Heavy rain outside,
your door is closed.
He is waiting out there,
soaked in the storm, counting time.
You’d open the door
and welcome him.
You’d wipe his head and face
with your fingers of love.
And when you unbutton his shirt,
you’d notice—
he is fragile from inside,
his little heart broken into tiny pieces.
Believe in yourself.
The oak never asks permission to grow.
The sun never asks permission to rise.
Why should you?
This world is waiting for your words,
not another echo.
For as a person thinketh,
so they become.
Think greatly.
Speak truth.
Leave something behind
that outlives your heartbeat.
Embittered with envy and evil intent,
he knew what he was but did not care.
His god was his ego, his fight unfair,
no holds barred. He stole, he lied,
he never prayed. He thought he was great.
He had no friends, not even his wife.
His children hated him, now long dispersed
much to his wife's agony. Evil excited him.
He never shook hands or waved a greeting.
But money spells power, and many were afraid
to be on the wrong side of his good books.
So he received no love and no respect.
And when he died, no bells tolled their dirge,
no eulogy was read during his cremation;
all were glad, especially his wife
who was now rich and glad.
And on his tombstone, she had engraved:
"A closed hand cannot receive."
alas
love's cast
cute boy
brings joy
just friends
fresh lens
looks like
luck strikes
sound choice
chill voice
vast arms
all charms
chums wed
well fed
fluffy
hubby
Into the unknown
Alert but not fully prepared
March down the path of discovery
Anger must not be there
Seeking to find that something
Purposeful all the way
Each step a new horizon
Clear thinking to the end
Instructions there are none
A hand to catch you now
Looking for ever upward
Peace and serenity there
Earning the right to see through
Reasoning a little askew
Searching to know the answer
Opening the door to joy
Now is the time to be real.
Justice or JUST US -
It seems to be - that this is NOT -
Just a trend, but a common thread,
To how things seem to work -
And no I'm not being woke,
Us Black people just seem to know,
How -
This world works.
We see with our eyes open,
They see with wilful ignorance,
Double standards become the white man’s self fulfilling prophecy,
A legacy -
Created to keep Black people in a state of misery,
In a state of unwanted complacency,
In a state of anxiety -
Of an unknown future,
Where self defence is a life sentence,
And being attacked is a death sentence
Justice was never for US,
Just for U -
Who?
Non Black people -
They get excuses,
We get damnation,
Their violence is proof - of abuse,
Our innocence - twisted to fit the narrative,
Damned if we defend ourselves, damned if we don't,
Either way we don’t get to go home,
A body bag or a prison cell?
Either option is a different version of hell.
Justice is not for us -
A Black person.
We do not get the privilege of impartiality,
Just the label of guilty,
Where the colour of our skin -
Meant justice was a case we would never win.
1n70 7h3 unkN0wn
4l3r7 bu7 n07 fu11y pr3p4r3d
M4rch d0wn 7h3 p47h 0f d15c0v3ry
4ng3r mu57 n07 b3 7h3r3
533k1ng 70 f1nd 7h47 50m37h1ng
Purp053fu1 411 7h3 w4y
34ch 573p 4 n3w h0r1z0n
C13ar 7h1nk1ng 70 7h3 3nd
1n57ruc710n5 7h3r3 4r3 n0n3
4 h4nd 70 c47ch y0u n0w
L00k1ng f0r 3v3r upw4rd
P34c3 4nd 53r3n17y 7h3r3
34rn1ng 7h3 r1gh7 70 533 7hr0ugh
R3450n1ng 4 1177l3 45k3w
534rch1ng 70 kn0w 7h3 4n5w3r
0p3n1ng 7h3 d00r 70 j0y
N0w 15 7h3 71m3 70 b3 r34l
I always seem to fantasize about the same thing.
Every night when my head hits the pillow.
I'm older, more confident. Taller even.
I bump into you in town, just mooching around. Probably window shopping cause I can never make rent on time.
We bump shoulders. I turn and apologize politely and you recognize me. You'll have to remind me your name because you remember I'm bad with faces but I need no reminder.
Those eyes, the direct mirror to my own soul.
You'll say, "oh my God, how have you been?" And I'll smile and say, "I've been doing good. It's good to see you" and we exchange new numbers.
