Poetry soupris
Soupris being French for sighs
And we all breathe them
At different times in our lives
We breathe them in relief
And maybe in our sleep
Exhaled after we've railed
Against the nightly thief
Poetry soupris
Potato soupris served cold
Alphabet soupris
Spelled out in the bowl
Sighs of relief
Sighs that matter
Sighs of release
In thoughts that scatter
(Carole Landis
"The sigh heard round the world"
Only Twenty-nine
When we lost "your baby" girl)
Sorrowed soupris
During suffering endured
Godly suffering
Soupris when your cured
Soupris relenting
Served during your sentence
The sighs, the soupris
As we seethe through repentance
Now that the war is over
And you have traveled home
Awaiting and waiting
To breathe out this soupris poem
Let the soupris fly away
And all things al dente (to the tooth)
If this were the Seventies
I’d hope your needle finds its groove
Reciting, of the alphabet, not a waste.
I may get an A plus for trying.
I whistled for it, foraging
through its branches. Collaborating
with the Alpha and Omega, searching
for gold - that Atlantis-noun.
Lilac-gold or lavender gold…
“Forget about it,” railed the brain.
“…w, x, y, z,” I sighed.
Up…up…the driveway, uttering
with hysteria, viscera unclenched;
mysterious and victorious release.
“Speak up,” says the brain.
I release my whisper
into the wind, out the window,
“Wisteria…Wisteria…”
My eyes enjoy the vista,
the Spring feast.
Jesus is everyone who hangs on a tree
Jesus is everyone who sets us free
Jesus our everyone died in the place of me
Jesus our everyone fulfilled the law righteously
Jesus is everyone Who fulfilled, didn’t abrogate
Jesus is the everyone Who kept His first estate
Jesus our everyone rightly to be praised
Jesus our everyone with Him we are raised
Jesus is everyone the last Adam did prevail
Jesus is the everyone led captivity out of jail
Jesus our everyone foiled all assailed
Jesus our everyone withstood as the devil railed
Jesus is everyone Who counted it all joy, not loss
Jesus is everyone Who’s passion led to the cross
Jesus our everyone paid the price, counted the cost
Jesus our everyone came to redeem the lost
Jesus is everyone The Great I AM
Jesus is everyone The Sacrificial Lamb
Jesus our everyone in the thicket the Ram
Jesus our everyone He is both God and Man
Jesus is everyone Who intercedes for men
Jesus is everyone and Amen and Amen to The Amen
ANOTHER TIME
It was another time, not at all like now
None thought history was in the making
Hard labouring with sweat on the brow
A full day’s work and limbs were aching
Some were still waiting for that new age
And said it was so, but were only faking
For most, life stuck forever at that stage
Retirement only when an old body failed
Many folk were ready to turn that page
Years later, new work heroes were hailed
Trades Unions formed with collective voice
Striking, like a rebellion, as workers railed
Today, there seems to be another choice
Work, or stone the Chairman’s RollsRoyce
Elizabeth Marie Tall Chief
bigotry gave her grief
failing health, unsteady,
she railed, “Get my swan costume ready!”
Facing any criticism,
Like crude barbarism,
Had been true terror for me,
Stung my heart like jungly honey-bee...!
Little taunting enough,
To make my mind fluff;
Days and nights I brooded,
Over anything that deluded...!
Psyche filled with suspicion,
At two people's conversation;
They're talking ill of me, I thought,
When got chance, with them I fought...!
Doubts ate up peace like parasites,
Often led to silly fights;
Each one suffered damages,
Thought: have we turned savages...?
Void betwixt like valleys,
Widened each day like alleys;
Why betwixt humans such distance?
Why is such existence?
Tranquility got trailed,
Harmony re-railed;
Enlightenment,
Left negligent...!
During midnight prayers,
Alone at church-upstairs,
Heart filled with fears,
I implored the Lord in tears...!
Could a father see his son cry?
Doesn't he hasten to wipe his eye?
And so the lord responded
Took hold of me as though bonded...!
===
I bloom a smile on all today,
Forgetting events of yesterday;
No doubt; no venom; no burden;
Life has turned Garden of Eden...!
22 November 2022
Best Blessing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
...He brother railed at her when they were wed,
‘Uncle Tom, race traitor!”such words were said,
‘Raised by a white man, you’ll mess up your son!”
She just rolled her eyes, and said, “Are you done?”
She had no more time for her brother’s hate,
it impeded with a life that was great,
Keenan had a new dad, and soon sisters three,
no more self-destruction, no more misery.
Gb2 's a radio show, it airs in Sydney...But there's more to know.'
Ben Fordam has been speaking out, on the covid dictates
Roundabout on where the science meets the facts
Whether it's all altruistic.? Or do some just act?
Also acts that block, that rile and shock; that lay down demands
That cost a lot..' Much production is de-railed; Aussie
Dreams now are ships with tattered sails, I hear that Ben is
Triple vaxed.. ) an early advocate, was his shout not so lax.'
Yet now he'll listen to anti-views ' To me that rings like
Dinkum news.' He' on facebook; and also twitter He's
A sounding board; and I'd reckon, a real heavy hitter.'
