O, dear poetry, how old are you?
give me a glimpse, The Story of Sinuhe
the art just might predate literacy,
before the birth of the written word, BCE
Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor the eldest fictious
the Epic of Gilgamesh on papyrus
the world’s oldest love poems, verselets
Homer’s ancient epics
Compositions made for spoken word
I finally found out from all I’ve heard
what my dear poetry means to me
the love of artistic lyrical spontaneity
learning of words using them expressively
or impressively, excessively, whatever it takes
with poetic license, there are no mistakes
Works that lead to electric elucidation
with rhythmic flow, meter and alliteration
my primo priority is; my poem pieces make sense,
with rhyme and my love for classic cadence
having the quality of amatory ambiguity,
steered adrift with ominous obscurity
strapping images of suggestive metaphors
I’ll write to inspire as do the troubadours…..
Written: August 28, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Note: Creating a clerihew suite (a connected series) allows to convey a hilarious biographical narrative or analyze a historical event from several perspectives. Because clerihews are so brief, connecting three or four of them creates a lighthearted narrative arc.
********************
The teenage William Shakespeare
found himself steered by sudden fear
When 'Anne Hathaway' said 'We are to be wed'
he packed up his quills & to London he fled
When writing tragedies at 'The Globe'
he wore a truly fancy velvet robe
However it caught fire during 'Henry VIII'
burning the theater right down to the gate
The aging wordsmith William Shakespeare
felt the English language was so austere
So he invented the words eyeball and swagger
just to find a rhyme for a bloody dagger
When it came time to bury William Shakespeare
his lawyer shed a real dubious tear
For he left his wife no money or bread
only his clearly favorite second-best bed
Rest worthy hermit, betwixt bliss beat’s blink,
poised as we are, awareness self-aware,
no goals to pursue, no objects to link
and thus this world of names and forms outstare.
Just as the vast sky is by no hand steered,
we too remain, a pulsating heartbeat,
who has by free will, in form here appeared,
watching how polarities meet and greet.
The witness who watches is the ego,
creating a subject and an object,
a retrograde step, which we must let go,
to reclaim rapture that rises unchecked.
Impulse of heart is translated by mind ~
Caught in its web, the spider’s in a bind
simply resting in quietude
here now within the oneness field
bliss fortifies heart’s fortitude
that without touch all souls be healed
will of consciousness absolute
is no different from our own
grazed by magnetism we transmute
a secret we alone are shown
identity has disappeared
with it attachment and desire
our destiny is by God steered
we are the very cosmic fire
Tomorrow
Sitting next to you, you asked my name
Stunned as I was I knew it was too late
You Laughed‚ when I smile and sad when cried
You never question my drive
Always help me strive
I stayed busy as child in study and sport
Stayed busy with family and job
I always waited for tomorrow
To say I am because of you
Life’s up n down the way you tackle
Incidences and coincidences
Inevitable and avoidable the way you steered
Inspires me, Guide me with cheers
The tomorrow never came
Now it is too late, too late, too late
I love you Dad, I love you a lot
I regret to have waited for tomorrow
Which never came.
I enter the chamber, a shifting storm,
my footsteps echoing against marble and memory.
I do not knock. I arrive.
The air in the room thickens
I take my place at the ancient refectory table~
my hands folded, as if I hold the hinge of history.
I watch them~
the wary eyes, the clenched jaws,
the careful arrangement of words
meant to sound like certainty.
I lean forward.
I speak softly,
my whispers bending the room
more than their shouts.
When tempers ignite, I rise~
not in fury, but in full authority;
and the chamber falls silent,
as though the very walls recall
the ruin that discord once unleashed.
I press them,
not with threats,
but with the weight of consequences
they already know too well.
And when at last they yield,
not to each other,
but to the fragile truth between them,
I exhale~
a slow, deliberate release,
for I have steered the storm
toward a narrow passage of peace.
I am Political Negotiations.
I do not choose sides.
I choose outcomes.
