In commemoration of America's upcoming birthday, I dedicate this Acrostic poem.
UNITY is foundational
NO kings
INDIVIDUAL rights
TYRANNY no more
EQUALITY of access for all
DOMESTIC tranquility
SLAVERY was acrosus
TAXATION with representation
ASSEMBLY for redress of grievances
TRAIL of tears
EVERY legal vote must be counted
STATUTORY government
OPPORTUNITY for all citizens
FAILURE is not an option
ASSSIMULATION, not separation
MAGNANAMOUS nation and people
ECONOMIC power house
RELIGIOUS freedom
IMAGINATION, dreams, and vision
COMPASSION for the poor and weak
ALL for one and one for all
The above organisation...Has a human story, one of way too many, hence they seek not
For glory.' Yet to overturn some statutory i'lls, kill laws that label; and denigrate living
Such gives me pause..And throws a chill'
Also a distorted lighting, of life stages eniugh to fill, me with the will.' To add my voice to Cindy, Taylor Jenkins mother who was robbed of her daughter by dry banal indifferent
legalitys, that by now; too many personalitys have smothered.' You might wish to join us from wherever is your
world.? Help raise a wave to sink deaths
Legal vessel that serves no good, may your
Voices loudly be heard.'
SEIJAKU
Three hours I’ve toiled at the keyboard,
Feeding the hungry screen.
Whilst all around the air is filled
With the clackerty-clack
Of a dozen keyboards more.
The dreaded deadline looms
And God forbid that should be missed.
At last, the final summary
And a quick read-through
In case spellcheck has missed
A careless boob.
Then press the button
That will send it to the printer
In the quiet passageway.
Away from the clamour,
I sit by the printer
As it churns out the statutory copies.
I close my eyes for a few precious moments
And my thought turn to you.
To your smile; to your sparkling eyes.
Your twinkling laughter
And the anticipation of coming home to you
At the end of a stressful day.
The printer falls silent
And wakes me from my reverie.
Just two more hours to go.
Faith often hides
an idolatry within
Statutory mandate
—harbinger of sin
(The New Room: November, 2020)
Unsubstantial statutory subliminal
Ordinary dilemma
Domineering calypso dancing
Munching on habanero
Desert Kool-Aid promenade promenade
Soil diapers in the shower
Cleanse your mind soul body by the hour
Occupational observational
10/23/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Recently no word playing in me
I am imprisoned in glistening mirror
Enamored mind in barren grayness
Terrible dark takes birth in every night
Benumbed the day is with the withered pen
Wearied chemistry of eyes
surrendered to the raindrops
falling in the wizened heartbeat
Your shining nose-ring is burning
my titanic wrath of high voltage sighs
making statutory shrine the thought
Susceptible lust
renewing the pole of youth
to bathe in juicy petals
But all words into the vacuous grave
23.09.2020 Chattogram
You say that I only can see the bad parts. You can tell by the rhyme that I wrote. If food you call good, was all that it should, why'd it have to be shoved down my throat?
Suppose I should tote
a dead scroll or an apochraphyctic lamb skin. Apocalyptic man skins, get walked on like crudely made danskins, and ever presence ever yields to ancient peasantry in fields. Will we ever get a shield from that son?
Will standing laws, or laws of nature, sanitize a mind set to statutory rape her, when she comes to my Mom's house in shorts?
Sanctified codifications, waxed melodic like the Haitians, remove the curses I hurl watching sports.
But what of the blade, be it metal or not, that slices skin, and pierces the chest?
Slice an apple open, and shove a hard candy in it. The harvest is over, and new winter soldiers shall propagate indirect witness.
When I say that I'm going to kill you, there is no doubt.
You've angered me once too often and I'm going to rub you out.
Three years ago, you stole my valuable coin collection.
You should get a bodyguard because you need protection.
You lied to Social Services when you told them that I'm an unfit dad.
I almost lost my children and you have damn nearly driven me mad.
But the last straw came when you impregnated my teenage daughter.
You've crossed the line and you are a man who I intend to slaughter.
