Get away,
a fuel for emotion,
commotion of the Louvre
lifted from its demure, cinematic complacency;
someone plays the fool, the jester, wearing a crown
that doesn’t belong on the pumpkin’s head.
Get away;
chasing the bag of bones mutt down the street,
offering him nothing but your feet; to be gotten
is all the fleabag wants; cool water and chow.
Lies down, paw on vagrant’s thigh, licks empty hand.
A getaway we much prefer, a mountain retreat,
the pink rose and plumes of smoke at the peak,
a rustic cabin with couple-amenities, serenity,
closeness, places to go, to play, to eat, to spend.
Get away - a cataclysm, a gotcha, a zone.
A mixed bag of razors and diamond candy.
The Louvre, my love closed. A tourist trapped.
Just around life’s next corner
we have no clue what awaits us
~ know to expect the unexpected
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 2nd place 2025
mixed bag of misgivings misconstrued Mrs. Mulligan’s miscomprehensions misunderstood. Miserable Mrs. M. mistrusted Minnesota moderators’ misuse of mockery and mimicry. Monkeyshine mix up, monopolized moronic mood, a monumental mortiferous mistake made by many.
The weatherman says it will be 85
But it now feels like 72.
So what should I wear? Out the window I glance,
Thinking people will give me a clue.
Yet from what I can see, it’s a very mixed bag –
There are t-shirts and sandals and shorts,
Though I also see long-sleeves and jackets and jeans,
Which all go with both weather reports.
Yes, on this kind of day, there’s a wide-ranging arc –
Any item of clothing will do
And since I’m always cold, I’ll wear layers to peel,
So I’ll comfortably muddle on through.
Since you have been gone
A lot of water has passed under the bridge
A mixed bag of events have occurred
Leaving behind earth-shaking calamities
Difficult to quantify
As confusion like whirlwind
Keeps spreading and threatening
The very fabric of National Cohesion
Nobody knows what to believe anymore
As looters of our commonwealth
Keep spewing unbelievable theories
From two sides of their mouths
Shamelessly going back To their vomit of years gone by
To satisfy the cravings of their current masters
While citizens continue to wallow in abject poverty
Confused and traumatized
Where their next meals will come from
As their purchasing power has been eroded
By the demise of the national currency
Clubbed to death by inflation
And market forces
Never experienced in our chequered history
My mingle-mangle mismash mixed bag of stuff
Is a pastiche, potpourri, patchwork of remnants rough
The accumulation of this junk was not so very tough
Feather dusters, ink wells, rulers, silver links of cuff
Pincushions, a beaver tail, old Spice, smelly snuff
Nails, shoe polish, tape, puffer that does not still puff
Potholders, elf statue, rags to give car a buff
Petrified cinnamon roll, please don’t give me guff.
Mom taught me to sew
Grandma Nora taught me to knit
My sister taught me to be cautious
And gave me freedom to throw a big fit
Dad taught me that messy is okay
And that neatness is for a cleaning freak
The trees and books taught me
Other worlds I could sit and seek
I learned how to do math from Mrs. Johnson
But promptly forgot it because I do not like math
I learned from the neighbors to keep my voice down
When I am angry and full of wrath
Cartooning is relaxing is a skill I learned from my soul self
Painting is a delight was taught to me by my granddaughter Molly
Love comes in all forms, and dogs are the best companions of all
Better than anything stuffed, toys, or a baby dolly.
I learned empathy from a spirit guide who came in my sleep
During my dreams which were extremely deep.
I learned hope from others who inspired me with their story.
In my heart Jesus told me of the dishonor in glory.
I am a mixed bag, every second learning something new.
Aware of the need to pay attention, at age seventy-two.
Live is but a patchwork quilt
Stitched together by Providence
Fate and life's events
It gets larger if you're lucky
Collecting new patches to add every day
A mixed bag of varied textures
Both smooth and rough
Different colours tones and shades
You can't know where life will take you next
But if you had the chance
You'd choose yellow
Instead of blue
Patches of love
Patches of distaste
Poverty or wealth
Sickness or health
Hard times good times
Pain and pleasure
Dreams and aspirations
Good times and bad
Happy or sad
Where ever life takes you
You'll not know until tomorrow
You point your arrow and
Hope it reaches your target
The quilt fades over time and frays threadbare
you just carry on at a slower pace
And threading the needle gets harder to thread
When your lights go dim
The quilt is a story of a journey
Like a biographical novel
Our history
A life once lived
When they took him there
did you hear what they did?
Was there call or grunt?
Laugh or scream?
Joy or lamentation?
We perform the strangest or most grotesque
of auditory communications.
Such a mixed bag, such a miscellany!
Torture or tickle? Titillation or skin sensation?
Can we choose to hear pain or pleasure?
(13 Feb 2023)
August! Most days uphold the Leo Sign-
Urge those then born- to follow Lion's line.
Grand confidence and steadfastness are prone-
Unless the sting of arrogance is shown-
Sensed not accepting critics and their slights;
The August Lions share mixed-bag delights.
span of profound growth
mixed bag of flowers and fruits~
with lofty spirits
fluorescent day break
vibrancy in life around~
stupendous summer
Place : 3rd
The lure of the sea
is a mixed bag for sure;
when you’ve got the bug,
there’s simply no cure.
On a rough day, when it’s stormy,
like a magical spell,
but watch out on those warm days,
with the long, rolling swells.
With the wind in your hair
and the spray in your face,
the whitecaps keep you busy
at a frenetic pace.
But when you hit the doldrums,
with a glassy, calm sheen,
it’s those infrequent rollers
that will turn your face green.
----------
H/T to Gershon Wolf for his poem by the same name which got me reminiscing about sailing with my father...
-sculpted in false image-
Hey, look at me
now I see
I’m more like you,
and less like me
chiseled and shaped
the mold half broke
chipping away at
pieces of my soul
Till I don’t know
Who I am anymore
Figures in a magazine
Prophetic in hope
Used as examples,
As real women choke
Why won’t you just
let me be me?
And see the design
God intended me to be
I am beautifully flawed
Without airbrush aesthetics
Mixed bag of crazy
And genuine intentions -JAZ-
I find it fascinating how the human mind ponders
the origin and shape of ideas
and how everyone
wanders.
I wonder why I
can’t help but think
in terms of rhythm and rhyme
when oftentimes others
prefer a more subtle approach
to how their thoughts are imperceptibly
dreamed, derived, or discovered.
They say everyone's chemistry is a mixed bag
of good and bad, sour, sweet, sad, mad and
lugubrious to laughably glad.
And I confess I don't know much
about psychology, psychiatry, or the brain
but this I know like the moon that glows:
the mind is a wondrous, thunderous thing.
So, if you're anything like me and
hope to see
the intricacies and mysteries
of the human mind,
better
take a step back
as a matter of fact, finding
answers may be lying
still,
undefined.
The birds are singing merrily.
The sun is burning off the fog.
Somewhere nearby, I hear a frog,
Oh wait, I think that might be me.
Sometimes it’s pretty hard to tell;
I’m guessing spring has now arrived.
The senses just feel less alive
With hampered hearing, stifled smell.
I know the telltale sign so well,
So I will not believe those lies.
For I can look with my own eyes:
The redbuds have begun to swell.
So I will suffer spring’s embrace.
A mixed bag, for I love these trees
Which coincide with snot-filled sneeze,
For there is beauty in this place.
----------
(form: Italian Quatrain)
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.