I remember as I child
eyeing the Christmas
tree, all lit and broadcasting.
Early-on I realized that Father
was Santa. Mother sensed it
when they married. Father, let go of his
well defined ego, embraced the principal
to secure the family, protect and
serve selflessly onto death.
Many things are not explained.
I fell asleep in a sepulchre of words
in my quest for further understanding.
I gathered their meanings one by one
arranging them in patterns
according to colour;
aligning them in rows
according to size.
Some comforted, some injured;
they all tasted different.
Not all of them meant well
and many were ambiguous.
I was bewildered by their variety,
their complex duplicity
and singular simplicity.
Some were sharp and well defined,
others dubious and unrefined.
Although not native to them,
I felt at home in their midst;
and from the time they started
to visit my dreams, I felt accepted
and became one with them,
almost.
You can tell I’m not the real McCoy,
not from the words themselves
but from the way they are strung together:
Byzantine pearls from the Near East
held together by
a Hellenic twist.
Written: June 20, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Miranda Hawley
********************
He carries a thousand-watt smile to chronic pain—
A sun susurrous through storm and strain.
His quiet, weak speech goes unheard, and bound
But his wispy humor is well-defined and sound.
Through surgeries and illness, he stands tall,
His drive radiates forth even when he must crawl.
With spine, and stomach both feeble and torn—
Inside him, it aches; his body is lethargic and worn.
Being alive is a battle that his spirit must fight
To bear the success, and embrace the light,
His life is an endeavor, vibrant and bright—
God bless his soul with a thousand-watt smile tonight,
Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
Dear Mr Putin.' At this time, of world need
Is there? Any possibility? In the middle east
Conflict you could intercede.? After so many millions of lives were tortured and lost, just in your own Russia, when hitlers
Armies marched across, i will give that monster no more time..I move back to today and now, and the need of a well balanced character.' In a world of deceit, well defined.
Amid, threats of global chaos.' I beleive you
Would have the ear; of others,
who lead that
Might assist, and to be fair..Its you and trump i
Have mostly studied, so here i will desist.'
you i
See are a tested statesman, who holds his
Line, and protects his reserves, a Christian
By self assertion, dear Mr Putin would you
Perhaps now serve.? By contacting those you feel, are pragmatic.' To bring such mayhem
We now face to heel.' I ask in Christ as a bondsman..Can you project some sanity.?
Maybe? (broker with others,) a world calming deal.'
"As the day ends, one is closer to heaven." By Poet
My neighbor is old,
she can be very bold.
Loving to wear lots of fancy gold,
and decrepit I am told.
You know age is just a thing,
numbers one wants to ring.
How old are you,
that number may make you blue.
They tell me I am a decrepit ninety-two,
but I can still tie each shoe.
Honey - age is all in one's mind,
seeing myself as twenty-five to all mankind.
I may not be well defined,
but I will always be kind.
Red Paint
Long before my time, a group painted in red lived on the land.
They lived with the buffalo and made weapons by hand.
They used arrowheads at the end of their spears.
Their homes were in tea peas planted beside the river.
They danced at night around the fire.
They were com and collected as their hearts desire.
In a no man's land, they fought with bravery and hatchets.
In red paint on horses, they had their revenge while it lasted.
It is sad that the white man had to take it all away.
Only skin deep, our blood is all the same.
Through revenant they stood their ground.
In the dark sky they survived when no one was around.
Just reach down and touch the dirt.
They washed off the blood in the river.
The land is for all mankind.
Through principles they were well defined.
Just like a wolf, they stand alert.
As warriors they just wanted to be free like a bird.
They are all connected in red paint.
Across the water shows reflections of their pain.
No manor tribe should ever be oppressed.
Standing towards the sun, they all came back from the dead.
Wewere wrong to take away their lives.
In the shadows they stood tall in the moonlight
There’s something mysterious;
I hope it’s not serious:
my muse will not write when I row.
She’s no river daughter;
it’s time that I taught her
that water and words can both flow.
Bereft of her musing,
the rhymes are confusing;
ideas just don’t spring to mind.
Who cares where she’s headed?
