I felt the tug, the loosening air~
Oh joy! I drift without earthly care.
I popped free with a laughing spin,
a tiny pilgrim, born of wind.
My comrades joined—what giddy glee,
dancing like colorful confetti spiritually.
The autumn breeze nudged us in its stride,
we somersaulted, tumbling side by side.
We skimmed the lakes, pirouetting on our way~
a drifting troupe, an autumnal ballet.
We rode the rivers, wild and free,
a giggling, leaf-born odyssey.
The wind grew hushed; our laughter stilled~
as though some deeper call was filled.
We felt the earth’s slow pull begin~
God’s summons soft as whispered wind.
We settled down in muted grace~
content to fade, to feed this place.
Back in ’52 if you did not have two children you could be sent to Korea.
My daddy was expecting a baby with his wife in July.
The recruiting officer stopped him three times in May.
Dick, you have to fill out that last paper before May 31st.
Daddy was sure he was going to be drafted.
He would only have one child when the next troupe got sent to war.
Two would have saved him, but he was only expecting me.
A voice in his head said “do not sign that paper yet” so he didn’t.
On May 31st Daddy was in a pool hall and someone yelled this
“Hey, Stone, you have twin girls!”
Dad thought this was a funny joke.
Someone else came in and yelled the same thing.
He said “I already heard that one.”
Then our mother’s brothers came in to get him.
Daddy did not get the boy he got two identical twin girls that day.
He went to the recruiting center and the guy said “I know, I heard."
He tore up the papers; we saved him from being sent to the Korea War.
There once was a tiny squirrel named Tim
who practiced Tai Chi with great Zen.
He gathered a troupe~
a pint-sized nutty group~
three fluff-tailed apprentices and then…
They donned little leaf-green attire,
stitched snug with twig-threaded fire;
each jacketlet swayed
as their movements displayed
a woodland-born martial desire.
With belts made of braided vine-twine,
they cinched their small uniforms fine;
each buckle was crowned
with an acorn they’d found~
a medallion of mastery’s sign.
They circled in synchronized flow,
soft paws in a forest bungalow;
their medals clicked light
as they moved through the rite~
a jade-tinted tai-chi tableau.
A channel of warm coastal breeze
and sun this afternoon lights up
the patio deck on forest hillside.
A dozen tiny flies now congregate
mid-air beneath the redwood limbs
nearby, and here the dance begins.
Clay Sombrero Man on patio delights
in all the revelry. The flies now circling,
dive and dance, a flit and flirt.
Patio Man wonders at the grace
of this tiny troupe of dancing flies,
spiraling, then vanishing in shadow.
The tiny acrobats have gone.
They've left our Clay Sombrero Man
to muse the why of things --
the where of things,
the feet and wings of flies --
the flies of wing and dance.
My tap dance teacher told us
We should always be prepared
With an improvised routine
Based on the lessons he has shared.
“Just keep it in your pocket,”
Was his wise and kind advice,
“So if asked at an audition,
There’d be no need to think twice.”
Now, this class has mostly seniors,
Not a pro within the group,
And I’m certain not a one of us
Will try out for a troupe.
Yet, I think there is some wisdom
In that counsel to apply
To so many parts of life,
Which can be useful by and by.
For some knowledge “in your pocket,”
Which is always there to use,
Whether tap dance steps or trivia
May help stress to defuse.
Still, before it’s “in your pocket,”
You will have to know it cold
And the confidence that brings you
Will be worth its weight in gold.
When six-seven shows—
on pages or when counting—
school children erupt
'six-seven' its 'six-seven'
feigning, pumping, hands juggling.
It's an inside joke
meaningless but magical
teachers lose the room—
order slipping through their hands
dropping every dangling ball.
Nothing to decode,
no truth, no cause to decry—
just the spark of fun
a chant for troupe belonging
rebellion wrapped in giggles.
SOUP TROUPE (CM)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
peer group, Soup group
write verse, scribe troop
Life grew bland, banal, other B words
she said I need to gather a troupe
of like-minded sufferers
set up some auditions, form
a select band
we'll workshop the basics
characters, costumes
And then we'll act out the rest of our lives together
no need for cameras
or an audience
call it pure theatre
oh the dramas we will have
No it won't be any stranger than
singing in the parlour for friends
without a microphone, a paying crowd
you can call it the folk tradition
We are the miestanders, a super proud religious group
almost thicker than friends in a traveling circus troupe
we wrote our own Bible; we’ve formed our own church
Don’t put us down, make fun or do any besmirch.
we are the miestanders, a very closed religious group.
our daily mantra includes a pair of socks and a red hoola hoop.
having fun and being silly are two of our main ideas, of course.
we have three mascots – a skunk, a mouse and a Clydesdale horse.
Of course you cannot join, you were not born on this side of main.
We are a snotty closed group, but you can sing the refrain.
We are the miestanders, we look down on others.
A group of miscreants, both sisters and brothers.
I first beheld her in a play;
The leading lady on that day.
And every entrance caused a stir.
In a play I first beheld her.
By curtain call I knew for sure
That I would love her evermore.
For me there was no doubt at all.
I knew for sure by curtain call.
I kept the programme by my bed,
With her name underlined in red.
I vowed I would become a ham.
By my bed I kept the programme.
I joined next day the drama group,
To be a member of the troupe.
I thought she might be mine that way.
The drama group I joined next day.
Despite my plans I’m on the shelf.
Her co-star has her to himself.
Last week, in church, they called the banns.
I’m on the shelf, despite my plans
That rainbow, the colors, the shimmer and glow!
But what do I know of light refraction?
This Medical Illustration Man has been drawn
with only nerve and bone. He's got a lot of nerve!
A dandelion here on the edge of lawn has broken up,
separated herself from the dance troupe, taken a bow.
This gray elephant, ready to stampede once his toenail
polish dries, no long hides in the berry patch.
Your plate, crusted with dry scrambled egg, reminds
me of an egg-crusted plate I once held in my hand.
Common words, spoken by a common leader to
the common man is often an unsolicited lecture.
The poet is rather ghazal-like among his friends,
but all RHYMED and METERED in the market place.
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
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Poetry Troop,
Poetry Sloop
and Poetry Hoop
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SouperTroupers that’s what poets are
Writing away, everyone a star
Having fun when their muse is on fire
Until they have filled their heart’s desire.
Some write odes to the love in their life
Others write of their troubles and strife
Poems about nature and all things nice
Or of romancing beneath moonlight.
Poets write to delight and entertain
Never asking for fortune or fame
Just to know their poems are being read
Means such a lot, they feel truly blessed.
In PoetrySoup the Soupsters group
They’re an amazing, impressive troupe
Joining hands across land and ocean
SouperTroupers in rhythmic motion.
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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.