As a kid, if I fell down
and grazed my knee,
my Mum, she would attempt
to comfort me,
with a sticky plaster and, 'There, there,'
to which I'd reply,
'Where, where? Here?'
'No, there,' she'd sigh,
'But where's there?'
inquisitive as always, I would ask,
as a sensitive, yet difficult, child,
I was quite the task,
with cuts, bruises and sprains,
more than a handful, no less,
otherwise, born to run wild,
a piece of work in progress.
Piece Of Art
That Guy's
A Piece Of Work
AND
A Work Of Art!
A:
PIZZA-WART!!!!
I’m Not Sure Who
Would Be A Fan
Of That Kind Of:
“Humor”
But, You Know:
***Just In Case.***
-Gray Squirrel
07-17-2025
Sage men and women the world around,
many pearls of wisdom they have found
(I guess I'm not so smart).
"Love Jane, not Mary or Marie.
Have faith in God to comfort thee.
Learn forgiveness, your heart to free.
Take as your friend, your enemy."
Am I a "piece of work" or art?
I cannot change my heart.
A sonnet by this arrant bard, an other,
whose sole half-brother, a real piece of work,
and single parent (mother like no other!),
together were no warm nor loving perk.
In her heart, mother disowned me in life.
My younger half-brother begrudged my genius,
whilst being a rival who sowed seeds of strife,
in mother, against me (how very jealous
was he?). But I, an outright bard, complete
and sheer, make their dysfunction a rhymed affair
to exorcise these memories: defeat
this duo by whom I'm “an other” in despair!?
But if I could return my estranged mother,
I still wouldn't—and call my half-sibling, “Brother!”
Some family members
Is a real piece of work
They don't do anything
Nor give a helping hand
To help with their elderly
Or disabled parents or
Relatives, they live there
Happy life without a care
In the world, while some
other relative sacrifice their
Time to help out but the second
One of them dies, the
Do nothings comes around
Expecting something, like
Money, the house, the car
But they never lifted a finger
To help, the decease family member
But even if you get something
You're still a loser in the end
Thursday, 2025.1.16
Happy birthday to my sister.
She turns a mile stone at the new corner.
Now she earns the title of being a senior.
Congratulations to you, my sister.
Congratulations to me too.
Today, I was introduced the Poetry's world.
I started to post my poems,
Few days later, my first piece of work,
Was listed in "This Week's Featured poems".
It was read by many viewers.
I was overwhelmed and flattered.
Initially, the poems were written,
To serve as my diary keeper.
Eventually, the writing got easy and easier.
I was glad, I met this poet,
Who I named "Mr Author",
He introduced me to the poetry's world,
Hopefully, I can continue on writing,
Post them all on the internet.
Thank you "Mr Author"
Thank you all the viewers.
It was all my pleasure.
It always begins with a huge heart/
To be used over and over/
Stomped out like a forest fire/
That someone you trust and loved started it/
Screaming, running around/
Raging in your mind/
When they pick up your heart/
And tear it to pieces/
To bash against the wall/
Without a chance at life/
Behind the sight of your eyes/
All you see is cold, heartless humans/
Acting like a friend/
Only to turn around/
And spread rumors/
Laugh behind your back/
Like you're a circus freak/
Being abused in all ways/
Because you tried to have a heart/
Towards others and they only use you/
Slowly ripping the soul away/
Becoming a ruthless beast/
Learning to give no one a chance/
To use you as a mat/
Being a cold piece of work/
The so called... Soulless/
the stubborn semi stood on his head
you cannot make me go, he said to Ed
Ed was angry now, a trucker who never swore
You are a piece of work, metal scrap and more!
the town came to see the semi and gave support
he was just protesting his wages, said Uncle Mort
He has been on his head for sixteen weeks now, of course.
Ed finally left, riding away on a sad looking horse.
ALOUETTE
A tremulous violin rises into the sky
Leaving its thoughtful melodic trail
Faint echoes of English countryside
And for this listener, evoking pride
The lark still ascending, tells its tale
We’re left in tears and all know why
As I experience the Lark Ascending
A haunting, evocative arrangement
Describing a gentle fluttering of wings
The emotions that the melody brings
Wistful and feeling such contentment
The mood lingers with its soft ending
Early twentieth century composition
In some ways reflecting an innocence
With nature captured in that melody
Springtime fields, and life feeling free
That piece of work made such sense
Ralph Vaughan Williams’ true vision
Portrait
This portrait of you gladdens me
It looks like you; depravity
you’d hate it, friend
it’s pitiless,
displays your foul malignity.
