A prosy prose for deity to mourn,
As the hunger stricken wobbles the ground.
Oh! the old retinues that feed besides our ribs.
Come again with their unbearable tax payers,
While the labourers' stomach rumble!
The ignorant chieftains stare from above,
While the Kwashiorkor kids parade the streets!
Farmers clank their basket and hoe,
For nothing to bring homewards when the farms never yield.
As the hard labour tastes no fruit,
Wife and daughter, are forever famished.
The sailor that despoil us,
Snatch the bouquet of our feast.
As we wallow in our hollow labour?
Leaving us despondent at the edge of the farm,
Oh! We are made for you to drain,
When the basket of yam fully stored in there yard.
The old retinues release starvation from its dungeon,
As hunger flay around street, whipping!.
The rise of commodities in the Bazar,
A loaf is bought at high price.
And the grain is untouchable!
This is a prosy prose for deity to mourn,
How housewives turn to modern beggars,
While the toddlers sleep with void bellies and empty jars!
REMEMBER.
Remember
Poetry is the blood of your visions
It rips you apart against
The torrid consolidations of mundane
Strengths elongated in the retinues
Sparked for uncertain verses in trials.
It wants huge skies to fly
It wants ruined castles for your dreams
Vast open spaces for its habitations
Wilder faces and unknown stipends
And the spirit of beauty for
Its hearty congealments.
Open up the worlds for incantations
The barbarous that do not hold
Shipwrecks of your flesh
Sinking downwards
Pleads of the familiar
In an unfamiliar word
Silenced petals and anguished flowers.
It flies to faraway lands
It reaches molten cores of earth
It dances on raindrops of hope
It talks with dry ghosts
In the scorched summers
It accepts the cindered fragments
Forms frolicking in the liquid sea
Or shadows dipped in nothingness.
Durlabh Singh.
The sky overhead a delft blue, solid and true
lay over a lake glacial of a pristine hue.
In its reflection a bounty of yellow broom
joining earth and heaven, a marvelous venue.
A forest of staunch evergreens stand like statues
protecting mans homestead from the wind's avenue,
all strands of the wide Universe upon God’s loom
celebrating the beauty of natures virtue.
Ringed about by mountainous alpine retinues
reaching upward, toward heaven, so one may construe
that each of us waits in His earthly ante-room
praying our hearts are not too filled with rue.
Remember
Poetry is the blood of your visions
It rips you apart against
The torrid consolidations of mundane
Strengths elongated in the retinues
Sparked for uncertain verses in trials.
It wants huge skies to fly
It wants ruined castles for your dreams
Vast open spaces for its habitations
Wilder faces and unknown stipends
And the spirit of beauty for
Its hearty congealments.
Open up the worlds for incantations
The barbarous that do not hold
Shipwrecks of your flesh
Sinking downwards
Pleads of the familiar
In an unfamiliar word
Silenced petals and anguished flowers.
It flies to faraway lands
It reaches molten cores of earth
It dances on raindrops of hope
It talks with dry ghosts
In the scorched summers
It accepts the cindered fragments
Forms frolicking in the liquid sea
Or shadows dipped in nothingness.
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.