If only Autumn Days , were this good , all again
as golden mellow paintings, visual hearts, all explained
as a child walked slate paths, covered in splatters of rain
where he picked purple berries, from muddy , puddled lanes
and his cheeks were as red , as fallen Apples, all new
stuffed in his pockets, his found treasures, a few
he saw the Cottage spiral smoke, for mothers baking bread
smelt wood shavings sweet, from fathers, work shed
for this , is Country Childs World, of 1842
and the 4 year olds wishes, on Dandilion seeds, that he blew
now his mud covered trousers , from ginger cat, who's alone
to the lace covered windows, to the safety
to the safety,
called home
I don’t know
If I am dancing with the devil.
It feels so right and so wrong,
so good, and so strong.
I feel all of it
at the same time.
Does that mean something?
Am I missing something?
Is it wrong
because it’s good?
Or am I just dancing with the devil?
The rain splatters a wash
on my old-ass car,
and offers pathetic cleansing.
Clean my memory,
while you are at it,
hard and busy, rain.
I’m dancing with the Devil.
A picturesque snow dancing iced winter rings,
imagine its artic coat tail’s sheer zoom,
frosty shriek from children who flaunt its soft melt flake,
the zeal unleashed by doting winter veteran kin attachment,
if adult figures shiver they might whoop,
as well as gorge ravenously on a chilled feast,
from cascade to wobbly ad hoc cold spurt gaze fixer,
snow is both Christmas rampant friend and foe,
aching frostbitten trees with swirls and limp splatters,
gardens bear the ruthless onslaught,
of wispy white sourdough layers,
hoarse vocal mantra cushioned quiver,
in that agile limb shudder on a surface torrent,
fantasy upon fun-filled fantasy such wonderland entanglement,
immerse oneself in the occluding snowball sphere,
camaraderie of fellow eye dazzled worshippers,
at the swooning atmospheric glacial shrine tangible,
of frozen vapour tickling and teasing awestruck mirth,
so ephemeral in its momentary winter surreal deluge,
yet impactful mind lodger so audacious in its billowing beauty
Rad mad hatter batter approach
Kiwi coach who Key did poach
It seems he is beyond reproach
When it really matters in tatters
Castle clatters Ashes hope shatters
Our guys bowling pies on platters
Memes scatter legacies splatters
Egos not heroes BazBull flatters
The urn won’t return with the Mac
Yearn but burn totally out off whack
Concern can’t learn not got the knack
Brendon a torn forlorn tendon on the rack
But will still earn a packet deserves a smack
Bitten not smitten his racket of cricket crack
Wouldn't change tack and deserves the sack
The hack pack giving him a stack of flak
Finally a step back from just all out attack
Too little too late the recurring soundtrack
Whittled & skittled fate well we were cack
Drunk monkeys just sunk spunky flunkies
Lack guts gumption gusto were so slack
The lies spool pulls over our eyes the wool
Must backtrack no crackerjack comeback
Debunk the funk & gist of narcissist gunk junkies
Cool over old school fool rule of Baz (load of ) Bull
Time these harlots & charlatans brought Test best back
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spine cracked like parched soil,
pages swollen at the edges
with spills – cinnamon, grease,
splatters of tomato sauce.
Her handwriting, a slanting vine
across lined paper: add more salt,
stir till it feels right,
Grandma swore by lard.
Faded ink blooms where tears fell,
once, beside funeral cake.
The spine breaks open like a secret told,
pages swollen with stains – cinnamon ghosts,
thumbprints of butter, a splash of burgundy bold.
Her looping script, a faded charcoal host,
maps forgotten Mondays, birthdays gone cold.
Pinch of patience, scribbled beside roast recipe~
an ingredient never bought or sold.
The binding frays where gravy pooled and dried,
a topographical map of meals that fed
more than just hunger. On the margins
her notes bloom: Add less salt; He likes this bread~
Double for grieving written between lines, implied,
the quiet alchemy where love was spread
thicker than jam on all the years inside.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
As the wheel churns with no power at all.
Not magic, just a lack of pondering so much.
The things that shock us into a state of being or worse.
The spinning is fast enough to grind anything at all.
But it only destroys the questions.
There’s no such thing as thoughts.
If they were real, they’d be electric thoughts with a microphone shouting out.
But instead, we live stale.
Would be against us but we are too nothing-like.
An electric thought that could pass on.
Without the breath of anger.
Which makes us live longer days.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
That wheel rotates, creaks, and groans.
Nothing splatters.
Just tiny sounds like-
Metal against pavement.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
Don’t think about it.
And maybe you won’t get pulled under.
"What should I say of the waters that touch the peoples and cultures of the east, west, north, and south!" - By Poet.