Your smile, well
it’s ominous
vampiric canine alias.
The painter tried to hide that smirk
to cover sleaze in fancy dress,
not all paint can cover murk.
He captured your peculiar quirk,
that nostril flare of snobbery
you were a nasty piece of work.
Matthew Hendy lived centuries ago
a non-conformist minister in England
although Welsh-born lived across the border
lived 51 years made true Christian stand
His greatest piece of work by far
whole Bible commentary is so excellent
covers six volumes in every detail
this exposition was heaven-sent
It's agreeable to remit of scripture
being sold, strong and understanding
not based on vain speculation
practical with depth but never too demanding
Another gem from his gifted hand
is his book 'a method of prayer'
has great insights on praying
that helps believers to always share
Matthew Henry's words still speak today
to all who faithfully study his writings
such blessings they receive in full
thanks be to God for this gem he brings
(One of my favorite writers is Matthew Henry who has written a marvelous Bible commentary, so this is written to highlight him and his writings.)
(Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s little sister, was off-tha-hook earlier this summer)
thirteen
peach flesh
fabuk buster
nu-metal priss
sexless breasts
bitten fingernails
dirty babyskin feet
mirror mesmerized
straight-eyed honesty
grouchapottamus
without analysis
corollary sister
wide eyed
hot mess
skinny
pacer
bella
doe
.
.
Webster: Corollary: something that naturally follows another (like sisters)
slang…
off tha hook = out of control
fabuk = rotten banana
buster = acts like a punk-b*tch
nu-metal = new generation heavy metal, hated by purists
priss = baby
grouchapottamus = someone perpetually grouchy and edgy
hot mess = a handful, a piece of work, a colorful character.
pacer = very smart, hard to keep up with, sets the pace
bella = someone to handle with care
doe = girl
Krispy = super exclusive
*Update: Leeza tested into some krispy math-camp and that apparently calmed her down.
Starry Night
With calm swirls of blue
And towers filled with dark shades of black
A church and a steeple
And a bright yellow moon
Shining bright
The only moon the city will see tonight
Deep gushes of wind
Blowing lightly across the colorful skyline
For a night so dark and dreary
The city couldn’t be more gracefully lit
A starry night filled with dreams and glorious stars
Is a work of art that you can't buy at any mart
But a piece of work that has had centuries
Of wondrous stares
And curious glares
For the mysterious story, it holds
So deep and bold
But so calm and delicate
Starry Night
Writing is an art in different forms. We write to inspire and to inform. No indifference in feelings among writers, poets, playwrights and the like because writing is for everybody. We express different moods in various words; different colors in writing, different blending in thinking. Writing is not a game of chance, but the fulfillment of a serious game of beauty, balance and transparency.
Not everyone may be interested in poetry or writing of any kind. We may not be born as writers, but we excel and interpret things and thoughts the easier way for everybody in the world to understand. The appreciation and fulfillment in writing can only be possible when the reader feels the rhythm and adrenaline in each piece of work or writing that the thinker (poet/poetess and/or writer) does or makes.
There is prestige in writing. And writing is for everyone... both an art and right!
I think I may have puzzled out
The tree Joyce Kilmer's poem's about.
That it's an oak is in my head,
But now she's old and nearly dead.
Her roots are dry,
Her branches bent,
Her breast by cruel lightning rent.
Her head, once proud, now bowed and bare,
In spring no robins nesting there.
She cannot lift her limbs to pray,
He never answers anyway.
But if only God can make a tree,
Then there remains a mystery.
How could a gardener such as He
Take time to make, so lovingly,
Then spurn and turn His back
And callously forsake His artistry?
Her beauty lives in poetry,
Part of a young fool's legacy.
Oh, would that I could make her whole,
Or give her peace
And help release her soul.
Joyce Kilmer published his poem in 1913 when he was 27 years old. Five years later he was dead at age 32, killed by a sniper's bullet in France, toward the end of WWI. It seems God had no more concern for the poet than He had for the tree. Maybe He didn't like the competition from a mere mortal who could produce a piece of work so beautiful as to rival His own creation.
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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.