Passable Poems | Examples

Was it tuna?

The world in black and blue,
no visible outline, the colors 
blur. Headlights bright red,
and the people covered
in smoke as I stand in the back-
alley surrounded by old graffiti  
stains and a half eaten tuna fish
sandwich. The alley cats
devour the carcass leaving
the bones and eyes behind.
I look at the eyes and I see  
my mother pan frying 
batches of leftover
salmon, a once in awhile
treat, then back to smelly
tuna daily. I give my mom 
credit, her cooking skills
mask the awful aroma just
enough for me to eat with
ease. I still wonder what 
mystery meat I ate back
in high school, looked like
tuna, smelled like beef but
tasted like chicken. I get up
and leave to a corner
bodega shop where they sell
beer and passable pepperoni 
pizza for a late night snack.
Then I chill at the coin laundry 
shop next door, I should’ve 
brought earphones with me.

Embrace with love

If I'm not allowed to fall, 
I can't learn to walk
Through peace with falling, 
I rise again in strong faith
When I climb a mountain, 
I see its lowest point
By peace with the lowest points,
all fears dissipate

Even while traveling, 
I long to stand still
Thanks to such stops, 
the journey feels more intense
Deep below my strength 
I sense there is softness
Thanks to that softness, 
much stronger I am

Do I choose to shine,
it illuminates what seems dark,
not remembered and 
overlong unseen, 
When I embrace with love, 
everything that once fell 
returns to a state 
of purity

And just as I stand still, 
I long to travel
Thanks to the traveling, 
my path unfolds before me
Narrow but passable, 
enlightened by love, 
so if I do fall again?
Then I can only fall…

very softly

Invoke Change, Shake It's Hand

Close your dream filled eyes
Quiet your anxious, loud mind
Run wild from the intrusive taunts
Fixating, gossiping over you in silent,
Yet understood tongue.

Let the lies of yourself fall through 
Unravel the programming stringing you along.
Step in surety, embrace the unknown
Befriend uncomfort - watch yourself grow.

Beneath your sadness and tears of dew
Rests a welcoming child your heart once knew.
Greet them in play, spark up a chat
Let dance the flow of life as it once was.

Invoke change, shake it’s hand
Say hello to strangers you may never know.
Spend days away from civil happenings
Only passable roads lie between you and freedom -
From all that is truly needed.

- Alone -

    In a sprinkling of autumn's mournful tears
    She walks alone
    - no matter how tough and difficult it is
    Smiles at those she meets
    maybe she receives a smile back
    Nothing in life comes with guarantees
    anything else would be a lie

    Raised head and straight back
    even if the mask is ruptured
    Strength and courage;
    can it heal all wounds?
    The luggage she carries
    leading her on paths
    which are not always passable
    - without a companion

FISTFUL

Fistful butterflies sway along with the wind.
Ever frolicking through the vibrant desires.

Fistful sand slipping down in haste.
Unbothered about the delays and tussles around.

Fistful days flipping over.
Highlighting every single day.

Fistful memories binding themselves together.
Creating a most treasured treatise.

Fistful wishes probable, contingent or disguise.
Forever igniting the coal inside.

Fistful choices through the passable maze.
Attempt to escape but no respite.

Fistful thoughts sparkling out of palpitating chords.
Capable of entangling entire life.

Fistful learning running through the veins.
Enabling sturdy stature to prevent the derail.

Fistful steps towards the embarkation.
Creating a journey that travels through the stars.

Fistful smiles fluttering around in joy.
Contagiously sorting out the difficulties and sorrow.

Fistful opportunities that emanate from hard work.
Enough to be the cynosure through the rise.

Fistful always lets the phoenix rise.
Every creation is a conscious choice.

Fistful time .....may what....may I write!

3min Write' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
Dated: 16.09.2024

Voice Lessons

At forty, I hired a vocal coach.

My husband had taken up
a new friend—he swore it was platonic,
her name unimportant.

Upfront, she warned me
her rate for adults
was higher than for children—
a grown-up's capacity for change
isn't great, throat muscles
less pliable, even though
they usually want it more.

This isn't a story
of overcoming
diaphragmatic disadvantages
of mature voices in training,
just its cost.

I had one lesson wherein
she informed me
the price of admission
for her attention to my voice—
to get near the neighborhood
of up to par—
was double the original estimate.

It came with a guarantee
of no promises.
She wasn't a magician, she said.
To make me passable
at karaoke bars
would be an extra ten a session.

It was cheap, actually, easy
quitting those lessons—
quitting my husband.

I never wanted to be a pop star,
only to feel a knowing in my bones
that someone could still hear me.

There Sits the City Gold

There sits the City Gold
Where robbers ne'er grab hold,
Nor rot, nor moth, nor mold.

There sits a lava moat
Not passable by boat
Nor rope, nor writ, nor hope.

Outside the people scheme
As wise as any seem,
To enter, distant dream.

And there the doctors sly,
Sell passage to passers by.
Yet all who purchase, die.

This city, see, is truth.
Those lofty minds in booth,
They're selling dreams as proof.

