Father Time keeps the exchange
and he does not barter,
a minute spent is not redeemable,
what’s done is done, kerplop!
Into the river it drops flowing ever on and away
until it joins the Styx and crosses over
to the unknown realm of death
and what comes after.
However, Father says good deeds are favors
on deposit for crossover at the end,
and may be exchanged for treasure
of the immortal kind.
Time can never be regained,
but deeds done unselfishly
without regard for a reward,
are Father Time’s most highly placed.
He smothered her with lipstick kisses, every part of her body aroused
Where within her he had lit a raging fire; that just couldn’t be doused
Under his experienced hands as becomes submissive without any will
Opening her love gently enters with a view of the inner demons to kill
With his lipstick lips pressed against her breast her inner waters break
His mission to own her, this woman he will as never to the end forsake
He's riding her with a passion; he is taking her with his own calm force
Knowing her overwhelming lust for him, her own un-redeemable curse
Releases from deep within him a red hot fire which for him over-comes
And with his last lipstick kiss upon her eventually for him she succumbs
These two bodies that rose up in unison and which died in eternal bliss
An inner ecstasy that could only be reached, because of his lipstick kiss
All the music murdered
as the Empire falls
the colour pink from
the fading blushing cheeks
of broken angels
breath sucked away
school bells toll death
dark creatures Dementors
pistol legions burning parades
constant and strong
now fly in weekly
through open doors
Le Diablo pats the ombré backs
of quacking leaders
their passive bills carrying bullets
too late the redeemable exchange
as the world is painted black
days of darkness
forget the colour grey
hearts cut on silent shores
watch the horror unfolding
shocked for words
terrified sorrow turns appalled
the nightmare never goes away
All the music murdered
as the Empire falls
suffer the little children
its beautiful ones
harmonies all slaughtered
innocent symphonies
silenced in scores
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Luke 18:15-17
Matthew 18:10-14
Ah! The poetic soul –
indeed a beloved symphony
to image and caress;
a painting only a master's
hand could render, thus
profess, each stroke the
hand of angels and gods
at their worst and best
the poetic soul a vessel,
a Eucharist the poet alone
can fully address, approach
the sacred wine within,
tilt such divine vessel toward
his trembling lips, with words
overflowing – and loudly
confess: I am guilty! Unrepentant!
And the world can have
your redeemable rest....
My life is filled with sin;
From conception to now,
just waiting on being restored. Somehow~
Yet I repented now and I've been FORGIVEN;
10/28/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
a QUINZAINE POETRY TYPE
I have heard the lawyers say this all week
In elevators, in the hallway, in the restroom.
They say it in whispers, but still they say it.
It is something they never say.
Don’t let her get on the stand.
She is the defendant.
Accused of murdering her husband and her sister.
She looks plain, unassuming, not the criminal type.
I think they are all nuts.
They should let her testify.
She might save herself.
I meet the defendant myself on Tuesday.
She is not nice.
I looked for every redeemable quality.
Did not find any.
Now I get it.
She has a zero likeability factor.
Man HE ALONE IS REDEEMABLE - A Tanka Poem
I so love mankind
He's a sinner and saved creature
He has a fierce choice
Repent for eternal life soul
He alas... Redeemable
3/26/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2019©
Suffer me to fathom the sorrows
The unrighteousness of today's tomorrows
I shall not surcom to those pressures of life
I shall not give in to those valleys of demons strife
Render me on my pleas
I shall only go down
On my knees for my Father
And my Father's Name is Almighty
Almighty God
World of hate unacknowledged true love
The sinfulness of yours and mine
Redeemable but we're running out of time
Not give in to those valleys of demons strife
Render me on my pleas
I shall only go down
On my knees for my Father
And my Father's Name is Almighty
Almighty God
World and Satan may if I only allow
I speak it into existence
I will not let the world nor Satan knock me down,
down to my knees walking over me
I go down to my knees to Reverence Him my Father God
the All Mighty
God
Words demand be written.
Ink begins to flow.
Sentences form.
Thoughts race.
Like raindrops down a window.
There's a lake in my mind
And it's always raining.
Where does the water escape?
Where can words go?
They flow through my veins,
Like blood or poison.
They sustain me
Destroy me.
Can I find a place to rest?
Who can save me?
Am I redeemable?
The words flow to my fingers,
Like water through the veins of a rock.
