where is the poem I always wanted to write?
The one that reminds people of the works of Samuel T. Coleridge?
Where is my Raven piece, which rivals Poe’s?
Where is the prancy-dancy write that sounds like Dr. Seuss?
Where is the poem I know is in me somewhere
The elusive poem that can be put to a melody
Transferring into CMA’s song of the year?
Where is that poem? The one I dance to as I construct it?
where is the poem that takes the reader’s soul away?
The poem that shakes them up and spits them out
Where is the poem that makes them shudder and scream?
Where is the poem that others wish they had written?
Where is the poem hidden in the shadow of my mind
The one that lurks just beneath my dendrite highway?
The elusive poem that I evades me, in blips and dashes
where is the poem I always wanted to write?
One drop of human kindness,
Into the murky pool,
We seem determined to spend, most of our lives in,
feeling totally uncool,
Is usually enough to quench another's thirst,
To be placed anywhere but last,
Transferring that energy burst,
That was given to us,
Without any fuss,
So, they too can get on the right bus,
One that will take them to a place that is really cool,
Far far away from that murky pool.
Flowering- nature's art
Transferring from the root, stem, to a full flower
Nature's chart
A gift to give
From slumber, waking with power
To live
So rife
New happy hour
Life
Flowering- nature's art
From slumber, waking with power-
Life
January 13, 2026: 'Help is on the way,' Donald Trump says as he urges Iranians to 'keep protesting'
January 30, 2026: Reuters: Thousands detained in Iran as part of large-scale preemptive arrest operation. IRGC personnel and plainclothes intelligence agents are raiding homes across the country and transferring those detained to secret prison facilities in order to prevent any attempts to restart the protests.
Betray me once, deceive me twice
Forsake Ukraine, Iran - on ice
When you are Trump, your honor's dreck
You give your word to take it back
Alternatively, to incorporate eggs by hand: Let dough cool in saucepan, stirring frequently, until it registers 145°F on an instant-read thermometer. Add eggs 1 at a time, stirring well between additions until each egg is fully incorporated before adding the next, until a smooth, shiny paste forms.
Use choux right away, or hold at room temperature for up to 2 hours before using; how you use the choux will depend on the application, though it’s important to prevent a skin from forming, either by transferring the choux right away to a pastry or zipper-lock bag and keeping it sealed, or pressing plastic wrap directly against the choux’s surface.
load the pastry bag, pipe choux leaving enough room for them to double in size
Choux pastries typically bake for 25-35 minutes at 400°F (200°C). Baking time can vary slightly depending on the size of the choux and the oven. It's important not to open the oven door while baking, as this can cause the choux to deflate.
Rickety rackety rattletrap Ralph
Swiftly splattered and splashed his way south
Tattering and transferring two trucks in a tunnel
Undermining Uncle Uric’s ferocious fire funnel
Slickly sideswiping sleuth’s semi-good solution
Taking turns twisting a tornado, causing serious pollution.
It is no secret!
That this country is still racist,
White, Black, Yellow, Brown and Red.
When all we see is colored faces!
For most our ignorance’s,
conjure illusions were not racist.
While some masquerade
in an attempt to misguide!
Some parade to protest
with riot in disguise!
Every day! Every day! Every day!
We display racism toward others,
we deem difference than,
by how we think,
transferring thoughts into behavior.
Racism is everywhere!
It is at work,
it is at school,
it is on TV,
and all over the news.
It is podcast on the radio
and on social media too!
It is all around us,
it surrounds us!
We project around with no realization,
that were all racist,
simply by our own fears,
emotions, and actions.
As stereotypical individuals,
whose attitude reflects it,
were just too judgmental
of others to recognize it.
Our own mystery
is no secret,
that we are racist too!
Spring
Bells ring
Sparrows sing
Blooms, in joy, swing
To twigs, dry leaves cling
Breeze, with glad tidings, ping
Midst creatures, there's a stirring
Cold-heat, slow weather transferring
Scenes of fog, mists, and ice are blurring
Will all these, yet, to the poor, new joys bring?
