Lover, Lover
The nighttime sings our names
Ballads of the figurative Juliet
Radios hiss hearts spilled the shadows hide naked ambition stilled
Neglected emotional hills wafts through valleys of past lives
Karmic backlogs review their closing percentages
Futures flood the floors hold the line between fate and tears
Shadow people alone in the twilight
Illuminated letters, walls woed to sleep
Dreams from the shoreline as phantom vessels waltz on the silver linings
Postures of stable footing, top of the line, kings and queens of value
Thumbs circle the knuckles, bone kisses bone, the familiar taste of home
Haunted hems lines explored in tribal pursuits
Please keep me waiting
The specter of tender frames evaporates
Morning ghosts caress the memory in travel
Neckties versus deadlines
Power brokered, breath that betrays the dream
Folded napkins
Cocktail napkin epitaphs
Check please
In a world increasingly reduced
To postures of virtue signaling
It’s easy to side with the vocal majority
Crying real tears, gnashing whitened teeth.
But despite the emotional appeal
Of whatever we’re confirmationally biased towards,
Real issues exist in real time
Needing to be judged on real pros and cons.
History after all doesn’t exactly repeat itself
As much as spiral around a central core
Of habitual patterns
And stubbornly persistent delusions.
The next time you feel
The tug of collective empathy pull
Don’t just look at the banner
Look at the hand that holds it too.
(9/4/25)
DISSOLVED PICTURES
indistinct
unreal
postures
of
engaged
intensity
expressive
turbulent
alternating
symbols
of
nearness
in
reliable
assimulating
naturalistic
senses
clearly
recognisable
memorials
of
infinite
moods
fiery
coagulations
in mirrored
interpreted
interplay
defined
polar
essentials
provoking
attention
TIME OF SUSPENSION-:-
simple
specimen
genre
slightly
different
in REMEMBERED POSTURES
full
glowing
schemes
repeated
scenes
with SIGNIFICANT DIFFERENCES
detailed
feelings
paused
immediately
apparent
Myopic muddle
as beauty swirls
hues of heaven
yet bypasses
static statues that
pose as sentient
beings beknighted
dawn’s divine dream
seen as bland mirror
on ebbing eyewash
cathartic colour is
a universal uplift
even for low level
lustrous earth dweller
Immersed in skewed slant
I bandy icicled retort
as though taut timing
ever swayed rigid
stone age postures
elysian echo a speck
in azurite caves
to auditory aloofness
allied to blinkered
whim ‘s wanton
plight with dull
and dim twist
dispersed among
trivial terrains
alienation personified
vessel vacuous and void
rehabilitation of
the wayward faculty
a burst balloon blip
outsider ostracised
from gilded gardens
and sumptuous bloom
of ripe recrudescence
still limp laggard
on hackneyed cue
might yet stumble on
the fig of wakening
MELANCHOLY IDYLLS
in
shallow
backdrops
evoking
personification
yearning
for
a starting-point
moment
presenting
pensive
seductive
fruitful
imagery
of
love
enhancing
embodying
guile
freeing
mystical
gleaming
postures
HYBRID CONFECTIONS-:-
prized
deciphered
extremes
intersect
opposites
in PLAUSIBLE PERMUTATIONS
mannered
salient
postures
fantastically
juxtaposed
with WILD HIEROGLYPHICS
reserved
privilege
illuminating
viewers
imagings
INDIVIDUALITY
elemental
instinctive
heroic
prophetic
postures
yearnings
for
identity
of
a
stimulated
utopia
glimpsed
tendencies
of
interpreted
ideals
&
harmony
fostering
an
active
cultural
identity
In the bitter museum the past is on parade
in postures of reproach. Vast corridors
display a thousand ways of being ashamed
and illustrate the progress of despair.
Behind their glass, the mannequins of once
exhibit all the wealth of worlds now gone,
and frozen in their accusatory dance
the avatars of loss are labelled Done.
In the bitter museum extinguished dynasties
of hope set forth their monuments, inscribed
in that dead language, laughter. Vanished breeds
of joy are shown, regretfully alive.
The relics seem so real they almost leer.
In the bitter museum the dust is streaked with tears.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
resplendent
astonishing
brooding
postures
in
replicas
visions
exceedingy
sweet
of
desire
in
provocative
innuendo
of
implicit
ecstasy
a contraversial
temerity
of
sensibiities
laid
bare
Trump’s stuck-up pin playing adrift,
Here’s fig leaf of his haughty brief:
‘On verge of nuclear war
How two neighbours next door
Were stopped, thanks to my trade tariff’.
Not his policy pick,
Rather personal pique
That might drive two friends off the cliff.
___________________________
Happenings | 45.08.2025 | USA, humour
Note: Trump feels that if lies are repeated umpteen times they turn into truths. Keeping this in mind he throws in statistics to support his grand policy postures. India has rebuffed him often on Indo-Pak matters, short of calling him a liar. But he goes on like a stuck-up Gramophone record.
The sea refuses no river,
Even if it could, it never
Showed resentment
I learned how to hide my feelings,
The emotional game became a contest,
I start with a genuine smile,
My pearly whites, my body postures,
I have given my oppressor over the years
Inner satisfaction, they thought that they had won
Because the counting was yet done
We have learned from Mother nature
She gives us the warmth of her son,
And some days the scorn of her daughter's winter
Deep within my soul, I know them for whom they are
Parasites,
The river and the sea communication are all about
Love and happiness,
Living in a world of injustice,
Who gives them the power and the form?
Globally, we stood there and watched.
Slept throughout the day,
Feels like I’ve slept through my life.
Wide awake I lay—
It’s just that kind of night.
I've become a spectator of my own life,
Not a wink, even though I’ve turned off the light.
Switching postures, counting sheep,
Tried every last bit—
I guess it’s just those kinds of night.
I'm not living in the past,
Or in the present, for that matter.
Tried everything to feel alive,
But the hour I’m thinking all this… isn’t quite right.
I understand now—
It’s just those kinds of night.
PATRIARCHALITY postures to protect pursuits of personal power
it has been said that truth is stranger than fiction
so perhaps what’s affirmed could be true
although it seems unlikely
ludicrous in fact
that by controlling breath
and visualising grace of imaginary deities
along with chanting mantras and holding postures …
we can realise God
who we know not
have never seen
not even felt
yet who can tell
let us leave the door ajar
ceasing thinking and just feeling
the pulse of divine bliss magnetism within
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.