The Earth's Oceans Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by: Constance La France.
Three seas converge in my homeland.
Arabian Sea with her waters, grand
Hugs the Bay of Bengal with endless waves breaking
With flora, fauna, and fine sand
Like the heavens and cosmos, they expand.
With jingles and pitter-patters
With them the Indian Ocean chatters.
Every brook, creek, stream, and river merrymaking
With whirlpools and water splatters
Every barrier within them shatters.
Islands that are warm, clean, and green
Fish, pearls, and coral reefs are clearly seen.
White-sand beaches and turquoise water-furls snaking
Waves stand as though frills of silkscreen.
Charming, she looks like a queen so serene.
As though a divine sovereign
In Kanyakumari—Cape Comorin
Has this ocean found a place of awakening?
In Swami Vivekanand's shrine
The Indian Ocean forms its design.
Mental ants.
Sleepy, creepy, all trembling.
They are like tickling.
Or manifestations.
Ants are alive sometimes.
They take turns being alive.
Sometimes they eat.
So they’re weird.
My mental ants.
Make me as antsy as an apple pie.
Splattering on the ground.
Manifestations.
Sometimes I have dreams about puffs of light air.
They hurry away.
Mental screaming.
If I were broken into pieces:
Each piece of me would grow little antsy legs and antennae.
But also disintegrate at the same time.
That’s all that’s left.
Specks that are resilient.
Training my ants to be helpful.
It makes it worse.
They tell me it’s not possible.
To grow.
Like things that grow.
Mental screaming.
Nothing splatters like it used to.
They don’t try.
Ants on my mind.
Are more than riddles.
But less than real.
Next time I’ll manifest something useful.
Mental ants.
They are more resilient than I’ll ever be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a russet acrobat,
fur the color of burnt sugar,
eyes bright beads of mischief.
rain splatters, a mid-day drenching.
he pauses, mid-scamper across the lawn,
assesses the situation.
then, inspiration!
a maple leaf, crimson,
almost comically large, detached, adrift.
he seizes it, a tiny, frantic grab,
and hoists it high~a quixotic
tilting at the autumn sky.
he struts, beneath his dripping canopy,
a furry little king, conquered by autumn,
but undefeated by drizzle.
Swagger of sophistication,
her scent endures pleasure air
Way her style carries in light
or perhaps beauty I'm captured
Water drips the brim, I pause;
as if my breath she's taken
Where is such love persist my heart flutter
I am man, surely she love my handsomeness
He thinks to himself,
as the water splatters her heals
She's gone, how I ever capture heart she stole
My silence lost to perception I feel I am not worthy
That girl splatters her faiths in colors of adoration,
Adoration of spineless whispers carried by heavens beyond,
Beyond the biosphere where her sentiments goad to creek,
Creek tender desires into every reverie.
Reverie curtains her realm in silk and gold,
Gold resembling the narratives my girl’s yet to articulate,
Articulate by an expression that is so tender and genuine,
Genuine as the assurance of waiting so proximate.
Proximate to her emotions, a reality takes voyage,
Voyage through the stars in the velvet darkness,
Darkness bends in amity with a radiance my girl has perceived.
Perceived in the lifecycle, she’s continuously baptized her fantasy.
Poem by N. Mugisho
Here rest my oars.
A killick thrown to the school of fishes,
To still my boat from the peering waves.
Fishy-wishy scatter as water splatters,
Like wood chips flying when the pickaxe strikes.
A ship draws near, but my killick blocks its kiss—
Its stale mouth might stagger my rest,
And send my gathered fish fleeing the net.
Much of the mud my killick swallows,
So the wave won’t tug the boat an inch.
More students from the school must reach my net.
A long wait beneath the twilight-dimming sky.
Yet the fish market waits for a refill.
The cool breeze begs my eyes to close,
But hunger bites hard with its mocking teeth—
My killick just has to steady the float.
Early Sunrise
golden dawn in view
new orb splatters orange tints
birds’ songs fill the air
signs of divine grace from sky
spread bright hues of hope on earth
gilded orb ascends
summer warmth spreads in the space
nature starts anew
Begotten to Fail
The strutting hustlers
rouse their slumberous day
amidst their maddened worlds
In the midst
of the wary ghetto
A dream steps out
blinking, yawning with a resolve
even as their sky seems blurry
Repelling men and monsters
Relishing the forecasted rain
Marching through
mud and splatters
riding with the lightning
dancing to the pounding thunder
mastering the guts and dangers
grimy with the heap
of yesterday’s dreams
grimacing the flavour
of lack and resentment
light pink suit
splatters of blood
secret service men climbing into motorcade
Dallas Texas
November 22, 1963
some of us will never be the same
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.