Do not use that black sharpie on us
too fast.
It’s advisable to commemorate history,
true love.
Moments captured with a camera
can fade.
There’s such clarity in consideration,
please pause.
Let our panoramic view flood your eyes,
look back.
Quid pro quo my darling, yes or no?
Press play.
Caught within an erotic cold war,
control.
It’s not acceptable to bend the knee,
break it.
My desire outweighs your defiance.
Give in.
It’s our sinful hierarchy of hunger,
my dear.
It is more
than 'The Land
Down Under.'
It is song, expression, love, artistry,
raw, and unhindered truth.
Walt Disney and films were once
soaked with meaning
that the soul doesn't forget
when it counts.
John Candy was the Albatross
and Albort Brooks was a mouse.
Comedy doesn't have a size
when funny counts.
Neither do great scores or scenes
when they are remembered.
The crowd’s eagerness is palpable.
Taste that?
One forceful push and those bars fall.
Rush it.
Close the kissing distance of sound,
front row.
Inch by inch now it’s time move up
center.
I’ve been left up against the barricade,
so close.
I love you, Peter
but you are still a boy
your games run
in redundant circles
with Captain Hook
and his pirate ship
he doesn’t have gold
in treasure chests
that I can hold
or spend
his crew
are dancing cartoons
your pet crocodile
doesn’t scare me
neither does
the ticking clock
that caught up to me
the little lines
underneath
my middle-aged eyes
make me glow
with contentment
the storm is coming tonight
and I am cozy
in writing
poetry
James Barrie
found inspiration
and created
Tinker Bell
he borrowed
her fairy dust
for his play
it still sings
playful
for me
when I visit
Neverland
I love you, Wendy
let's keep growing old
together
and watching the
shifting shapes of
cotton clouds
maybe we
will see his ship
cross the moon
let’s smile back
at Captain Hook
and his endless
journey
to the playground
and the imagination
of Walt Disney
he also left his heart
where a child
with an open mind
(creativity)
was meant to be
Cordoned off inside of a weak bubble,
flimsy.
My ginger touch could never crack
iron.
Bold moves aroused those senses
with haste.
Waited so long healing feels all wrong.
Fought that.
The rebuild came back with a vengeance,
won out.
O Sponsor! My Sponsor! Our marathon’s undiminished
The number 1 rule is satisfied, for all of us have finished!
The rankings are clear, the comments sincere—a poets’ celebration,
While eyes peruse the final list, the roster of champions!
But O fatigue! fatigue! fatigue!
27 contests have taken their toll
In welcome repose our Sponsor chose
Three years' rest ere the next marathon roll
I won’t let you tell me what to believe.
Time’s up.
I was raised to have a mind of my own.
I’m strong.
Label me what you want I’m fine with it.
Roll on.
It must be more than a phrase for a sign.
Concrete!
In a cultural hurricane strong roots
won’t crack.
Some say...Walt Whitman's the poet's champ!
His works were well read, by dim oil lamp.
But, oh so long winded,
Those words never ended...
Woe, ritual champ of reader's cramp
If you are
vacant of hope
Hope is vacant
of you
If you are
distant of spirit
Spirit
distant of you
If you are
absent of feeling
Feeling
absent of you
If you are
left without love
Love is left
— without you
(Rereading ‘Leaves Of Grass’: July, 2025)
Flimsy flashes of realization
wake me,
weakened by adventurous
good times.
Frivolities begin screaming
‘Later!
There is one perfect moment.
Right now.’
Allow no delay to undermine
pure joy.
To hell with your hollow benediction.
Faulty.
Water shivers as the brass bell
just rings.
Drivel never comes from the soul.
Empty.
It’s blasphemy to be so utterly void
of fact.
I’m going to call a spade a spade..
Sinner.
If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step by walking,
You’ll never see the sun
Lay his gold leaves on the tops of trees,
You won’t pay attention to the fox
Conversing with two horses in a field,
If you never slow down,
You’ll never know if a girl thinks of you,
You will never feel the dew
which inclines the daffodils and harmonious petals
you will crush the innocent snail on the purple road,
If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step, while walking,
You will never see the fishing sloop working at sea
You will not hear the merle in the fig tree
Sketch twelve notes of a baroque cantata,
and worst of all, if you don’t slow down the pace,
You will never write poetry,
You will never fall in love with the countryside,
With the sea or pretty girls with breasts of pottery,
You will never become as smart as Walt Whitman.
his name's been on every child's lips
in whirls of fantasy, whimsy, slips and trips
synonymous with awe and wonder
we all grew up with the machinations
of Disney's wild and vivid imagination
a man with the grandest of vision
beautifully executed with precision
AP: 3rd place 2025
He sat on this patch of turf,
and if not this exact place a piece of a place nearby.
Naturally, I try to feel his companionship.
Did he write a line of poetry on this small island
or was he simply being Walt Whitman,
honored guest,
a person he hardly recognized from his youth.
I feel his old bones not his youthful step
also, his spacious poetry,
that storied ever travelling imagery
passing-by
upon these Ohio river currents.
His sweeping insights navigating
slow wide bends,
and the churning history
of these waters.
I imagine his hand on the ground,
it heaves my body up from the deep grass
and quilts me to a shared terrain
a place where beating heron wings
count the pulse of two lives.
I feel the mutuality of crossed roads,
the cadence of restless breezes
as they ruffle a coat
he left draped over a rail
of this same wooden jetty.
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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.