truth
Even if I have had bad hair days
Can cut it short or even shave
Hair is an expression when I’m feeling chatty
Fine like vine thick like brick stringy or nappy
Gray Blue, by Lisa Norton
Gray skies. Gray cement walls. Gray gravel. Gray emotion as I lead myself single file into the long line that yet again stands before me.
Yellow shirts. Yellow skin. Yellow anxiety within the veins. How can it be so lonely in a place so full?
White pads. White eyes. White teeth. Nothing is so white as when remembered. Purity lost. The white cloud has long since passed.
Brown plastic. Brown squares. Brown rectangles. Their corners are soft. The delivery of process is rude, yet the sentiment is understood.
Pink Polish. Pink nail. Pink singing on the neighbor’s radio. There is never silence. Silence offends the slightest offender.
Black print. Black boots. Blackened hearts. At least I pretend. No point when all advantage is taken of remote beauty here.
Red eyes. Red sun. Red uniform. Everyone face the wall. Don’t look. Do not make waves in this red sea of animosity.
Blue spirit. Blue thoughts. Blue as LeAnn Rymes sang. But he told me, “the skies are bluer”. Ahead, the clarity is awash. Blue days.
Unironically uninspired,
I drift through the grey,
Floating through hours,
A lone leaf on still water,
Away from my life source,
Insignificant and yet common,
Waiting for the storm.
There’s no fire in my chest,
No spark, no fight,
Just the dull hum of existence,
A clock ticking in a quiet room.
I breathe in the ordinary,
Exhale the mundane.
But then –
the crash,
the crack in the sky,
the world splits open,
and I am alive.
In the chaos,
I find colour.
In the rubble,
I build towers.
When the earth trembles beneath me,
I dance.
Only in the crisis
do I find myself whole.
Unironically, I wait
for the storm,
for the flood,
for the flame,
so I can rise,
so I can burn,
so I can feel
what it means
to be alive.
I’ll make waves.
I’ll be noticed.
I’ll be heard,
listened to,
acknowledged,
remembered.
There once was a man who lived in the graves,
for many demons had made him their slaves.
But when Jesus he met
he would never forget
this complete stranger, willing to make waves.
When no longer the demons could torment
to a swine herd, they besought to be sent.
Jesus met their request;
human herd coalesced
all supplying their advice and dissent.
To steer clear of more demon disaster,
the man pleaded to make Jesus, Master.
"Go home," Jesus commends,
"with your neighbors be friends -
what I need now is a good newscaster."
You never ignore yourself.
You....a finger pointing nowhere.
You flap; make waves,
what else you got?
A flashy kite with no sky
that's what.
If a vulture and a jellyfish
gave birth to an offspring,
they would name it: Ego.
A monstrously beautiful blob was told
what it was and was not,
the term, 'monstrous blob,'
was, of course, never mentioned.
Identity rose up like a hissing cobra,
the blob believed what it was told.
First thoughts set like concrete.
Ego always thinks that everyone is against him,
even when they are applauding him,
it was always nothing more than an airbag,
that could be easily inflated or deflated.
Great and talented egos arose:
Gehgis Khan, Aristotle, Starlin, Copernicus
Mozart, Julius Caesar, and, of course, you -
all sprung from that parent trap.
The good the bad, the oppressed
and victors, all the winged jellyfish
floating through time
and most everyone
never once ignoring themselves -
not for one moment.
Fly away eagle, swim away jellyfish,
heaven and hell were always inside us,
and we never guessing,
that we were this monstrously beautiful
bag of wind always likely to burst,
if one day
we got lucky.
I'm a diamond in the rough a bit rough
around the edges
Many jewels may go unnoticed buried deep
until found to be a blessing
I just mine within my mind to bring forth
what I have found
It's like I'm an ocean full of buried treasures
you can call me a liquid noun
I make noise without a sound but make waves
with lucid thoughts
What I possess is worth the world if you appraise
it but something that can't be bought
From an early age I was taught to speak my mind
though it may be unorthodox
I am a flaming light that grew from darkness so
I guess I'm a paradox
The bluebird was shy
Unassuming
She did not want to make waves
Or hurt anyone’s feelings
The lady in the window watched eagerly
Hoping the blue bird would understand
The house was made especially for her
Bluebirds are rare and humble
They think of others first
They wait, even past their turns
The lady was holding her breath
She knew if a wren or sparrow swooped in
She would have to build a new bluebird house
“it is for you” she tried to convey to the bluebird
The bluebird did not think she was worthy enough
She flew off, and stayed away for two days
Before deciding that it was okay to inhabit her new dwelling
Home makers like the sun , I salute
Who helps me clean more or less that I can’t
giving me hand.
love lies in this needy trust
After all,I reside in my needs
than in my own home.