I could have you arrested for statutory rape but I want you to be dead.
You just fell to the floor because I used my shotgun to blow off your head.
(This is a fictional poem. In real life, violence never solves anything. Please never take the law into your own hands.)
the dispassionate color of no hope
has only walls of empty bedim white
the statutory color of no hope
has manifestation of a smudged life
the offended color of no hope
has mud stained dimming souls
I have destroyed the rest of the poem
so that, to say
that when i am destroyed there will be
no more words, that I will be able to write...
and you can not have them as
i can not have just-us
Rabbits at junctions are often akin to moons at traffic lights. A light lunch is preferable to a whisky scone when taking a picnic to a lake. But playlists can play so font argue with a flamed fortress of fig. Tailoring a suit for a nine foot bead and dazzling s crowd with a one millimetre tiara is not a sound judgment for a counting ball. 1 2 3 then. Radio that on a one kilometre hand held microphone. Hahahahaha the skipping rope is jumping in a hula hoop today. Lovely. It is not the way of the feathered cloud to land in a field fuelled upside-down but a gridlocked four dimensional satanic bowler hat can swim many acres in a spotted swimsuit. Good. Underpasses underwater underground undertake uniquely unequal unisons. And a proxy is neither productive nor normal. Statutory static authorisational code bringing wine to a ball room. Fantastic news for the pillar. Geranium gathering giblets. And a pie. Wow. Xxxxx destitution demon demonstrated dogmatic dramas digging. Xxxxxx counter intelligence and no matter. Xxxxx miscommunication Z
Can a moon fit in a ladle? No. Can a white ball explode a street? Yes. It is the will of the entwined serpent symbol to eradicate lives in a global swoop. Much planning. Quarterisation of countries. Count 1:2 3 4 5 then move. Octagonal month. Smash. No not good. Gaming garnets gathering guns grabbing. Gibbering. And a dissatisfied cloud. Very upset. Wailing ashes through tears. A torso ripped like an unwanted bill or letter. And that parsnip in an ornately dressed suit. Triple a multitude and multiply by 6000. Crest created. Derogatory. No haha. Definitely not. Definition is simply nit derived from statutory provisions. No xxxxx for flesh erosions. Z to it. Multidimensional 9% of a global glove.
Spotted ears are identified by counting. And eventually merge. Which is problematic for a walking abacus. Counting calling catering clapping. Charadmarus of a bean sprout in wellies. Or a suit. Take one pea and chase it down the m53 at noon. It is often considered to be exceedingly exciting. But blindfolds whilst baking is not a very good idea as over icing can lead to very badly made decisions. Chop chop chop then. And a resin block sings from a violin case. Chords cantering. Saturation of statutory statistic. %%% 0 to the %. Being a bathing branch. Good. Going. Pointless pinning a picture with a rusted spoon. Acronyms *** persecuted *** montage *** cosmological sepias xxxx z
statuto ry warnings on
to ba co al ca hol an
pro mis qui ty
they supply needles on
the street for safety
free co n doms
create artificial wars
where the sun is
set to sell their
rusty arms
I’m standing solemnly contemplating
How ageing lighthouses independents
Have become Maritimes normality
With beacons becoming statutory
Now standing shimmering silhouetted
You’re shining flawlessly undemanding
The hopeful monument oblivious
To seamen’s abounding adorations
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
09.22.2014
Contest: The Lighthouse
Nette Onclaud
7th
Today is her birthday
I don't know what to say
Besides the obvious "Happy Birthday"
But what should I do?
Got flowers
Well dressed
Tie and Suit
Bought a few karats of gold for her neck
Money I did not have but eh what the heck
My girl's day, gonna' celebrate it her way
Drove down to the store
Bought liquor
Then off to her house
Realized I was late for the cutting of the cake
Sped there, a minute it did take
Approached her door, checked my breath with a puff puff
Shocked as my greetings began with a cuff and a cuff
As two cops stood there marandizing
I began realizing
Began flippin out in a rage
But it hit me this girl told me the wrong age
Cops won't listen so this is my fate
Jail! Because of statutory rape
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.