The years have passed since your last Mother's Day;
to date, they've made up fifty-two long years.
With each, the memories of you replay
how blessed I was to feel your love and cheers-
that quickly changed from happiness to tears.
Too soon you left back then- so very young-
not seeing your small grandkids grow and shine.
Accomplishments they made- by you unsung
as they matured, then added to our vine-
your great-grandchildren you'd have thought divine.
Although I have surpassed your age by far-
my gratefulness stirs deep inside my heart;
those years we shared were thankfully five-star
in transferring to me your inborn art-
fine talents as my Mother from the start.
But, I believe you know- seen from above-
this family that sprung past your sad end,
where you look down with joyous pride and love
on me, your daughter- to once more extend
My gratitude to you, dear Mom and friend.
O life, in plasma form! O red stream in my veins!
Cells, platelets, tissues, fibers, water, and salts wrapped!
O, you who carry oxygen to my each cell!
O, you who maintain minute warmth of my body!
O, you who clean my body's Carbon Di Oxide!
O, you who heal instantly inner injuries!
Sopping up and transferring dietary stuffs,
From peptic canal to my tissues constantly;
Pulsating my physique heartthrob incessantly,
O, you who keep me alive, alert, and active...!
Entwined with beliefs, rites and rituals vast,
My ancestors and descendants you bind steadfast;
You establish relationships based on your flow,
Fuse father, mother, brothers, and sisters in row...!!!
16 March 2023
B--Forms and Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
Was he in the wrong place at the right time?
Slipping, sliding, dying
to live;
just a kid.
Mom and Grandma busy,
gabbing, too far
away.
Was he in the right place,
a parental replacement
for such a time as this?
A little boy with prayers said
over him
while he traveled life’s rough roads;
even his carriage ride was bumpy.
After transferring hands a couple times,
the little boy found himself in Germany,
a celebration,
now his feet are slipping and sliding,
he can’t get a hold -
the pond, his death pondering.
An old man reaches in and snatches out
this little kid.
Just as soon as the boy is saved,
the angel disappears.
That boy grows up
and marries me.
5/23/2022
‘I leave am for God’
Is the poor man's prayer
When he submits to higher realms
Transferring judgement to higher forces
The answer to that prayer is often terrifying
When you take another for granted
Trampling on another because you are advantaged
Usurping communal wealth because you are in charge
Bleeding the flock you are supposed to pastor
It is the poor man that bears the brunt
Don't fall a victim
Hope Diamond is worth two hundred millions.
Donated to Smithsonian by one worth billions.
This forty-five carat gem was sent to them by regular mail.
They were lucky the 1958 postal service did not fail.
A talent you shall have from the one up above
Words given then written from memory with love
A clever thought of wit and rhymes through time
Transferring them onto parchment written down
Thou shall never look to another for praise
For praise feeds the ego filling the mind with haze
It is the soul that touches others blending one another
These written words shall stay in the heart like thunder
Clipping with roaring wonder though your mind
Each placed together as an orchestra of harmony in time
For the shallow mind will only see blank pages
But, a deep mind will see these memories in stages
Created with letters placed together into one melody
With eyes wondering in thought with intriguing meanings
Reading your mind as if you have become one
A simple poem created by a mind with wonder
that being:
You!
Duty: Obligation
A poets duty is to him or herself to write their thought’s
We have no obligation to anyone but our hearts
Although my thought’s you do inspire, so I do have a duty to you
We walk among the living dead searching for there thought’s
Transferring them into ours then creating new ones
Poetry is not complicated unless you complicate it
Poetry is:
KISS
K-Keep
I-It
S-Simple
S-Stupid
Contest: A Poets Duty
Sponsored By: Beth Evans
Date Created: 10/13/2020
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.