And yet the saddest part,
When science falls apart,
And might, and math, and art,

Is entrance granted free
To all who'll come and see
This Hebrew on the tree.

Ten Ways to Awake in January

You’re a hollow tree, listening
to the tapping claws of am exposed sky.

You sit sideways staring over your shoulder.
A rib cage full of naked troglodytes
looks up into your throat.

Wintery seas leak over ice-bound rooftops.
Bedsheets come to rest as snowdrifts.

You find yourself observing the world
through the top of your head.

You find yourself reading
the pale blue veins on a frozen window.

Roads might be passable. Wind-whales plow through,
pushing insomnia ahead of them.

The cold is a color yet to be decoded,
but you breathe through it, red tongue
slipping through clouds of needles.

You count crow-calls, shiver when they stop.

The passage between you and the chill floor
is umbilical, you may have to bear down.

You skirt the edges of yourself,
until your mind thaws beneath parked cars.

Whisper Sweet Harvest Moon

Whisper sweet harvest moon 
Cradle me in cooler climes
Softly show me how willingly the tree let's 
Its leaves turn from green to gold
The tree does not complain of age and change
The Leaves do not seek to be what they were
They gently grace into reds and yellows
 then browns
The grasses are dressing in green again
like a last glorious dance
The kind pansies are resurrecting
and mums are starting to burst
the sky is sometimes a stubborn grey but 
then brilliant blue
New England fall has arrived
Like a wagon filled to the brim
hosting harvest parties
Encouraging long walks in crunchy leaves
down long winding tree-covered paths
out by cranberry bogs cresting in reds
and out on long boardwalks that stretch in woody perfection to the sea
The wild parties of summer drunkenness have departed the shores
The embers of clam bakes and firecrackers are finally at rest
The streets are passable and the merchants are sleeping in  late and only open when they want to be
The rains finally came and even the dogs are quiet now
Heaven is on Earth here now
Cape Cod in September

Dropping Bombs

Dropping bombs 

During the World War 2, there was a town in the west of Norway
that also had a passable airport where German planes could take off
and shoot at things near the British coast.
RAF tried to find and bomb the airport, but they didn’t but dropped
their bombs over our town on the way back.
Some people were killed some were maimed for life.
When people get bombs thrown at them, it is reasonable to think
they get angry, with no understanding of the war effort.
The enemy was, as far as the town dweller was concerned
the British, so much so when British troops came, they were met
With stifled smiles.
That is why I think Putin should stop his attacks on Ukraine
whoever noble his aim is to get rid of fascism, he will forever
be seen as the enemy by bombed-out people.

Poems I Like, and Poems I Don'T

Cursed be the poem I cannot understand,
Cursed be the poet whose words flee like a swarm
All poems should be intelligible, even without a scan
I have no time into passable grammar to transform.
Nor do I enjoy reading with thesaurus in my hand
I like poems which make my aching heart warm,
I don’t mind a poem that is ardently partisan
I don’t even mind a poem that doesn’t conform.
An exceptional poem is usually one that is planned,
A poem that is structured in a recognizable form,
Don’t care for poems which put down woman or man
And enjoy most a story, one the poet might perform.
I like those poems which make me think, “I can!”
From the soul of the poet, they are clearly formed. 

Written June 1, 2022

Independently Un-Wealthy

Getting to know the canned goods aisle
in the dollar store was fun,
the ladies have been most helpful
in finding Chinese knock-off junk.
The Senior Center makes a passable Salisbury steak
and who needs gravy?
Independences has taken a down turn -
our addled leader blames some Russian guy,
the supply train is chained-up somewhere,
eventually we may all die from Global Pawning,
at least we don't need baby formulary anymore,
though we are considering developing a taste
for cat food; I hear 'Whiskers' do a mean
tuna casserole.
When down to your last million dollars
one must be frugal.

World Tried To Break Me

they gave it more than a passable go
but my confidence and self-preservation are powerful allies
bullying did not dent
name-calling did not crucify
Flexibility and tenacity are my middle names
I fly into the rafters and caw at my tormenters
Who are vastly disappointed
they could not break me.

Six Thousand Twenty Two Excuses

I have six thousand and twenty-two excuses.
I have used the cows in the road one more than sixty eight times.
I love that one, because people tend to believe it.
It is usually a lie, which makes it even sweeter for some odd reason.

The homework fell into the snow and the ink smeared is passable.
Not my best, and more work than doing the homework itself
For I have to conjure up something with ink on it
That looks like it actually was homework.

My other favorites are my pants are loose and I broke my foot.
I have a cast that I can slide up and down my leg.
Problem only occurs when they want to sign it.
The closer they get the more they realize
It was once cut off someone’s leg and taped back together.

Wouldn’t it be easier to just do the things you are supposed to do?
I stare at my mother.
Which excuse to use?
I pull number one hundred and fourteen out of my brain.

Don: Nulled For- Luck

don...nulled as a child
watched...copying
the three stooges...stage play

as a passable...dictionary of
the-sour-ass-ed terms...to communicate
his feelings as...that young child

that got his asssss.......a $100million way to see
what he wanted to see...his assssss.....
the-trump card...and if you don't

he will ...kiss it


stan sand

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