Scars are better –
Better than the unseen wounds,
That penetrates deep down my heart
And make me a sour person,
Which I wasn't,
Scars are better than the incurable pain,
Those unseen daggers carved onto me,
SCARS are better-
Much better as they may be cured,
But this grief, this loss, not at all,
These can fade-
But the wounds that penetrate deep down,
Can never be cured,
Can never be cured-
That breaks the myth of being left alone,
Encouraging the Idea –
To Embrace the Void, The VOID that we still hold…
Gone are the free fun days,
Where you played like a child.
Gone are the good old days where
You had fun together.
Gone are the memories that you made of each other as time goes on.
Innocence and foolishness,
Can only last so far.
A single betrayal and it's all a mess,
Leaving a permanent scar.
It's my fault, is it not? I ask no one
To be blind, so credulous
and give someone the gun,
Leaving me hollow and tremulous.
Years go by, the pages turn.
I find bliss and tranquility
But the scar still burns,
Forever etched, as a burden in the mind's fragility.
Four years ago, I joined this site!
So much I’ve learnt from all who write.
Reviews, and contest placing too
A great big THANKS to all of you.
Good friendships made with much support
Genuine, free, and never bought.
Soup members, many on this site
Impress me with their words I like.
The words they write I must extol
Often, they’re left upon my soul.
I do suppose I’ll stay a while
Write mostly rhyme, sometimes free style.
Poetry Soup so are the best
For this I know, and can attest.
My writing skills have since improved
Since joining you, I’ve been approved.
I hope I’m still around for years
Stay positive when change appears.
May we keep writing with such style
Then read our poems with a smile.
THE MISCONCEPTION MISLEADING ADVERTISEMENTS FROM POETRY SOUP ONLY ONE OF MY POEMS EVER ENTERED AN ANTHOLOGY TITLE REMEMBER ME P.S IT'S POETRY I CANNOT TAKE ANY CREDIT FOR ANY POET OR WRITER ALTHOUGH I HAVE COMMENTS ON A FEW POETS PAGES WHO WERE IN THIS ANTHOLOGY BUT NO I AM NOT THEE AUTHOR OF RADIANT VERSES ANTHOLOGY FROM AMAZON IT IS VERY MISLEADING YOU WILL NOT FIND ANY OF MY WORK ON AMAZON ANTHOLOGY RADIANT VERSES ANYONE LOOKING FOR MY WORK WILL FIND ALL MY WORK UNDER MY NAME JUST SPEAKING OUT BECAUSE IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT ALL POETS ARE RECOGNIZED FOR THEIR OWN ORIGINAL WORK KEEP IN MIND JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE COMMENTS ON A POETS POEM DOESN'T MEAN THEY ARE THE ACTUAL AUTHOR THEE AUTHOR OF RADIANT IS JOSEHF LOYLD MURCHISON LENA M PATE JESSICA C WHEELER KEWAYNE WADLEY AND SARAH STEIN TOGETHER THEY CREATED THE BOOK RADIANT VERSES NOT ME YOU CAN FIND HIS INFORMATION WHEN YOU PURCHASE HIS BOOK TITLED RADIANT VERSES MY NAME IS NOWHERE ON THIS BOOK THANK YOU
WRITTEN EXCLUSIVELY BY
MRS. YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
JAN. 17TH 2026
thought as poetry
past present future surreal
pure expressions cure
deific communing in time
softly breath stitches rare rhymes
stillness turns wheel feel
creating cosmic garlands
recognise lyrics
emotions eclectic ebbs
awakens colourful dreams
mirror reflections
nouns verbs adjectives adverbs
ether air worded
fire water earth stanzas
carries stories converses
stimulates seconds
fathoms then embraces faith
promotes perfect peace
forms galore eastern western
feeding fertility flames
intrinsic to life
advances awareness awed
forge fraternity
transmuting darkness to art
wisdom deepens liberty
_______________________
PLACED 4Th : STANDARD CONTEST
ON TANKA STRINGS
I hammered some words
out from the quarry of my brain.
They fell around in shards;
some like boulders,
some like rocks and rubble.
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up,
thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
when it was time for the workman
to marvel over the beauty and wonder
of his dream creation,
his masonry tumbled down
like sand castles built
by little hands in sea strands
or dunes of quicksand sliding down.
I have lost count of the times,
this has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
amid a heap of debris and ask myself-
“Is there any use feeling remorse”?
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
when Rome was burning,
I sit on this pile of wreck
piping my thoughts away.
