I wished to find the words for you - so beautiful and dear,
The pretty ones that you would be so happy just to hear -
And when I found the very bestest, selected just for you,
I’d put them into a poem’s lines, so they would ring so true.
It took time to find these charmers that like to hide from me.
“Queue up in a line”, I said, “so my beloved can see!”
But these dumb clods never do what I command them to.
This is the silly way they lined up to prepare for you to view:
“Soft like silk, a lullaby, a rainbow, an azure sky,
Verdant woodlands, a butterfly, snowy peaks, apple pie.”
“You must tell her what she means to you and what is in your heart.
I’m afraid this is not good enough, it’s only just a start.”
“We’re walking out”, said these dopes, “of your love poem, I’m afraid.
What you are asking of us stiffs is over our pay grade.”
It was then I thought, with these mad guys, I should make amends.
If I cannot command them, then perhaps we could be friends.
And so, my dear, it’s time I fear, to pause and to regroup.
Because these words have turned on me and turned this poem to poop.
The virgin under the pristine sheet,
patrols the creaking, cut, timber of time,
through the blooming roses and the sleet.
The grandiose grandfather chimes.
She used to shine her eyes near the shallows.
The young lass can only shriek her woes.
Her eyes, bright as the moon, on the gallows.
For now she bids welcome under bedding clothes.
Her arms writhe like the wind on the cliffs.
Her feet, hidden beneath the grave cold sheet.
No eye holes needed. It creeps out the stiffs.
She performs a trick when they beg for treats.
The light-as-a-cloud lass, floats just above the grass.
When the ghosts, goblins and vampires notice
they tremble, they turn pale under their first class
masks. The naysayers are given notice!
If they think, or call her a spook, or a guy, she tears
the snow white sheet off, and makes a spectacle
of her hollow cheeks, tangled hair, truant jaw. Fears,
beyond terror, make the living bully sensible.
The pale virgin roams, as long as there's day and night,
as long as seasons come and go, though she longs for sleep.
She moves by her own will - no wrong or right.
The lass longs for quiet, under soil, six feet deep.
Purple bats and evil cats and strangled ghosts that laugh
jet black cloaks, snickering blokes and witches that gaff
Pumpkin grins, talking garbage bins and all that moves
Halloween rhymes and pentacle signs with evil grooves
Children running from the shadows towards the gallows
skeleton molds on scaffolds, and specters in the shallow
Phantoms and demons, bogey men with haunting looks
talisman, walking totems, demon hags with spell books
Haunted houses, mummy spouses and imps that steal
cemetery moans and groans, stiffs that oink & squeal
BETTER HURRY ON HOME BEFORE YOU BECOME THE NEXT MEAL
Oh, say can you see the land of the freebie
and the home of the ungrateful bleating.
Where borders are blown wide open by vote vamps.
To the glee of coyotes -desperados -the depraved.
Stars and stripes replaced by the heartless-shooting blanks.
Where elitist stick shanks into the faith of good people.
Who're deemed racist for standing for a starry banner... disgraced.
The trinity was tossed long ago into cancel culture canyon.
Were last seen thumbing it down Route 666 in a flash flood.
As the cultists put another bullet in Honest Abe's head.
While looters and rioters and cop killers were martyred.
Working-class stiffs were slit open- bled out from either end...
into the collection plate of the jackass-fascist and Uncle Sham...
Where goodness was woven into the fabric of evil and mayhem.
Upon burning looms of crooked buffoons and bullhorn goons.
In the land of the freebie and the home of the ungrateful dead.
The blackbird has gone maggoty
Lara stiffs at it
shakes a grub off her wet nose
and sneezes.
Then as if fiction were uncannily real
another similar bird drops out of a tree.
For a short while it flutters
turning in a circle around a broken neck.
Lara looks at me as if to say,
‘What the heck?’
Now the bird is still
one eye open to the sky.
I can see clouds reflected in its eye
but soon just cloudiness
as life departs.
Lara again does her sniffing thing.
We walk on smelling the sweetness
of Fall leaves as they rot into October.
This is a time
when death and its dissolution
is still aromatic,
pungent enough to mask
the seasons fatal embrace.
Lara sniffs at a loose pile of fallen leaves
as if they were an open grave.
For if time live longer than i could
if you mutter and i am mute
if you lay your head on my breast
and i refuse to embrace
do not cry.
For when you see my nostrils and ears
blocked in white cuttons
and my body mummified
when you hold my hand and it is cold
and my body stiffs gradationally
when you rumble and i am silent
do not cry.
For i have fallen like a dry leaf would fall
bustling like the bees
roaring like the lion
panting as the deer
in the place that is strange
and in my strange self
I have changed form
and i am not with you anymore
gone to a place where the ground is air
and the air seems solid that i walk upon
where i will be trapped and amassed
never to return.
Funeral will come
maybe on a rainy day
friends and foes will attend in their black dresses
and i will be given a shallow space
until enternity comes
I won't struggle to come out from my diminutive space
as earth begins to eat me gradually
i will remain in your heart for a while
thereafter fade like a dyed black cutton
time of years
the cloth you wear
is very bright
with love insight
for friends
and a mabe some stiffs
you give a
VALINTINE GIFTS
its a hiway to jesus day
you plan
for him you stand
your stocking is stuff
with mabe chestnut
or gift for friend and stiffs
its the
JOURNEY
TO CHRISTMAS
In the Arctic, there are some strange critters
called lemmings, which legend says jump off cliffs.
Their fate's enough to give one the jitters,
imagine finding all those frozen stiffs.
When overcrowding becomes an issue,
it's rumored they all stampede to the sea.
And throw themselves in, but hold the tissue,
for that enduring myth isn't true, you see.
Misconceptions about this small furball
are based on their runs when they get too dense.
They stay home when there's enough food for all,
then run off, as their numbers grow intense.
Madness is not a part of Nature's plan,
that's one contingency; She leaves for Man.
A Footle Murder Mystery
The sleuth
in truth
Was miffed.
The stiffs,
As such,
Weren’t much;
No clue
In view
To find
This kind
Of crook,
Who took
The stash
Of cash
Then wrote
A note
To tell
How swell
(Misspelt!)
He felt.
“It’s clear,
I fear,
The crime
This time
Was done
By one
Who knew
How few
Are we
Who see
The clues
To use
To solve,
Resolve,
This theft
So deft.”
“But I
Espy
The one
Who done
The deed!
Indeed,
In brief,
The thief
Who slew
These two
Must be….”
And we,
The one
Who done
This crime
Sublime,
Are safe,
Our face
Still hid
Amid
This crowd,
Unbowed.
The sleuth,
And truth,
Is dead
Instead!
its time of year
brings friends near
thoses who been good
its understood
theyer not stiffs
for all reason
its
GIFT SEASON
we're not a lone
the fights gone on
its right or wrong
she is the one
get the job done
choose over all
to be our peace wall
and plus
over power bad stiffs
she's the
LORDS GIFT FOR US
From Monday through Friday
We come to work - and work and work…
No fun allowed
No smiles, no jokes
It’s a serious job
Our work that we work…
No horsing around
It’s not allowed…
We are corporate robots
And we are proud!!!
people power will take the day,
from the rich and petty way,
will it, fairness for all,
give the master taste of gall,
the poor to own the day...
we do not need the misletoe, predator rich,
sucking the life blood from us stiffs,,
remove greed is what i say,
people power the just eclipse...
then it be bloody ok...
time to show care
beware
there love for stiffs
thoses who wiliing
not just stareing
ITS NOT JUST FOOTBALL
FALL IS NOT JUST STAREING
GIFT AND GIVING
ANS SHAREING
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.