You've never been part of me
is a lie.
You're part of me
I've already forgiven you.
I'm missing you, that
It's hard to say,
I don't care anymore.
(now read it from bottom to top)
I emerge from a long night
where mind, muscle and bone
failed to find a place, a posture
quiet and comfortable enough
for sleep. And so I have arrived here,
daybreak on this spring morning
with the resident blackbird
performing his familiar
all to early reveille.
I envy his vigorous rousing
lifted full volume
into the morning silence
as if all nature was called
to stir on command of his voice,
no equivocation or hesitant stall
to doubt the worthiness
of his song.
It holds the chords of his being,
a moment when sound
and self are one, meld
into living art. I gather the bits
and pieces of myself
left by the interrogations
of last night, search for the notes
that contain a little of who I am,
pick up a pen to make
myself into me again.
Bobby still remembers his High School Sophomore year
Rarely do his other memories still ring so clear
But he also recalls letters to Christine (his girl at the time)
They are so vivid he can quote every line
Sometimes they skipped their classes just to talk for a while,
He adored that girl to madness,
her brilliance and style
That year was precious,that year was a bit wild
He's not living with any regrets,
That year and that girl left impressions he'll never forget
By: J.N.R Dutton
Searches are common.
God knows what they’re looking for!
Mary-Anna? (we are unisex)
£-s-d? (sorry, we’re all broke)
A sharp wit? (every one here has arrested development)
What do they search for so intimately?
They searched me today.
All they found
was this poem.
there was a vespa parked on road
billy the buffalo had never rode
it was huge hundred pounds
the vespa struggles under the sound
billy's bellow made it sickly plead
for peace against the massive beast
billy started the vespa fast
and horned loud and rode it past
houses looked at it with awe
uncle hari nicked his ear in awe
the dogs of street glared at it
people in their car stopped to see
it raced and raced till it reached the race
"STRONGEST SPORTS CAR WILL RACE"
billy entered the race with vespa
the poor thing almost collapsed hard
yet raced against fierce cars
till it reached the ending point bars
the buffalo got off and took the prize
the human in car watched in demise
the vespa took a final breath
and fell down on the pavement left
billy jumped into the lake
it had won the race for the vespa's sake
Todd spent two weeks working in a seaside town
Til he and his boss man had a falling out
He packed up his bag, paid up his motel,
& he was outta there like a shot
before the sun went down
He hadn't seen his wife in quite a long time
So he couldn't wait to be homeward bound
By: J.N.R Dutton
They ask me what is race —
I say: a border drawn in skin,
a lie that learned to breathe,
A wicked seed planted from within.
It’s not blood. Blood doesn’t know color.
It’s not bone. Bone doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s a story — told so long,
so loud, so often,
we mistook the telling for the truth.
Race is a costume
A made up competition
Of existence.
HIS-Story made us wear.
Prejudice is the cousin
Of racism for they both go hand in hand.
While they prevent every color and creed from coming together and joining hands.
Some days it fits like armor,
some days it cuts like wire,
but underneath it, every time,
is just a person
asking to be free
of the box somebody else built.
So don’t ask me what race is.
Ask what it costs.
Ask who it protects.
Ask why we’re still drawing lines
on a map that was never really there.
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
I freely admit and hereby disclaim
when writ 'twas a pitiful rhyme
and all those moments
will be lost in time
like tears in rain
in Spain
they stay
mainly in the plain
or so they say
and yet are washed away
down the drain
never to be shed
or seen again
You need not write, nor even to speak
for your soul is a poem, one which is read
by my heart.
A mystery
Through space and time,
A puzzle that riddles minds.
Hope without despair,
Here but never there,
A voice within the air
Heard from everywhere.
Soft, but hardened too;
A nail without the glue;
A shadow in the flame;
A spark without a name.
Truth that can’t be bind,
Left burning in the mind.
Poetry is what I do;
I am ETW
I woke up in paradise,
beneath a sky painted pink.
Then suddenly, I was on a mountain,
watching the clouds drift below.
I blinked—
and found myself by the sea,
standing beneath a crimson moon.
Everything felt real
until I woke up again—
Oh! It's just another dream.
I Guess You
Just Don’t
Read 'Em
Like I Wrote
'Em.
***Me Either.***
-Gray Squirrel
09-02-2026
I’m writing this to tell you I am sorry,
For the time we lost and words left unsaid.
When I heard about your motorcycle accident,
Fear and realization filled my head.
We don’t see you as much as we used to,
And living apart makes the distance feel wide,
But knowing how close we came to losing you
Brought every hidden emotion back inside.
I think of our house and everyone in it—
Lily, Alissa, Aubrey, and Jaxon,
And how every single one of us needs you,
Because nobody else could ever be our mother.
I realize now how much you truly mean to me,
How precious every single moment can be.
I’m sorry for any distance or anger from the past,
I just want you healed, safe, and happy at last.
We’re all pulling for you.
Coffee
Morning delight
Perfect
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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.