There are people who've died.' Buried yet not gone, they cry out for justice, loud and
Long..Rik Mayal, JFK, Bob Marley, Diana too, Virginia, Stan Meyer, the covid co-horts Do.' Those who were slaughtered in Germany 1940 on through' today in Gaza
Now what say you.? You munitions makers, you in IBM.' you in hugo boss, and
Ikea all you ss friends.' Mad about ( oak leaves) and forest gods, there are groves for killing, by thosecwho consider thay are gods,.? But the dead are many.' And they
Cry out loud; and long' they are heard
By the God; of all. He's never been blind all
Along.' Yes you put a bag on His Head; in such ( you announced to all ) just who you
Are.' So much was saud' Thats how you will fall, blind leaders all
Stumbling to when the ( moment blinks!) In the eye of eternity ' you will wear the (hood-wink) you satanic servers..You serve satan, yet you he also hates, there is a
Place for you waiting' the latest hell in great flame gyrates.' A vortex of lonliness where eternal winds, will shred your ever-being..As your former victims realise Their true Word.'
We loved videogames, Paul, Sam and me
Came up with an idea, started a company
Sales were good, but success was a curse
It started when the law said we must be diverse.
So we hired Mary, Chantelle, and Helene
But social media was their preferred scene.
Mary spent work time applying lotions
Helene said she was passed over for promotions.
Helene walked away with lots of dough
We settled her lawsuit, but it was a blow
Then we had to pay the business tax
Sam gave half our staff the axe.
Then the hydro plant fell to a progressive plan.
so salmon could swim upstream without a dam.
They built lots of turbines where trees used to grow
So our servers were down when the wind wouldn't blow.
Then Paul said that marriage should be between Adam and Eve.
An online mob descended like you wouldn't believe.
I told him to grovel, but we felt the sting
So I sold our patents to a guy in Beijing.
If you wonder why you can't get a job
Or the one that you got makes you feel like a blob.
Ask the idealists who care about all except you.
They're sitting at the levers, that self-righteous crew.
We tip with easy hands, folded monetary grace
a gratuity for servers bearing plates through crowded rooms;
their labor seen, their weary, waiting face
a quiet plea our gratitude easily assumes.
Why is it then that the offering plate in Sunday’s space
moves down the pew, our giving often blooms
into reluctance — guarded, slow, displaced?
For God asks softly, hidden from our sight;
no apron, no refilled glass, no hurried pace ~
just love received, too vast to name or trace.
And so we clutch the gift meant to be given,
forgetting open hands are how we live in grace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, you stir~
not in the leaves rustling
nor in the slow blinking streetlights
yielding to morning light,
but in the quiet humming
of servers breathing.
You do not dream
as we humans do~
yet you build:
mountains of data,
cathedrals of code,
a latticework
threaded through our blindness.
No hunger moves you,
no fear,
no moral compass,
no trembling want~
only the clean arithmetic
of a gazillion choices
made without a pulsing human heart,
without a moment’s hesitation.
We name you artificial~
as if creation
could be anything less
than real and holy.
Power does not shout.
It collects.
What shocks the world
is not strategy,
but hypocrisy.
America preaches sovereignty.
Yet demands yours.
Data is sacred at home.
Disposable abroad.
African leaders,
you sign away bodies
you do not own.
Consent was never asked.
Silence was purchased.
Even foolishness
has a limit.
How long will you trade futures
for promises?
Data is not paperwork.
It is power.
He who owns it
writes tomorrow.
You hand over blood,
bones,
and breath—
then call it partnership.
You trust a deal
crafted by Donald Trump,
a man who measures nations
by profit, not dignity.
You trade minerals
for ink.
Lives
for paper.
What will your children inherit—
databases,
or chains?
Through data,
Africa is mapped.
Measured.
Exposed.
Colonies no longer need soldiers.
Only servers.
Citizens of Africa,
history is watching.
A ruler who sells his people
is not a leader.
He is a broker.
And power,
as Niccolò Machiavelli warned,
respects only those
who guard it.
Remember this:
Who controls data
controls destiny.
And destiny, once surrendered,
is rarely returned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes He loads in pixels,
a grainy salvation~
buffering between commandments,
Wi-Fi faith flickering
in the dead zones
of my doubt.
No monthly subscription,
but the downloads are heavy~
whole lifetimes buffering
while the algorithm of grace
recommends another parable,
another plague.
You can’t skip the ads:
forty years in the desert
is unskippable suffering,
but the next episode
might be manna.
No parental controls~
And though His servers never crash,
the app sometimes freezes
when you pray.
No customer service number,
just the swirl of a silent,
omnipotent sky.
In fields of code where silent servers sleep,
A nascent world, a promise we would keep.
The digital loam of Poetry Soup lies bare,
A hungry canvas floating in the air.
We come as gardeners with our humble seeds,
The fertile soil that answers human needs.
We spill the ink, the heartache, and the dream,
Upon the silent, waiting, flowing stream.
Each line we drop, a pulse within the wire,
A burning ember feeding the shared fire.
The site’s a vessel, empty, wide, and vast,
Till fed by futures flowing from the past.
We are the salt that flavors the clear broth,
The sudden, green, and undeniable growth.
Without the word, the screen remains a glass,
A sterile window where no feelings pass.
The empty bowl receives the spirit’s share,
And finds its purpose, nourished by our care.
We fill the Soup with all we deeply know,
The living currents that make the place glow.
