Birds once called,
chainsaw bawled,
songs were felled.
Frogs know ponds
hold their bonds,
man unplugs.
Wolf tracks fade
a telltale
of lost kin.
Coral bleached
bones are beached
by man's greed.
Where's life gone?
lost to yon
long ago.
Gaia moans
cries, atones
for bipeds
When the owls are out of town
his studded boots kick-up featherless hoots.
He is the creak and groan of tired wood,
The splutter of an old aircon
yet more;
all inexplicable noises belong to him.
He crawls through crawl spaces to prop up places.
A chunky phantom who tinkers with gurgling drains.
He's the one who unplugs the unpluggable,
then trips the fuse box at night while you pee.
I hear him stumble bent between rafters,
imagine his bum crack mooning cobwebs and shadows.
He wheezes through long unheeded chores.
A maintenance ghost
grumbling as he bends over a beer belly,
that unseen plumber who rattles shaky pipes,
working hard on his night shift,
He's a clatter in the crapper,
patching up leaks between colliding worlds,
nudging our sleep as we cover ears
in our fretful dreams.
"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"
proclaims the Dawn of Man &
The Monolith
From the ancient past
to the (retro)futuristic present
as the flying bone
becomes a satellite in orbit
Blue Danube waltz
serenades space:
the Pan Am space plane
gracefully docks with
the space station
Ligeti’s haunting polyphony
envelopes space:
Floyd visits
The Monolith on the
immaculately stark moon
Beautifully tragic
Khachaturian ballet suite
announces the Discovery’s
lonely mission to Jupiter
Bowman methodically unplugs
the homicidal HAL
as the psychopathic e-brain
sadly sings “Daisy, daisy…”
He enters the wormhole
in the Monolith orbiting Jupiter
travels through infinity
at FTL velocity
transfixed by the epic
irreal journey
And then finds himself in a
luxury hotel room
somewhere in the universe:
dying on a bed
he sees the Monolith
and is transformed
into a Star-Child
who floats toward Earth
What will the Star-Child
do?
This is the last poem I'll ever write
Please don't look at me strange
After this write, my pen says goodnight
I'm off to my Maker, Home on the Range
Please don't look at me strange
It's not up to me as to when I depart
I'm off to my Maker, Home on the Range
It's time to leave when he unplugs my heart
It's not up to me as to when I depart
So this poem had better be incredibly good
It's time to leave when he unplugs my heart
I'd like to go out on a high note, I really would
So this poem had better be incredibly good
The rhymes have to rhyme, the meter not teeter
I'd like to go out on a high note, I really would
With a blue-ribbon winner, so you'll want to fete her
The rhymes have to rhyme, the meter not teeter
After this write, my pen says goodnight
With a blue-ribbon winner, so you'll want to fete her
This is the last poem I'll ever write...
Joyously she plans her day
Her oven is preheating.
She has all of her ingredients out.
Her to-do-list is miles long
But she is glad, humming as she works.
She has six places to be, and a luncheon with friends.
A wonderful day! She can hear the birds singing.
The dog and cat are snuggled on the couch.
It is such a happy day!
One phone call changes everything.
She turns off the oven
Unplugs the iron.
Unplugs her cell phone.
Throws her credit card in her purse.
Grabs her headset.
Changes her clothes.
Puts five dollars in her pocket
And heads for the hospital.
The pool hall was dimly lit
smelling of cigarettes and money
the regulars sitting around telling jokes
which none of them are ever funny
over the next twenty-four hours
the jungle will have many stories to tell
some will be about great shots
others about wife's giving them hell
Walking towards the far end of the pool room
you could see pictures of famous players
hanging slightly crooked on a wall near the back
stuck in a cheap frame and frozen in time
was a 5 by 10 glossy of Minnesota fats
he was wearing a pinstripe suit along with his trademark rose
he's pictured with a handful of hundreds
from an unknowing sucker I suppose.
As closing time nears
tables get brushed and floors get cleaned
the attendant hangs up the pool sticks
and unplugs a noisy pinball machine
So, in the wee hours of the morning
after everyone has left
the attendant practices, he's getting better
wanting to be the best
but for now, things remain neutral
in the land of felt and money
the regulars will check in around nine
and the hustlers looking to make some easy money.
Poor, poor me
with a frown across my face
suffering from depression
but I’ll still give you a chase
I am not weak for having issues
I am weak if I give into
your sweet chocolates and tissues
Smile for the camera babe
you say and take the picture
I didn’t want to take
but the flash is gone now,
I can feel the void
and you wonder why
I, look so mad on your petty polaroid
I keep trying to explain
the workings of my brain
but you push me away
and continue to shame
me, for things not in my control
I didn’t give up these reins
voluntarily, they were
taken from me, you stole
when you decided to be my saviour
all the other independence that I had
yet you can’t comprehend the difference
between being depressed and being sad
Love poems and bouquets
will not fix the pain I’ve suffered for years
in a few days
to love a girl
who is mentally unstable
is to be in it for the long run
before she unplugs her cable
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.