Simplicity
by Frank Daub
I showed a wooden pencil to a friend.
He tried to give attention
going directly to the end
of the pointed lead.
“You have to sharpen that,” he said,
analyzing quickly my waste of time.
He preferred drop-down menus
on miniscule screens
while waiting in a line.
Scorched
moss
remnant
speck of dust,
dainty dot matchbox
plume ex tiny chaser light chain,
dried out moist field, drought a wretched blight, habitat woe,
as wide sweep venal mindsets purge swathe after swathe of candle fly inbred impish glint,
they feeble bugs, leaf strewn dwellers whose twinkle once power charmed tree tops, lush pastures, putrid logs, harmless to the touch, dodging worldly brass nerve,
warm-hearted watchers for the environment who pose not the remotest threat of even miniscule proportions, now diminishing landscape feature, they atrophy, sag, shrivel, wither, languish, a pointless premature death
I'm twisted, starved, and revoltingly stunted,
blacksheeped, scape-goated, and litter-runted.
That's the brimstone pit and nightmare waste
from which emerged my delectable taste.
I have no interest in straightened teeth.
Don't show me a stone. I want what's underneath,
flat and squirming with plenty of legs,
miniscule monsters, hatched from eggs.
Your giggling voice that says, "You're weird"
is attached to brains once commandeered
by representatives of a safe community
unsettled by my unique pathology,
who told you wrongly, you'd never be found
writhing deliriously on forsaken ground,
where you and me would intertwine,
not far from the highway sign -
isn't it divine?
Lou, the harvest moon witch sits on a lovely stump
next to a miniscule gremlin who can be a grump
He is trying to nay-say her into a bad mood
But she has confidence and fortitude
Go away honey, she says, unless you can be positive
He slinks away into the leaves, that Gremlin, Shiv
Admiring her greatly, but a bit miffed too
He could not change the mood of that witch, harvest moon Lou
Souvenirs
nostalgic
heirloom
memorabilia
archived
muniments
prospectus
paraphernalia
posters
sequestered
Benefaction blight
twinkling trinket
tinged trophy
hoisted
himalayan style
melancholy monument
meteoric miniscule
flyby
verdant vestiges
viral vanish
Mayfly
transient
miscellany
evanescent
detritus
fugacious
snippets
antiquarian
bricolage
hodgepodge
Testament atrophied
gossamer gaudy
gazumping
languid lodger’s
meretricious milestone
culminated
artefact assemblage
bowdlerised bijou
moribund reticule
abecedarian
Marcescent abstract
mileage mocker
synthetic switch
unplugging
nomadic nonpareil
reminiscence’s
ineffable
ephemeron
aphoristic
aleatory
Fate
Spins and weaves it's tapestry in
Strange ways,
Replied my friend janick to
My delightful story of how,
Indirectly,
I
Met Wendy
Aren't they the most beautiful words
They certainly warmed me
And such a tapestry fate,
Indeed, weaves
From the highest of highs to
The deepest and lowest of
Lows
In an eyeblink,
A tiny miniscule moment.
And vice versa.
Love
Is a wonderful thing.
And, my love,
I too descended from the highest heights,
Loving you
And that fateful day
Losing you.
But,
You never really left,
I
Never really stopped
Loving you
I
Just do it now,
In a different way.
We all do.
But,
In truth,
It's very very hard...
They must be in tune with the crackling
Hisses of slow-burning wood —
Fires of the season —
Each miniscule cake of ash reminiscent
Of a burnt-out year.
Sparks ascend to heaven, reminding us
Of the cliché —rising stars.
Songs and melodies fill the air,
With old voices heard once in a year —
At this time of year, with whistling snow,
When the world grows old — and happily.
To the Tiny Ants I Slaughter Every Day
I've been at war with you for some time now.
Your initial assault was impressive, I'll give you that.
Slew you by thousands,
Black swarms down the shower drain.
Now it's down to scouting parties
Up through the sinks every morning.
I drown you, crush you without thought;
Little red smears easily wiped away.
Does your Queen wonder why
Her Probes never return?
Are they, in their last moments
Aware of their immolation?
