Eyes beg for mercy, what do I do?
rain bucket handy offers a clue.
Mouse caught in sticky trap
Immersed, a quickie wrap.
One jerk, and blitzkrieg, his Waterloo
When I first brought Cosmo home from the pound
he and Sassy played all day running around
But Cosmo started biting her on the neck
so for play Sassy gave Cosmo the reject
Cosmo determine to have his way
would hunt Sassy and try to force play
He still bit her made her cry
Sassy bite him back was my reply
But Sassy was submissive and wouldn't try
Cosmo is spoiled and won't be deny
This morning again I heard Sassy being chased
Cosmo had bit her she yelped running to her hiding place
Hear Cosmo growling than suddenly a scream
Cosmo wailing high pitch to the extreme
I called for him and he came limping to my room
all gravel in hunch back yelping and whining resume
I try to comfort him and saw no blood
he was shaken but not broken gave him a hug
Sassy was looking so innocence and amused
for Cosmo big ego she had abused
Sassy must have bit the big boy back
maybe now he will go easy on the attack
Nothing broken but his pride
Big Boy Cosmo would indeed survive
after I comfort him and calmed him down
he and Sassy together sleeping I found
Sassy lift her head up with a smile on her face
Cosmo my big giant puppy had been put in his place.
Flying over the front lines
with the French Escadrille Lafayette
a brown and barren belt below
a strip of murdered nature and yet
during the warm months of spring and summer
seeds in the shattered ground would grow
delicate vibrant crimson flowers
in row after row after row
and in those poppy fields
that's how we remember them
all the fallen soldiers
those unforgotten gallant men
tho' Waterloo was won in a day
in a mad minute this battle was waged
while larks sang overhead in the month of May
four weeks and more it raged
before they beat the Hun had them on the run
it soon became apparent to the allied commanders
it's a long way from the playing fields of Eton
to the poppy fields of Flanders
Like Napoleon, I was born.
He led the French army,
I made sure the sheep got shorn.
And while I was covered deeply in sheep's doo,
he met his Waterloo.
And when on Saint Helena he died,
none of my sheep cried.
I looked at you a thousand times
before I saw you once
You never did look back at me
my vision sorely trumped
Till that one day I saw you clear
in substance and in form
But still I longed for one more look
where I still got it wrong
You’re with me now in all I say
and everything I do
Though never more than what this is…
a lovesick waterloo
I wish I could have squinted more
or glanced with just one eye
As stars misled a heart deceived
—my fantasy belied
(Dreamsleep: May, 2022)
For the merited sake of Kangaroo
Let’s march towards any exhibiting zoo,
Advised to be humble the Napoleon-Tough,
Who still could meet his Waterloo
With a kick, hard and rough
From the Mature Kangaroo.
For the clear heroism of Kangaroo,
Control the urge to at it boo:
The Beautiful Brain behind our incubator
By medics as treasured as a student his calculator.
By biologists classed under Marsupial:
Whatever that means;
Its members rare like pearl
And rather few in screens.
Long jumpers with dreaming feet
To wisely forget the kangaroo’s feat;
Not a fame to ever pick
In a thousand Olympic…
Australia’s legacy to Humanity
And The Premature in maternity.
saffron shafts of sun~
behind lofty heights
of faded silver and sapphire
veiled by the hazy fog
spell prelude to dusk
faded titanium bridges
are galloping white horses
crossing the river of dreams
where our lost story drifts
illuminating faint gray
surrounding misty water
like when you cast
a fading smile~
as you wave goodbye
14 March 2021
Notes: Waterloo Bridge is a series of 41 impressionist oil paintings of the 1807–1810 Waterloo Bridge in London by Claude Monet, produced between 1900 and 1904 and forming a sub-series within his larger 'London series' alongside the Charing Cross Bridge series and the Houses of Parliament series.(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia).
All Yours (March 14) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Briand Strand
1st place
There lies a field, where mice run and race.
I bought some traps, you know, just in case.
No risk of finger snaps
fool-proof, with gluey flaps...
Mouse does not die; but he's kept in place.
Eyes beg for mercy, what do I do?
rain bucket handy offers a clue.
Mouse caught in sticky trap;
submersion, it’s a wrap.
Blitzkrieg, one gasp; it's his Waterloo.
