Home » Poems » Best » Johnathon Souders » Best Johnathon Souders Poems

Best Poems Written by Johnathon Souders

Below are the all-time best Johnathon Souders poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

The Payment

When in the dark of heated greed,
There was a shock, a unemployed face.
It had whispered of bad weather,
A storm of flashing commerce.
Parchments expanding the stain of green,
By the light of reflecting fleash.
Man has power in dollers,
Captilism mentaly teases the masses.
Encourging the action of fantsy.
A dream exposed for payments.
Desire in the bare undernieth.
To the Devil and the one percent.
But I to, in my sweet sigh,
Of my Shakspear gaze,
For that strangle of golden lights.
The price is,
The pound of fleash.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

Lost My Poutrysoup Login

Been to long since I posted,
For one lost my login info
But now I'm back
Hope you enjoy my new works
Go by Johnathonsouders2

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

I Create

"Every story I create, creates me. I write to create myself.." 

I create;

Memories a hardback of signature moments
Bliss to bottoms, lust to love, 
Heartache to redemption
“Every story I create, creates me”

As nature colors my distraction scenes
A peace only its stillness
Gives me my history
“Every story I create, creates me”

When death enters existence 
A cold wind on bareback skin
A common presence taken
“Every story I create, creates me”

Were love is a brass instilment
to be declared cleverly loud
So others can touch it
“Every story I create, creates me”

MY pen reacts to reality to move
A stranger from coded words
Where God works me
“Every story I create, creates me”

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

The Muse

She sat on my bed, red mouth scattering.
Drinking my smoke and comfort.
I was dancing diet pill, with ear buds.
Pestering on my shoulder,
was her dead lovely.

I, am smell of sometimes,
Her, a voice of flavor on the tip.
A whisper of fever,
In her caves,of poor light.

Desire is focused in holes in ceiling tiles,
Ear into eyes, unable to divert.
Her wisdom , a days mock frolic,
Shutting down my nervous faculties.

Feeling small in her Uni-verse,
Mime tracing her outline,
Stubbornly secret,in her intent,
The words flint for wanting.

Adaptation the influence,
No one wants to see,
I loving a soul, be for ********.
In the moment stunned by her pristine.

Her works she read,
I realized consumed, 
The famine mentor, critiquing me rightly,
Charring to a birth within.

And to give shine to an apple,
In her decreeing eye,
I became a heroin's lover,
Microsoft Zen for months.

Regretting I wrote weak-soft,
Now to coffee and wanting it bitter black,
Muse subservient to her a speaking fantasy,
As her red mouth scattered.

(for Silva)

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

I'M

I'm
I'm singular.
I'm night-driving.
With vibrant hum
of standard speed.
I'm glowing of dashboard.
Utterances of am talk
alien abductees and remote viewing.
Barely diverts my musing.

I night-drive 
periodically. 
A rite of wanting
Control, of the wheel.
Arm out window
night air cooling me.
Headlight on blacktop.
A yellow metronome.

This nights topic , I'm.
A question proposed,
by a small man in robes.
I started the list:

I'm a modern Tom Sawyer
an ebb-and-flow.
I'm this psycho-manic jester.
Dharma junkie, with subjects.
I'm Charlie Brown on acid
but who love the dog.
I'm a skin head hippie.
A guy with no wrist watch.
I'm a independent film critic
speaks religiously of Fight Club.
I'm these and other clever observation.

I stopped at a neon diner for tools of thought:
Coffee, pen, paper, and consumers of isolation.
Filling a page of I'm
looking for a singular
a true answer.
Just finding personas
and learned traits.

It came to me this I'm.
While leaving the tip.
In my wallet a picture of my children
looking full of me.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

For Alice Part 2

Harold told no one about his evening plans.
His construction buddies already thought of him as odd.
Thirty eight, unmarried loner, 
They razzed him on being quite, his house, 
And how he needed to get laid.
But it was in fun, they respected Harold.
When it came to the job, they nick named him
"The Artist"

Harold looked at the clock on the stove,
And went up stairs to get dressed for dinner.
The vintage suit lay, newly pressed, on his single bed.
The tag "Carol's Costums" attached to the hanger.
Harold decided not to wear the Top hat.
Feeling it was over the top.
and as he struggled with the bow tie,
He was trying to remember the name of his prom date.

Dressed, he walked down the long creaky stairs.
His wrist watch telling him "two minutes"
The nervous anticipation quickened his movement,
As he brought out the feast.
The large Grandfather clock began to chime in the living room,
Harold surveyed the dinning room, 
As he would do after a construction job.
He smiled proudly to himself, "The Artist" he playfully said aloud.
Knowing Alice would like the room as it was intended.