I haven't met the man as yet.' But I like the idea that
He's listening, and talking.' that's the part I really get.!
Go for it Ben,.' I will also here give mention to another
Australian heveyweight journalist Andrew Bolt a legend
In his time and this field, who has been questioning things
And even resigned, from the official endorsed media he
Was involved in, If I get time I will do him in a piece also '
I.
Lacy had become a lawyer,
she brought home six figures a year,
and she wanted to have it all,
so a tiny baby appeared.
Her husband said he would stay home,
watch the kid, do domestic stuff,
Lacy was a ‘progressive’ type,
so this solution she did love.
But as the months went flying by
many problems soon did arise,
seeing her husband vacuuming
was not welcoming to her eye.
Less and less did she want to sleep
with her husband in the marriage bed,
somehow he didn’t look the same,
she started watching other men.
It just got worse as they argued,
she got annoyed when he did speak,
Lacey was making the money,
her husband looked worthless and weak.
She started working longer nights,
at least that is what she told him,
in truth Lacy was getting railed
by a partner who’s name was Jim.
Jim made three times what Lacy did,
would just take her right there on his desk,
he never would wear an apron,
and Lacy just reveled in this.
The divorce was a brutal one,
but her husband did understand,
a man could not be a woman,
a woman could not be a man.
Thy mouth dripping with drool.
North blisses and quick-witted doth unfool.
Thou shalt seclude from middling teenth.
Plummeted into a hornet tool.
Wailed as eerie as a panicked fetus.
Didst thou stay fed in the crumbs of mool?
Times beest tough about shimmering graves.
Grumbled, tucked, hadst a mischievous lol.
Thy lure hath evil jagged, full of witch writhes.
Thou began to shake, shrieking by the bleeding pool.
Squirm bosom disheveled and screeched with fear.
Whispered oddly and burst the sweet aroma of bool.
Unison of hoof drank fluffy white icing scream.
Scraggly faith and toothed heart not cool.
Haunted and rhyming a couplet kills.
Sirrah and the mistress prayed to the zirrahed hazrat tool.
Boldly soldier shemaghed scarf
Ammo railed full masked buff
Middle East catwalked explosions
Judge clowned judgement of jud
Little girl drank a cup of wuff
Beloved siblings danced a lot of goof
Bang bang bang forever prank
Clang clang clang coffins emerged
Majestic flight sweeps up from lobby sprawl
Mattress padding pink carpet creeps corners
Bannisters ornate in century's old discussions
Omit disclosure of grim history above
Uniform scuff tread flat railed staircase
Stretches ominously into third level dim
Each step taken fades from life the stepper
Cobwebs claim frames of dust dampened portraits
Compressing is staircase from dingy third
Wide shouldered folk hunch, tunnel encroaching
Trapdoor top is a shock to wood tread traveller
Rejoicing of stiffened hinges, solitary sound
Huddled roofspace floods intrepid with doom
Heanous endings leach from panelled attic walls
Slivers of snowdust rays showcase eye sockets
Emptied in skulls committed to fourth floor torture
6th September 2020
The Fourth Floor of Nowhere Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
Women are a traveled road
you go without a map
Where yelling their instructions
takes you back to see a lap
When driving for another mile
will help you see the frap
When you will say the other way
was meant for far less crap
That you will say the other way
was turn yourself around
And go back to the very start
and try to guess some ground
When you will know your apt to learn
from others who have failed
When pleasing women from your acts
means less time that they're railed
And you will know a foolish man
will have to learn himself
When women only fire up
for men less like an elf
I don’t miss the city,
the metropolis I once knew was built
on the edge of a never-never land.
I miss just this: a green half-acre,
a cultivated fenced enclosure
with a round bandstand; a Victorian structure
surrounded by a bed of carnations –
prodigious red carnation.
That small public garden
exists now as a child’s memory.
I am told that the wooden rotunda,
the pleasant plot, the carnations,
the velvety carnations,
have all been expunged by the expungers.
In that charmed place, a ten-year-old girl
once talked to my ten-year-old body
as if it were much older.
It was then that I saw,
coming over a distant horizon,
my post-adolescent puberty
driving a superannuated Morris Oxford.
The car and the girl
have probably been erased
by those whose job
will always be to erase lovely things,
but I should like to go back there
before my body forgets
to treasure the inconsequential.
Now with my thread-bare mind,
I return again
to that wrought-iron,
railed patch, of green city space;
to be among the deep red carnations,
the long since bloomed
carnations.
Resurrecting Passion
by Michael R. Burch
Last night, while dawn was far away
and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies,
as thunder boomed and lightning railed,
I conjured words, where passion failed...
But, oh, that you were mine tonight,
sprawled in this bed, held in these arms,
your breasts pale baubles in my hands,
our bodies bent to old demands...
Such passions we might resurrect,
if only time and distance waned
and brought us back together; now
I pray these things might be, somehow.
But time has left us twisted, torn,
and we are more apart than miles.
How have you come to be so far—
as distant as an unseen star?
So that, while dawn is far away,
my thoughts might not return to you,
I feed your portrait to the flames,
but as they feast, I burn for you.
Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse
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