With every extra inch into darker depths
Wherein lean lot's venomous fang bites,
I brave worse pains and stings that rise
Past all steel into hitherto unfelt heights.
Every fresh day calls exacerbated fears
That trim stouter hope and fuller cheers,
Dealing fatal blows to potent prospects;
Fogging mirrors whereon all life reflects.
Even while I deem the battle finally won,
Still I meet emboldened missiles hurled
Onto the assumed triumphant champ;
Stilling his flying flag and grinning gun.
All past winnings turn to neutered starts,
In this ceaseless racing to a shifting line;
No first milestones earned via iron guts,
Ever long stand as an encouraging sign.
End-lines alter and time hops backward,
As I duel against Fate's nine-lifed sword.
Napoleon Bonaparte
1769 Corsica is where he got his start
One of the greatest commanders in history
His manner of death a 200-year-old mystery
Napoleon played it close to the vest
With his armies he was always the best
But 'twas nothing he could do
When he met his Waterloo
Lived his last few years under house arrest
Napoleon drank the water and headed for the loo
He did nothing different than you or I could ever do
Be kind to your skin and protect your bone-a-parts
Remember that's where good hygiene starts!
I TREMBLE AND SHAKE
COLD AS THE ARCTIC
MY HEAD
FOGGY WITH FEAR
EYES DILATE
HANDS CLENCH
MY HEART HEAVY
THIS NAGGING
AND PRODDING
MY FEARS MADE TRUE
I'VE RUINED ME
AGAIN
I WANT TO ESCAPE
FROM THE MADNESS
OF ME
THIS BUMBLING UNCERTAINTY
THIS HURRICANE OF DOUBT.
Waterloo
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2017
The night before the battle, the soldier would not sleep
thinking of his family, and memories to keep
with thoughts about tomorrow, and where he may be found
when the battle is finally over, and the recall bugles sound
He would think of the lines of soldiers, jackets blazing red
bayonets fixed, and rifle pointed, at the enemy ahead
could he do his duty, march steadfastly toward the foe
or would his nerve desert him, when the order came to go
He hoped that all the training, would jump into his head
and he would do what he must do, and not be among the dead
he knew he was no hero, nor the soldiers by his side
but he would find the courage, it was a soldiers pride
In line we advance toward the foe, pipe and drum, and bugles blow
cannon shot bursting overhead, friends falling all around you dead
you keep moving forward, and do what you must do
to help to win this Battle in this field at Waterloo
Waterloo
200 years ago Wellington and Blucher with soldiers
made up of ruffians and ISIS type henchmen, beat
Napoleon’s army won and that was sad kings and
the nobility continued to rule unelected and setting
back an European revolution that could have saved
us from a world one brought fraternity and equality
to a reality which is not today where aristocracy do
as they please while paying lip service to democracy.
And I saw them today the crowned head and nobility
safely under canvas protected against nature wilful
play, the privileged people talking about equality while
they want nothing of the sort if they cannot control its
outcome. Flags and salutes they like uniforms and men.
Yes, for this is a male oriented celebration.
Partir c'est mourir un peu..
Att skiljas är att dö en smula.
Av barn, fyllon och dårar får man höra sanningen.
Det är bäst att bita i det sura äpplet.
Den dagen, den sorgen.
The Story Begins
I remember long ago of night time kisses
Full of desire and apprehension, that you would disperse
You proclaimed your love, into my ear
I slept alone, the brisk cold hiding my fear
I would talk of dreams and foreign places
You begged me to go on and fulfill your dreams
Grand Manier nights , sad morning rays
Long gone was my love with golden hair
Daniel was not her lover
Under starry nights she held him close
I was nothing more than a friendly stranger
That he adored, and the son I never had
St Adolph would be my tormentor
On horses we rode in blankets of snow
Towards our destinies apart
Our fireplace of passion, we soon would depart
Like the brothers of Seville
I too was caught between two worlds
She would leave my heart in the cold of the rivers edge
From this day I became one of the walking dead
In London fog, the river stills.
In silver sleep, it cools and fills
with cobalt mist as dawn unfolds;
above the Thames, the sun bleeds gold.
Into the haze, it pours and pools
like melting opal, liquid jewels
until the brume of morning fades
to prune the sky with unseen blades
that slice the flaming clouds in two
to frame a glimpse of Waterloo.
*Inspired by Monet's painting, "Waterloo Bridge: Sun in a Fog"
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.