Rumors abound
All around town
Lily White
Needs a knight
She is tangled
Being wrangled
By the tricky trees
Planted by Peacocks from Leeds
Wolves are down under
Hearing wraths thunder
Drinking Burnley claret wine
Getting ready to do second tier time
In comes the Hammer girl
Wearing expensive pearls
Bought using Gallo credit
Wondering, ‘will anyone get it?’
Message, ‘relegate’
Easier opponents await
Fans will have reason to cheer
Dousing the same expensive beer
As players work on maturing skills
Crunching numbers, paying the bills
Oh yes, who is going to get dropped
Commentating, ‘our season truly was a flop’
Officially closing the show
Taking the athletic production to parts unknown
Goal now ‘will want to come back’
Claiming healed healthy, surviving a relegation attack
Surface living;
Delving with thought
Shallow inclined; no further
A beetle's truth-quester
One inch, mould-wrought!
The infinite
And what, behind
Its night-hung veil, bespangled
For souls of men have wrangled
Light's, dark's winged grind
A mystery
Left. With relief!
Which strain, high, deep prying mind's
But exceeded by those finds;
Mail's o'ercharged grief!
I've never been much of a baker
But I know how dough rises
Slow beneath the cloth
Flirting with the heat
Warmth living in a quiet bowl
Starting out raw
I know you have to twist the life out of it
Before you let it sit
The weight of my palms
Meeting the resistance of the grain
Sometimes it ends up a masterpiece
Sometimes just a wrangled mess
I know how the kitchen air grows thick
With a slight sweetness
that shakes awake the senses
I know the crackling of the cool bread
and how it soothes a room
I know how it can make a house feel like home
and just sometimes
you have to trust the process
A blessed soul has won a role, The Prince of Peace,
Of noble birth, a novice born a blue-blood,
Pontificate average those brevities,
Stemmed full of thorns wrangled beneath his rosebud.
Won The Papal States, Mona Lisa smiled, lost,
His tenure was mired in doubts--parts that he crossed,
A scorned tag as unfortunate of the popes,
A Florentine, a Medici, useless hopes.
New Years Old Wishes
In a world wrangled with wild wars
Between two developed nations,
With civil deaths a sad eyesore
And a bane to human reason,
With harsh tension and violence
Elsewhere one can daily witness,
Stemming from lack of tolerance,
Wrecking homes and lives with distress,
With a few basking in plenty,
Overwhelmed with satiation
And the lot dipped in misery
With children doomed to starvation,
Would New Years old wishes of love,
Would old wishes for compassion
Would wishes for peace fly as doves
Or drop down the deep ocean?
Sands of time will ever unfurl,
But human race will remain same;
So will issues facing the world
And New Years old wishes be same.
Well, I’ve lived in this Montana country
guess it's been pert near fourteen years
I call myself a cowboy though I ain't
punched no cows or branded no steers
Ain't broke me no fiery eyed wild stallion
Or pushed cattle across open land
Never fended off a mountain lion
nor killed a grizz with my bare hands
I ain't wrangled some ornery rustlers
with my rifle and colt six gun
Haven’t spent winter alone in a line shack
or been in a bar fight just for fun
But I got me a hat, some chaps and spurs
went and watched me a rodeo
I learned that to be a real life cowboy
is more than putting on a show
Don’t need to wear a Montana slope hat
to live the good old cowboy way
It's more about how you respect the land
and always mean just what you say
You believe in traditions and honor
love, nature, honesty and song
A person who follows his commitments
though he may have to ride alone
If you want to be a cowboy my friend
then it's having the fortitude
to stick to convictions and do what's right
That is the cowboy’s attitude
An evil kangaroo poacher from Perth
Rousted rare 'roos for all they were worth.
But, one day as he wrangled,
In his noose he got tangled,
Now of kangaroo poachers from Perth there's a dearth.
Who put Lubella in the wych elm?
Wrangled roots and writhing barks,
Little blue shoes and fine black strands.
Was it the witch or the wych?
A flash of red, simmering musks,
An era of tragedy thriving.
A flesh tinged with a subtle darkness,
Hardened with resolve.
Blackened tongues convey sickened truths.
