Knowing our Sun was once a star
permits my thoughts to wander far.
Raising my eyes at night to see
the twinkling stars look back at me.
The closest ones fill out my view,
and far beyond Earth's avenue,
deep endless space holds many more
beyond which we cannot explore
Are we alone- most want to know!
Probability assumes no!
A star can turn into a Sun-
attracting planets to be spun.
A distant Sun could be like ours
progressing from the realm of stars,
develop its own atmosphere;
that part for life becomes so clear.
Providing all the minerals
and moisture in the air that spills
in making clouds that form the rain
which living things must have, retain.
The law of probability
says yes! Impossibility -
Earth can not be the only one!
Surely, there is a distant Sun.
Patience is an asset in life,
and a precious gift to bestow:
permits willingness to accept
and wait in perpetual calm,
before bitter displays of angst
will dissolve the goal and spirit.
Further into
Deeper unto
Loneliness; its chiller shade.
From here, behind
Not there, in front
Is this impression now made.
They, quizzing o'er
A mind's strange ways.
He, led by, reverences them!
Permits whose access
Peaceful rapport's.
Exudes, which spirit each stem.
I didn’t get married at Madison Square
And only immediate family was there.
We needed no permits nor one single guard,
For our wedding was held in my parents’ back yard.
There wasn’t a limo to ferry each guest
And a cousin took photographs at our request.
The food was whatever my mother did choose
And no, it did not make it into the news.
It’s been fifty years, though, so, begging your pardon,
The wedding you’ve heard of today, at the Garden,
May have all the world and the paparazzi
Pay attention, but what is important to me
Is that keeping it simple worked fine way back when
And if I had to do it all over again,
There’s just one little change I’d be certain to make –
Not a holiday weekend, a common mistake.
First, love hears the bell
before the hand has touched it
dawn before daybreak—
Reactions are quick and sure,
latency's irrelevant.
Later, there's a pause
a brief delay in response,
as both already
know what to say, why, and when
and then, how each one will react
Next maturity
permits an intermission,
hearth-warm brief silences
in the shared conversations,
a time to trust the givens.
Misunderstanding
blooms slowly in known voices—
old maps for new roads
the old answers come too soon,
not from who stands at the door.
So love must relearn
the true art of latency—
to pause—then reply
with enough consistency
to stave off complacency.
A monk, hooded
A nun, veiled.
Offputting as tis odd
In seeing.
For what's exposed
As permits
Of worldly light, my face
To smile in.
An apology from the throne will never come close to home
Surrendering at my feet will make you look extra weak;
when night falls and the bats are wandering in the dark
I say not the words that they want to hear but words that brought
about much fear, the words from a king are not sweet, but should have the villain
come trembling at his feet, say what your heart permits you to say and not what the
Orchestra designed for you to say. The world is at a cross-road and niceties cannot
Turn things around but sober doctrine that will shake the heart and conscience of man
And lead them to the point where they can fully understand. The words you will hear
Are not those that are flying in the air.
They police the cloth,
the music, the ride,
measuring freedom
by inches of fabric
and silence of streets.
But ideas slip past checkpoints,
songs travel without permits,
and youth dreams louder
than any decree.
For no rule can chain
the restless rhythm of people
who know that tomorrow
must be wider than yesterday.
And freedom, like wind,
cannot be banned.
Poetry Soup gives in plenty the literary opportunity
to show-case the assorted skills of poetic creativity.
Emanating out of the fantasy fountain of imagination,
the torrent of words flows with the streams of elation,
ripples as poems with the rhapsodic rhythm of heart,
yearning to become poignant pieces of reflective art.
Sensual poetic passion of the Soupers enriches the mind,
while the mesmeric muses get eloquent as words wind.
Unperturbed by the cacophony of the mundane abyss,
poets perceive in lyrical journey the feel of profound bliss,
The rhythm of exuberance envelopes the satiated soul,
permits the poets to flourish under lilting lyrical control.
Composed often within the dissonance of dreary disarray,
perceives ecstasy in rhyming flight out of dismal dismay.
