A poem without a title was written,
based on an undeniable feeling.
In that moment I was simply smitten.
This couldn’t have been typewritten
the way my mind you kept consuming.
A poem without a title was written.
Without a box for musings to fit in
my unprepared heart was left reeling,
in that moment I was simply smitten.
Allowing the words to be handwritten
an outlet for what I was concealing,
a poem without a title was written.
Safe to say that I was badly bitten,
my skin left broken, raw, and peeling.
In that moment I was simply smitten.
To let all of this out I’ve been sittin’
pining over all you’ve been stealing.
A poem without a title was written,
in that moment I was simply smitten.
Left over overspills are a typewritten error and a grammatical code of which there is no collision of nouns, verbs or adjectives. Descent described design deriving dug dirt. And a soil no shine. A voided coloured counting ball is many balls on cruises to oil lakes. Found in farm grounds. Sluice then slice slice slice. But thrice times an angle in a wailing tree is nit a crystallized orb nor is it a hyperlink or a cycle of cubic measurement. Mature mo frozen italic of thought to a paper in the mind. And gathering although hazardous is another feat to match the toes of soul. Anatomical wisdom rattle. Shake shake shake. And a smiley snake grimaces at very tight reeds to pass to get the kill. Good. Greedy goblins grabbing gestational genital garments giving going gravitationally. And in addition to this a wide mouthed toad sits on that cake over there. Good. Fake that freezer pop. Z augments Z pathologically Z
The year before her death
My mother underlined
Those verses in the book
She thought explained her pain.
She dated final months
In promises that told
Of One who knows and cares.
Of One who sees past woe.
Her last typewritten words,
A single line of thought,
Spoke final loneliness
The book could not assuage.
Her agony blamed me,
Which was not her intent,
Of fearful distances
Made palpable by death.
Flight Plan
The room stunk of stale cigarette butts -
someone elses perfume. She had known –
but not wanted to know – that there was
someone else. The pain had been dulled,
the insult absorbed. The anger rose,
simmered, plotted. She had felt the first
pangs of infidelity when she found the
gold earring. The sickening scent of a foreign
perfume drove the liar’s dagger deeper.
She used the old typewriter to compose the
invitation, collected the cigarette butts,
slowly rolled the earring between her fingers.
It had been easier than she had thought.
Place the cigarettes in the ashtray, hide
(but not too well) the lone earring in
his car, place the blood stained,
typewritten note on the bed.
The detectives bagged the evidence.
The airline tickets would not be needed.
For Craig Cornish – Chopped III – Poetry Contest
Submitted - 11/19/2014
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.