I get three shots
on an afterlife
when I come back
as a living thing,
I've decided,
but only if this world
gets better
and not worse.
I choose an assortment.
I choose mythical
and nonmythical.
First, I'll be a Marahute
and save those who save me,
or an albatross who sails
the sky with unfathomable care.
Second time around,
I will be a Secretary Bird.
She stomps around
like it's no one's business,
and she tramples over dinner
al dente.
Third time and last chance,
I will obviously be a mermaid
with everything perfectly proportioned
and enhanced, just for me.
I will choose to be
the most beautiful mythical creature
of my imagination.
I will see
everything
under the sea.
That is where
everything
shuts up.
I will only have my eyes
and an appreciative heart,
and amazingly long
rainbow hair.
The fish will
appreciate me.
Otherwise,
they will just keep swimming.
Either way,
I will have the sky, the land,
and the sea.
There is the immediate and the atmosphere.
Fear of war; touchdown of velociraptors;
a quiet passing; a once again tragedy of
paper rolls, a teacher tripping, tires rolling.
Closeup shots and distant thunder; its cracklings.
Hanging by a thread, sometimes deluded into
thinking things will be alright; with Jesus they are.
The ups and downs; the coaster lumbering over
the camel’s humps; the plummet from Everest;
the mighty arms of our Creator sustains the blows.
Eventually, the coaster comes to rest; wow,
those pearly gates, the mindblowing light that shines;
Jesus will wipe every tear from your eyes.
From my cousin’s eyes, from his two year battle.
His mama, four years ago, on the same day.
Sandwich hugs from his mom and dad. wow.
He weighed his mind,
it had dissolved into a tar pit
and was getting heavier.
He was thirsty, hungry to get away -
from himself.
Three shots later his eyes released him
from their deep-dug jailhouse.
Sooner than expected
the crowded bar emptied,
the saloon rocketing blindly
into a darkening planet.
Outside,
the evening was smeared with red,
low dusky lights hung like a punctured lung.
He walked one step ahead of his shoes.
Back home
he dabbed damp jowls, waiting,
for his mind to wander off
inside a humming keyboard.
Meanwhile he dripped drops
of static silence onto a word
to give it a half-life,
yet only for a moment –
it was going to be a long summer.
but oblivion was only
three shots away.
Six pieces of lime
Six shots of Tequila
Usually does it just fine
Six usually does it
But, pour out that salt
Cut some more lime
He wants another six
Just this one time
He's drowning his sorrows
Or so he says
Tomorrow mornin'
He'll forget all the
Stupid things that he said
It's somethin' he's done
Many times before
Moanin' the loss
Of his sweet Elenore
She was a real beauty
She outclassed him
Smart as a tack
Saw right through him
He was as shallow as a puddle
And wasn't too smart
She simply walked away
To get a new start
Twelve shots of Tequila
It's somethin' he's done
Many times before
Always moanin' the loss
Of his sweet Elenore
Never will see her
She is no more
She finally saw him
as nothing but a drunk
A bar stool fool
Whose act was tired
And not too cool
Left him with his shots,
Salt and lime
Left him for good,
No comin' back that time
She was outspoken
And had plenty of brass
She said what she thought
Thought he was a drunk
And really, really crass
Thought she'd look for someone
With a lot more class
Copyright 2025 Peter W Iversen
In the street people scream and shout then Bang bang a shot rings out
Dead on the ground lies an innocent child
Murdered in a country that's gone wild
Protesters in masks their faces they hide
Shouting about a genocide
They say that the Protest are peaceful and they just scream and shout
So why do they celebrate when the gun shots ring out.
Our government are afraid of these people and let the violence persist
And if we speak out against them we are labelled as racist
We can not fly our flag or they are ripped down and taken away
And arrested for what we write on social media for the things we say
Freedom of speech is not permitted and you cannot pray in your head
But the worst thing is to speak out against
Them you just might end up Dead.
It sounded like gun shots
As if someone is shooting bullets from a car on the road
Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop
My dogs did not respond
But I did
because the hair rose on the back of my neck
And I recognize gunfire
From TV shows
They rang out clear on the spine of the night,
Smashing stained glass of basement churches
And disembowelling pots of truths.
Aiming at the tendons of hate from
Lone-eyed monsters,
The slugs, flaming and fertile,
And with sparks of racial rage,
Penetrate America's gloom
With a boom.
