SOUP TROUPE (CM)
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peer group, Soup group
write verse, scribe troop
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
My heart longs to have a poet
Willing to write with me a duet.
TAKING ROOT
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A field of snow before the first footprint.
My hand hovers, a hesitant bird
above the frozen ground.
What seeds to scatter here?
What thaw to coax from the barren space?
A word takes root.
Another follows, tentative, green shoots
pushing through the icy crust.
It unfurls, tentative,
a fragile bloom pushing through concrete,
nourished by doubt and desire.
The pen, a conduit,
trembling at first, then finding its rhythm,
a dance between intention and impulse.
The page surrenders,
accepting the ink's embrace,
the birth of something new,
A poem emerges, breathing,
where only emptiness resided before.
making others feel worthless does not increase the value of ourselves
I thought of you today and shed a tear
remembering the poems that we shared
and though at times we fought 'twas always clear
that in the end the two of us still cared
the Soup at times can be a fickle beast
not always sure who is a friend or clown
and though attacks and insults rarely ceased
we had each other's back when one felt down
the ache inside is deeper than you know
your absence like a tree without a nest
so many years and then you had to go
to some of us you simply were the best
here's hoping there's a grandiose return
for in our hearts your poetry still burns
She is... poetry (a reference to her classic poem, I Am Poetry)
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
I used to hate dresses,
The feeling of air blowing onto my legs and the need for sandals.
I hated the way my light blonde leg hair would shine so brightly in the sun.
High schoolers were so scary,
Taller than me, bigger than me, more mature.
Now I am that high schooler and I still feel that way about them.
I’ve always been the smallest girl on the field, in the classroom, on stage.
It gnaws at me because it is unchangeable.
Unchangeable in ways I would do anything for.
Gone are the days of running around on the playground,
Now are the days of straightened hair and perfect outfits.
Girlhood hits like a train, ending the non-gender conforming ways of childhood imagination.
Pre-conceived notions and unachievable expectations.
I used to be afraid to perform.
But that’s what girlhood is.
TIME FOR SOME BUBBLY
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After a day filled with rhyme,
Storm the Squirrel found time, sublime.
In a tub full of lathering foam,
with effervescent glass she imbibed at home.
Sipping champagne, enjoying her poetic prime!
With bubbles that danced all around,
she admired words and verses she’d found.
“But dear sonnets and haikus,
you’ve given me such blues,
But now with this fizz, joy abounds!”
So she toasted to muses and dreams,
to the creativity that fills her to the seams.
With a wink and boisterous cheer,
she declared, “Fellow poets, have no fear,
For tomorrow, I’ll conquer new themes!”
A return to Normalcy
As night comes, all are at ease
We return to slumber
In the electric comfort
Of artificiality that is our lives
We revel in the false sense of our own
Modern conveniences
We forget the thin veil between
Our electric life, truth of nature’s brutality
Of our existence, we believe we are
Immune to the real world, harsher realities
Till only a loss of electric life or death, finite
Our comfort zone is rot, lost, and won
Something jars us back to reality
Of the world so frail
So it goes for everything n anyone
We are wrapped in ourselves
We are ignorant of the truth, in flesh
We hid in the comfort of our arrogance
We whitewash our history
We tell ourselves one thing
We miss direct our attention
With glamour, illusions, n media broadcasts
Peel back the thin layer of civility
See the bones of mortality
The flesh of humanity
The blood of our souls, vanity
We are primal and dangerous
Everything foretold, lost
We are comforted by our excesses
We fear what we cannot hold
And believe all we are sold
As we turn in for a much-needed reprieve
A needed night's rest, we are in our woolen
Wilds and slumber in our hypocrisy.
Electric Line's sway,
spider webs of industry
along a rocky lane under
a hot southern sun, cicada…
cry high, into the crystal blue sky
We are a ghost nation
of Man’s hypocrisy
crossing shadows under a hard
noonday sky.
The empty road under the leaning
Electric crosses of civilization
Shadows fall, carving silhouettes into
Upon hitting noonday ground
Humanity lost all reason
Along a rocky, dusty road
As day bleeds into a hot
Southern night
Crickets cry high
As the moon rides the
White galleons of cloudscapes
As star falls in infernal southern sky
Frogs sing the song of endless rain
As electric crosses lean
Under the halogen of streetlights
Crosses stand, lean to and fro
Like graves of the day
Souls drift and sway
As a nation is lost along the way
Bought and sold
While electric crosses align
A forgotten road
Of a Nowhere nation, undone…
Watching all fold…!
Ghosts that haunt empty spaces
Like objects in cabinets
that drift on window pains
As light out places the things
left in the corners of
attics and In-between
the walls and hidden faces,
memories like objects
that linger as bookmarks
to someone's history,
yellowing pages,
trinkets and toys,
old books and broken vases
sit like old photos faded,
memories of something
best left untouched or forgotten,
never stated, between the moments of memory
Like things left in shadows last and fated,
ghosts linger here and there,
pale movements in the Either,
objects of history,
a fall of light, a twist of shadow,
objects that haunt
like old souls in empty spaces…
Wreckage of moments thoughts
born in the space of actions
Reactions to the stimulation
Expressions, expectations
Ruined little things, broken
Alone, a cry sold in old
Scattered around after a war's toil
Hear the rage far and away drone
I walk in the ruins of soul
I feel forgotten in foreign soil
The drifting of imagery
Pressing the fragments
Shards hard into skin
Forsaken forbearing fringes
A soul not tethered to this realm or reality
Walking the footfall of a second soul
Wreckage of my deity..
There are two days I know
Yesterday and today
Yesterday laid the cross I bear
Cross I dared not to wear
Forever we stay, they say,
But the thorns stares away
In the pasture last known to stray,
Cradle land, a means to an end
Forgive me if I stray to forever land
For my kin, I bared my soul to fend
I gave my all and my all it took
Parting is luxury for tomorrow unknown
Final glimpse I begged the stars to hide
Evil stares where eyes dared not look
In corners cloaked by fear and stain
Mara Chantal@2025
QUESTIONS POETS AND WRITERS ASK
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On my laptop’s screen, words twist and twine,
I ponder, “Is this plot truly mine?”
With a character's frown,
Will my story break down?
Or will sadness and joy combine?
As I scribble, “What rhymes with orange?”
I chuckle, “Should my hero be foreign?”
With a coffee mug in hand,
And a notebook quite grand,
I wonder, “Should my villain be boring?”
“Is this twist too much, or just right?”
“Will they cheer, or will they take flight?”
With each question I pen,
I just laugh twice again,
For the joy of it all feels quite right!
Specific Types of Poetess Poems
Definition | What is Poetess in Poetry?
Poems Related to Poetess
rhymester, dilettante, writer, author, lyricist, muse, rhymer, bard, versifier, artist, dramatist, maker, poetaster, parodist, lyrist, librettist, odist, balladist, metrist, rhapsodist, rimer, sonnetist,