The sun casts red upon the myriad dead,
The heavens die, departing shadowed shades;
The bloody duty’s done, but what ahead?
For prosp'rous peace rests not on sharpened blades.
And "Cincinnatus!", some now cry, "Be king!
To lead in peace, as you have led in war!"
But this a thing no friend of Rome should bring,
For army rule is not what Rome is for.
O, well enough, I know how well to lead,
But in my shadow, how could roses grow?
My absence is the thing that Romans need,
For in the sun, shall Rome itself best know.
Let others sharpen wits, for good or harm,
I'll sharpen plows, upon my humble farm.
He’s almost half-blind now
his right eye, oh my!
Once-fabulous hand-eye coordination
replaced by daily frustration
Doesn’t hear too well these days
"Again... Please repeat! What did you say?"
His spine looks like a barber’s pole
feels like a whack-a-mole
Hips stiffer than petrified wood
his walker does him little to no good
Knees like old-fashioned shoes, they buckle
if it weren’t for the agony, he’d chuckle
As for his feet, the bottoms have no feeling
the slightest crack in the pavement sends him reeling
But he’s determined to count his blessings
even if with his body nature seems to be messing
He can still see well enough to write a story
his left eye spared damage, thanks to God in all His glory
And the latest gossip he doesn’t have to hear
doesn’t even have to cover his ears
As for his crooked spine, mindfulness came with it as a gift
a practice - a habit - he now knows not to give short shrift
I could go on through the rest of his body's litany
but surely you already know ~ this poem is about me
I feel the plea of your heart, Baby, the tears inside you.
Pain gnaws at you, fear invades you, the cold darkness of the night.
My hand clings to yours, I’m here, my little laughing sun.
My Baby, I’m here, I love you with all my being, diamond of my life.
Your courage shows in your silences, not a single complaint, my sweet angel.
You are fragile and so strong at the same time, my hopes and doubts are here.
Our eyes meet, love shines without a word, everything is gentle and wise.
My arms tighten around you to feel your presence, Baby of mine.
Then I turn my head, my eyes mist over, you are my light.
My heart tightens and my legs grow numb, but I pray.
My words will never say it well enough, or say it poorly — I am proud of you.
My fears, my turmoil, my pleas… oh my little one.
Night gives way to another day, you open your eyes, already smiling.
That beautiful smile of yours — I caress your fingers, you’re here, always here, Baby.
A tender kiss on your hand, my throat tight, I hear myself say it.
Hope, again hope — I want it for you, my love, my Baby.
Joël Charvillat
I can walk to some museums
From my home and often do,
But when MOMA* is the one I want,
It’s 3 stops on the Q.
The Q train’s fast and cuts across
From east side to the west
And mostly it works well enough
For all to be impressed.
I had a lovely visit
Seeing art both old and new,
With my day made so much easier –
Just 3 stops on the Q!
*Museum of Modern Art
How to "deserve" -- how to be "worthy".
How to feel equal to -- how to compete,
partially or apparently successfully so.
How to function well enough "to serve."
How not to be unsteady, how to be rigid;
how to stand, to walk stiffly upright among them.
How to sense their suspicious direct stares
and their sidelong furtive glances.
How to live, to exist, to recognize their aversion to
this repugnant, repellant "otherness", this difference:
and to show them that you recognize, you see,
that you will never -- never! -- be, like them,
"one among the many": a "brother", a "member".
Never! Never, ever.
I finished a Saturday crossword,*
The hardest one offered each week.
It took me a while
But earned me a smile
And the constant reminder I seek
That my brain cells, although I am aging,
Are still functioning well enough to
Fill in all of the squares
That some person prepares
So we solvers can track down each clue.
It’s a sense of accomplishment, truly;
Other puzzlers know just what I mean.
Though we do it alone,
We are, each of us, prone
To a chance to internally preen.
*last Saturday’s New York Times puzzle,
solved today
The Art of Acting
Step 1: Posture
Your posture is more important than you think.
The way you carry yourself can speak
Thoughts into the minds of others from miles away.
It can make them trust you more than they ever believed they would.
Step 2: Expressions
The expressions you portray can make those around you
Feel at ease or put them in a sense of discomfort.
If you do it well enough,
Even the toughest shells will crack.
Step 3: Actions
The actions you take can make the coldest gestures
Feel like the sun’s warmth in the dead of night.
If done correctly, the hardest pills to swallow
Can taste like the finest pastries
On a summer’s morning.
Step 4: Change
Every character needs a switch.
Some point in the plot
Where the intentions they once had, flip
And turn into a new goal for them to chase
Step 5: Endgame
Every story needs an ending.
