will we soak languidly into
introspect and interlock belligerently
in purposefully jesting profanely tidy
obscureness or inadvertently invite taunting
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 28–October 4, 2026)
On my knees
At the side of the bed
I pray to you while I bow my head
The fighting will stop
No more dead
But nobody answers because it's all in their head
They said give you money
So no one would starve
But hunger doesn't care about the words on a prayer card
You turned me away
Because I won't follow your lead
So now I know better than to get down on my knees
Wasn’t this new order well described
In some fat books we barely read
But even though, we used to cite
Some lines, as if we’d learned from that
In scheme of things I don’t exist
Conceptualized, generalized
Abstracted for the record sheet
Intentionally set aside
I’m digitized by skin and eye
This could have made a better sense
If I’d be individualized
Not mixed with anybody else
I’m not a nation, not a country
Even my accident of birth
Don’t give them right to bother me
With what they want me to put forth
I do belong to what I choose
It’s my free will, one can’t deny
Just second thoughts I'm used to use
Speak fair enough of who am I
"Do with this what You will, Lord" is my plea
Yielding to Him all of me by His grace
Believing that such brings spiritual glee
As I run life’s race along service-pace.
"Do with this what You will, Lord" drives my day
Propelled to fulfill ministerial aim
Empowered in doing best through faith’s way
Toward exaltation of Saviour’s name.
"Do with this what You will, Lord," props my heart
Against selfishness-fall from pride’s great blow
Letting me practice loving kindness part
Prayerfully true in sharing hope’s glow.
"Do with this what You will, Lord" keeps my mind
Focused to eternal endeavours’ crest
Cognizant of what virtues have enshrined
Marked by genuine care to be shown midst zest.
"Do with this what You will, Lord," says my soul
While thanking Him gladly for life bestowed
By divine guidance to pursue blest goal
Toward triumphant heavenly abode.
The pen will always be useless
In hands callused by a sword.
You cannot unwrite a poem
Anymore than you can unstart a war.
There is a special bond
Between prose and broken bones,
Love letters and daggers,
Notes and stones.
Both can symbolize a promise
Of safety in kind.
Both carry the ability
To make their audience cry.
A soldier who has seen,
A poet who has told,
The pen and the sword are both mighty,
But neither promised to come home.
Their fates are decided
By those who wield,
A legacy left,
Is a legacy sealed.
IN AND OF WHAT WAS, WILL BE AGAIN
(I.E., There’s Nothing New Under The Sun)
In more ways than one,
it has been often said,
“what’s going to happen,
happened once before;
and what happened before,
will surely happen again.”
How thought-provoking.
Is there anything ever new?
Pondering the question,
check out the following flow:
Was not the present POTUS,
once before; and did he not get
kicked out of that office?
And will he not be
kicked out again,
this time too?
Indeed, no matter
how it goes, he will go:-
Just check out the Daily Sun,
and its sojourns: yo-yoing yesterday,
today, and tomorrow; as if to summarize:
“Its happened before, and will again.”
And hey, just check this out:
“Finally, let me say, remember,
we always reap whatever we sow.”
(“There’s nothing new under the sun.”)
When the fire dies
do embers still burn
When the flower wilts
will the fragrance linger
When the game ends
do the players relive it
When food is tossed
will beggars eat it
I know the night feels endless,
like the darkness found a place to stay.
But even the longest nights
eventually give way.
You may not see it yet,
but morning is on its way.
And the heart you thought was broken
can still learn how to beat again.
So breathe through the silence,
and hold on through the pain.
You don't have to have all the answers,
you just have to stay.
Because someday you'll look back
and realize you made it through.
The light was never gone,
it was just waiting
to find you.
Human! You’ll never guess what!
Something I’ve recently caught,
placed on your quivering knees.
Do with it just as you please!
Smell it—the mauled bloody flesh,
gifted to you—sweet and fresh.
Look at you, screaming so loud!
Trust me, I’d also be proud.
Think of me, little but still
willing to maim and to kill
only for you, and above
all, feel the strength of my love!
I’m the piper man
Will you follow me
Let yourself go, let yourself be
The journey starts – but shan’t end – with me
O’er meadow, hill, cross streams we’ll flow
Deep down inside ‘tis your desire, you know
Imagine infinite possibility
Unlock dormant ability
I’m the piper man: Will you follow me
Vita brevis* ~ Life's meant to be free
_____________________________________________________
*Vita brevis means 'Life is short.' It's part of a Latin
phrase, 'Ars longa, vita brevis,' which means, 'Art
is long, life is short.'
Do with this what you will
Regardless of how it makes you feel.
I was given a scroll, treasured and sealed.
I received it from an elderly man name Bill.
I do not know the magnitude of its appeal.
Nor was I told about the contents inside.
Very seriously, Bill said to me before he died;
The truth we must cease to deny and hide.
We must implement and not set it aside.
The truths behind the seal can heal our lives.
So, do with this what you will
Regardless of how it makes you feel.
Futile flippant,
rules and obscure,
mousetrap pitfalls,
scurrilous lure,
to faze green novice,
unsuspecting candidate,
contestant sworn to zeal,
might pause when enjoined,
to allow one’ s muse,
lithe elastic scope,
supple latitude,
without reckless reign,
or barren folly,
however cunning ploys,
lay-by lurk dithers,
yet without prior notice,
draws, dupes, deceives,
but these are caveats,
when stricture is,
shrouded in vague,
plumes of hazed,
thin veiled hair-split,
one stumbles
and fumbles over,
whilst glazed glance,
skips blindly over,
cues, clues, clause,
tip-offs to
shady motives,
motifs! ulterior.
Putting all our effort,
Into building ourselves a fort,
Will few problems sort,
If unlocking the gate does not seem worth the effort,
When others won't come out of their fort,
Afraid to trust anyone to guard their port,
When they leave their fort
To drink our port,
And toast another good sort.
This was mine to hold
now it rests within your hands
take it where you choose
I release the reins to you
yet my fingerprints remain.
I leave you the key
hanging from an iron chain
let your will decide
which way and when to turn it
you know which way I would go.
I have said enough
old advice has stained the page
my will has faltered
I can't unring the bronze bell
nor choose which echoes to wake.
The secret has flown
once my tongue unlatched its cage
two shadows now fall
one behind the mouth that spoke
one before the ear that heard.
Freedom bruises hands
when offered in heavy chains
gift-wrapped as free will
demanding they themselves choose
what each cannot bare to lose.
I pass the ember
hand to hand in stark silence
none can keep the flame
alight abandoned in shame
when both wills are disowned.
On holidays, the texts will fly;
Good wishes will begin.
There is no need to wonder why;
That’s how it’s always been
At least since texting was a thing;
Before that, cards were sent.
The mailman was the one to bring
Somebody’s good intent.
It’s strange it takes a holiday
For people to connect,
But that’s become the common way
And what you would expect.
Yet still, it’s nice to hear that ding
And see upon the screen
A greeting that your phone does bring
From one you’ve hardly seen.
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.