We eloped April the seventeenth
Married now for fifty two years
I know he is always there
To love and protect me
This man is my rock
I stand behind
I love
Him
spider scarecrow girl was the most original being in the corn.
She tried to get attention, but she was the seventeenth child born.
Her family already had sixteen spider scarecrow girls before her.
They had been hoping for a boy, they would have named him Burr.
two women roam this parking lot
looking for a good place to park
this is their third pass by
they might think I am leaving
I am staying
writing in my car until my friends get here
they might be in the restaurant already
I will go in when I go in
This is my seventeenth poem today
I am aiming for twenty
What is stolen
never endures.
Empires built on plunder
rot quietly.
America.
And its allies.
You crossed oceans
to empty the poor.
You called it trade.
You called it order.
Paper became power.
Ink became chains.
A currency without conscience
sold as destiny.
You ruled by bullying.
By fear dressed as leadership.
And wondered why
the world grew tired.
Nothing is too vast
to fall.
Nothing too small
to rise.
You proved one truth:
the world breathes easier
without thieves at the throne.
The universe keeps accounts.
It tolerates patience,
not cruelty.
And when leaders gamble with greed,
the innocent pay first.
But this is no longer
the seventeenth century.
The Global South
is awake.
They studied your methods.
They memorized your games.
What was taken
will return—
not in revenge,
but in reckoning.
Two years ago, I went into debt to try to save you.
But you passed away anyway, it's sad and it's true.
I paid thirteen hundred dollars with my credit card.
When it came to facing your death, it sure was hard.
When it came to saving your life, I certainly tried.
But sadly, on the seventeenth of August, you died.
It doesn't bother me because I went into debt.
What does bother me is that I lost a great pet.
You were only six years old and you had no future ahead.
I said goodbye two years ago today when I found you dead.
[Dedicated to Puppy (2017 - 2023) who passed away two years ago today on August 17, 2023]
Limericks written for St. Patrick's Day
Celebrate the Irish in ev'ry way
It's said in tales of old
Leprechauns buried gold
At the rainbow's end it was meant to stay
It's a day for dancing and wearin' green
Shamrocks in the hair of each colleen
To Erin Go Bragh, a toast
A holiday loved by most
But kissin' the Blarney Stone's not my scene
The Emerald Isle's heathered hills are lush
where on a Bonnie lass you'll have a crush
Walking on Dublin's shore
Or on the grassy moor
You can steal a wee kiss to make her blush
The seventeenth of March will soon be here
St. Patrick's Day arrives every year
Jameson~ take a swig
Then dance an Irish jig
Or imbibe Guiness with lots of good cheer
The time will come when this holiday ends
And I'll wish my days here I could extend
Irish blood flows in my veins
Here, part of my heart remains
I'll just sing Molly Malone and pretend.
I love you more today.
And I'll love you better than,
What lived and was acquired yesterday?
But still, I'll love you even more tomorrow,
With the richness of incomparable love!
I accept your love today.
I carried your love more than,
The day before the present day.
And yet, you still attain your love for me,
In fulfillment, no other can do.
My soul is yours,
And your spirit be it mine.
Were we meant together for this fortune?
A perpetual life together,
Melding and weaving as one.
I love you more, Shannon! R.I.P.
(Battle of Antietam, Sharpsburg, Maryland, September 17, 1862; 2,100 Union dead, 1550 Confederate dead)
the day September seventeenth
in eighteen sixty-two
found stalks of corn in Maryland
grown high as horses' heads
while rebel soldiers clad in gray,
invaders to this place,
stood vigil in dawn's wispy mists
as quiet Sharpsburg slept
when from the creek Antietam
charged boldly Stars-and-Stripes
so all-day-through fierce battle raged
in pasture, corn, and road
till sunset quelled the violence,
loud cannon-thunder ebbed,
replaced by floods of helpless moans
from maimed and wounded men
while from the carnage rebels skulked
across Potomac's flow
to breathe their safe Virginia air
as blue-clad victors wept
and set about the burials
of dead, both gray and blue,
three-thousand plus six hundred more
American souls lost
that day, September seventeenth,
in eighteen sixty-two.