Caroline was an elf who walked with purpose every day
other workshop workers steered out of her determined way
she was always on a mission, getting something done
an elf who believed in work; it was her kind of fun
If I had six more elves like this the manager said
we could take a vacation and we would never be in the red
why don’t we let her do the accounting too?
Suggested a wise co-worker named Smarty MaGoo
the little girl was lost on Halloween night
she might have had a fright; she might have had a fright
but she found a man with a heart who treated her right
his name was Pumpkin Head Bill, and he was a sight
Others might have been afraid of this scary looking guy
But this little girl touched his heart with a teensy sigh
I am lost, I need to find home, she told this ghoulish man
He steered her across the moors and took her home to her gran
She was a Jew in Germany, when that became a crime
Hitler in power, but she left in time.
She thought back to friends she had
Incredulous laugh, then she looked sad.
She said all nations have a style
Good points, bad points, a kind of profile.
Those are the cards that nature dealt
This was genuinely the way she felt.
She gave her heart to a tall dark guy
He owned a department store, but money couldn't buy
Because on the Sabbath it had to be open
Her parents forbade any kind of eloping.
So she married my Opa, though she had doubt
The photo shows regret, but it did work out.
My other Grandma fell in love too
But he'd once divorced, so that was nixed too.
Odd to be descended from two second choices
And two women who didn't raise their voices.
Strange how people's lives are steered
One outcome was me, and I was weird.
A black sheep, or a wave of trouble
Don't come into my radius, into my bubble.
Their other descendants were much less odd.
So to the deity, a thankful nod.
Captain mouse steered his motorboat around the bend
Enchanted Forest and inlet stream did not seem to end
he felt sorry for others who have neither freedom or boat
He let his steed idle, enjoying the river as they continued to float
alluring, captivating, enchanting she
lounged on the island at edge of the sea
stay away from her, cautioned sailors to Lee
but he steered his sailboat up to her knee
Her lamenting song was a lovely melody
her scales shimmering, all could certainly agree
Lee was entranced, hypnotized by this pretty she
which delighted the siren, known only as Wee
hush the blush dear
of thoughts fearful
be steered by love
Inspired by being a Chosen One.
May I be Your Chosen One indeed
By Michelle Morris
27/11/2025
Oh, Lord, I come to You
I know I am small and trying
Thank You for Your Grace
Thank You for Your alignments
There's so much water
Water that has come to drown
Sometimes I feel there's this storm
That never wants to leave my town
You gave me a boat for safety
But I steered close to the rocks
When the Darkness barred my way
My system seemed to go into shock
But You were always the Light
You made a way where there was no way
You gave me Hope each time
Hope to try again another day
You gave me wings to fly
But I was afraid to leave the cliffs
It took so much Hope and Faith
To release the fear of my Happiness
You gave me numerous souls
To test me and to help me grow
I never would have known my Strength
If I had an easier Life to show
And as much as I'm tired of being Job
I believe my Path and my Truth
I thank You for Your Gifts
That my Light continues to shine through
Oh, Lord, I kneel to You
I am filled with Your Love and Peace
Thank You for my Angel Mission
May I be Your Chosen One indeed
© Michelle Morris, 2025
In place, smoothly flowing
protecting my abode
bottoms truly showing
how rain is steered away
along with melted snow~
keeps my peace ongoing
How far gone is my soul and mind,
That coming back seems impossible?
My hands ache to be steered by your prompt,
Yet hours of blankness blunt my will.
But still I can etch out classics—
My pen lies close, surreptitiously listening,
To gather in ink the wisdom you proffer,
For those fleeting moments of madness.
The top ten will never be my goal,
But that one crown that ends the race;
For this is no sprint that halts at a hundred—
A trophy beside my poem is all I crave.
Yet the nearest mile I first must conquer,
Before the next, and miles beyond.
Though fingers ache as if racing from fear,
No shadow of doubt shall make me yield.
Oh mine! Oh mine! I see it now—
A wonder folded deep in words.
I’ve penned a masterpiece for the summit;
No judge can deny its rightful place.
If none are near to ring my bell,
I’ll strike it loud with my own voice;
For I am no gentleman in this contest—
But a rival running the race to win.
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.