Emotions that have casscaded
I have never felt so overwhelmed
If not a whirpool then blockaided
My head goes round and round
Feels like that l have now faded
Some where into the back ground
But also l am feeling more jaded
The fact happiness is unfound
When moments of clarity invaded
Even if its by the slightest sound
Going through the motions unaided
As by my very thoughts l am bound
Follow up to solitude writtem n¨ january 2025
(Pen in hand, the work will follow --
writers’ nature deplores a hollow)
I’ve seen the moon
in many phases
a wonder to behold
with telescope
sought clearer to define
only so much revealed
by the human eye unaided
the blinkered heart
having even less options --
senses themselves
Creation’s greatest mystery
what determines a life
the mortal language of feelings
very private till on vivid display
the craters of the moon so much like
love, even in light a pocks of shadows
at its elusive edges – strange what
we gaze upon in our abstract nights
wondering if you occasionally recall me
if you yet have visions of me and notion
to wonder what may have been missed
in transience?
(Overheard at an Ecopsyche
Workshop)
The blue pill
Or as we like to call it,
“The self-with-nature seminar,”
Allows one to
Walk in fairly unkept woods
Surprisingly unaided
But regularly looked-after by an Eco-adjuster
Herself a blue pill graduate
And certificate holder.
You also receive
An animal mask
A booklet of
Fire ring songs
Plus, tips on how be a
Tacky-Tack eco-influencer.
You might even get the courage to say
Out loud:
“Corporations be damned!”
No side effects have been reported.
The red pill,
Our
“Cynic in the woods advanced program”
Will make you frothing-at-the-mouth-mad
Overflowing with eco anxiety
And as obstinate-uncompromising
As
Greta
Tintin
Eleonora
Ernman
Thunberg.
You’ll likely be arrested.
You might even lose
University tenure
And be on many ‘no-fly’ lists.
You’ll wake every morning
Knowing that you have not done enough
To save the planet.
“What’ll it be?”
“Two blues please.”
She moves through the black tunnel
unaided and untamed
as a child
coloring out of the lines
Fostered towards the light
in its movement
mussed -up hair of a lady
in a white robe carrying a glass orb
Where am I ? she questions
a fine tuned galaxy
answers in her darkest hour
YOU ARE !
Madness, lunacy, dementia
peppered words
at the edge of a brain
fighting for peace of mind
and recognition ...
Then, a Father's extended hand
"come child follow me"
all deeds and faith acknowledged
with no judicial sense of guilt
she draws a line, then climbs
One baby step at a time
closing in on Sanity
taking one step forward
towards death,
parting the curtains of time
she enters
the Great Divide !
Inside
blue ether,
she remembers, *everything !
Children perceive the cries of their mother,
Mother unsupportive for the father’s noiseless soreness,
Soreness forgotten under the heaviness of days,
Days that build futures they never admire,
Admiration to mother’s effort, not to dad’s hands that strain.
Strain symbols his forehead, but silence skins the reality,
Reality ineffable by lips that profile their vision,
Vision of love biased, bitter and fictitious,
Fictitious the hate women hold since tender youth.
Youth forgets the man, who walked unaided,
Unaided in storms to shield his children from the cold,
Cold are hearts that never have been told,
Told of the shadow where love was strewed.
Poem by Mugisho N.
He paces through ardor.
Ardor with scorched feet,
Feet in fire for love, forged in blaze.
Blaze that does not burn
Burn but brands his personality.
Personality with resolution,
Resolution hindering infamy.
Infamy he swallows completely.
Completely to make his son grow
Grow uninjured, undefeated.
Undefeated, he positions
Positions at the pit’s verge,
Verge where anxiety and destiny are vivid.
Vivid is the quietness of ransom,
Ransom as the price no one will grasp.
Grasp how he risks the world.
World where his boy might become open.
Open to choose the trail,
Trail avoiding him stagger
Stagger through the dark unaided.
Unaided as the father strides,
Strides but shapes a trail through stone.
Stone by stone, he builds a road
Road that is not bumpy but good and superb.
Superb becomes that man.
Man who walks not for his grandeur
Grandeur as a guide his son’s hand.
Poem by Mugisho N.