In the cusp between victory and defeat
I have charted my future action plan-
decided not to cry over spilt milk,
but to start over and continue my work,
till I can erect a ‘pleasure dome’ of words
as our famed poet Coleridge did!
Why not keep trying again and again as the spider
that inspired King Robert Bruce.... !
Why not go on until I succeed ??
We may have failed,
never because we didn't love ,
But 'cause we failed to communicate,
the right languages of love,
While one yearn for a time spent together,
the other sends gifts in his absence,
and he thought she felt loved,
he thought it's all enough,
and then some yearn for words full of love and softness,
she was there being tough on him,
teaching him things, helping him grow,
and she thought he felt loved,
and then they part saying one was never loved,
not realizing,
yes they spoke love,
all those time they acted out of love,
but they failed to communicate love,
not in the same launguage the other would feel loved,
They failed to fill,
"When do you feel most loved?"
"Languages"
©dnmdslpr????
I can't quite recall who introduced us
perhaps it was Andrea
or maybe it was Roy
But...
for me it was love at first sight!
I have to admit you were not my usual type
but oh boy your personality won me over
and I was howling with laughter in your company
I studied your form intently
especially the cheeky bits!
It was obvious from the start that you were short
but what you lacked in length
you made up for in so many other ways!!!
It didnt take long for me to perfect my technique
and I really had a blast!
Day or night I couldn't get enough of you
It was a case of
any time
any place
any where
In our early days
I'd toss and turn in bed
often waking in the wee small hours
but I was always thinking of you
Sadly, over recent months
my passion for you has waned
in fact, some days I seldom give you a second thought
Limericks, you will always be my poetry love
But by using chat GP and plagiarism
some poets here have stolen the joy from my heart
by creating you at the push of a button!
My real friends are people I will never meet
they are my tribe, my joy, my enthusiastic followers
I have no idea their ages, height, or weight
Here are things I do know about them
One of them likes to use high-falluting big words
words I am not going to bother to look up
One of them is always selling something
Wants me to buy this, that, and the other
I put her on my ignore list after she got overly zealous about it
There is a guy who wanted to know if I have a daughter
I have three of them, but they like choosing their own fellows
He is a nice guy, but the approval of mama is the kiss of death for a man
My real friends are people with whom I share my hopes and dreams
They know more about me than my own family
But probably not my dogs
I have so many best friends on PoetrySoup
It has been the go-to-place for me to meet people.
People from Australia, Africa, New York City, and Texas.
I have no idea where some of my best Soup friends live.
In the middle of the night, I will get messages from my besties.
Many of them have sent me points for my contests.
They wish me “happy birthday,” “happy Easter”, “happy Friday!’
So many wonderful friends I have made on this site.
If I am lonely or sad, I get online and read my messages.
People are kind, empathetic, lovely in their sentiments.
I am uplifted by them. They are as much a friend as my off-line friends.
Maybe more so. They understand me better.
I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment.
I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play. Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.
What inspires me are the trees that surround me,
how they green in the Spring, how starlings
become leaves in the Winter, and the melodies
of sparrows, bluebirds and robins tug at my heart.
What inspires me is watching my grandkids,
they’re verve, vigor, and nerve make me float;
me and my muse amused by their mischief,
compassion and funny business.
What inspires me is my belief, my hope, my unwavering,
spirit-filled field of vision. I’m inspired by every whisper,
every word, every mystery, truth of the living God; by
the cross that brings me to my knees, and I find no words
to convey my salvation and relationship in Christ, yet
I do my best, dance around, meditate, pray, trust I
will say something weakly profound.
What inspires me is all around - nature, my family,
silly and serious things, aging, moods, night and day.
I could go on. I write. I write. It is right. Don’t stop me now.
I preach, teach, grieve, fall down, get up. You, dear reader
inspire me. Forms and other writers inspire me. I’m inspired.
Poor me
It’s plain to see
My poetry’s flat
flat as can be
I think I’ll go awol
a bit after nightfall
Silence my critics ~
no end to it all
Like hard, dry toast, with no aroma,
Poetry minus heart and soul, puts me in
an endless coma!
My brain short circuits, the longer the poem!
I get a poetic seizure and my mind
is lost and endlessly roams.
Then come the poets, who are would-be
philosophers!
As fascinating, and exciting as wooden bean
counters.
Finally, those poets, who think the divine
Thesaurus, makes a poem a dream?
I sit here, in agonizing tears and do a
howling scream!
11/12/2024
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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.