Maria Josephine is our seventeenth nanny
They cannot take it
They can’t!
Junior has colic
He cries and he rants
He is a horrid little creature
Except when he is asleep
But that is fitful
His sleep is never lengthy or deep
She will leave us too,
They rarely stay later than a day
In the mean time I will get a bit of rest
For I am the mama who dares not run away.
I am teaching my grandson
The ABC’s through XYZ.
A slice of pizza after his done
To making it fun. He’s such a whizz.
August seventeenth he’ll be five.
He's autistic and very hyper. If his good,
A promise to the Zoo will drive.
A zebra we could and attempt we would.
Grandma has him weekends.
Bubbles he loves to make;
Upset he gets if it ends!
In a hurry, dish soap and water I make.
Placing two tablets of the Law
in the Ark of the Covenant
was a gift filling them with awe
meeting His "presence" in the tent
--- to lessen their separation ---
and to provide a place to pray
...now, the tabernacle's station
contains His Sweet Presence to stay
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(August 3, 2023. Thursday of the Seventeenth
Week in Ordinary Time. Based on: Reading 1:
Ex 40:16-21, 34-38. And John 6: Bread of Life;
as well as the Catholic Benediction prayer--
"You have given them Bread from Heaven,
having within it all sweetness!" Amen! :-)
Also inspired by the daily meditation in here:
Opening the Treasures: A Book of Daily Homily
Meditations by Rev. Charles E. Miller, C.M.)
Supari raped Berry repeatedly,bound,and gagged her in the basement.
The next day,her seventeenth birthday,he gave her food and a shower,
then locked her back in the dark basement with only a TV for company.
Two days later,he chained her in an upstairs bedroom with a trash can
for a toilet.In the first six days,she was raped at least twenty-five times.
The weeks went by,each day like the last,spent alone,punctuated by
multiple saxual assaults,a diet of once-a-day junk food,and occasional
breaks when Supari let her watch TV with him downstairs.Zafar almost
strangled her while telling her he did not want to kill her,he just had a
saxual problem he was satisfying by repeatedly raping her.(SUPARI)
Note.Zafar Khan Supari loves to satisfy his diik by injecting Chick..
I have dog ears; I hear things I wish I had never heard.
When I say to a child “Please don’t tell me your business” they jump.
Not realizing how much I hear, but do not want to know.
I teach children this “if you are not listening, you are not learning.”
I ask them to repeat it. Sixteen do, in a row, as I pass a stuffed frog.
The seventeenth does not have any idea what we have all repeated.
Because that child’s life is chaotic, he is sad, he cannot listen….yet.
Listening is something few people do well. I have to concentrate on it.
My job is to listen, but sometimes I am too distracted to do it.
I have great pretense mechanisms in place. Nodding and mmmming.
The children and the men keep talking, and of course the dogs.
Women not so much, it is difficult to fake listening to a woman.
It was the seventeenth of December,
at her birthday party I had met her.
That special day I fondly remember,
she became my wife, nothing could deter.
The day I’ll adore till our time turns blur.
________________
December 12, 2022
Rhyme checked at rhymezone.com
Syllable count : 10 per line (HMS)
Contest : A December Memento
Sponsored by : Andrea Dietrich
Oh, woe is me! Oh my! Oh my!
I am going to be singing this song until I die, oh man!
"I’m Henry the Eighth I am. Henry the Eighth I am I am!"
I’d stop singing if I could; I am not even a fan….
This poem is stuck in my head forevermore.
"I got married to the widow next door; she’s been married seven times before!
I’d love to stop strumming and singing; it’s starting to be a bore!
It is a song I used to kind of adore…..
"Everyone was an ‘Enry, ENRY! Aint’ had a Willy or a Sam!
Or a Sam!
I’m the eighth I am, I’m ‘Enry, Enry the eighth I am I am
‘Enry the Eight I am I am."
"Seventeenth verse, same as the first."
Would singing another song be better or worse?
I cannot believe this song is stuck in my head.
I’ll be forced to sing it until I’m dead.
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.