My biggest influence was Van Gogh, after he cut off his ear.
For being lopsided and askew is what I don’t fear.
His uneven brush strokes and off-balanced yellow sky
Makes his art intriguing, he simply is the real guy.
I am a cartoonist, a poet, a writer, a painter too.
Like Van Gogh, I am off-centered, slanted, and slightly askew.
My fingers are crooked, my haircut is gorgeously uneven for sure.
I squint when I see you, my artistic prowess is childlike and pure.
Like Van Gogh, my art is not appreciated, yet, I am fast and I’m quick.
I love stirring up paints into mixtures furiously colorful and thick.
My biggest influence is Van Gogh, after he cut off his annoying ear.
With this kind of guardian angel, I have less than nothing to fear.
Loosing My Slant
I’m Developing a View
About a How of a Thing
Letting Go of My Mistakes
To See What Freedom Can Bring
To Lose a Perspective of What
Misdirection Sometimes Gives
To Forget How to Win Just
To Find a Joy That Still Lives
Is It All a Lost Focus
A Happenstance Chance?
To Learn Just To Be Clear
And To see How to Dance
Away From Regrets Full of
Deep Sighs with Remorse
Turn Away From the Belief
Of A Thousand Years Tossed
To Forget Your True Level
Which’s Off Centered Oblique
To Tell Someone “I love you”
Without Looking Back
With a Turned Cheek
Zhann spoiled his debut, by changing into
A Zhiberain thong mist, he caused Blip Dynomo
to be off centered and then Darksied and
and Lex Luther gained advantage and now
are in control of Reton Twenty One.
"I had him Superman": "I had that Organic freak
Until Green Lantern stopped m!". "All those ooh's
and ah's that trick was mine!"
'Dense Dragon and Lumbee Lance both can tell
Ya, Superman I had him!"
Superman looked to the ground and sighed; "ain't no
Sunshine when she's gone ,and Jan and Black Manta gotta thang GOING ON"!
He was listening to "feels like another one".
They say that, “computers don’t make mistakes”; it boggles the mind how the same intellect that creates the computers, makes mistakes. How can imperfect minds, create a, perfect machine? They can’t, the human ego is the greatest deceiver; it feeds the human minds cravings with fake food. Driverless vehicles kill, pilotless planes crash more often. Computers, satellites, HDTV’s phones connected to satellites, fail. When will the human species admit we’re not God?
Even nature’s not
Perfect, her children are born
With limitations.
Rings in the trees are
Off-centered, imperfect; joints
Gnarled…arthritic.
Fallen into spiraling
With every dance
With every sing
Off-centered weights
Throw it around
The molten core
Beneath the ground
Beneath the grind
Behind the sound
Afforded thought
But pay no mind
Try not to see
Without a blind
It’s always worse
The wounded nurse
The devil speaks
A hidden curse
On metal grooves
Spun in reverse
paint me this…
blindfolded,
off-centered,
she saintly
stands…
heavy
is the load
injustice heaps
upon the just
shrouded—
invisible
her purpose
is no more…
murder
roams unchecked—
plentiful prized prey
in overpopulated streets
bigotry
has no shame
caring no apathy—
concern does no sigh…
crying,
this poem sheds no tears
just inked words
in search of a canvas…
I used to count the years, the months
The days, the hours
The minutes, even the seconds
Since the last time we spoke
I remember the moment I looked
Into your green eyes,
Pupils expanding,
The light shining down on you,
Below your eyelashes—the prettiest glare
Those eye contacts off-centered...
Plastics never quite fit you,
Just as I never did. .
Hope has a funny way of fleeing
Even when time ticks mercilessly on
And truth is never beautiful
When the mouth runs dry
And the eyes go blind
I used to count the years, the months,
The days, the hours,
The minutes, even the seconds….
You said,
“You actually understand me. . .”
And your intense amusement watered your eyes
It wasn’t until I started counting that
You stopped seeing me for who I was
You stopped understanding. . .
You never quite understood.
My grave mistake was waiting
For every last second
To matter
Was hoping,
That every moment without you
Would count forever
But no one counts the tears
No one counts the beats of a broken heart
Before the rain
She came calling again
Last to be kissed
Muskrat in mist
Copper kettle, smoldering coals
Papyrus letters, indelible scrolls
Westbound train, eclectic guitar
Powder blue taxi, front door ajar
Ballet slippers, nails painted pink
Descending those steps, feigning a wink
Where does she get off strutting that stuff
Prancing past puppets, acting so tough?
Drops of honeydew those wine glass legs
Round square fence posts, oval wood pegs
Old days are gone
And so are the dreams
No picking up on outdated themes
Fires do not burn forever
I told her “everyone knows”
Off-centered smile, dubious clothes
Left her standing there neither happy nor sad
In roundhouse gray and scantily clad
One shadow. Two shadows.. Three shadows...
And two remain when the third one fades,
Until the light is directly behind me.
And then there's just one.
As I move further away, a second and third one
Is cast from the light just ahead,
And one of the three disappears
As the other joins the one behind me,
Like an off-centered aura;
And when I walk from whence I came
There is my shadow and its aura in front of me,
Mimicking my every movement, until they join as one.
Then two others appear as I near a light,
The two at my side are strong,
As the one in front flickers away,
So goes the one at my left side;
And the one behind, alone, slowly walks ahead of me.
Almost simultaneously disappearing,
Until the shadow with an aura appears
And move around from back to left to front;
And so goes the cycle as I move from light to light,
Until I see only one shadow,
Which slowly fades as I turn to go left,
Then a lighter one angles long and leftward,
Disappearing quickly as the two reappear
At an angle behind me, to my left, then a bit ahead
Until I turn left again and rest beside the column,
And there I rest just me and my shadows.
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.