The colossal sun, a sun that seems on the verge of senile death,
Vomits violently,
Crying out that it can bear no more.
Yet we humans, and all those silent organisms, swallow its emissions,
And the dying creatures of the distant earth spring back to life.
Ah, how wondrous, how marvelous a thing.
Once more, I look upon you.
You throw up, struggling in such agony.
Even your iron-walled presence, now exhausted, collapses at last,
And the next version of me is born.
I am the "Moon."
"Rest now, you!"
Hya! My sun,
Go and taste a sweet, brief slumber.
"Go, save the Earth still trapped in the shroud of darkness!"
That is the message the sun bequeathed to me.
The raging waves, the rough voice, the wild anger—
I swallow them all whole with my moonlight.
Hya! My sun!
Rise up, hurry!
Though I, too, am spent,
I wake the exhausted sun with countless lashes of my whip,
And instantly, the sun reveals the raw welts of my lashing.
"Now I sleep. Burn your fury, make haste.
And when it grows too hard for you, I shall take your place."
Around the age of six i received from my maternal grandpa
a very special present , he had styled a home made kite
Thick brown paper for the body , newspaper for the tail
couldn't get this kite to fly, tried with all my might
One day i heard my father loudly yelling
in reference to this kite
He had found it in a paddock
where I'd left it overnight
So the down the hill I ran
to retrieve this special kite
My father, reins of horse in one hand stock whip in the other
punishment for the crime, stock whip round the backside, most painfully it did bite
For a minor misdemeanour the punishment a trifle overdone
for my lack of care of grandpas special kite
Much shedding of tears from the bruising pain
I endured on that fateful night
usa hockey
gold even sans Russia
spread miracle whip
One of the clowns in my circus
wants to be ringmaster and crack the whip
one of the sailors on board my boat
wants to be captain and steer the ship
but there's only room for one
under the big tophat my dear
so they're both out of luck
and the buck stops here
I have the last and final say
tho' not one to overwhelm
to maintain a steady course
there can only be one at the helm
Motion-activated caught on camera
while cookies for the kids I was cooking
a collared cat crept into the kitchen
when I stepped outside and wasn't looking
his potty break was well-timed
as, sadly, I'd left the door unlocked
onto the counter by the sink he climbed
bared his butt and crapped in the crock
tho' he gave new meaning
to vanilla chocolate chip
if I ever collar him doing it again
his mangy tail end I'll severely whip
as, if he wants nine lives to live
he'd really best think twice
or he'll sleep with the fishes
(not eat them)
as such behaviour is just not nice
I need a break, a minute’s breath of space;
The furious tempo driving me along,
a fussy temper, fervent all day long
to strive, stress, toil, scramble to keep the pace—
—the pace of a spent poet keeping face;—
enough to numb a hand that once inked strong
words, and made paper sound loud as a gong.—
and what a base disgrace…to lose the chase.
How many spears did that old poet shake,
which time has flung away(, or swallowed whole,)
that today we marvel at his masterworks?
What thousand wonders hide behind the break
of history?, what secrets, grand or droll,
lay low and lost within his epoch’s lurks?
Here’s today’s New York surprise
I witnessed with my own two eyes:
Reddi-Whip, the cans amounted
To nineteen (and yes, I counted!).
Lined up on a bench, as well
As underneath, and I could tell
They all were empty, for the caps
Were strewn around, by slobs, perhaps.
There was no whipped cream residue
And raindrops hadn’t sprinkled through,
So with these clues, I did conclude
That this was gobbled up as food.
Yet one more possibility
Did naturally occur to me –
A group of young adults or teens
Went crazy spraying all their jeans.
I’ll never know just what took place –
The detritus, though, I’ll embrace
As fodder for my daily poem
About the place that I call home.
peanut butter and mayo
don’t forget lettuce
it is my favorite sandwich
not real Mayo
Sweet Miracle Whip
do you want
one?
whip-poor-will sings
at daybreak....
tires burning scent
someone keeps setting wood fires and putting car tires on them. I have called the forest rangers and they said there is nothing they can do about it. The smoke settles in the hollow on the creek just a few feet from my home and it makes me sick.
Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will all night
Security, assurance, delight
Defender of the small nest
Or out on his quest
For his mate.
Rest
What's his fate
Will he pass this test
Conquer, mate, rear a success
Life isn't easy, some fright, much delight
Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, all night
the whip-poor-will calls only briefly
I know that he is back and alive
he sounds so weak and sickly
I wonder if he will survive
I long to hear his melody
maybe his mate in answer
is the weather too cold?
or he's too old. What will be the outcome?
he doesn't seem to have established
his territory or his regular nest
was this winter too cold
or was it way too wet
I hope the weather gets just right
I hope he can sing most of the night
his energy is so alive
in this area he seemed to have thrived
Down where the lavender wisteria blooms.
For the first time this spring, and early in the morning
I heard the whip-poor-will sing its intriguing tune.
Later, when I looked out the kitchen window.
Birds of many species were swarming freshly filled birdfeeders.
House finches, red cardinals, and sparrows as well
Doves upon the ground nibbled and were well fed.
Birds' melodies mix with the sighing of the pines.
At the faint light of spring's dawn
How nature's symphony fills the morn's air
An awakening of all my senses,
Beauty exploding everywhere.
The Whip-poor-will's haunting call,
Echoes through the misty hollow
A song of deep mystery,
A melody touches my soul.
Wisteria petals dance with the gentle breeze,
Their fragrance intoxicating,
As the birds flit and flutter,
Feeding on the bounty
In this moment of quiet reverence,
I am reminded of the interconnectedness,
Of all living things in this world,
Bound by the threads of existence.
So I listen to the Whip-poor-will's song,
Though brief, letting it carry me away,
To a place of peace and harmony,
Where the wisteria blooms forevermore.
White puffs of goodness.
Whip cream in love with jello.
Cold, jiggling flavor,
Topped with foaming nothingness,
Yielding to gel's surrender.
The whip-poor-will entertains.
His song crisp and fresh today
His voice is not inhumane.
And leads my few thoughts astray.
Running was the Bovidae
Outside my open window.
So, I could hear faraway
Dance of the painted pinto.
Just for fun, no there was no Bovidae nor painted pinto.
Written: 5/18/2023
An angered father went for his whip
And son made for a man to him grip:
Ferdinand's sudden timely smart slip;
The cowhide would have slashed his hip!
Now as safe as a bird on a roof,
Father's relaxed grip on whip sound proof
Town send knew the rules and would not goof.
At home he'll change son's right foot to hoof.
"Fine! let him present success savor?
What shall meet him not in his favor".
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.