A week goes by and you reach out wanting to catch up over coffee.
I'll go.
Pretending I'm not searching your hands for a ring.
You catch me doing so but you don't mention it.
We hug goodbye.
I'd like to sit and think that it would progress.
Two kids in a farm house. The whole picket white fence. The real American dream. But even my dreams are realistic these days.
They know it'll fizzle out, the same way it did before.
In every distance away
from you,
I'd still choose you.
Painted a picture.
I thought I drew you well.
Mixed moonlight with memory,
called it truth and framed it on the wall.
I gave your silence a laugh,
your absence a pulse,
stitched constellations into empty sleeves
and dressed a ghost in gold.
Every brushstroke was a prayer
for a miracle to stay still.
I shaded your flaws with mercy,
highlighted your virtues with hunger,
until the canvas knew you better
than you had ever known yourself.
Visitors stopped and stared.
"Who is that?" they'd ask.
And I'd smile, because I didn't know.
The eyes belonged to hope.
The mouth belonged to loneliness.
The hands belonged to every goodbye
I was too frightened to release.
Then one morning the paint began to crack.
The colors slid downward like tears,
revealing the white beneath,
the terrible holiness of nothing.
That's when I understood:
I never lost you.
I lost the masterpiece
I made from empty space.
And standing before a blank canvas,
for the first time in years,
I met the artist.
Not the illusion.
Me.
A bad person smiles with polished teeth,
their words smooth stones skipping over dark water.
They lie without trembling,
because the lie has long ago become their skin.
The good man stumbles in falsehood,
his eyes turning toward the floor
as though truth were a wounded bird
crying beneath the boards.
For evil rehearses itself.
It studies mirrors,
learns the shape of kindness,
the proper nod, the measured grief.
But the decent soul—
he is awkward in deception.
His conscience leaves fingerprints
upon every sentence.
Beware the man
who never contradicts himself,
whose stories arrive too clean,
too sharpened, too ready.
The shadow often comes
dressed in confidence.
And goodness—
goodness is usually uncertain,
standing in the doorway
with muddy shoes and honest hands.
I am grateful for understanding early (thanks to Thomas Hardy)
when it comes to friends, family and ultimately my wife
for knowing who the right people are with whom to share my life.
“At your very best, you still won't be good enough for the wrong person.
But at your absolute worst, you'll still be worth it to the right person”
Guess who is coming to dinner?
Didn’t expect it
Didn’t even invite
It was the President’s request
Give or take
The President of the United States wants to have dinner at my house
Why my house, go figure
He won’t be a king
I am the king, and it’s my house
Dinner won’t be anything fancy, just cheap
I will order from Burger King, McDonald’s and Chicken Delight
You know the slogan, “Don’t cook tonight call Chicken Delight”
Why should I cook?
The President has prices in a mess
In fact, I feel as a voter, I should be invited to the White House
The President will have to bring the wine if he is going to dine
Since the President is cheap on “We the People”
He will get a taste of his own menu
My house is plain and simple
I should invite the GOP and Democrats to be witnesses at this dinner
Make a party out of it
Invite the media
I intend to show the President in how to be a Humanitarian
I will take action
Just watch me work
The President is lucky I won’t be serving layovers.
entry for Constance La France's contest:
Write a Beautiful Terza Rima
But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation,
a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him
who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light; 1 Peter 2:9
The very hairs of our heads are numbered
and Jesus has called us to be faithful.
Forgiven, with fear I am no longer encumbered.
Is it so peculiar to render the choice
to praise our Prince of Peace for deliverance
from darkness? His Spirit strengthens my voice.
I'm grateful, yet with restraint, to have the chance
to share my faith with those who spurn God’s good grace,
not deterred by their questioning glance.
Beforehand, without onslaught upon their space
I ask the Lord to lead in my approach.
Sometimes I sense, “Wait, don’t speak face to face.”
“Lighten up! This is not the time to encroach,
Show, don’t tell,” counsels my Coach.
May we be blessed to understand
how one person can change another person’s world…
by something they say or do…
How wonderful would it be if today…
that person who changes another person’s world
is you.
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.