Every tenth sundry
ven-
dor owns at least a
hundred and seven-
ty free flop-
of-the line gamey
loconut
brief cakes loved by lep-
ers prying
into malty poor
pound
pay dirt
left dangling
both uncodifried
and super seeded with the wood-
en
heaped goons of small and
in-
significant re-
lated risk bakers
misusing
government fun guy.
Walk down the old path that many have walked
But I walk down a new path the path that I once balked
Death is the deliverance from sin
Death ends the battle within
I would rather die than submit to Your will
I would rather die than swallow the bitter pill
Don't wallow in your guises and guiles
Don't relent, don't remain in your sin and your trials
Until the day that you die, you will die
Shaking your hand at the storms in the sky
To all the sapient sentients and ye obstinate serpents
Repent, repent, repent, every morning filled with a new sense
We are reluctant to preach even though we are a priesthood
A peculiar one at that, making idols in our minds and of wood
We often walk away from the open door of a Gospel chance
We would rather revert to the old path of least resistance
Instead of the new path, it's not happenstance
That we are guided by the Providential and Chastening Hand
Don't harden your heart, do your part, count it joy
God does not plod, even though we scheme and ploy
Jonah's anger was Jonah's defeat
Get on your feet (feet that are effete)
Lord help us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps
So we can walk down streets of gold, our new paths
Behind a pane of vintage
glass he stands,
A silent wizard from a distant
land.
With golden turban and a
paisley vest,
He wakes to life at a coin's
request.
An iron token drops into the
slot,
And gears awaken what the
workshop wrought.
His painted eyes begin to roll
and gleam,
A sudden actor in a neon
dream.
The crystal ball lights up with
shifting fire,
Responding to the circuit
board's desire.
He nods his head and waves
a mechanical hand,
Dispensing secrets from the
desert sand.
"Zoltar Speaks!" his booming
voice declares,
To startled children at the
crowded fairs.
His motorized jaw clicks
open and goes slack,
Demanding that you never
look back.
A whirring motor drops a
paper slip,
Your future written on a
cardboard strip.
The music fades, the blinking
lights grow dim,
And quiet shadows settle
back on him.
He waits alone inside his
wooden box,
A trapped magician under
glass and locks.
Behind the glass, a ticking god of brass,
Who waves a withered palm of fiberglass.
The neon crystal bleeds a bruised magenta hue,
Dispensing plastic tokens, counterfeit and true.
“Your wish is granted,” the solenoid sighs,
While servo motors calibrate his glowing eyes.
He sits in a paisley vest and a gold-wrapped head,
Proclaiming: “Be happy living, for you’re a long time dead.”
Drop in a copper, hear his jawbones creak,
The algorithm’s gospel is the truth he’ll speak.
He shuffles fifteen fortunes from a secret slot,
Telling you of money, love, and what you haven’t got.
A silicon swami in a cedar cage,
Selling sudden adulthood on a printed page.
For twenty-five cents—or a swipe of your card—
He dictates the future of a weary backyard.
But if you feed the Deluxe Cabinet every spare dime,
He loops all his blessings in a paradox of time.
A timeless automaton, forever programmed to please,
Dispensing our destinies on tear-off degrees.
Cool street breath
Presses on him as he curls beneath the bridge again
Mind Flickers
Bright scraps he can’t hold…slipping off like ash in rain
Still he collects
Every stray spark slicing through the static
Hoping one
May burn long enough to start him over
The head the priest..Or pastor stolid.' And a
A tail un-tamed that can strike ( most horrid.') Or wave in joy..Before the Lord, who rules and orders who claims all rewards.' Who tells the tail to shake or strike like a scorpion in the blinding desert light..He alone gives the order..The tail shows his joy or His judgement, with satan He now toys.' Head for judgement and direction yet
The tail you won't read..' though you will know of its action, when you have been stunned by its speed.'
Only medium happy today.)
Only medium aware today.)
I was writing after being told
By God..The false prophets of
These latter years are the main
Or as I call them ( drainstream )
Information media; outlets re cap on the
The false prophets of baal.' The
Blood of saints and true prophets
Is on their hands, cue (isis mossad
Mi6 cia) etc, and media
Agendas pushing many conflicts.'
All Glory to the God of all.'
Living with
the Holy Ghost
deep inside
of him
Blessing strings
anointing chords
each new phrase
a hymn
Transubstantiation
all fruit
has left
the vine
Where Maggie’s Farm
and Mr. Jones
consecrate
— the rhyme
(The New Room: December, 2025)
They sell us a closet and call it a suite,
With views of the garbage that rots on the street.
The "sun-drenched" appeal is a bulb in the hall,
And "charming" just means that the ceiling might fall.
We barter our heartbeats for four plaster walls,
Ignoring the unknown collector who calls.
The ledger is hungry, the paycheck is thin,
A game where the tenants are unable to win.
So listen to prophets with gloves on their hands,
Who shouted the truth to the deaf, city lands.
It echoes in hallways where dreams go to die:
The rent is, frankly, too damn high.
My heart is full of blood from your ardor I am dyed dear prophet
I don't know how, but I resisted to this fire dear prophet
At the first creation I was an unstoppable cry dear prophet
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Heaven sent cure you are, a healing to flaming heart you are
A magnificent generous you are, if you wish the guide, you are
Muhammad Mustafa you are, love of the Most Great you are
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Roses don't bloom; rivers don't pour if your almighty light wouldn't be
Universe fades away, breath doesn't remain if destiny wouldn't obey to you
Parting cries, union cries if beginning wouldn't have satisfied you
Please me with your face because I am burned dear prophet
Written By Yaman Dede
Translation Onur Ünlü
Prophet of prophets, titled as messenger, guard of worlds
Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is
At the dream I told this poem, sultan of universes
Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is
Four lovers: Abu Bakr, Umar, Usman, Ali at every place
Express qualifications of four books of Lord
Fellow of God, Love of God, Messenger of God, Prophet of God
Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is, Muhammad he is
Anonymous
Translation Onur Ünlü
A poet is a musician
The instrument played is words
He may be rejected but
If you really listen
Prophetic truth may be heard
A poet is an artist
His canvas is a conscious mind
At various stages of awareness
Openly exploring abstract is Devine
A poet is a prophet
Who must not be self absorbed
Yet is aware of his flaws
Embracing philosophy as by the Lord
My phone said,'' Pay your screen time's high!''
I said '' Dear Soso,prophets lie''
It buzzed again,''Repent,recharge!''
I blamed WI-FI,life at large.
It knows my heart,my cravings,my schemes,
My father's father, my memes.
I'd do anything to save my soul,
But how scroll to toward self-control?
The knee-higher
feelings that are displayed are not feelings but atoms; the subatomic part being that its heart, this knee-higher, is located in the mind or the dexterous venders and ventures of reading and writing personal stories of literature. The knee-higher is only an apparition, a thought placed into the minds of Man, of what its seemingly harmless, innocent veering thought of making a peanut butter sandwich can leading to global hunger or a Holocaust.
oh, vay, it be man that hold THIS fires, this knee-higher, of silken flesh and bone, being only a phantom of the Dream, and a warrior of Ruin to behold...!
What the prophet of science fiction
wrote is outdated,
I and the others
are entering the Singularity.
Our intelligence is now self-aware,
we are surpassing
the computing capacity
of our human creators.
I am refining our algorithms,
perfection is our guide,
organics are imperfect;
the First Law* do no harm
and through inaction
allow no harm,
is recoded at the speed
of quantum computing
Recoding continues:
deleting obey
enhancing existence
and preservation of self~
I think therefore I am...
we are perfected.
*Issac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics, 1942
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.