I am no longer in control.
Sometimes it makes sense.
Sometimes I am crazy.
Sometimes, the words refuse to fit.
They are either territorial or
They combine and the sentences form.
No matter what, all I know, is that
Words demand to be written,
Ink begins to flow.
Waxing and waning,
Giving and taking,
Walking and waving,
Using and making.
As the moon’s gravity pushes and pulls the tides by,
Your legacy, a single wave, is merely but a sigh,
But let this not be all, pull your waves up high,
Yes! high and mighty, as the hawk soars the sky.
Enlighten everyone with your bright side,
Ensure that your dark side is suppressed,
In trustworthy friends and wandering comets, you must confide,
Leave those that look upon your orbit impressed.
Push and thrash against your gravitational limits,
The best thing isn’t likely the thing you’re attracted to,
But like Finn and Sawyer in the books of Sam Clements,
It’s the people that pull you down and pick you up when your too high or blue.
Once a long time ago, you too were a growing crescent,
You had your entire cycle ahead of you, as free as a bird,
But let’s get real where time’s escaping, let’s get back to the present,
Use this time to give all those celestial bodies you did wrong, a redeemable word.
BB
I want to hold time in my pocket
Hide it away for another day
Pull it out maybe put it on a locket
Observe my cache in the shade
Store away my redeemable hours
The minutes, the seconds
Even in the heaviest of showers
Look how they glisten; I reckon
This could all be for nothing
But surely many I beckon
With my siren song of endless time
My heart?
You have always owned that,
I'm surprised you didn't know.
Its flow?
How do I explain without being unkind,
simply, its flow is mine.
There's the barb, my vision puts me on a different flight
I own a non redeemable ticket...a ticket I clutch.
Love and age walk hand in hand.
I've had my sunrise...walking with resolve to my sunset.
I spent too much of my time trying to reach the horizon
now, happy to enjoy the sky's perfect joint with its mate.
Searching for that pot of gold? Some do...but not me.
That sort live with regret. They chased the lie, missed the rainbow.
Not I...I am happy to enjoy the breeze...cool and invigorating.
My heart? You own that. You always will.
At the fork...recently, I chose a different path.
I've looked behind me, I've looked ahead...I'm sorry, my love,
I just don't see you there.
09/19/2014
"is this ticket redeemable"
Once I thought that
poems had faces
whose silent plans
offer checkered meditations,
who weave endings
to hope´s beginnings,
whose raw robust smiles
explode in dizzy contemplations,
who unravel strings of time
into quantum fits of rhyme.
Then I saw that
Songs are
A singing
Where I
From my
Self-
Emerge
Unstating myself
(abandoning grammar as
prepositions avoid place)
I say
(failing to claim that time
gave birth to nothing) that my!
“God
(being an adverb)
I missed the boat”
When you’re the mom you carry the purse,
That’s the natural rule of the universe.
To a mom a purse is more than a bag,
It’s a safety net when the world starts to sag.
The pockets hold things that her family might need,
Like a granola bar with sunflower seed.
There’s a half eaten cookie and a clean pair of socks,
And a tool her grandfather gave her to set cuckoo clocks.
There’s a broken dolly in need of repair,
And a bright orange scrunchie to pull back her hair.
There are aspirins and band-aids and a coupon book,
Redeemable for vacations that never got took.
And way at the bottom is a memory of a girl,
Who would dress so young and gaily twirl.
In those days she carried a purse so small,
A dainty little bag hardly anything at all.
As she takes out the memory and starts to go through it,
She breaks out in a grin because there’s a sucker stuck to it.
She remembers what that girl wanted most for her life,
Was to one day be a mom and a good man’s wife.
Each memory she touches she remembers with pleasure,
And each item she carries becomes a small treasure.
That’s why when you’re the mom you carry the purse,
It’s the natural rule of the universe.
My mind is haunted again.
By my poetry gnomes.
Plagued with imaginary men.
Filling up my empty homes.
Inside this head.
Chained to my mind.
Sleepless in a dirty bed.
Nothing redeemable to find.
No sympathy.
Nothing to care about.
Just my apathy.
But that's nothing to gloat about.
Looking up at the dusty walls.
Illusions and stones.
Watery graves of make believe falls.
Presence of my loans.
Offering to my sacrifice.
Piece of mind.
Seclusion - my only vice.
Within my images, I get intertwined.
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.