Are our own cells,
Myriads every second,
Aware of theirs?
Miracles are happening inside those doomed cells
The ants have brains,
Actually the largest by body mass,
Miniscule though they be.
While Out There
In the formless Nothing of Space
There await The Asteroid, The Great Solar Flare
The Giant Gamma Ray Burst
The Wandering Black Hole
To quash the tiny Probes,
To rid the Gods
Of the tiny, tiresome ants.
The auditorium was filled
With every class in school.
On stage, a small TV set sat –
For sure, too miniscule.
The year was ’61 or 2,
A spaceship set to go,
With either Alan Shepard
Or John Glenn; I do not know.
But we’d been prepped and we were psyched;
We watched in silent awe,
Though only those in front were sure
Of what they really saw.
I though of that last night as I
Was fixed on my TV
To watch the capsule slowly drift
And plop into the sea.
To many younger folk, this wasn’t
Much of a big deal.
They couldn’t quite experience
What those my age did feel
Remembering so long ago
When space was the frontier
We thought we’d conquer, but that was
A different atmosphere.
angry antelopes allowing ants access
bashful buzzards behaving beautifully
curious calves cavorting in the corn
definitive ducks digesting division
eager elephants eliciting excitement
frenzied freckled frogs freely frolicking
greasy green grubworms groveling and grimacing
harried hyenas hectically hopping hopefully
ignorant iguanas ignoring the implausible
jubilant jackals jiggling jiffy jewelry
kayaking kangaroos kibitzing in Kenya
liberal llamas liberating little Libya
miniscule musical mollusks making merry
nine nervous newts nibbling newtons
orangutangs orchestrating outdated Ohio
pressurized primates providing privacy
quarrelsome quails quizzing quahogs
resurrected roosters receiving riotous relatives
sassy seasoned sea serpents sallying forth in secret
tantalizing tarantulas tasting tree lined treats
understated urchins undoing underwater ugliness
visible vixens vibrating toward victory
wily wise walruses whistling in water wrecks
‘xtraordinary ‘xotic eagles expecting easy eggs
young Yellowstone yaks yelling their youthful truth
zealous zebras zipping breezily through Zanzibar
Slicked back hair
red shorts
no shirt
warm fall day
Running
from family
from work
from responsibilities
words are barely used
no tears
no arguments
just indifference
There's a better place on the top of the hill
but its not
More hills
There is a breeze
and he clutches it
it's been a long time
No one understands why he traded
comfort for pain
Normal life for change
miniscule details become important
as the breeze is now cold air
There were many paths to have taken
but he chose the easy one.
What should one do
Whenever one finds
One's intellect knew
Just miniscule minds
Dissolve again.
Into some puddle of oil.
Sink, and sunken.
Then turn into an oil painting.
Dissolve again.
Like a penny.
I don’t think pennies ever dissolve.
They just get dropped into the sewer sometimes.
And no one looks for them.
They turn into monsters.
Dissolve again.
Like gray.
Gray just-
Crunches underfoot.
Stabs my feet.
Until I get rid of all of it.
Chisel it away.
Day and night.
If you’re wondering why I never get help.
It might be because I can make my problems seem miniscule.
And I can take their uniqueness away.
So that all my problems seem ordinary.
Like bones in a barrel.
Or maybe not like that…
Unless I close up the lid.
And toss it out to sea.
Dissolve again.
Yes they will.
i need to know what's going on
we're barren over here, yet over there
look at them smugly reading the NEWS
'can you throw one over pal?'
he pretends not to hear me
and looks down the platform
he's pretending to see if his train is about to
arrive, thomas and friends, and it won't be
here soon, so wind it in
i give up and wonder why
platform 1, surely the pinnacle,
has been abandoned of any recreation
although next to my son
is a miniscule glass bottle of whisky
which implies someone was having fun without me there
has peace been achieved?
has the new plastic waste initiative justified government intervention?
how many wickets do we need this morning?
i yell these at the man over on platform 2
i am then taken away
and hope to be a headline in the morning
miniscule ant
purposeful frenzied movements
i ponder her goal
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.