As the chime hit its last twelve, 
Harold herd the fimilar sound,
Of Alice's feet stepping on the creaky stairs,
And when she martialized in the dinning room,
Alice looked around at what Harold had done for her,
Harold new the night was what he had planed to build,
As Alice's  ghostly eyes, looked at him lovingly.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

Body: True Story

I stood on a wheat-grassed hill,
It's crest a overpass.
Pine rows below overgrown.
Forming into forest behind.
My childhood grounds.

Three boys, friends in time
Winter of "78"
When clouds dropped heavy
Deep covering, white cold
Draging sleds, overstuffed
In snowsuits.

The boys used this hill
With joyous lust
And loud laghter.
Slicing with metal runners
Above depths of storms.

A ramp.
Formed snow tight.
Near bottoms incline.
Shot there pleasure upwards
Twards a haze of gray,
In the quick, gravity's glee
Bodies held tight, gut waiting
For ramps flight.

Later that spring
A newspaper tucked
Under my arm
Told of a woman,a  body.
Beaten, burnt
Left in the fall.

We stood, three boys looking.
Polices tap streamers,
And vehicle tracts.
Seeing black Reminisce
On white grass shoots.
We could smell decay
Were the ramp use to be.

Three boys, guilty faces
Scilently reminiscing  joyouse lust
On the back of violated dead
Over and over to the haze of gray.

Life kept the body and heavy.
Burdend by snow-pleasure.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

Over the Dream

Aphrodite is worshiped by a devotion of
a past flesh- self taught to dream of 
a girl's face for my partners music

flowers in freckles with long red hair, naked
for warm lust- for the facts are absent, all
conjured by fickle thoughts

Staring to see, the elusive companion that
contemplates my needy comfortable, as  
I plunge for a lottery needle

Dropping my black magic into a enchanted feast
of temporary- wend on procreation by teen
films and Disney media

A masculine endeavor for two, hold sex down for 
biblical ethical  exemptions , solitude
is the solution of this fix

To sprout a seed, deep in black basic crawling for 
self-light-  moving the soil of souls
warm decaying energy

Sit alone to accept all my demons
"The Dream Is Over"

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

Howl Revisted

I.
Written,
Upon a TV snap,
Exquisite implosion, for
Crippled words,
In land of lords, and
Crimson shepherds.
My I, and 
Hands at play.
Now moments are
Me bitter.
To work then, 
This sharp,
A blade to sunlight,
To cut our fat.

      II.
A Howl,
In New York,
Black and white,
By the day's genius,
A fad long past,
With a wish, return.
When I Deep,
Held naked, In rhythm
His shaky, pitch,
Mantras voice,
Erect,
Brilliantly nasty,
Tentacle opean,
Nods to comrades.

      III.
Need beats,
And crazy men,
Gay jew,Buddha alkee,
Agent Lunch,
For we are no better.
Personally,
Been raised by woman,
In there works,
Need wild Intel.
Abstractly man, 
Baby.

     IV.
Arrogantly, Once,
Proclaimed, I was
The beats reincarnate,
Madman's conciseness,
Now, Have to be.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

For Alice Part 1

"The Blue Book of Cookery", was propped by two rolls of duck tape.
The library number viable on its binding.
A Fed-x box contained the "Cava" wine, 
On the unfinished counter top.
Harold broad shoulders loomed over the cook book.
His sun wrinkled eyes Intensly reread the recipe.
The tip of a knife he used to keep his place.
Darting his glance at the stove,
Mouther henning boiling pots.

Harold was preparing a gift for Alice,
And he wanted it to be perfect.
For she was a woman of class, and distinction.
She would know quality on sight.

The Dinning room was just remolded,
The only room done in the house.
Harold smiled thinking of the way it looked,
The Cherry wood table, that was correctly set,
White lace table cloth, brass napkin holders,
Antec candle holders, (on lone from his mom),
Fine china, and polished silver ware, 
Aranged by "Fine Dinning" instruction.
Another library book Harold needed.

This would be Harlods first diner companion,
Since he bought the old colonial mansion.
A house deep with the history of the small Main town.
Who's once occupants were accustom to Harolds try at gourmet,
This endeavor he hoped would lighten Alice's spirt.
Reflecting on the first time he saw her.

It seemed instantly she was before him,
His normal fears quelled by the sight of her,
When she moved towards him, he understood elegant.
Speaking her name, it sounded like a whisper to him,
The stillness in her eyes, soft pale glowing skin,
A smile that warmed his always awkward soul.