Though I can hold my branch the whole year long,
I sometimes lose my grip upon the tree;
A cheeky cockatoo with beak so strong,
Or racing winds that hurry to be free.
My falling journey brings both fear and joy,
While looking up, I see my brothers bound;
What cruel winds and hungry birds destroy,
Will join our fallen kindred on the ground.
The monster sups upon our brittle bark,
And swallows all my world in blinding gold;
Yet waiting in this fierce, devouring spark,
A greater, green rebirth will soon unfold.
Though I am turned to dust upon the floor,
My ash will feed the native bush once more.
Poet's Note:100% Human-Written.This poem is a strict Shakespearean sonnet, written entirely by hand in perfect iambic pentameter with an exact ABAB CDCD EFEF GG rhyme scheme. Please be aware that AI detection tools frequently flag this piece as "100% AI" because they rely on finding rhythmic irregularity and metrical variance. The strict meter is a deliberate, human-crafted artistic constraint.
Speak of the devil incarnate
to give the devil his due
not to play devil's advocate
tho' devil-may-care
the devil is in the details
and while we're there
to state so now would be opportune
he who sups devil's food cake
or devilled eggs with the devil
should have a very long spoon
but if we don't the devil you say
better the silver-tongued devil you know
or there'll be the devil to pay
and we may go to the devil and be
between the devil and the deep blue sea
but it's the devil in me
as for the devil I have no sympathy
Life goes through a controlled cycle
All that live must die
Else, would we not be objects of shadows
Trying to accomplish feats which are so unnatural?
God, an entity which we have not yet understood
Is good to all of existence
Since He creates, He also needs to destroy
Merely to allow the wheel of fate to keep on revolving
Since He creates, He created an entity to help him
In destroying that which he brought to be,
Death, in all its splendour!
God walks warmly alongside death
As the fate meant for those who died
Will be depending upon their own actions
The wheels have to keep turning
While God needs to keep feeding the universe:
Souls just transit through Earth
And their tendency is evaluated before they get sent
To there which suits them best;
Whether in highly spiritual places
Or down below the murkiest hell fires!
God is content in having created Death
God walks beside him and engages in conversations with him
God sups with him and even shares jokes with him
While we remain under the control of their will
Unable to be anything else other than
Lit dandelions blown in the vast sea of the universe!
My August birthstone pleases me,
for shades of green and I agree.
And of the fine gems that I know,
my favorite is Peridot.
Now, Peridot is lesser-known
among most gemstones that are shown.
It once was called 'Gem Of The Sun',
and Cleopatra's most loved one.
Egyptian scrolls say priests had cups,
adorned with Peridot for sups;
that Peridot empowered them
to speak with Gods with this fine gem.
Ancient Hawaiian history,
says stones are tears of dear Pele,
the Goddess of volcanoes, fire;
her gift from Earth they so admire.
Mysterious, some crystals of
our Peridot came from above,
in pallasite meteorites,
a gift from space that sure delights.
Our Peridot is only seen
in varied shades of color green.
Since hues of green and I agree-
my August birthstone pleases me!
Better than a stone souper a melting pot of the super Sups says the groupie sometimes a little soupy Souped-up savory succulent richer than an alphabetic broth with a hint of Hopping Johnny What does that steamy logo say?
Grief sups away the nectar
That gives life its industry
And mocks the nature of a soul
To define mortality.
It rises from... I know not where
To shake us to the core
Bringing passion to our heartache
As the wolf stands astride the door.
But like the tide... it ebbs and flows
With no thought for you or me
And no matter how we suffer...
It ponders endlessly.
The End
The rich man sups his Cognac
As he sits and relaxes
Complaining in his mind about
The level of his taxes,
Congratulates himself
On the amounts
Secreted away in
Offshore Accounts,
Wines and dines his Advisor
Just to show his thanks.
The poor man shows his gratitude
For his local Food Banks.
Both profess Christianity
Which seems an oxymoron
Or are the Camel and eye of needle
Out of date and long forgotten.
Grief comes uninvited, like a marauder,
like a one man army charging,
he makes an unexpected onslaught.
A thief in the dark who comes stealthily,
without pausing to seek permission
and settles in the heart like an intruder
His stay is long and tedious.
