It's only a number you said to me,
you so much younger than I,
yet, thinking about it, I find I agree,
a number in the book of our lives.
I turn each page as if to rewrite them,
but reading the words, they define this inaness.
A boring book of too many pages
in a life of endless repetitive sameness.
My father's book ended on page seventy-four,
a book written in a language I never knew.
Filled with intrigue my mom's on ninety-two,
a Western Romance that never came true.
Several short stories that I won't speak of here.
Those lives cut short with characters undeveloped,
whose stories I would gladly have traded with my own,
if the jacket was changed and the pages re-enveloped.
Yet, I continue to read this story of me,
as the day of my birth is counted once more,
and pages turn with the briefest of breath,
while my body grows old with a mind I abhor.
The paper has worn and the numbers smeared.
Dogeared by time as each sentence entwines,
I'm trying to find the worth of my story,
but it's just so hard to read between the lines.
11/15/2024
I wrote a short story
About the Chee Chee Mong
someone commented on it
I want to rely on the comment
So i tried several times
Each time I tried -
Nothing happened
So I tried again
I ended with the
same results
I went to search for my problem
i saw a lot of articles of my short story
I did not see my short story.
i do not know how to reach my shrt story
So I thought i would ask a poet
i pressed my poems to press a poet to ask
i pressed edit and now iI ae trouble with that.
Now I am very upset.
There’s a ten-year-old in me still
hitting a home run to win the game
in the bottom of the ninth
He’s throwing a Hail Mary touchdown
to pull off the upset with no time left on the clock
And he’s drilling a three-pointer from midcourt
to force the contest into overtime…
There’s a twenty-year-old who refuses to forsake me
the one who’s going to write the Great American novel
as soon as he gets his collection of short stories published…
There’s a fifty-year-old in me somewhere who won’t let go
spending every moment of his spare time finishing that novel
and then tearing up the last three chapters as soon as he’s done…
And now there’s a wistful seventy-five-year-old looking back on it all
and wondering when all those versions of himself waved the white flag
and agreed to let him finish this poem with a sigh
Havoc Manuscript
Rook goes horizontally and vertically
Poems written with no boundaries
A bishop slides diagonally
With anxious hand writing
Absurd mind deeply rasing
Rigid thoughts through empty spaces
Solitude toward hemlock flowers
A havoc manuscript
Time line is over due
With poetic efforts
Written fluent wing letters
Slumber into the night
Short stories revealing
Engraved works never ending
Crave a creative journey
Pen in hand
Thoughts glide across the pages
Before The Ink Runs Dry
Am I A Poet?
I have written #800 poems.
I thought I was an artist.
Creative illustrations.
Creative writings.
Changes passed the horizon.
I can’t see everything in front of me.
A new chapter moving forward.
We are writers.
Deep thinkers.
Until the ink runs dry.
Always a pen in hand.
Pondering a new letter.
Poems are short stories.
Document your life.
Written in a journal, be inspired.
Piano songs in the background.
Clouds floating all around.
Maybe one last poem.
Before the sun goes down.
Eyes are heavy.
Candles are burning.
The love of poetry.
"Lux Burning"
(Narrative found in Short Stories section; failing that, link below in comment box for you).
ONE OLD HAT AND FRYING PAN
Our life is like a book of endless short stories..
filled with a myriad of highs and lows.
Stories we will write today stretching as far back as our memory goes.
One of the wonders and beauty we possess…as every day we age
is how easily a memory can be triggered…opening our book to a certain page.
Sometimes it a thing, a word, a photo…a melody…
and before we know it our book is opened to that page in our memory.
Today before my morning walk…two memories awoke…
both of them unplanned.
Stirred by Deborah’s dad’s old fishing hat
and her mom’s cast iron frying pan.
I stopped and smiled at the memories evoked
and since there were more memories I wanted to see…
I asked these two memories if they’d like to take a walk with me.
So as the three of us walked this morning
with the stars shining and the wind whistling through the trees…
I perused through a few short stories in the book of my memories.
What a beautiful walk we had this morning…
and to think it all began…
with memories awakened by an old fishing hat
and a cast iron frying pan.
Moss
On Sundays I make myself familiar with
the moss on
the oaf of
rocks adjacent to
the driveway on
the west side of
the house.
They’re always keen to know if
I prefer the last letters or
do I prefer the
first or
the middle that form a
word or
a
proverb.
