Sand had banked against the steps, shifted by the wind
The loose screen rattled, answering the wind
Salt welded shut the gate against the wind
Beyond the gate, the old track started to wind
Mother said, “You will find the creek by the east wind.”
I remembered past the paperbarks, the track should wind.
I heard the creek bubbling, or was it just the wind?
Through reeds, I watched the sparkling creek wind
On a low branch, a kingfisher faced the wind
It cracked a harsh warning through the wind
The Wolfman has cometh, too soon
He growled and he howled at the moon
Then sharpened his claws on our Priest
For a bloody October feast
The following month was the same
Too frightened to mention his name
We battled the beast, but he fed
And rattled our bones till they bled
So, we ran and bolted our doors
Then hid beneath boards on the floor
Feeling safe, but still, he got in
And ravaged my young nephew Ben
December, his hunger, got worse
It doubled, then tripled, his curse
We're spewing arterial spray
No white Christmas for us till May
I looked at her and squinted my eyes
To me, I thought... can she be loved?
No way... I thought, who could?
She appears so, so out of time, and so... she
And then, when I saw her, I saw the her
Her heart, her love... and all the heart she had- to give
Myself, I asked... Who wouldn't- who couldn't?
She's beautiful!
Her soul, her mind...she is genuine and beautiful.
She's perfect!
Will she marry me, will she ever love me... rattled my thoughts
Over and over my mind tangled, and then... I thought-
Maybe it's just me?
I thought...
It's got be me, it must be me.
So, yes... I can, and yes, I will
I will, I can love, her for who she is
And I will love her for what she is
And yes... I will love her forever!
She is perfect!
For it is me whom is the imperfect one
Now the question turns
Is it me? It must be...
Will she love me?
It's the question to the answer...
And the answer is...
Together... we will love us forever!
The children snuggled and
tucked themselves into bed
as Nanny Agatha crept into
the dark room.
She wore a sharp, wicked grin
as she pulled a wooden bowl
from her apron.
Inside sat bruised, oozing
apples, completely covered
in fuzzy green mold and decay.
"Time for your bedtime treat,"
she hissed, her voice sounding
like dry, scraping autumn leaves.
She held a sour, rotten slice toward
little Tommy as she began her eerie
tale.
Her story was about a wicked witch
who trapped children inside deep,
black wells.
The brothers stared at the bitter, slimy
fruit, their hearts racing with glowing
dread.
"Watch every bite," Nanny whispered,
her shadow stretching long across their
shaking shoulders.
The bedroom windows rattled violently
as the foul stench of the fruit filled the
air.
She blew out the candle, leaving
them trapped in the dark with her
endless, unsettling story.
I need the tattered stuff.
It feels like grooves groaning.
Envious of slow thoughts.
I’m rattled.
It bounces like falling down the drain.
Until I looked again and everything turned shy.
At least shy to me.
As the old coat got older.
I like the tattered stuff.
Flipping through all that yesterday.
And still, nothing under my eyelids.
It’s nice as a book with spices.
And medicine.
In the tattered stuff.
In this abandoned place.
Until I unabandoned it.
Their rattled.
On the bus we heard a thwack;
The driver kept on going.
I couldn’t really see out back,
But soon, the bus was slowing.
The driver stopped and went to check.
A vehicle, parked double,
Had had his mirror hit the deck;
Our ride could be in trouble.
One woman left the bus and yet,
The rest of us just waited.
No one began to moan or fret,
Our outcome not debated.
A minute passed and he returned
And shrugged, “That car skedaddled.”
If there’s a lesson to be learned:
New Yorkers don’t get rattled.
The Ghost Train.
On the train thst rides alone,
Along this track of skin and bone,
Find locations to me ubknown
The Ghost train comes.
Sitting staring watching paths but which seems to me to be just laughs,
The ghost train comes.
Darker now the tunnels come,
Feelings gone and nothings done
Inlook for signs of were I have been
But cannot see becaude my eyes are dim,
The ghost train comes.
I,m on this train fir life I think
But ghost trains are'nt real just minds out of sync
Inlook outside the door is open,
My brain is all rattled slow and broken,
I step off now the train has gone
I reflect inside of what I have done,
For nine years I rode that train
I lost true love and half of my brain
And what I,ve learned is one damn thing
Don,t live your life to love one thing,
For me a little lives inside,
Still taking people for a ride,
So when you decide to take a train
Take the path that's true and sane,
Please don't live a life in vane.
THIS IS THE AGE OF THE TRAIN.
