What does it take to live inside
Is there a shelter it provides?
In case it does, what shall I find
That’ll make me change my tortured mind
Presumably I’m not that kind
Like others do, I go outside
To change my sight I need to hide
From that notorious inside
But then my time goes running wild
It runs downstairs and climbs too high
Till I’m not able to define
What’s what, whose voice I hear inside.
Presumably assuming,
Presents peculiar perspectives,
Within our collective,
As a selective few move through,
Unabated,
Unafraid of the path laid before them,
Restoring glory to an old story,
As we climb assuming the truth,
Teaching our youth what's true,
Sharing the beauty of the view
As we stew the pot,
It's getting hot and ready to boil,
The soil ripe for sowing,
As we keep growing as a whole,
Giving love the control,
Governing our own soul,
Presumably assuming the best,
We have passed the test,
You guessed it,
I'm talking about you,
I assume you already knew,
Just what you came to do.
in Savannah
a shadow creeps at dusk
or stalks
presumably
a sasquatch or squirrel
A word or two about my view of the politicians
we presumably put in positions of power
hobbyists bought and paid for under the table
catering to manipulating lobbyists by the hour
where saying nothing yet flapping their gums
offending no one when sitting on the fence
doing naught but wagging their tongues
and all the while protesting their innocence
dodging the bullet by ducking the question
avoiding the topic with digression
self-serving landing votes with glad-handing
fingers firmly crossed behind the back
conscience-free they sleep well at night
there's nothing (short of gun) can be done to keep them on track
those more than a few who are quite literally
caught red-handed with their pants down
making a mockery of you and me
should be tarred feathered and run out of town
A monster of cookies and a man of spiders
Lie in a stilted plastic embrace
On the floor of my shower
Waiting for my sleepy naked foot
Like a soapy cartoon landmine
In the semi darkness
Where I don’t expect to face my mortality
By way of a crushed skull
From a forgotten toy
Regardless of how well it would fit
With the rest of the story
These aren’t the assassins
That I once thought that I would face
Although I do revile the blue one’s
Wanton destruction of innocent pastries
I had conceived of my enemies
In grander terms
Back when my super powers
Were just in front of me
And I was the small naked hero
Narrating the struggle for the world
In the shampoo rain while my father
Far above and far away
Presumably kept score and kept mumbling
Something about something
And the bruises
On his feet
Angry Citizens
Tired of the sitting woke government, the fake
niceness and the depletion of Germanies
heavy industry, not to forget her sycophantic
behavior towards Israel, a far-right party has
emerged.
There has been dark plotting afoot by some of
the party members, namely a famous TV cook
a welder from Austria, a GP. an astrologer
and presumably a tealeaf reader
The plot was to kidnap the prime minister
parade him on TV in his North Korean hairpiece
the one he only uses at home, hitherto a family
secret, although there had been rumors
force feed him bratwurst, boiled potatoes
and chicken nuggets until he promised to end
his pathetic practices and make Germany
great again.
The would-be terrorists were caught there
will be a trial, but we sense they will be let off
with custodian sentence
"Only the heroic has the right to gloat.
Rasping like fleas
In August
the barn roof leaked
The plums hummed full of bees
the sweet nectar captivating
The children's heads nodding like flowers
and Mother couldn't care
Her form shrugging away
Presumably she would leave for home, unlit
A observer of people in this Society I've notice routinely have conversations within themselves are etched crazy. Self Talk
Is it because it seems no one cares to listen? Or one is to preoccupied within themselves. Self Talk
Exhausted maybe? because of one's hidden agendas presumably? Self Talk
Someone once said Self Talk is an expert who have discussions within their opinionated self. Self Talk
They were accounted for,
they were officially dead,
but the alarming fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire,
footprints were seen
as if waiting for a cooling wash
in the fountain of everlasting life.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the life after, one not yet imagined
by any dogmatic priesthood.
God was accused of not packaging
the deceased properly.
However the missing were never found
having discovered their own way out
of all that doctrinal,
inconsequential madness.
-Monarch's Madness-
As I’m sitting here, enjoying monarchs’ fingers of a dead man…The dry smoothness of the night. I privy the requisite.
In the discomfort, of comfortability…Watching time go by.
There’s this thought that runs wild in the head; that of parameter. It’ll be an interesting year. Schrödinger’s cat.
Is fate alive, tethered? Or has it yet to enlighten the veil?
The field of captivation is astounding. The wonderland grasping. Thou throat, of one’s mind. When does thee catch a break? It is inherently rhetorical. A silent mocking.
Not enough substance for a jay, presumably. Could this really be the start of an end? Or the end of a start?
I’d like to know, where I am to be situated in this universe. Rather than basking as an idol in adolescence, pondering head notions that do not exist.
They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a discarded pile.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.
Eventually, God gave up looking.
The missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.
My Lydia, my Lydia,
You undoubtedly have contracted chlamydia.
During one of your sex-capades,
In a beloved city, somewhere in Syria, or India,
Or presumably from the talented guy,
You willingly met at the cafeteria in Nigeria.
maybe it was the Presbyterian at the meridian?
Oh My Lydia, my Lydia, you say its just trivia
Remember Olivia from Bolivia contracted diphtheria.
She customarily wore a bougainvillea in her hair.
After every consensual affair, with eccentric millionaires
I saw her today she looked worn and in despair,
Even though mature life was unfair, she still had a little flair.
and wore a fragrant flower in her flowing hair.
My Lydia, my Lydia what's that, you say, you don’t care.
Formidable is the production of our chores
absence is attainable for to select wisely
fabled phrases seen in the ivory
adoring fleet of indigenous fate abhors
lofty perceptions materially do expose
the nakedness of my reputable security
suddenly quakes of indium fire impurity
ameliorate the sullen eyed girl to escape prose
scythe doth bare the lengthy coat hidden
catering to hiding the flawless exterior
confidence is needed to complete inferior
marks that care not for the dreary ridden
at last time brought forth to amplitude
what intervals can't provide for classes
seemingly coherent to the fluent masses
doth sting as does a bee cover fortitude
They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was still drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.
Eventually, God pronounced.
“Right” he said, “right, okay,
this is a sales glitch really. We’re just not
packaging death attractively enough”.
However the missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.
A little birdie came chirping to my courtyard,
vibrant its wings were,
tangerine, green and white,
a golden hue all over,
an impeccable hymn it sang.
I looked at her fervently,
her hymn and charisma had struck a chord.
Felt she was mine and had come to see me,
from a distant land of absolute freedom,
San’s shame and fear.
Where my heart pined to go!
She chirped, hopped, and fluttered her dazzling wings,
presumably she desired to show how thrilled she too was!
My heart sang aloud,
Tears flooded my eyes.
Yes, thrilled I too am to see such an enchanting beauty
and hear your mellifluous song.
Giving the woman in me a new reason to dream,
of the land,
my heart yearns to go!
Oh! enchanting little visitor you came for me I know.
And my heart says little birdie you are my even more.
Wish you lead me to that distant land,
of absolute freedom sans shame and fear!
@Chitra Arun
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.