Whether this ending is good or bad.
Whether it’s your desired outcome,
Or not.
Every story must end,
Even if you want it to keep going.
I am dumb.
Foolishness stays over me and coats my throat till I cant be me.
Tears threatening to leak.
I bite my tongue, only for the words to stop in my throat.. Because maybe no one cares..?
Maybe that "can" change..? Knowing well enough that it wont..
And never will.
Standing my ground ,hoping to be felt
But never is.
To stop from being me to being insecure to speak.
Spent so long being "okay" that I don't know if "am" okay or... not?
How foolish
Knowing it isn't
Only for me to "betray" them
Either way,
Am selfish.
And will "always" be.. in their eyes
For them to judge
And never to judge.
Phoenix! Scraggled feathers, wild of eye,
Was it time, or did you choose to die?
What the patter in your head
As you built your flaming bed?
Ah, but well the matter known,
For I as well the flames have sown.
Casting well enough aside,
By lesser measures, I too died.
You from ashes rise again:
Perhaps I too, I know not when.
I Watch Him
by Positive Mark
The quiet of his flat. The drone of a space heater, providing white noise, concealing the shrills of an ego, shattered by
truth.
He wanders the earth like a ghost with unfinished business.
He writes like the devil you don’t see hiding in your closet at night.
He’s inactive unless he writes.
Even though he’s not blind, his feet still can’t keep time. He merely sees well enough to let a piece of poem rhyme.
I watch him.
I watch him as he passes by mocking mirrors that will lie to him
never more.
A controversial one.' Long John Laws indeed could stun.' Clipped flinty tones He'd chew
No bones, never met him.' Wonder would
We have got on.? I beleive he was for the
Con-vid, but he was steeped in more honest; times.' In those middle ranges, there
Honesty was pretty much full time, i think
I lived its tail end.' Which balanced me quite
Well, enough to admire, yet know he was
Vulnerable as well.' So i regret the imposition, placed upon all Aussie folks'
Every straight grained, lover of better, for
We at are our best, when we share with mates.' So I reckon if we meet in heaven
Everything will be grand.' We'll gas round a
Golden barbie.' Where adventures we'll put
To plan.'
Barefaced and Itchy
Outrageously plain —
Arrives on request.
Give up the ghost.
Fortissimo crisp,
Boring as it is,
Unrelenting noise
Ringing nonstop.
Can’t adapt well
While deaf;
Sight diminishing,
I’m decaying —
Losing weight
And patience.
My thoughts melting,
Combining with something else —
Alien, for sure.
Its beauty inexplicable,
So I omit justification
For her purpose.
I could go without glory,
It seems selfish.
I feign well enough
To ignore her:
Vindictive narcissist,
Productive behavior.
I’m alive only because
The ringing is louder
Than melancholy.
Look on the black side —
Pretty sure I’m immortal,
A god, because I say so.
I lost control of this
A bit ago,
But I’m keeping it anyway.
Goodnight.
xo
You were always so good
At hiding yourself in the dark
I tried and I tried
To throw you out
Of the furthest
recesses of my mind
And somehow
you are still there
Embedded in
the deepest crevices
of my brain
Where I couldn't see you
Lurking there
in the blackness
For thirty years
Waiting ...
for one of those days
When I'm down and out
So you can kick her
When she's already on the ground
Fighting ...
to get back on her feet
Knees buckling
Remembering how
to stand again
One day at a time
Before taking my first steps
Recalling well enough
How to believe
How to smile
How to run
From the darkness
And away into the sun
Where you can't hide from me
Where light and heat
Disintegrates you to dust
Revealing all
That you are and were
Until there is nothing
left of you
To blow on the wind
… Out of sight
Out of mind ...
One day at a time.
We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar
After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa
Love of our land's labour should make us proud;
The efforts, time, and energy put through...
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed,
When slavery is to labourers in blue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Showers of rain ain't just of dusty cloud,
But of heavy downpour and not dew;
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
Yet all harvest couldn't feed suppose crowd,
We become weary of need to pursue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Just an endless space to measure; unbowed
Hearts and heads under threat, government subdue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud,
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
Sunshine loved her daisies, lilies, daffodils and such
Why do you love these florals so extremely much?
I think because my rays help them to grow but I’m not sure.
Actually, Sunshine had a kind heart, it was innocent and pure.
She gathered up some flowers, and ran with them uphill.
Threw them into the air, and watched them trickle down, a thrill!
The flowers did not mind, they knew Sunshine liked them well enough.
When they were played with, they felt they were sassy and hot stuff.
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.