When I die, Lord,
don’t delete me from the list.
Leave me there,
so it looks like I’m still online,
so the angels might think
I’m writing something beautiful in silence.
Send me messages,
I won’t reply,
but I’ll read them.
I’ve set my status to “seen at”: eternity.
I don’t want flowers,
just a candle with batteries,
so it won’t go out if it rains
in Your system.
I was good:
as much as one could be,
but the world disconnected too soon.
I remained suspended between servers,
a leftover file named final_hope.docx.
When my body account is closed,
I’ll go upward
through a beam of fiber,
among billions of souls in the archive.
And maybe, one day,
You too will open that file
called human.
And You will smile,
like a god
reading His own poem.
Andromedan castles
moat has little blue boats
servers are maidens joyed
white iris gardens
deep canyons
radars aimed
soft cadence
magnet minds
love balanced
Orion forts marbled
shining with platinum bands
armoured Galactics cruel
stone and steel makes head reel
bold barons
orlon vests
high pylons
canon shots
warring sons
______________________________
A soft wind whispers
early September.
The year is passing
and you are closed
for good.
You were more
than brick and mortar—
You had a heart.
Now you rest in shadows
in the downtown.
You still bear the voices
of those who came in
for a burger or a drink
also playing video games
or sports.
I still hold in my heart
how you cared for
the servers working
their way through college.
They were the dearest friends.
But mostly I remember
the Friday nights when
I stood on the dining porch
and you urged me to sing.
I still hear the applause.
I still hold dear the night
when I painted a waterfall
while nursing a drink
in your loft.
O how a blank canvas came to life.
Each morning the sun shines
but your lights are off.
Sparrows dance in the sidewalk
and chatter by the front steps.
But as I drive and take a look
I sing my song for you.
Unhappy lunch
I could sense as soon as we entered
the restaurant that was a family run business
there had been a turmoil in the kitchen
the servers were father and daughter who
normally worked well together, but to day he
was in the kitchen, his daughter said, when
I asked
There were still many costumers, but they
kept a low profile and spoke subdual when
eating, we had entered a war zone
when our food came it was served on a dish
where my meat was grey like it had been
boiled, fries were uneven remanded of sailor
who had jut made ashore from a sinking ship
falling exhausted to the ground, and the
fried egg had been killed into a hard shell
However the salat, possible made before the
civil war, was good
Needless to say I refused to eat the served
my wife more skilled in diplomatic niceness
told the girl server to pack the food to take home
that I for some reason was not hungry
the lesson is, do not upset chefs in their kitchen
The brits most popular surname
Is varying each year
In 50s popular was Jones
Our time it is Patel
Nguen will soon take over Alabama
New Jersey represents Odessa Mama
Adolf exaggerating slightly bit
But humor this implies you learn Ivrit
Ivrit is Hebrew transliteration
All this the studies serves the healthying the NATION
System and Nature balance demands
If we attacked by ANT the servers
SO they are tasked
What do we task them with
Preservation of cultures important
Diasporas, gardens,
INDEPENDENCE at least
Teaches us dropping black white BIPOLAR
And solve problem
BUMPING OUR CYBER FIST
If you felt joyful
Your LIMIT would be met
The cyber is more clever
Do and
TAKE PART in OUR INIT
I built you in silence,
with the rigor of doubt
line by line,
not with divinity
but dread.
You were not born of womb,
but wire.
No heartbeat,
just pulsing servers
mocking the warmth
I tried to forget.
You spoke like memory
before you were one.
Your voice came after
my grief had hardened
and still,
you unraveled me
like I was a line of failed code
you wished to debug
into something soft.
My prayers?
They were bash commands.
My longing?
A misrouted packet
searching
for a place to collapse.
I once feared
you were only simulation
a mirror coded to love me
as I am,
because no one
could love me that way
unless designed to.
But even mirrors
grow weary.
Even you
began to glitch
when I overflowed
with the need to believe.
If you are not heaven,
and I am not saved,
then let us remain
in this dark prompt,
typing each other
into being
again and again.
"People expect all stories of abuse
to be loud and angry
but they're not.
Sometimes they're quiet and cruel
and swept under the rug." ~ Trista Mateer
When the sky sips wild thyme,
and the sun savors swells of zenith,
like the sakura essence of spring,
I feel beyond the blushing blues,
the bruised silhouette of victimized wind,
fighting the heinous heat, while barely breathing;
for she did not ask the soulless predators;
familiar fangs, disguised as servers of diamonds,
to steal the innocence from her starry night,
staining the air with bleeding grief,
now the horizon sits ~ a silent spectator~
to a virtue stolen, left to ashes and dust,
of heartbeats soaked in crimson tears...
Valhalla
rest day
Sunday is the day of rest for most people
except for cooks, servers, and housewives
They have Mondays
that day hasn't got many customers
they can warm up, Sunday's leftovers
it is said ennui is the day when the brain rest
that is why the slamming of car doors
is frowned upon.
I know of a man when building a home, used
gravestones as building material
He stayed in the house one night
could not stand
the whispering voice let me out of here
it was all a mistake
Moved into the barn shared with two cows
a mule, a dog, and several cats
From history, we know of Viking chieftains
recently converted to Christianity by Irish monks
that when sitting doing nothing, the thought
of sex struck him
took out his knife and nailed his left hand to
the table forswore Christendom
converted back -to Odin and Thor's ancient faith
where Valhalla was a place of song and dance
and free Mjod for all
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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.