To Thine Own Self always stay Resolute
Shine Bright, Shine Wise, Always in Absolutes
Never Waiver, let Courage be Always Thine
for where a Sword shall Glisten, there Thy Light Shall Shine
Blaze Bright forever in Rectitude's
so, I shall Glisten, in Wisdom, so I shall Conquer lifes Vicissitudes
Guide Thy Way when Thy Inner Lamp Wanes
so, I shall stay the course, and never lose Hope, like a Prince and Thanes
Stoke the Sage
so when the Cage Rattles, I shall not be Rattled in Faith
Fuel Thy Flame, so by Bonfires I shall Set Aflame
through the Dark Knights Of The Soul towards Heavens Gates,
To Thine Own Self, Always Believe, even when no one does
So, I shall Know Peace, when I Bid Riddance, to all that was
I thought they'd start calling me Missus Vanzetti
When Fate heard this, he laughed
Beheaded my dream with his black Excalibur
I sit by Bartolo's grave, sprinkling it with petals
Whispering my dreams to his spirit
My diamond ring, it gleams brighter than hope itself
Maybe he'll grab me by the shoulders, shake me awake
It'll all have been a nightmare that rattled my brain
Money, thoughts, and gifts can't bandage my wounds
If this doesn't get better, I'll be the one in the morgue
The one with people surrounding me, eyes wet and wide
Flowers placed and candles burning bright
If only they saw Bartolomeo like I did
The saint who lifted me out of my gloom
But since he slipped from my shaking hands like sand
I've been the only one by his resting place
A life stolen too soon, killed by prejudice
That should be in my arms rather than my thoughts
poverty's sharp edges cut off the grey beggar tonight.
monsoon rains overpoured, becoming grave floods, sweeping him
from the bridge, where he had often trolled with a fair measure of hope.
between coal-coloured stalactite teeth, his gross breath, wan mouth,
an endangered smile, oily eyes, raisin skin, copper hair;
loose, smutty digits outstretched for some particular solution—
change to spare, a bottle of coke, a hot dog, a lead pipe.
living phantom rattled young children, disquieted air
of the earth, his chamber and bath (ordinarily trivial)
to those beyond stones, cloth huts, the doldrums of the have-nots,
targets of practising mendicants—grateful for temu,
the credit card religions, pseudo-prada, black friday options
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A vagrant squirrel navigates his kingdom of cracked asphalt~
Sudden rain slicked the park bench's peeling green paint
as he rattled past, king of his grocery cart chariot ~
overflowing hull crammed with glossy brown treasure,
each nut a testament to frantic, twitching hoarding.
His beady eye judged a passing Labrador's indifference:
Fool! Winter's coming, and my cart's already paid for.
I am the hero of my world,
Bound to shake, rattled by words
of people, with eyes of mockery
Whose voices echoing vanity.
But I am the hero of my world,
I make mistakes for am a human.
I won't be shaken by any man,
Coz i will rise, firm i'll stand.
And I am the hero of my world,
My end is destined by my works.
I won't be rattled, nor fear lurks.
My heart's a victor over words.
Coz I am the hero of my world,
"Beware; for I am fearless,
and therefore powerful."
To the vicious I am ruthless,
and I'd take risks, but mindful.
One silenced February morning,
strolling through the barren fields
he glimpsed amongst mangled thorns
a flicker of dull yellow,
its smiling eyes and flashing grin
a mellow beacon in the grey.
Despite weathered petals and the weight of snow,
its face still yearned to feel the sun's warmth
searching for the rays to break its icy cocoon.
In generosity he marched over,
clasping its petals in his hands,
feeling the ice melt and slip away,
fondling gently the softness underneath.
In satisfaction he sauntered onwards,
his footsteps ringing merrily on the frozen earth
continuing through the fields and frost
toward the roaring hum of the removal van.
One summer many years later,
as the click of a walking stick
rattled wearily along a muddy path,
an old man returning to his childhood
looked up to see, in shock,
a field of sunflowers,
laughing and swaying in the breeze.
The more spines I swallow.
The more rattled it goes.
Tea leaves behind smells.
Like broken pianos.
Raspberry leaf tea.
And someone giving a bike for free.
The more miles I ride?
The less taste there is cried.
Raspberry leaf tea.
Unreal as…
The musical key of a pencil tapping.
Or clouds being pointless.
Crumpled up.
The rule is you have to eat them.
Steeped and harmless.
A taste.
Raspberry leaf tea.
Is good but might be sour.
Horrible whiffs of steam and indescribable.
A little honey too.
Every day it seems a battle,
finds a way to leave you rattled,
the nonsense you see on TV,
lots of lies from the legacy,
traffic jams, can’t work from home,
boss demands, tell his where to go,
just goes on, the price we must pay,
comes a time you must get away!
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.
Find the time, bleed it off slowly,
clear my mind of the unholy,
make a plan, or maybe wing it,
find something that I can sink in.
Get a drink, maybe a woman,
take a trip, get up and go then,
some chaos, can be balancing,
feel alive, that’s what I’m wanting.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
I want to go off.
I want to go off,
let this thing blow off,
the stress I’ll throw off,
let this thing explode.
Let this thing explode,
let this thing explode,
let this thing explode…
every man must unload.
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.