Donald Trump, self-appointed Peacemaker
His frantic efforts will soon gift him a pacemaker
He revels in riches and worldly luxury
~ forgets that the Messiah rides a donkey
He revels in spasms of sarcasm
Laughter from now to the hereafter
Peels off insults like a snake sheds it skin
The better his audience to capture
Inside his brain one-liners a-churning
to be dispensed for nightly earnings ...
In his heart of hearts he despises his craft ~
Wishes he were anything but daft
My girl is wild, she’s a rock-star’s child.
She lives in secrets I’ll never understand.
She can’t be defined; she never makes plans.
Drawn into my world, there’s no escape from her destination. She revels in the dark of my experimentation. My obsession with killing she finds thrilling. My life’s is destruction, anything to make me feel. She is a suicidal mentor, still searching for something real.
She hijacks my dreams; she whispers dangerous things. Her words seeping into my veins.
She takes her pleasures with whom she likes,
Her fate dancing on a razored knife.
She smokes cigars from Cuba, I taste the fire when we kiss. She smells of Cohiba, an intoxicating bliss. All eyes are on her when we enter a room, She’s flamboyant, enchanting, she has a flair, for dressing up doom.
I watch her every move, wherever we go,
My dangerous muse, my beautiful shadow.
My girl is wild, she’s a rock-star’s child.
She lives in secrets I’ll never understand.
She can’t be defined; she never makes plans.
Her face imprinted deep in my brain —
A rock-star’s child gone insane.
Gypsy-like, ghosts wander,
gathering 'round gallows,
ganging in the gloaming.
Gleeful on Halloween,
gargoyles join their revels,
gaudy, garish and gauche,
glamorous in the gloom.
Plump and odd if it be round, for it being not its true girth,
albeit a perturbed belly is lacking as a mind revels in mirth,
as distant time and nigh rebels cause to fester pains worth.
For time begs the favor of that quill’s revival to regale its destiny,
as written walls forbearing thoughts, courses the spirited a remedy,
paper I have, but envelopes are in want, a late hour, a store's journey.
A store tends only a box of purple envelopes, as its price kills me more,
I relish the idea of the recipient who mirrors my mind on an even score,
ha, as I laugh in the gloom of no measure, stands I, keyless at the door.
An open window saved me—somewhat, as I grasped the desk nearby,
I felt it squished, splurting the unfinished work and my efforts applied,
loss bears its weight in value, I mailed graped purple, a knock replies I.
There is a party of hate and you are invited
If fact it’s an open invitation
But everyone seems to leaving
Everyone that is tired of hate and death.
The party of hate meanwhile
Revels in the death of others
The death of their own
And the death of those to come.
It makes up policies like soft on crime
And defund the police
Which only leads to more death
Especially of children and minorities,
But that is what the party wants
To further its goal of systemic victimhood.
These are modern day sacrifices
To the gods of change
Made with hate in their heart
But fear in their mind,
Fear that they may be wrong,
May have it all wrong
That hate and death is better than love and life.
Of course they are wrong
And they know this
Because as long as they are alive
There is still a seed of love in their heart.
(9/12/25)
Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –
such gowns! My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –
for one short night, her villa had become
the very essence of elysium!
To “fortify” us, as My Lady said,
against the winter tedium to come,
to banish melancholy, drive out dread,
she threw an Autumn Ball. Delirium!
We met the equinox with pipe and drum.
The quality of Florence all attended,
and never were Their Graces better fed!
The sun was up before our revels ended –
and Isabella? Still no thought of bed!
Three further galliards she’d yet to tread.
It seems I hear those trumpets even yet,
and taste the sweetmeats of that epic spread
(she’d plied us with light moscatel to whet
the palate) – I believe my mortal head
will throb for ever more, autumnal red!
When ideas are locked in a cage,
The bot frees poetry of its rage,
Like analgesics on a fresh wound—
A turbulent sea where pains are drowned.
The goal’s not to write, but to refine,
To make each rhythm, form, and word align;
Quick to shape poems to perfection,
Bringing finesse to art’s reflection.
Yet its pen drips with glib emotion,
It revels in stale, putrid notions,
It loots old clichés in broad daylight,
With its spies embedded on every site.
It hums in all ears with tone-deafness,
For its inkwell is void of freshness;
From the poems of the past it steals,
And copyright claims trail its cold heels.
Far better—a creative ally,
With clear, firm bounds to which all comply—
Than crowned as a human replacement,
Or seeking the poet’s mind displacement.
Praises to Thee, my soul soars and revels
Songs I sing where my heart dwells
Faith I live with and grow
The true dawn of dreams
that lingers like twilight’s kiss.
Luxury’s revels
draped in a regal cloak’s hush.
Crowned with velvet robes
of night’s elegant embrace,
with a mind and soul
brushed in amethyst’s true grace.
A whispered silence
that softens nature’s mystique—
the sweet wine of life
savored at twilight’s last glow.
A solitude hymn
composed for an empress’s smile,
like a meadow’s grin
filling an ocean’s wide sigh.
Fall.
Sweet songs
fill the air,
in icy times.
'Neath magenta skies
stoic redbird dances,
on bare twigs, to his own song.
He revels in blue stars and snow
awaiting first rays of coral sun.
Touched by a mystery lady of green,
who still wields magic, in wintry weather!
Happy people pass, dressed for the cold
Purple butterflies lie waiting
for gold days, like those we knew-
of singing sunflowers
and cherry sunsets,
sunshine, peaches
scent whispers
mint hues,
Spring.
EVERYTHING IS NORMAL
The backwater
dreams is catching the winds
to become a whirlwind again...
The past daydreams
of recovering time
to live the present...
Rest
revels in silence
to replenish energy...
the night shines, the stars
with the sleeping rays of the sun
borrowed for free...
Pain heals,
when the scars dry
and become just memories...
You were crafted from grace and intellect
A masterpiece of resilience, standing firm in your unwavering independence
Yet you have an innate desire
To be adorned with affection, cherished like royalty.
Let me be the jester in your court,
The fool who revels in devotion,
Showering you with laughter, draping you in love,
For your joy is the crown I wish to serve
Jueju 10-8-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Enigma
My baby has no grave
Slipping from my womb
Upon a crimson wave
Too soon to feel your heartbeat
A son or a daughter
Your eyes blue or amber green
Your voice, a mystery
You - unsolvable puzzle – eternal enigma
Your laughter – never heard
Your smile unseen except by God
Unspoken your first words
Each birthday celebrated with angels
Yet, I believe you live, little saint,
Wrapped in Heaven’s embrace
Your first steps walked you into eternity
Where God revels in your perfect face
People ask where’s the year gone August
yet I face summer swelter August.
Someone wonder how times is lost
as fall lurks behind a closed-door August.
Someone revels in spring love a poetic leap
but spends time alone August.
In March a child dances
the world turns before my eyes August.
In March a child’s cry
a heavy sigh in August.
In the morning a whisper
a resonance at dusk August
In depths of night a pause
the soft cry August.
In spring a planted seed
a leaf falls August.
A gust of wind passage of time
people ask where’s the year gone August.
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.