An artist wandering round the glittering city
Soaking up inspiration from both
the beautiful and the gritty,
He got a camera to document the nights
That frankly,he might not always
remember otherwise
The hard living isn't something
I'd want to glamorize,
but the raw talent remained,
and sometimes got to shine
By:J.N.R Dutton
He played a duet recorded on tape
years ago when she was young and virgin
full of dreams long before marriage with me
I had heard her crooning once or twice but
I never knew she’s such a good singer
her talent died, for no one cared even
she forgot, now blames me for all her woes
and all that she couldn’t become, or lost in
cares of home and motherhood following
marital rape time and again as price paid
for life to be alive without singing
Now I really have no concerns
if you think I may be nuts
If I finally owned a business
I would call it Rough as Guts
I'm happy with my own standards
someone else's perfection it's not my go
For years a fear to experiment
when self esteem was low
Confidence on the rise since mid thirties
as an owner builder several houses I have built
There maybe a wall or two that leans a little bit
So What! The Leaning Tower of Pisa I have no self guilt
Playing musical instruments started in mid fifties
eight in all I finally learnt to play a joyous journey had begun
When I play guitar and sing I may fluff a chord or two
So What ! Audience and me together are having lots of fun
Just recently began some illustrations for my poems
as an extra to provide some humorous cheer
I'm certainly no Picasso, Van Gogh or Toulouse Lautrec
So What !My drawings make some people laugh and I've not cut off an ear
We all have so much untapped talent
because of fear we often never try
Me. I'll keep on seeking mind expansion
until the day I finally die
Isn’t my talent.
Her singing, she is talented.
Me, stilted, weary.
I don’t have stuff like abilities.
Washed all that potential off.
But hers.
She could fill a soft pillow case with her voice.
Or even an air mattress.
My core.
Is rough as compacted trash cubes.
My inner voice is made of gargling.
I was talented that one time.
Fixed the toilet somehow.
But flushed my earring away.
This is part two of my poem, so if you haven't already, go ahead and read that one first. It will make much more sense.
All the love,
-Kaleigh <3
And so even in accidents,
even in mistakes,
there is a choice:
to feed the fire with care,
to guide it,
to contain it,
or to leave it free to burn whatever surrounds it.
After that, the flame grows
into whatever it’s given:
Warmth.
Light.
Destruction.
Or something strong enough
to transform everything.
A spark…
small enough to hold in your hand.
A spark…
bright enough to light a table,
a camp,
a life,
a movement.
A spark…
bright enough to ignite change
or leave everything in ash.
So I ask you:
What will you feed it?
What will you choose to burn?
Because fire—
like anger,
like courage,
like hope—
answers only to the hands
that strike the match.
The power is never in the fire itself.
The power
is in the hands
that dare
to strike the match.
He's had enough of idea-illogical drivel
Too right mate.' I think their brains have
Shrivelled, she'll be right..I say g'day
It allows more time for ( deep contemplation ) in the Aussie way.' We're
Pretty low key.' But don't let it fool ya.'
Cause in linguistics..We can stick it to ya.'
We exell at sports, and here you can still
Find; real men, lean as whalebone up to
Six feet ten , and lissome sheilas who can
Surf the swells, and care for kids..'
So very well, we don't go for souks here.'
We breed'em strong, love the footy fishing
And Slim Dusty songs' Also Stan Coster
well who could forget.? And air supply
( easy listening you bet') Livvy and the seekers
Redfern too' marcia hines, all good through
And through.'
I once knew a man of promise
He came to live by me
But now he’s gone
No longer here to see
I don’t know where he went
He has just gone.
Maybe he lost all hope
Got lost in transit
An un-delivered package
Shuffled off
Prepared to be burned
In the slums
Outside the central post office
Or killed in his sleep while dreaming.
And if he’s out in the fields
Talking to the asparagus
That would be a tragedy
But that’s another story
I can’t say where’s he’s gone
I haven’t heard from him
It seems like an eternity
Eternity, I once knew that too.
Xylophones and tambourines delightful fun.
Children will easily orchestrate playful rhythmic melodies.
Hoping to develop musical talent.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
I found this site called Poetry Soup
Here you can get applause from a group
So I started writing poems, none make the best
My family tells me to "give it a rest."
I need some tough love, some commenter to say
"Your talent is poor, go outside in the day."
Instead, the site policy is to always give praise
Can anything save me - I hope it's just a phase.
Every time I say a sentence, I think of a rhyme
For instance, "dime, time, buy some outshine"
Can't stop rhyming, can't stop writing
I can't get a life that is more exciting.
So to all you young men, sitting on that stoop
Stay away from Poetry Soup
Find yourself another hobby, get some fresh air
Don't be like me, stuck in this creative lair.
Searching for a word, sinking in despair.
Always kept her hands busy ~
Mastered quilting embroidery crochet so many crafts
Now arthritis claims the day
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
his talent kept hidden from the world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
He was a born virtuoso
He played the piano with such passion
His gift a talent unpursued
Wordku: 5-7-5
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
O what joy it would be
to suddenly overnight be a piano virtuoso
to wake up with the fingers of a master
to possess the skill of composing an aria
to enthrall the world with a moonlit sonata
to be stirred by the passion of a liberace
O magnificence ~ what pure joy it would be
AP: 3rd place 2025
How I hate it when they call me a clown,
Yet I can't help but make people laugh.
It comes unbidden, needing no invitation —
As though a trove of jokes is placed in my throat.
Often I try to bridle my face and talk tough,
But when a flume of gloom drowns spirits deep down,
Then my sense of humour becomes their salvation —
A spring of joy that quenches sorrow’s drought.
Time has taught me that humour holds a balm ~
It lifts the weight boredom lays on minds.
It brightens paths in life's dark forlorn mines,
And lifts me too, when others' jokes make me smiles.
Humour sheds tears when no cry’s in mind,
It soothes loneliness with enduring calm.
A cashless payment offered sorrow as a fine,
A thrill that ricochets through veins for miles.
A chapter of me should wear the clown's toga proud,
Since joy and radiance my humour brings to faces,
A talent that needs no stress to express,
The reason my presence delights all and sundry.
You applause the actor
Her harmonious tone
Her play of words
Her triumphs heard
But do you love the stage after the song
The leftover footprints from where it sang along
Atoning for every step that was missed
Retrieving the dust from her accomplishments
The dust from the skill she used to win
The dirt from the shoes that store talent within
She takes a bow and stifles her breath
For love won’t come if she shows weakness next
But no one applauds the stage after the show
For being there, for laying low
For setting a platform all but their own
The cleaners perceive them as one last chore
The light flicks off, and what is love?
The stage hadn’t known, from being alone
And it will never know, until the lights flick on
And the cleaner applauds it for all it has done
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.