He eats away our vitality,
sups on our vulnerability,
sucks our life sap and fattens on our gloom.
Like a tenant who hasn’t paid
a single dime as rent, he invites our wrath!
Even under threat, he would never vacate
It is at night, he revels
and makes the most fierce onslaught
He snubs out our sleep, disturbs our calm
Wide eyed, we have to watch
the nasty antics of this tyrant
He drives out all hope,
battles with our cheer,
evicts all positive vibes,
and invades the entire space.
Weaving sticky gossamer threads
to ensnare all happy thoughts
which come our way and like an ugly spider,
he arrogantly dwells in our heart!
__________________________________
Sept. 11.2022
~ Placed First~
Pick a Title, Vol.32. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
A black widow spider spins a silk thread
into a near-transparent dream catcher;
filling her with joy, and her meals with dread.
A very cunning, deadly flycatcher
ready to pounce and mummify her food:
she lies in wait, like a body snatcher.
Any damaged web gets quickly renewed
with her sticky silk, resetting her trap:
so, struggling insects remain firmly glued.
She secures victims in a woven wrap:
ensuring they remain alive and fresh
until she sups: draining them of their sap.
Liquefying bugs, entangled in mesh:
she flaunts a scarlet hourglass belly patch
and fangs that inject poison into flesh.
Males must escape as soon as they detach,
for to this femme fatale, they're a fair catch.
Her whisper gentle like the summer breeze
Calls a passing sparrow lonely and shy,
One that had escaped the northerly bise
Intoxicated from flying too high.
A welcoming hand held out a surprise
While a tranquil voice hints of sweet meadows,
Orchestration of each golden sunrise
Her kindly eyes destroy fearsome shadows.
This tiny bird in need of a dear friend
Feasts and sups unafraid of humankind,
The two of them breach the regular trend
With eyes wide open although both are blind.
Adverse to prejudice tis plain to see
If everyone made a friend this the key.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
It haunts the minions of my mind
subservient in acquiescence
to a horror's endless daily grind
deny the truth, buttress the flank
conceal the secret – rancid – rank
within a lie's servile defense.
It sups on pain, its sustenance
cold fear its stain will slow seep out
demand the price of penitence
fuel flames of hell in victim's heart
burning guilt of which he had no part
consuming all in rebellious rout.
©3/28/2018
submitted to – Rhyme Time 1 – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Laura Loo
Long spoon is truly needed
In defending your faith;
Dangerous lovers of sin
Simply show anger and hate.
If you have some interactions
With waiting harmful people;
You must be always on guard,
That they don't damage your soul.
If you're going to hang out
With notorious bunch of men;
Just keep in your mind,
Your conviction does win.
Let your integrity remain
Inside the core of your heart;
Fight every temptation,
Right from the very start.
Be brave each day and night,
Beneath the sun and moon;
"He who sups with the devil
Should have a long spoon".
Villanelle: Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain
Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain
No Lawrence outsider sups with wooden spoon
Don’t bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein
One thing’s to espouse the cause of mighty swain
Another to champion masses without boon
Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain
Shut not windows when floors are not wet with rain
Let not those who suffocate force you to swoon
Don’t bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein
Who writes in huis clos invisible inane
Turn Left to stand up for the ‘pariah’ goon
Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain
How much less harm this world could have borne sans pain
If only from mouth you spat out silver spoon
Don’t bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein
Go tell the coolie his life is his to brain
Break existential chain with will not too soon
Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain
Don’t bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
My beer-swilling auntie called Mabel
Could drink most blokes under the table
She sups pint after pint
Almost every night
No wonder her legs are unstable!
06~07~17
At the Tartan Bonnet
next to the Smithy’s stall,
a picture labelled monster
is hanging on the wall.
The photograph is fuzzy,
looks like a bunch of tyres,
held to a piece of deadwood
by nails and string, or wires.
The locals say that tourists
are gullible, rich fools,
that no sign has been noted
by scientific tools.
The view over the water
is really rather good;
another compensation
is finest ale and food.
But of a Friday evening,
a face at the back door;
she sups her twenty gallons
and swims away once more.
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