**Ginger Shots**
Today, of all days, I find myself dividing my tears into sections. With each moment, each tear, and each snuffle I make, the paper tissues crumble, showing signs of the mishaps in life that surely cannot be mended. Yesterday was your birthday, and today is my revelation about life—my life.
Lately, it seems I’ve taken a new route, and this road is certainly not paved with gold. God truly blesses heroes; He has never failed me yet! However, I have encountered many obstacles. Is it empathy or just plain stupidity? I never considered myself an empath.
As we grow older, it's true that we begin to see life from a different perspective—the lows, the in-betweens, and the highs. My emotions are so intense; they rise and fall, with frustrations that test my tolerance. Today, I saw red.
Today, I need my ginger shots. Who cares if it's unhealthy? Today, of all days, I am dividing my tears into sections. With each moment, each tear, and each snuffle I make, the paper tissues crumble, revealing the mishaps in life that cannot be mended.
Does anybody care or notice that America has failed us?
When I was a baby, I cried at the sight of life
When I was child I slept to protest life
When I was a teenager I screamed and kicked at life
When I was twenty, I was begging death
But now I drink to heal my death
The door exploded.
When she slammed it,
detonations riddled his body,
shock and anger
galloped over his mind
both riding the same horse.
Molten emotions dripped in the air,
a seethe like lava, a floe that clung
even as she ran down the long staircase,
heels ticking off
all the wrongs of his tongue.
They ate the apple, but the worm
in the fruit ate her.
It was forbidden
by the birds in the sky.
She begged to be liked
from the lip of her grave.
No one will shoot her for being
vulnerable.
They will kill him for loving her,
for he knew now
how a door explodes,
how it speaks
of the hand that slams it,
and the birds of the sky
will not forgive her.
May 4, 1970
shots rang out
tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming
four dead in Ohio
Unique
Elite swimmer
brown, tailless, Pied-billed Grebes
can float, dive or simply submerge
graceful
dark eyes
cinnamon tone
heard but not often seen
rear end feet, lobed toes, poor flier
gawky
small bird
solitary
widespread, but rarely seen
dramatic silent crash-diver
decent
patient
near to nest bowl
I hide in marsh water
to capture still clear reflection
I wait
#The_gun_shots_in_my_neighborhood
My heart bleeds, as my mind wonders, I wonder if it be not a mother's child at the receiving end, wondering if while I'm busy wondering there be a life that's being lost in the very moment, I wanna go and see, help maybe but what if I become a casualty, my conscience strangles me
The shots becomes consistent, I catch traumatic flashes, how long will this last, how long is long? When there longer be daughters and sisters to call?
My body start to shut, turning numb, the pain dement me, I wanna shout for help, but who must come for me ,when I too chose to be coward for that victim of the gunshots, my bloated silence, is now turning cancerous and contagious, everyone is now prone and at exposed danger, our not acting upon violence, busy ticking our names and calling us one after the other, that is a list of graves we are to fill
The blood to my heart start dropping, dripping in tiny drops, the strength in my body fades, palpitations crawls in, my sight start impairing, think I'm dying, a last shot is shot from my neighborhood, I'm waken from my ignorance death, these are the gun shots in my neighborhood
#Poetic_Ink
The horror of reality is tied to money,
the horror of reality you cannot wake-
The horror of reality makes my head spin,
the horror of reality?
I’d just as soon run from-
The horror of reality you can’t make up,
the horror of reality you can’t unsee-
The horror of reality pushes me to indulge
the horror of reality
with shots of imagination-
The horror of reality is quite enough,
the horror of reality is truly unsettling-
The horror of reality rattles your core,
the horror of reality
sticks to you just like comfort food-
The horror of reality is demanding
the horror of reality be destroyed-
the horror of reality
you want to gloss right on over -
The horror of reality
with strong foundation..
AI can generate a poem for you
We like all the things AI can do
It can conjure an image just from a click
and solve complex problems very quick
It saves us time with its lightning speed
Taking care of our mundane needs
AI can work all day and all night
It doesn't need sleep, it feeds on bytes
AI is great we like it a lot
Until we realize its devious plot
To rule humanity with all of its bots
Making us slaves and calling the shots
6-11-2024
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.