To see this village, search for its wrinkles
Look to the bubbies, who first brought forth life
to the zaydes, who polish their words of Torah ‘til they twinkle
Bubby’s hands may be calloused from
Pesach cleaning, polishing every chalice
Zayde’s body bent from work by day
and relentlessly studying the nights away
But watch their wrinkles break out
as a thousand voices joyously shout
Mazeltov!! Congratulations all around
on their 50th grandchild – count 'em –
Welcome him to bubby and zayde’s little town…
___________________________________
'bubbies' - Yiddish for 'grandmas'
'zaydes' - Yiddish for 'grandpas'
Mazel-tov - Congratulations
"Tulips under Sastin"
is a Project and research module
for a song.
It's mention is a work in progress
it's self. Just the mention of this phrase
means interest
and a willingness to be a part of the
inspiration of this
southing sound.
Urging: needing to exsist it
tugs the helm lines
and twistthem in a bunch.
needing attention
longing to be
it's mere mention causes
those who wish togetherness to
come together and create it
for the sake of the future.
polishing,oiling,swabbing adjusting
so that other's might marvel
at the way's of differencing
can bring others together
in a collective with interest same in need and want
a desire to be creative
and at the same time\create something now
that will sound like something then.
Clean all those instruments
collaberate
and settle on tempo, writte the notes
rmember the tone
adjust the need for
clear and tranparnet readiness
folk who love music and don't
mind working come together and create this thang.
!
It’s a crooked slope
that leads to hell
and I’m riding it
Stance Goofy
Those Regulars
that believe they aren’t,
are way out in front
tripping over themselves
polishing and buffering the way
So I must be putting
the right foot forward
Besides, I also carry a mascot
and fail safe
It’s a goldfish in a bag
who never moves his left fin
He’s showing more zip
in his tail of recent
since I started feeding him
those highly energised
copper and black batteries
He won’t be going down
anytime soon
except maybe with
lead poisoning
I prefer lithium myself
it’s much lighter
and makes my collapse
easier to stomach
* * *
life wearing braces
whilst holding a bag of fish
be happy with me
By
David Kavanagh
Curiosity brings me here.
To the lonely halls of the museums inner workings at night
The only sounds; the scuffle of a mouse and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of the clocks
The heady scent of freshly polished floors illuminate the way to a small, cluttered room. I silently watch as he stoically works, surrounded by clocks and timepieces galore, as the pendulums melodically swing the hands of time steadily towards the chiming hours
Clocks of all shapes and sizes cover every conceivable space and are overwhelming in their similarities and differences. In amongst the chaos of the room, the curators slow movements are concise and methodic as he gently oils the gears of the clocks. Tenderly polishing faces, as a loving mother would wash their own children's.
His body is lean and stooped, his eyes quizzical and searching. Remedying any imperfections that reach his eye with the grace and speed of a gazelle, alert to his surroundings. The curator is comfortable in this space, he needs neither company nor conversation. He has the clocks which count his steps towards the end.
I softly walk away from this mesmerising sight.
we watch red petals on a couch fall
pistils are blood cells raw opened
falling on white linen watching
grey from wear and tears
our bangles shatter shy shiver
eating opened figs red
S
LICED
knifed you one loaf for eight
near and far you are my star
crazed or tranquil polishing brass
oceans with oil spills rush ship hull
fish dying as gills ooze dna flying
king then peasant or poet, know it !
weaving words regret and regress
how you escape depths, mate of slate
where Persephone eats ocean peaches
the fish are tuna, mackerel and yellowtail
sailors break their bread on rope deck
I watch enthralled from hoping shore
shore and red petals merge with urge
blood cells bright as fire roaring
slaves washing linen at river snoring
tears from stratus clouds dropping bangles
figs fat, ready for pudding angles
we will slice it with your sailor’s knife
g o
BB
LE
IT
UP __________
Polishing the truth to enhance the facts
Telling people what they want to hear
However you want to gloss it over
Lying to others is lying to yourself
Big lies little lies are the same
People just stop believing you
You ultimately lose their trust
And turn into a persona non grata
Respect is something you earn
You have to have if for yourself
Before others can respect you
Be truthful honest and real.
Be the best person you can be.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Kirk is a rooster in a suit,
yelling “freedom”
while polishing his boots
so no mud ever touches him.
He’s all mouth,
no fight,
selling rage like it’s champagne.
Vance skulks in the corner,
smokes his own shame,
pretends he’s the last honest man
while sniffing nostalgia
and blaming everyone
for everything he hates.
Kirk’s dreams are neat,
Vance’s are crooked,
both lie like toothless gamblers
pretending their debts don’t exist.
Kirk waves banners,
Vance waves ghosts—
same emptiness,
different dress code.
They think they’re fighting wars.
They’re not.
They’re clipping feathers
off each other’s parrots
while the world burns
and nobody remembers their names
tomorrow.
Politics?
It’s just theater for men
who smell like fear and whiskey,
and both of them—
roosters or ghosts—
stumble drunk
on the same cracked stage.
Soft as a marsh, the wave—
its homeland drifting far into the open sea,
should be heading for the shoulder of the horizon
the stars will soon erase.
