Isn’t that you smiling from your abyss
Devoid of anything found and missed
Caught in the middle to lose at both sides
Watcher of time with its high and low tides
Doer of nothing and listener of rain
Living through ages you dared to attain
There you sit in your saggy armchair
There you think of what nobody cares
Anyone who is alive seems fed up
Those who are dead never drank from your cup..
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
I gave myself the body
of a secretary bird—
long legs like accusations,
a face too sharp for comfort.
But wings? I borrowed
from a taxidermied dodo:
soft, irrelevant,
stitched to the wrong century.
In the background,
a sky I did not earn.
In the foreground,
a foot poised to crush a snake
that looks suspiciously like me.
Unpredictable and volatile--
morose and quiet one moment,
laughing heartily just after a while
at whatever excited his mirth,
his high thin loud laugh strange
from a person with a grave mien.
He would often be in deep thought,
as if engaged in contemplation
of a philosophical question.
You’d think he is not given to humor,
but know him well and you’ll divine
he is not averse to jests even at his expense.
You would view it with some misgiving
he delights in fairy tales, children’s books, toys,
movies with superheroes or fantasy themes,
colors, flowers, and childish games.
But perhaps you would forgive him
for through circumstances not of his doing
childhood had somehow skipped him.
November 15, 2024
SELFIE PORTRAITURE
ego
on show
I'm a dark-hued poetic mind
Writing mine:
Inking navel keloid words
Water-broken
From pregnant
Thoughts
YES
But even these I want to share
For sharing is caring:
About love
About peace
About freedom
About babes
About bombs
And about lumbering shadows of life
Silhouetting hungry death
YES
I'm a dark-hued poetic mind
Writing mine
A cranial reservoir dripping
Spear-tipped words
Dripping cognitive flows
Conjuring
Cosmic
Consciousness
Defying
The cryptic
Void of silence
"Self Portrait"
My Picasso pro
Boscis only
Knows
Pinocchio
Lighthearted
Lies laying in cubis
Tic
Isms
Of truth
BIO by BRIAN STRAND
not
a reflection
or
a picture of perfection
So,what is my goal?
merely a sur-real
glance
into the looking-glass
of
my soul
with id & ego
on show
In the drawing.
Flat paper on the coffee table.
I’m in it.
Crayons? Markers?
Shaking in my hands.
Sadness confined to a rectangle.
My mom looks over and wonders.
I’m not crying, it’s just marker on paper, see?
I like to draw tears.
And myself, no one else is allowed.
I don’t cry in real life.
I’m not annoying like that.
When she calls me down for dinner-
I’d rather draw.
When she calls me down to go outside-
I’d rather draw.
To get better at drawing-
The prettiest tears in the world.
if I am unwell
bring me parchment where I lie
if I do not answer
put a quill in my hand
my lines will speak for me
the ink will form the thoughts
from emotions that fill my head
I beg you decipher the strokes
that I attempt to write simply
but if the markings seem like riddles
make sense of the whole
by embracing the abstract you see
the patterns and rhythm will reveal
a portrait of my naked self
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
What's this we have here?
Second hand?
No, worn out? Eco friendly.
Sure, the color's fading some
But for the grade
It's not too spendy
And it's versatile
Though it doesn't change
Not affected much by where it hangs
Around
Been through the wash a couple times
So I bet if you take it down
You'll find the fiber's tough
Despite the gentle feel
Threaded thick enough to warm you
While being cool enough for mass appeal
And thus often a-ddressed
Though I think you'll find it’s just as satisfying
To give it a rest
(And I'm sorry for the rhyming)
Solid denim
torn at the knee
dark hues of cotton
comfortable as can be
tears from the loving
of horses' gentle pull
stains where
children's hearts were full
A hint of reds
purples and greys
eclectic and simple
depends on the day
Easy the flow
strong are the seams
a small touch of color
smell of lavender when cleaned
Fancy it's not
though dribbles of strife
wares of this wardrobe
express a simple life.
SARTORIAL SELF-PORTRAIT
Even as a young man,
I dressed just like my dad.
‘Clothes are what defines you,’
Was a saying my mother had.
But now I’ve retired from the city,
Perhaps it’s time to break free.
So I’m looking through my wardrobe
To find out what defines me.
Here’s a row of pin-striped suits,
Three-piece, in the main.
With waistcoats with a pocket,
For a watch on the end of a chain.
And now the shirts, all white of course,
With collars that detach.
Long sleeves with fancy cuff links
And a smart tie pin to match.
There’s a lingering smell of moth balls
As I move along the rails.
Especially in the section
Where I keep my top hat and tails.
Even at home I wear a tie,
Though, to help me to relax,
I have a long-sleeved cardigan
And a pair of well-cut slacks.
But, right at the end, in a cover,
To make sure it doesn’t fade,
A memory of a brief interlude,
When I wasn’t quite so staid.
A reminder of my salad days,
When I lived life with a passion.
I’ve kept those flares for fifty years,
In case they come back in fashion.
A skin, bit rough, and brownish fair;
A rounded face and short black hair;
Fine vignettes on a wide forehead
that seems to think the ways ahead.
Cherry red lips, thick and pouty;
Two big ears, a nose that's humpy;
Big black eyes with flickery wink
seem to fathom the way you think.
Self portrait poetry contest
7th place
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.