Convenient stretches of white lace
draped across a tarnished stone statue.
Which statue?
Bella is stuck in the wych’s elm,
A broken connection coated in useless filth.
A promise given to none who truly want it,
Yet gifted freely to those undeserving.
Fragile gloves and mangled dresses,
Crystal skies reflecting grey plumes.
Who’s tattered hearts inflicted a wych’s misery?
Fate’s subtle creaks or Mother’s wicked tears;
A concentration of grief or a dispersal of faith?
How did Bella end up in the Wych’s Elm?
Who put Lubella in the Wych’s elm?
Feeling so unclothed in my newest dress
having no knowledge of mine
Unraveling crocheted phantasms
My head is of lead, my body of soot
Traded in my prettiest songbird
for a kind word
For a free I conceived so wide
A mouth agape, bellowing my soul song
I dreamed him a succulent sweetness
With bigger hands
As rain floods all my never
I think of your brother’s leisurely cow eyes
Cyclones if unearthed beauty
To be admonished by only those that paid mind
And so I cursed the only true voice
Solipsistic techno dream carry me
And to all the cowboys that wrangled me
My heart beats too
I know I'm 41 now,
But the kid just trying to be silly,
Make people laugh,
Make them lose themselves,
Find themselves,
That kid is still manning the controls.
He gets nudged, knocked, wrangled at times
But we all know, all those outboarded
Shadowy figments know, he's the only one
Who can make a spark in the reaching darkness.
In fact he renames the darkness and calls it a blessing.
the doctor is in
~
trade winds wrangled
hung out
shingles
thrust thru a needle
threaded then tattered
beaten down from the barren
unearthed and wrung
rising anew
outside in
tempest of trust
tempting the fever, the fervor
heating the chill
of the grind
swum in the pools of your cry
the orbs of your eye
singing aimlessly of love
off to an unwritten sky
sails grab hold
your wind
entwined
the wings of your hair
your lair
gliding gracefully
•
out to the deep
•
the dark recesses of mind
cradled
anchoring the edges of time
PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE
Stand tall, raise high, blame not thy lot,
Tread path swift, find faults naught;
Decisions tough, impediments bountiful, solution yet to be taught,
On crossroads held, crisscross paths, life distraught!
Hold your ground yet firmly tread,
Not a cake walk though, life’s hostile instead;
Exhibit valour, let spirits soar overhead,
Vanquish hurdles, flaunt thy smile, joyous tranquility spread!
Befogged vision, life seems tangled,
Heartbroken defeated when dreams sometimes mangled;
With courage, steadfastness life no more wrangled,
Sing to the tunes of the chiming bells jangled!
Choicest blessings the Divine shall bestow,
If and only if you paddle your own canoe!
I could see untamed in her fiery eyes.
But I'm way past prime, no need for a wild ride.
I wrangled one once upon a time.
Tried to make her into a lady.
Taming that bucking star
was emotional suicide.
If I could do it all over again
I'd toss the saddle, rope and bit.
Spur her hard on the flanks
Roughly navigate those pouty lips.
Buck her until I spilled my brains,
jump off and never go back.
Systemic symmetries of destruction,
gorging with thoughtless consumption…
Within the bowls of corruption,
enslaved by the sanguinary skins of seduction…
Butterflies bloom to demonic deeds,
of the feeding frenzy that surely bleeds…
Voices that spread their saintly seeds,
only entrapped within wrangled weeds.
Fake media the soup of the day,
cabalistic constructing illusions they portray…
While the appetites of the abysm display,
as the deceptive delusions foreplay…
Habitual hunger that they manifest,
of the manic misconceptions we ingest…
For we suckle on the beastly breast,
as they occupy the obedient oppressed.
Jan.04.2019
Food for thought
Sponsored by: Silent One
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
Let me be open to be startled
to let the unexpected in,
to be surprised, astonished, shocked,
wide open to action happening in peripheral view.
Let me be open to strangeness
by looking for difference and oddity
with laser cutter eyes
slicing away the clutter
of mundane sameness.
Let me be startled by strangeness,
glad to be jostled and jangled,
disturbed and wrangled
to action and reaction,
by being receptive
and willingly open.
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.