A genial platform for poets to make the mark that glares,
as Poetry Soup recipes the community of poets shares.
SUPER SONNET
" Stretching the Boundaries of Imagination"
Doth protest in what is True, thence thou shall not Truly Live
than what is a Thorn to a Rose, when Love Permits
what is a Storm to a Ship that lists in the Ethers of Night
when Thy Darkness is contingent to Thy Light,
and Thy Flame that burns, shall it seize down to size
when Thy Pillars wither, yet Thy Convictions Strive
what is Thy Temple within that burns like Barrels of Fire
when the Great Celestial Consummation Aspires,
Doth, Fear Not, for the Stars Reap where Great Hearts Beat
and Great Dualities turn Obsolete,
and like Sunships that drift to Sunsets for that Sweet Kiss
only to find Thy True Amour from within,
Thus, a Super Sonnet is born by those Passions that Burn with Life
and Thy former Dispositions are left in Hindsight
Our thoughts are but the stone the quarry yields,
Which, rough and cold, do wait the hand of art;
Like ancient rock from untamed, barren fields,
They hold no form, nor yet a conscious heart.
The mind, a mason, takes these common bits,
And with a plan no mortal eye hath seen,
By hammer-stroke and measured toil, permits
A structure rising, glorious and keen.
Each arching line, a metered verse aligns,
A buttress strong where logic’s weight is laid,
And through the glass, where coloured light now shines,
The soul’s intent in artistry, displayed.
So in this verse, a fleeting, built design,
The artificial and the human join.
Sacrifices on sacrifices,
From the times I spent kneeling—my knees scarred.
Yet celebration and I are miles apart.
It’s been ages since I danced for a win;
Feels like I’m trapped in a karmic cycle of sin.
I’m in search of direction,
Travelling a path without road signs,
Seeking guidance from minds already lost.
I stay trapped in a maze,
Never proud, yet I’m lost,
A joke to those who know the way.
To anyone who can hear me out there:
Throw me a compass, a map.
I’m not asking you to walk for me,
Just show me the door out of this trap.
Maybe I can hold a trophy again,
Claim an accolade
While my age still permits—before it’s too late.
I’ll find myself, pay for lost time,
The cost of being lost.
They come when Winter folds her Wing—
So soft—the Sky—permits a Stir—
A Silver hush—no louder Thing—
Than Breath—of Visitor—
They neither knock—nor signal—Flame—
Nor speak—save through the Air—
Their Thought—an unseen—subtle Name—
The Human—cannot hear—
Each Year—they mark my humble Door—
With Dust—a Star might leave—
I sweep—and yet—it gleams once more—
A Sign I half—believe—
They ask not Bread—nor Candle’s glow—
But bend—to study—Me—
As if—my Soul—were Specimen—
Of their—Infinity—
If quantum mechanics were understood,
and black hole singularities, space-time,
and gravity's well swallowed in a flood,
would bend to genius effort of this rhyme,
instead, might solve a wicked delusion:
that I am Center of the Universe.
If the Bell Curve, for IQ, ends confusion,
then my so-called “godhood” status, a curse,
permits the information paradox,
a test, to irradiate my manic strain,
turning Schrödinger's Cat into a fox,
collapsing my wave-function to Planck domain.
What now remains, is for me to theorize:
will this strange rhyme win me a Nobel Prize?
ONE GOAL
There’s more than one thing left for me to do
In life, a wide spectrum of stuff still to achieve
As time is ever shorter, I guess I must choose
Not just sitting in the dark, suffering the blues
With so much yet to discover, or even believe
Of all the goals I seek I know one is really true
My horizons require I take a short term view
If indeed time permits, but that is merely fate
But I still have far to go, as a Thursday’s child
I pace myself, and am certainly no longer wild
But when my goal is in plain sight, it’s like bait
I will not accept safety and comfort just in lieu
My goal to defy death, at least a few more years
A measured approach to living, nothing stupid
My poetic aim is to complete six thousand works
While somewhere inside some creativity still lurks
And even once again to feel the arrow of Cupid
Never to recognise when it’s the sum of all fears
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.