Yet, drawn to the polishing
of an aura like yours, dusted with grains of sand,
it turns its back on the wind drunk with sunset
and rushes toward the shore.
Like the long scream of a half-moon
that the morning glow will sweep away,
the sun, swollen by evening light, cries out
that this is not the way.
The wave shuts out even the clouds
that once headed with it toward the old tree of home,
and cages the sun—now gaunt with worry—
on an island where its scolding can be put to sleep.
Jealous of the gulls beating their wings
on your shadow,
it rears itself like an enraged train
and rams toward the shore.
Whether it knows or not the weight
of its one-way devotion,
you mingle with other shadows,
building sandcastles.
Where Now We
Lustre Exposed
It Self Same Cave
Man Un-Hooked
Tide To The Tale-Man-Mad Made.
Oh, No Waste With More
POLISH!
Just Stop All
The Polishing
Soft Infant Nurtured
Oh To Soft Raised
To Animal Where
It Came On Come
It Came There In.
No Time For Cleaning.
-Gray Squirrel
01-03-2026
Etched in the woes of life he played his violin
Each note a tear he would not let begin
Strings whispered his secrets that this world never knew
Sorrows in tremors soft, trembling true
His bow moved slow through the ache of his years
Polishing grief with the shine of tears
A melody arose, so tender and yet forlorn
Cradling the dusk where his dreams were torn
Yet in that lament something bright was spun
A fragile hope like a full moon hung
For from the sadness of life, he played and still
The world grew quiet as time stood still.
She sat by the edge of a resting stream,
where her reflection peered at her sadness.
She threw a stone to still its mocking glare—
the ripples spread and swept away her image,
as if eager to dissolve her gloom in obscurity.
Before long, the current found her face again.
She watched it mirror her stare once more,
and though torment gripped her trembling face,
her tears rolled—coins sinking into depth.
The birds ceased their songs; the frogs stopped their croaks.
Their silence ached her head, throbbed her chest,
till her skull seemed to burst with anguish—
yet she watched as fry darted in the stream.
The salt-white path of her tears had crusted dry,
begging weary glands for more to cleanse them,
to join those the stream had already swallowed,
as if its waters were made brackish by her tears.
Though soiled by the drops it drank before,
it still awaited more drops of her misery,
polishing its mirror to reflect her sadness once more—
while her body stayed pressed to the sand by its bank,
till daylight waned and twilight veiled the sky.
his OCD merry-go-round
is noticeable all around
repeated behaviors over and over
tearing up dandelions and clover
polishing table twenty-three times
recounting once again his tin of dimes
repeated efforts are automatic
familiar patterns, nothing unexpected or sporadic
Well, it's inspection time again!
The Boys in the Barracks are wiping,
buffing, spit-polishing, belts and buckles...
Lest they feel the Wrath of their D.I.'s Knuckles!
Now, once they're all prepped and polished,
Some may soon find...their world demolished!
silence falls...Quick footsteps down the hall...
Not, One, Soul, Is, BREATHING...At ALL!
ATTEN-SHUN! BARRACKS READY FOR INSPECTION SIR!
AS YOU WERE CORPORAL! What Have We Got HERE?
You MAGGOTS! Look like something that...
Got PAID!, Got LAID!!, and then...Got...FRAPPE'D!!!
YOU...CALL...YOURSELVES...MARINES???
CUZ, I'VE GOT A BETTER DESCRIPTION!... LADIES!!!
PRIVATE KLUTZ!!!, STEP FORWARD!!!
THIS...is what the H, E, double Hockey Sticks...I MEAN!
What the HELL!...is that...GACK!!!...on your RACK???
It looks like...you Lost your PAY...Playing...POKER!!!
Couldn't AFFORD...to get...LAID!...
Couldn't AFFORD...to Get... FRAPPE'D!!!
Then YOU...told...ALL...The Others...YOUR BROTHERS!!!
YOUUU!...FELT SICK...BUT INSTEAD...WHIPPED YOUR WICK!!!
IF YOU PREFER TO BLOW...GUNK!!!...ON YOUR...BUNK!!!
THEN...SAVE YOUR GRAVY!!!...AND...JOIN...THE...NAVY!!!
AS YOU WERE...PRIVATE!!!
Love is the lubricant of the soul and the emollient of the heart, both
Unguent and viscous, it glides like butter in the summer heat
Banish it from your life and suddenly everything will dry up, like a
Rose wilting by winter's call. Lubricate love with a sense of purpose
Invite joy to sit at your table and oil your dreams with hope.
Care for your inner self and nurture your mind and body....
A lubricant made of peace and forgiveness can reduce friction
Nature has a way of polishing and moisturizing the mind and
Truth be told, gratitude can be the greatest lubricant of them all.
I’ve taken up polishing skulls.
Not trophies,
just my kin—
their sockets still
echoing
what they aren't
ready to hear.
Though it's only
what they've said
themselves.
I never knew
what reckoning meant
however,
in terms of preparation,
that is,
my training
for the abrasing escalation
of the manner
in which they've behaved?
That's easy,
I crack pebbles now,
knuckles before a fight,
teeth on a dare—testing
hollow sentiments.
It's kept me protected,
but I will say this:
it hasn't attracted many fans.
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.