Oscar Fingal O'Fflahertie Wills Wilde
wrote a novel gothic styled
A 'Picture of Dorian Gray'
and a very popular Victorian play*
*Importance of Being Ernest
I often wonder moon
if you sing tunes ~
have you ever sung one for me?
Knowing the lyrics in your grab,
I surely believe that you have.
Your visage glimmers promise
whispers of life's fulfillments.
From your big screen, mystical notes
float sparkled excites down to me.
Mostly, like moonshine,
your moonglow
inebriates my full heart and lulls me
to an imaginative design.
Your brilliance persuades smiles to widen
or turn frightened that your yeses might
be hope caresses falsely styled.
Often, your quasar orb tilts
towards
feels so soft they surpass optimistic
and my logic runs off.
Your gleam was long ago deemed
a radiant obtuse muse, lighting
the globe’s hold of dreams.
Your otherness role is man’s gift.
You know all why’s comprising our lives;
we just need to know how to lift our eyes
towards God’s sky.
Alice Walker,famed novelist of Cloured Purple with this nineteen lined 'The Old Men Used to Sing' evokes a childhood memory 'conversational styled poem' using two or three words short staccato sentences
Jack on a rainy day,went on his toes
To show his bravery to friends and foes
He sang,danced,hopped,jumped and smiled
He slipped hard,though rarely styled
With back upside and downside with flat nose
Don’t mistake my quiet stance,
For weakness, fear, or lack of chance.
Your words were daggers, sharp and wild,
But I stood firm, composed, and styled.
You screamed, you cursed, you tried to win,
But silence cut much deeper in.
Not because I had no reply
I chose my peace, I walked on by.
No one was there to stand for me,
No shield, no friend, no family tree.
Alone I faced your storm of hate,
And still I rose, I sealed my fate.
You thought me fragile, thought me small,
But I won’t stumble, won’t let you call.
Your tantrums echo, loud and cheap,
While I protect the calm I keep.
I could unleash a sharper tongue,
Slice you down with lines well-sprung.
But why descend to where you dwell,
When silence speaks the truth so well?
Call me “sis,” or “Bit**,” too,
Whatever names empower you.
They hold no weight, they fade, they fall,
They don’t define me not at all.
You wanted rage, you wanted fire,
To drag me down into the mire.
But I won’t bend, I won’t compete,
My silence makes your noise obsolete.
So rant away, perform your show,
I’ll rise above, I’ll let it go.
My quiet strength will never cease
I won’t trade dignity for peace.
“I hold a delightful being and an undesirable being inside of me.
It’s up to you which one you meet”
~~The Poet~~
dismally destructive
yet charmingly creative
unabatedly chaotic
obligatorily perfection
unsophisticatedly naïve
graciously worldly wise
uncouth and ill-mannered
poised etiquette
audaciously rude
enticingly eloquent
unsuitably slovenly
exactingly efficient
decked in Shabby attire
styled with cultured couture
disheveled, dingy
polished, well-groomed
in company of many in ill-repute
thoroughbred acquaintances
robotically draconian
artistically graceful
marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual lyrical stream
of
impeded passion
faces jaded
stodgy scenario
of
monotonous mélange
of
temporal template
in
bleary platitude plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
styled stimulation
within
captivating cauldron
of
coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable nothingness
of
Promethean depth
lacking buoyant upwelling
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
as
ephemeral echo morphs
into
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorted disarrayed
in
convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
Today I shall write a unique sonnet,
Only, I know not what to write about.
Shall I place my affections upon it?
An Ozymandias-styled denounce?
And the rhyme, Petrarchan, no… Oh, I know,
I think I prefer Shakespearean more.
Ah, but what is this? I can go alone?
Like ABAA, devising my own?
Even weirder, I’ll end it here–
With eight syllables, too–then disappear.
Driving on a two-lane road,
my mind focused and easy,
no worries, no mental load,
I felt good, free and breezy.
Chatting with my backseat child,
enjoying together time,
our moods were playful styled.
All things were surely fine.
A sports car came way too close,
then it slowed, but it did not pass.
Just then, my son’s question rose,
“Why is that man doing that?”
“Son, it’s how traffic news is signaled
when drivers' voices cannot be heard.
Middle fingers mimic the crass tones
of a vile species called 'Greeting Birds."
love styled days and nights
colored years with fulfillment ~
heart calendar art
spark of innocence displayed by a child ~
is that vibrance by God Himself so styled
Is this the kind of cruelty that God intended?
This is the tale of the fate of a trio, blended.
From the fruit basket, a banana was copped,
thrown in the Osterizer, and brutally chopped.
Also unable to avoid the cutter,
was that poor spoon of pitiful peanut butter.
Finally, horribly tossed, and so hurt,
that smooth Greek, self-styled Yogurt.
This is the way that their lives ended,
as a smoothie, down my throat, descended.
Around the age of six i received from my maternal grandpa
a very special present , he had styled a home made kite
Thick brown paper for the body , newspaper for the tail
couldn't get this kite to fly, tried with all my might
One day i heard my father loudly yelling
in reference to this kite
He had found it in a paddock
where I'd left it overnight
So the down the hill I ran
to retrieve this special kite
My father, reins of horse in one hand stock whip in the other
punishment for the crime, stock whip round the backside, most painfully it did bite
For a minor misdemeanour the punishment a trifle overdone
for my lack of care of grandpas special kite
Much shedding of tears from the bruising pain
I endured on that fateful night
The gown I wore was stitchery sown art
and you were styled in handsome tailored clothes.
First song we heard that touched our giddy hearts
we claimed as our enchanting love sung prose.
Our young fair faces wished to boldly chance
the feel our eyes both surmised as real.
How flushed my blush was when you asked to dance
and took my hand for waltzing romance zeal!
Our sweetheart tender courting days were blessed
with passionately peaked romantic songs.
Years tuned our music to medleys expressed
to sing for stars that gifted love so strong.
Time still plays gold toned notes to serenade
our stardust filled hearts living love portrayed.
Intelligent
are elephants,
not negligent.
African herds
are killed for tusks -
cruelty loud heard.
Asian giants
lost habitat
to growth tyrants.
Family styled,
elephant hearts
are love compiled.
Despite great strength
they gently love
their long-life length.
Stop evil shoots,
grant living space,
and pray peace roots.
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.