There are rebels in my head.
First there's the anarchist;
There to break things and push steel until it bends.
And of course the logicist,
Willful to calculate things and plan around things that we can’t rend.
Then there’s the gravedigger;
There for my friends,
When we get into fights or can’t make amends,
He’s there to fight for my memory.
A shovel in one hand,
And an epitaph in his left.
There is the artist,
A brush in his whittled fingers,
He comes around after the gravedigger to paint the picture of people we loved and lost into my memory.
He stays around for the ones we still have; at least for now.
Painting pictures the second someone sticks in our head.
They always turn out younger than they are in person.
A snapshot to the simplest time I have of them.
The final one, is the leader.
The realist.
The one who sees the train at the end of the tunnels.
The one who pulls us out of miscalculated situations.
The one who rights the bent bars of our prison cells.
The one who sets up funerals for the friends we miss.
The one who paints over portraits once the pastels fade in time.
The one who fixes me.
At last a defeated ego and pride in conclusion.
Subconscious to the surface.
Misconstrued ultimatum.
Exhausted reluctance.
Released defeat.
A defeated ego and pride in conclusion.
Ignorance is bliss ending in piercing silence.
A defeated ego and pride in conclusion.
Strength miscalculated.
the despair.
that exact moment.
At last a defeated ego and pride in conclusion.
Finally truth brings freedom
Thinking Outside The Box
So am I miscalculated in this vast world?
As I tread thru these passageways in rooms
Full of charades, pretense Thinking Outside
The box.
So it's easier to call me insane? I'm not in
A position to control anything Thinking
Outside the box remains.
One can't breathe, feeling suffocated,
Trapped by someone else's version of I.
Thinking Outside The box.
1946 United States authorities
chose to exercise freedom of choice
and forcibly relocated 167 Marshall islanders
King Juda he agreed as their voice
from Bikini Atoll east to Rongerik
a small island which adequate resources lacked
with the promise they would return
so much for the U.S. Right of Freedom Act
and with little regard to radiation or fallout
the beautiful coral lagoon's sad fate
was a nuclear weapon testing site
twenty-three tests in all 'til 1958
but scientists miscalculated
a dry-fuel thermonuclear bomb they blew
Never do we dream of the once-upon-a-somber-song to fade away,
as moments from the milky moon begin to twirl and sway.
A murky mist of miscalculated mystery makes haste,
sneaking its way along the deserted hallways of locked gates,
weakening the rustic joints of porcelain pillars straight down to untouched floors.
Why must it wait for the sun to be its guide?
For in the darkness, love too can be the greatest tide.
Can the curiosity of a claw discover the depths of a divine madness?
Or could these fangs find themselves vehemently festering
in the corners of unwelcome elements?
Let a limb take its quest along the walkway to the endless sea.
Taste the tortured tears crawling down these decaying knees.
Hold unflinchingly to the fire that aches to roar—
do not let it scream, for it conjures for more.
Time can prepare a frozen glass to let little condescensions
slide down an auburn wood.
Yet something about a restless evening
makes an iron fist feloniously curl up,
as if it so sensationally should.
...or Jack be walking funny for a while...
Jack was nimble,
And Jack was quick,
But he miscalculated
That candlestick.
It was skinny and tall,
He was thick and quite small.
When he lit,
It was with an undignified bump,
With a blister
The size of his fist on his rump.
Then a notion occurred
To this game little actor,
Before he tries it again,
Jack will use a protractor.
It seems as though the world is shutting down,
Things happening that simply don’t compute.
The present curdles, turns a sepia brown.
Current affairs – a tree with rotten fruit.
The nineteen thirties seem to rise again
But through a looking glass where left is right,
And cowards gag the obvious refrain:
Do not go gentle into that good night.
William Butler Yeats, obsessed with gyres,
Miscalculated by a few decades,
Nor did his slouching beast conspire with liars.
But prophesy shines bright before it fades
On those whose lives the years will not condemn,
Who fight for more than just Jerusalem.
Decisions go along with time limits
that has to be met on a daily.
Limitless possibilities and determination
combined with the outcomes of some
to be put in motion. Decisions
are often stated time is an illusion
at a length of time awaits for no one.
Miscalculated oft times likely
ensues forming hasty decisions, One's
mind operates under it's own conception
on it's own decisions.
