Black butterflies flutter through the courtyard carelessly,
their folly flitting through variegated foliage, creating
worlds so breathtaking so as to not be real, just as
imperial belladonna bows in reverence to Mother,
thankful for the necrotic nectar that will soon
be on their dying breath
Black butterflies drink turtle's tears to race streetlights
past yellow tape, the words that read "Do Not Cross"
a foreign language for anthromorphs with velvet eyes
on their back, giving insider views, behind the lines
declining the advances of bluebonnets, fixated
on Iris's crescent wings
Black butterflies are sticklers about their traditions,
many may even call them creatures of habit, but
they progressed their ideas about chrysalises
after watching their cousins crawling out of
cocoons, knowing there's no better way to
live than in spun silk
People live by their routines
And some will never bend ‘em,
While others are more flexible,
Not minding an addendum.
Yet it presents a challenge
When those sticklers will not budge;
Instead of going with the flow,
They mire themselves in sludge.
By losing opportunities,
It seems they’re missing out,
But maybe doing what they do
Is what they’re all about.
We follow rules that work for us
And everyone’s unique,
Since what feels good for others
May not be the path we seek.
The Sticklers are rule-followers; they do seventeen weekly have-tos.
There is no room for flexibility, or deviation from their parents’ teachings.
Have to go to church, read the Bible, pray daily, on their knees.
Have to go to grandma’s every Sunday, bring a pot roast, wash the dishes.
Have to read the Bible with grandma, aloud, as she corrects you.
There are so many have-to’s, there is no time to play, laugh, or sing.
Many of the Sticklers have gone crazy, are in mental institutions.
There are minimal have-to’s in their distant cousin, the Hippydippy’s lives.
They enjoy their weekends; doing what they want when they want.
Freedom to dance, sing, cartoon, paint, knit, crochet, color, fish or golf.
They know about the Bible, but they are not scheduled to it.
Grandma knows they love her, they see her when it is convenient.
She’s usually on a cruise anyway.
None of the Hippydippys have ever gone crazy.
Ring the bells for me
Fairytale clock keeper
I wanted to meet a beautiful end of my own design
But those sticklers at the bureau are obsessed with time
I couldn't hold on to my youth , adulthood failed me
All my golden arrows missed their mark and between the sheets I never connected the dots
Why does every touch feel cold and lonely
I didn't just want love I tried to create my own but evolution backfired her dna has missing parts and I sit crying under streetlights
Wallowing in wistful delusion
Father Christ’s encounter with the Pharisees never fail to entertain.
Almost everywhere He preaches
A few people would show up
Trying to compromise His ministry
To catch Him in violation of custom or law
Mingling with known sinners
As Father Christ did repeatedly
Was clearly acceptable to Pharisees
While obeying the law is important
Father Christ was an observant Jew
He also knew the law
Social structures had their limitations
His message to legalistic sticklers is straightforward
Unadorned
He wants to engage real people on real issues
People with faults, problems, people searching for Eternal God
It means folks like you and me
He is not excluding the arrogantly righteous among us
He’s pretty busy with the rest of humanity
This message if freely offered to any
All who will listen
If youre going to hung up
On the narrow publications of the law
You will be missing a life changing message
The toothpaste that I use is Crest.
I cannot tell if Crest is best;
But it’s the brand I’ve always used.
A change would get my teeth confused.
For laundry, what I buy is All;
A prior brand I can’t recall.
My clothes get clean; I like the smell.
A switch would not serve quite as well.
My ketchup’s Heinz, my dressing’s Ken’s.
Purdue’s the brand I like for hens.
My soap is Yardley; Listerine
Is what insures my breath is clean.
What advertisers understand
Is how much power they command;
But customers they love to see
Are loyal sticklers, just like me!
Tell me the secrets to your life, bushman
Show me how to befriend the garish land
Guide me through nature’s surviving devotion
Teach me with dry eye that knows no ocean
Lead me to hope in battlefields dead
Limit the sweat drops that stroke my forehead
Grace the cracked crevice of yesterday
Turn them 'to valleys of knowledge at play
Whisper to me the ancestral dream
Wet each subtle contoured stream
that smooth the plains of a timeous kingdom
Nestle me against the bosom of freedom
Forgive ignorance raised from infancy
Respectfully remind me of bliss and harmony
Make everything new, as it once was
Shelter my prayers in shallow graves past
Mark them with nourished droughts of fortune
Symbolised by strength and wisdom in unison
Synchronise peace through roots of your heart
Celebrate remembrance through sticklers of art
Let blood warmth that course through your veins
Recycle this savage ‘til the end of days
Navigate me to heaven hidden in the stars
Simmetrically ripen my thought battlescars
Understand and bleed into me as if earth
Entwine and bear with me, oh ethnic since birth
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.