I survive better with these relationships
than with the provided facilities that
can't help me facilitate my self.
Life is a story of relationships
A story of survival
It is a song of selfish passions,
made possible through these
stories of relationships.
The wind , cooler than air conditioners
full of life ,make waves move through my veins.
The sun,air,water and earth and character
make survival sufficient
yet sufficiently sustaining is the greatest work.
These friends ,beyond sexuality
are not normal
and keep their own uniqueness in function.
I would rather see my own wrath
than co-operate in the corporate systems of
apathy.
A bug who loved to doodle
was floating on a noodle.
He had to get some sunscreen;
the sun was getting brutal.
He could not reach the lotion;
he needed a commotion
to interrupt the pristine,
make waves just like an ocean.
He saw a pretty spider;
he sidled up beside her
to ask if she would help him
because she was a glider.
She glided to a lady
Who was a big fat ‘fraidy.
A-shriekin’ and a-yelpin’,
she made the pool all wavy.
Our bug packed his caboodle,
then hopped out off his noodle.
It seems that he was last seen
astride a golden doodle.
So if you don’t want cancer,
and you’re a take-a-chancer,
a long-haired dog romancer,
doodles may be your answer.
SPIRALS AND SMOKE ( Song )
Earth vibrates spirals and smoke
Making cool blue diamonds
with my splintered bygones
I absorb your racy lacy ecstasy
Through my autumnal death
You and hibiscus fetch
the fragrance of my heart
a dart as art
( Chorus x 2
We dance our dreams
Listen to echoes, it seems
through delicate voice boxes
Spirals and smoke
pokes and jokes
pokes and jokes )
Once again I awaken
to swim the Seas of Wisdom
Make waves and atoms
Now you hold an action baton
( Chorus x 2
We dance our dreams
Listen to echoes, it seems
through delicate voice boxes
Spirals and smoke
pokes and jokes
pokes and jokes )
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song2021
It's raining into a bucket;
church roofs are adjusting
to a weeping God.
In the face of these domestic disturbances
grandmother's are still cooking lemon-chicken
and cherry pie,
wondering what the hell for, and why?
Generations are gravely concerned,
we are forced to import more
cheaply made Chinese coffins.
For $24.99. we can buy youth in a jar.
but wait, for just a $100 more
we will sell you a mop
to wipe the flooding floor.
Good morning America
may I take your wagging dog for a walk
in a warzone today?
The Sunday rain is pelting -
wait, is that the sound
of tyrannical heels marching?
Let's give thanks to all the weeping gods
that we need not run for cover,
as long as we stay in the bucket,
don't make waves
or spill over.
Maybe it's better to roam about unnoticed
To do your thing with so much pride
That you forget that some see it as a competition
That where you are in life
Is where you need to be even if you dont make waves just yet
Have you noticed that the shoreline does its work without praise
Its duty without being reminded
Yet for order to remain even the shoreline has an important part to play
I will be like the shoreline; do what is required to the best of my ability
No matter who notice
In the end it is not about being seen
It's about what will speak for you when you cant
©09112021
I will wander like a gypsy seeking wisdom,
I will find it in each little knowledge system;
Each hair of beauty I'll split like a small atom,
And find in them the secrets hidden like stratum...
The world has wondrous places resembling heaven,
Like Bocas, Ha’apais, Tonga, Ya’mon or Devon;
Sailing by luxury cruisers boats and love yachts,
I'll make - waves and whales - stern companions of my sports...
Lying on roses, lilies, and hyacinths grand,
I'll sip the sacred nectar secretes like thin strand;
Like a butterfly or dragonfly, I’ll hover,
Savoring the sharp shrill subtle season-shower...
My movements are like swimming within clouds shallow,
And bathing within seas of heavenly hallow;
May sun and moon, like angels, guard my flimsy way,
May each ray that gleams like thousand lights, idyll-sway...
Milky Way, like grand seas, waters of blessings bring,
May Jays, Buntings, puffins, and pheasants, for me, sing;
Cosmos, like a wind instrument, mingle my voice,
May new heaven and earth in my great joys rejoice...
14 September 2021
IDYLL THOUGHTS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
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.