There's nothing better than a steak,
Providing it's spiced with care.
Whether ribeye, filet, or strip,
Just make mine medium rare.
Then you have your feathered friends,
Either turkey, duck or chicken.
You can bake or crispy fry,
The Colonel says it's finger lickin'.
And don't forget about the swine,
Barbequed chops, loins, or ribs.
If you slather it with sauce,
You should always wear your bibs.
So meat me in St. Louis,
If you have some time to kill.
You best believe before you leave,
You're sure to get your fill.
A tattered Calico traverses the crumbling corridor
dissecting a row of dilapidated sacred structures,
each uniquely indistinguishable from the next.
The wind carries an eerie refrain
as it whistles through the splintered stones,
white-washed to harbor their degeneration.
There's a fragrant stench of wilted petals
lying dormant in stagnant waste.
This potpourri of nature's compost
resonates from the marred receptacles
lining this mourning path.
Picket shadows serve no comfort
from the unbearable fervor
as it bakes these palaces of the deceased.
Irreverent voyagers marvel at its spectacle,
congregating within the blighted vestibules,
ignoring the pleas of sacrilege,
all to capture images for their own posterity.
Exit this city of the dead,
allow the mourners their serenity due.
Bestow the departed their wanted peace
and leave them to their gentle rest.
It was a hot humid muggy evening
The festivities were just starting
Inebriated souls, and the smell of Cajun cooking
The moon was sitting idly by, waiting for her role
The smokey flavor of the night’s meal
Sifting scents pleasing,
The mixture of perfume and gourmet
Evil lurking just underneath
The flowers were radiant
Laughter permeates the air
Then the little ones, with beguiled charm
Cut through the social soirée
Blood spurts from body parts
The killing fields of St Louis
As patrons and saints are slaughtered
Like lambs
I feel the callus cut of the knife
As my fingers fall to the ground
I know the evil stench of horrors
Has only begun to spread
Like the roots of sinister wine
Bordereau is the prison of the mind
The lamb is now the Wolfe
Montcalm would never fair well
As limb and leg fall slain
I cry out in horrific pain
For the battle of St Louis
I have been murdered in vain
New Orleans by night
the city that care forgot
do come visit us
East St. Louis, IL
City of Champs
A city with untapped potential and mountains of hope,
A people with great dreams, reaching forward
Looking for ways to manage and cope.
From the outside looking in, it doesn’t appear to be much
Enduring and standing through a lifetime of corruption,
Protected and sustained by God’s merciful & everlasting touch.
Stricken by drugs, crime, violence, and generational poverty,
Financial, social, mental, emotional, circumstantial,
Those are the outcomes that we see.
A lost cause to most, a scapegoat for many, overlooked by some
Except those who live and walk the streets
Experience success and proud to proclaim where they are from!
Each new generation fighting to overcome the mistakes of the last,
Losing an uphill battle, yet we manage to survive,
Eager to provide hope for the future and honor the warriors of the past.
-Poetic Love 10/8/10
Where did the innocence go so fast
it's all rearranged
so sad
people getting angry so quickly
maybe someday it'll change
but as for now I make my home in the
most dangerous city in the
United States
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.