Elitist's Outcome
America is crumbling
Invasions almost complete
They're silencing all our voices
Our rights trying to deplete
Freedom's quickly dwindling
Indoctrination the way
Corruption's all that's left
As our arms are stripped away
Intentionally leaving us helpless
Defenseless and the prey
Politician's bloodied hands
Traitors who have led us astray
Coming electronic shutdowns
All communications lost
Intentionally poisoned waters
Famine's our inevitable cost
Embedded foreigners attacking
A bloody civil war
World powers invading
Devastation shore to shore
Elitists in their bunkers
Nuclear holocaust ensues
Their population reset
Genocide quickly accrues
But when the dust settles
And they slither from their lairs
To digest all their spoils
As Earth's new supreme heirs
Unfortunately their utopia
Was grossly miscalculated
Dismissing God's tribulation
His wrath was not anticipated
Now they see their final fate
Left here to suffer and dwell
With scorched bodies and endless pain
In this dismal abyss He made Hell
Johnny is a 'pretty boy'
radiates the purest joy
Unfortunately, these days
all the girls assume he's gay
So, Johnny decides to start a fight
to prove he sports a wicked right
Problem is, Johnny miscalculated
Picked a kick-boxer ~ castrated
The war crimes in Ukraine
Is a monstrosity
It's the devil at work
The piper must be paid
A despot gone berserk
The war crimes in Ukraine
Is far beyond the pale
What was Putin thinking?
He miscalculated
Troops he deployed, shrinking
The war crimes in Ukraine
Is watched the world over
It's hard to look away
Dead bodies on the ground;
Soon they'll start to decay
The war crimes in Ukraine
Can be called genocide
Awful truth came to light,
Absolutely shocking
Russia will lose this fight
Form M - Monchielle - New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Theme chosen: Death
Syllables checked at HMS
Date written: 04/06/2022
I went to a huge gift shop for handcrafts
I brought my naughty five year old niece, Raft
Leaving my home by car in a rush
Made me forget to wear my eyeglass
I bumped into one of the clear glass doors- so daft!
My niece, so little but had lots of hearty laugh
To my embarrassing bump better than gaffe
I carried her to an ice cream corner
Yet, I couldn’t control her laughter
‘Til a scary mascot came close with a toy giraffe.
The sixth time I joined a group tour of teachers
I wore dark sunglasses despite the gloomy weather
Passing around bags of snacks in the bus
First were sweets then a plastic for trash
I’d fumbled at the later and got a chocolate wrapper
My friend who sat beside me kept on laughing
So proud of the new sunglasses she’s wearing
When we alighted from the bus
I assisted her as if we’re in class
Miscalculated our steps, we ended up screaming.
Jan 27, 2022 8:51pm
Funny Memories
Contest Judged: 1/28/2022 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Place 3
It snowed last night, first fall of the year.
Taking out the trash,
there I am, dozing in a garden swing set
deep within July.
Mother of pearl eyes
above the clouds…it could be another year.
July in a London park
lying next to your soft brown hair
wisps of humid gentleness in a public place.
Snow falls onto my eyelids.
The trash is from Madrid
there are straw birds and the ruins
of several cathedrals in it.
It should be heavier
but the Iberian condors add a weightlessness
to all things too heavy to bear
across a backyard asphalt.
The chill bones on the swing set rattle,
icicles drip from blue eye sockets.
You are singing in the kitchen again,
coral lips savoring what you have yet to cook.
A skein of geese are crossing over
a heaped pile of clouds and frozen spires.
Reclining shorts and a T
rustle in a summer breeze, then freeze.
Just taking out something
to send it away
takes many years of scratch
and scrabble,
when you get there
it could be the time or the season
discarding your lost days
or you may have miscalculated
the accumulation
that gathers around the beginning of December
when the snow comes early.
The path between myself and the distant man
twists and turns. There are gullies and ridges
hags and troughs, a hoary dusk.
We are converging. He has my hat and clothes,
my resemblance.
Once I miscalculated;
I was out on the trackless moors too late,
darkness fell
I had to lose myself to find myself.
The figure is waving, not in greeting but warning.
As we draw nearer the sky darkens,
suddenly he is gone.
Later I look from a dark window and wonder
which of us came home?
Making Things Happen
Written: by Miracle Man
11-26-2019
When we’re not renowned we have no retinue,
So making things happen is what we must do.
“where there’s a will there’s a way” even if we’re late,
Being late generally happens when we hesitate.
Some days we can’t catch ample wind in our sails,
Perhaps we’ve miscalculated what the task entails.
We let pride hinder us from seeking assistance,
and we only prevail when we practice persistence.
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.