The date of your death was a day I'll always hate.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 78.
When you became ill, you went under the knife.
A surgeon amputated your leg to try to save your life.
He also operated on your stomach and it was enough to cause fear.
You couldn't be saved and it's so sad because you're no longer here.
When you died, it was upsetting because your demise was so unfair.
Happy Birthday, Mom, you're in Heaven and I'm glad you're up there.
[Dedicated to Agnes Greene-Johnson (1948-2013) who passed away on March 6, 2013]
Freed from its cell in the hive
T-rumposaurus comes alive
This monster is back
And plans to attack
With project twenty twenty-five
I love you!
I’m so happy you scolded Pres. Trump
Also mentioned
You’re ashamed to be called American
That is so good!
You even compared him with Jesus Christ
That is so good!
For me you’re the best Pope
Robert Francis Prevost:
a brilliant man but not one to boast.
He brings a message of peace, love and hope,
and holy smoke! He’s the new pope.
Robert Francis Prevost:
as Leo XIV, he will not coast.
And another thing we know about the man:
he is a devoted baseball fan!
The divine flame, the torch of eternal truth lit,
And passed it onto Pope's Leo XIV trembling hand
Who, fervently, prayed to our God almighty,
Peace and love to bring, upon men's tormented land.
© Demetrios Trifiatis
09 May 2025
"Aywa, aywa, aywa niq kusy." She softly whimpered.
He kept going at her while making her so much wetter.
He began breathing on her neck while panting harder and faster.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
p erp lexi ties*
.
.
.
.
.
.
Czech Frantisch Kupka
begaan his art abstracta
with 'Piano keys* he found fame
creatives in the verticl plane
At this very moment coolies screamed, ‘train',
We scampered, packing up our bags and bales;
A long-awaited train’s at times a bane,
But this one turned a boon, such were the tales.
An English gentleman hailed our hero
From his carriage, and we parted to go
Our diverse ways—to our cattle-class seats.
There was no chance to know who that man was,
Nor could more light upon his tale be lit;
Indeed, never-ending may prove some pause.
Some truths, some lies of life lie ever so;
Maybe, he took us as credulous fools.
A painful nerve, if anxious, seldom cools,
Some truths and lies forever curious grow.
Perchance the man minted fun at our cost,
And damsels in distress lay buried, lost.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Gold plated is Kilmt's'Der Kuss'*
with Gustav rated an artistic 'plus'
in the style Vienna Secession
a vauableb painting so full of passion
At any given moment, someone is stocking shelves
Putting the ping-pong balls next to the beer,
Ketchup next to the hot dog buns,
Strawberries next to the shortcake mixes.
In the parking lot cherry pits line the concrete gutters
All things in their proper place.
some people smile with their eyes
some people frown with their eyebrows
some people celebrate with candles & fireworks
some people mourn among cans of black beans
like the woman I saw,
sobbing with her eyes & mouth
in aisle twelve
some people don’t have a safe place to cry
Did this vampire think I would not comply?
Chance expected me to let someone die;
Blood lust has taken away my conscience,
compassion is no match for violence;
Being treated horribly for so long
can really do nothing but make you strong;
All the anger that was never addressed,
the woman I once was there’s nothing left;
Suddenly everything went crystal clear,
two pairs of eyes had become a mirror;
To me it was not too complicated;
Something about this? I felt vindicated;
Rage like a storm was brewing deep within,
a smile grew and I whispered ‘Count me in.’
I love a mouth that tries,
And a heart that bleeds,
Yet is still determined to live—
Despite the absence of peace
And absence has its beauty,
Without needing to be filled with
Anything—absence is profound as a
Drop that fails to reach its end
The anticipating sound
Of its final plunge—
A drop that dissipates before it hits
The promiseless bottom
I love a mouth that speaks
When it is closed
It smiles and knows there
Will be a sound after the emptiness
2.14.20
My poems used to rhyme before you
Now they don’t
Gifted hands, sharp words
Making the suffering my master
Green eyes like branches on Christmas tree
They can look like the honey you put in your tea
Every line in your body has still her name in it
The name of the poet who came before me
But I keep wondering where my rhyme is
My red haired muse’ s gone and took it with him
I found instead every line, every stanza...
When I don’t need them anymore
Cause I along with my refined British accent learned in school
can finally say out loud: Poetry is you
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.