Too they’re keen to
know how many lines do I
write each time I’m at
my dark oak desk (my desk is named
Something Done) writing with my
HB pencil in my
snot green-spiral notebook my
horror short stories live in. I give them a
different answer for
both questions each time.
Sitting in front of the fire place with similar souls
Logs burning,
Fire crackling,
Heat radiating,
As we enjoy some much needed chill and laughter
Marshmallows roast as preparation for the smores treat
We all exchanged short stories, creative ideas, and humorous jokes
Clinked glasses while the laughter metamorphose choking
All's wells that starts well...
by Khalil "The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind."
The teacher I remember as the best
stood out easily from all the rest.
She taught creative writing. At that time,
I had no clue when older how I’d love to rhyme.
She’d have us sit in a circle, for that
encouraged students more to want to chat.
Instead of seeing others from the rear,
we got to see the faces of each peer.
In our giant circle, we would discuss
our own opinions, and it is a plus
when students can feel comfortable and free
to say what’s on their mind; that’s great to me!
After learning different ways to write,
we’d write at home, and it was a delight
to share our poems and short stories too
with one another and get points of view.
On work I handed in, feedback I would get.
Critiques this teacher gave to us, and yet
I felt this teacher cared for us because
she helped us know our strengths, not just our flaws.
Our teacher made class fun with games we played.
With these activities, our teacher made
us be creative, for she did not preach.
I hope like her I’ve been wise when I teach.
Who dares to define what poetry is
Romantics feel it’s hearts and flowers
Some might say it’s a ruthless biz
others would point to its staying power ...
A novel has a beginning, a middle, an end
Most short stories, a denouement
I say poetry reflects the spirit in me ~
though I suspect most folks would disagree
I was frustrated at work about seven years ago.
A painter, cartoonist, and scrabble player, where next would I go?
I needed something new to do.
Not sure where to start.
Suddenly feeling bored with my own art.
We were required to stay until seven that night.
Parent Teacher Conferences, but I stayed out of sight.
Being the counselor, seeing me makes them blue.
That is something I did not want to do.
Suddenly the word poetry came into my head.
I used to write short stories, now they lay dead.
I had not written anything since I was twenty-nine.
I found a poetry site and began typing poems online.
One poem, two poem, three poems, four.
I liked doing this, but I wanted to know a lot more.
I zoomed around the site and found types of poems and tips.
I have no more story; this is simply it….
. Did you know that there is a place we can go
Enjoy some soup, Poetry Soup that is I love it so
All kinds of ingredients go into the pot to cook,
You don’t believe me? Right now just take a look
There is wonderful poetry some of it you can write
Places to learn about, so many that are out of sight
There's art from the classics see how many you spot
Stories are fun to read, some in rhyme, some not
All the forms of poetry, some short, some are long
All will tell you about your poetry what is strong
Competitions to enter so welcome right along
You can write short stories if you are inclined
Just sit back read great poems, to unwind
Important ingredient still one more
It will be your favorite I am sure
The one you come back for
It’s the friends you make
Combine it no mistake
Mix it with friendship, to bake
Bake slowly til tender and easy eaten
Take a big taste your life will sweeten
As one gets older
One often looks back
At all the things you did
In your life.
The good, the bad, and the ugly
And we all have those moments
Because we are human.
And some things you desired
But never pursued.
For me, it was a dream
Of becoming a famous writer
While I can write poems
And short stories,
My greatest desire
Was to write
The Great American Novel.
And sadly it will remain
An unfulfilled desire
As I don’t have the patience or energy .
To edit my six rough draft novels
Turning them into something publishable
And they may die when I die.
And I am in good company.
The rule of ten rule applies
Of one hundred people
Who want to write a novel
Less than ten percent finish it
Of those less than ten percent publish it
Of those less than ten percent make any money
Of those less than ten percent make a living
At writing their novels.
[Fiction Out West]
A mining town, among others, had been shut down the longest. Long before the mines closed, and all the towns followed. As the story goes; one night, a 10-year-old boy walks into a bar looking for his barmaid mom, and amid some bruhaha, he's accidentally shot dead. Enraged and unwilling to settle down, she's also shot dead by the same gunman--but her's was an act of murder. In his dark attire, he rides off and is never seen again. An odd thing occurred for ten years, there were gunfights, but no deaths since the boy and mom, and as they went on their way never to be seen again, plenty wondered but brushed it off as even-steven since there was peace after every incident--until they learned that they were 'god-awful' wrong.
*The opener of My Ghost Stories in my Short Stories, "Originally TITLED: Surreality"
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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.