My abs are now shredded;
my lats and my quads well defined!
Alas, to entreat her:
a sculling two-seater -
that certainly might do the trick…
Composing while oaring
would never be boring,
with meters and verse coming quick!
Life is but a stamp in time
Daily progressing but holding back its rhyme
We travel lightly never looking inward
Until the day the past is splintered
With thoughts and regrets of time wasted
Living life to the fullest thinking it was well crafted
But time marches on relentless and sure
Leaving your footprints on the path obscured
Trudging ahead but looking behind
To the past thinking life was well defined
For life is but a stamp on time’s grand page
A fleeting glimpse, a fleeting stage
Let us cherish and live it to the fullest
Through the easiest times or even the cruelest
©Deborah Kelly
2025
There's a phere in God's vast domain known as eternity.
It is the phere where I and millions more will someday be.
Eternity.
She will not wait for us.
We will join her when we kick the dust.
Eternity.
She is outside of the zone of time where the real meaning of life is well defined.
Eternity.
Will there be any thought of history?
Or will we have a memory?
Eternity.
Some things appear to be a certainty.
There will be no sorrow or misery.
Eternity.
In a path toward eternity, I see a pierced hand extending to everyone to take us to the Father where we belong.
A reversible poem.
Tell me not to chase the dreams I seek,
And watch as I pursue them all the more,
Say I’m too fragile, say that I’m too weak,
And see me rise to prove what I’m made for.
Dismiss my thoughts as folly, pure and vain,
Then watch them flourish, bold and unconfined,
Declare that all my efforts are in vain,
And I’ll succeed with purpose well-defined.
Say that I should walk away, give in,
And see me stand my ground, refuse to yield,
For every doubt you cast, I’ll find within,
A stronger will, a greater sword to wield.
Quote: “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” -- Mae West
Life's a puzzle, quite unknown,
With pieces lost and found anew.
The more you force the parts to align,
The more you see they don't quite knit.
Get out of the tangled web,
Step back, take a broader view,
And see life reveal its subtle aspects,
In the gaps and twists, you'll explore,
The art of living,
Well defined.
Written on August 14, 2017 10:16 PM
In the echoes of time, your words reverberate,
'Later, I'll reply,' you say, in a deliberate state.
'I'll read it later,' your commitment in the air,
Amongst my heartfelt lines, you handle with care.
A list I've compiled, each 'later' well-defined,
A thousand messages, a tale that's intertwined
'Unread confessions,' the title it might claim,
Of love professed, a digital love's sweet game.
A thousand times you vowed, 'I'll reply without fail,'
'I'll read it later,' your promise set like a sail.
Yet I hold on, steadfast in my belief,
That someday you'll respond;
In the dance of time, where 'later' meets 'now,'
I hope to hear you say, with love's eternal vow,
'I've replied, my love,'
'Sorry for the wait,'
A drab forty something,
mother of six snotty noses,
tie dyed shirt two sizes too small.
Nipples poking through the thin cloth.
Fuzzy pink slippers and yoga pants,
ass like the surface of the moon,
with mountains and craters well defined.
Dirt blond hair with three-inch black roots.
Lights the joint stuck between caked lips,
blows smoke into the space,
separating her from reality.
Out of breath she waddles to the bed.
When he tells of the goddess,
that took his immaturity,
there’s one thing he never mentions.
The twenty he left on the table.
Beauty beyond what words can say
I saw you differently today
Striking is what comes to mind
All in black, so well defined
I could watch you all day long
Fold myself into your song
So incredibly beautiful
You have this way, you have this pull
That draws me in, makes me want more
You're so attractive, the way you are
I keep it in, I don't say much
Well yeah I do but it's not such
A thing that I can't sleep
But wow I like you, it runs deep
I think of you throughout the day
And if you ask, to you I'll say
What's down inside my heart's desire
There lives and breathes a little fire
That flickers, always burns for you
It keeps me warm and leads me to
Write you words that tell you such
Please don't think that it's too much
It's been a long time that I knew
I had something unique for you
Just look into my eyes and stare
Look behind them, it's right there
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.