My scars lives inside and out seems undetectable to
the unaided eye. These scars
Damaging effects traumas, pangs layers of scars one
may not understand, Me, Myself and I. These scars
Curveballs of epiphanies, tactics; Full of blindside's
thrown at me in all directions, now in distress and
torment wants to be friend me. These scars
Booby traps launched beyond one's control. These scars
Questions often hovers over my crown why? I deserve
these damaging effects. These scars
Pondering should I throw in the towel? Almost held me
hostage, draining my will to press on towards my journey.
These scars
I'm no longer your prisoner set me free, So I can meet my
destiny, you no longer have power over me. These scars
Today I’m thankful for having eyes
that left unaided cause my vision to be blurred…
No, this statement is not ridiculous, senseless or absurd
Because when things all blur together…
And I can’t always make out what’s there….
It’s easier within the blur
to see beauty everywhere.
Fireworks around the globe
Each a brilliant display
Marking end of one calendar,
Another New Years Day
Will this be the year
the rich decide to give
A little of what they have
To help the poor to live
Fill the empty mansions
relieve the constant stres
For least some those on
The streets and homeless
Will tax avoidance reduce
As they decide it’s only fair
The super rich contribute
Their proportionate share
Voluntarily decide to
Do their good deed
So less may exist
In poverty and need.
The world settles down
To a stable lasting peace
As across the whole globe
All conflicts finally cease
The hawk defeated
By the dove
As dreamers dream
And lovers love
Will it also be the year
Pigs, unaided, learn to fly
Politicians rule without
The need to cheat and lie
No I suspect that things
Will stay just the same
More losers than winners in
The fight for survival game
Please do not call me “elderly.”
My age may make me old
And if you met me, someone “senior”
Is what you’d behold.
Yet “elderly” implies, to me,
A person who is frail,
Who’s stuck in bed or couldn’t walk,
Unaided, on a trail.
Since I no longer dye my hair
Or wear a made-up face,
The years have settled in in ways
That time cannot erase.
Yet I’ve a while to go before
I’m “elderly. (I hope!)
I’ll acquiesce to “old” or “senior;”
“Elderly’s” a nope!
The sunflower stretched
With its stalk and its neck
As far to the sky
As it could – reaching high,
Pushing its golden face
With clumsy, awkward grace
Trying, with all its might
To reach the highest height
That it could ever muster
So it could be like Custer
Or like a grand ole redwood
(I think it thought it could)
It reached into the atmosphere
Inhaled the biting air
Looked about in wonderment
High above the firmament
But slender was its frame
It did not have the strength
To stand as so unaided –
It weakened, and degraded
It towered, then bent over,
It leaned a little lower
And found the earth up close
Had just as much to boast
As did the open sky
It wondered at up high –
And thereto did it stay
Forever and a day
A little bit hung over
As if it lost its lover
Or better yet, had found
Upon the hallowed ground
Some cosmic explanation
About its situation
Which held it in its thrall
High above it all
And made its hanging there
That much easier to bear –
I’m sitting at my keyboard
Just ranting and abusing
Which my long suffering wife
No longer finds amusing.
I’m both dyslexic and dyspraxic
Which is why I swear and curse
Because for a creative person that
Combination couldn’t be worse.
To make matters harder I Have
a keyboard that judy can’t spell
And predictive text just
Can Make my life hell.
I bought a dictation programme,
Money very badly spent.
It just can’t cope with
My East Yorkshire accent.
So if my rambling is at time
More than usually absurd
Full of errors and typos
And the odd little non word
Please be a little forgiving
For what you are getting to see,
With all those helpers switched off
The unaided uncorrected real me.
I still have my own teeth,
My hearing's mostly unaided,
I still dream about girls
In white dresses with sashes,
But sometimes I feel
Out of sync and frustrated
When I wake up alone
And the fantasy crashes.
I didn't mind growing up,
But growing old's overrated.
Scientists strive for knowledge
Just for knowledge’s sake:
Quietly, and unaided, Nature
Forms a perfect snowflake.
I lied to do a GCE History
saying it was okay to proceed
on the adage of my Year Head
only then to get a grade A
Its hard to be unaided dyslexic
when I ask myself now
would GCE English Language
have been acceptable for an equal foray
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.