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8/16/2018 2:54:58 PM

Wendy Nipas
Posts: 15
Thank you so much jpmarmaro. I will take your observations to heart. English is not my mother tongue, so I do slip up sometimes (lol). But I appreciate you reading my poem and thanks for the compliments.
8/16/2018 4:28:42 AM
hey I am Jennifer

Jennifer ATTY
Posts: 1
Hello everyone, heard about this site from a friend and I love the critics and support in the forums. I love words and love creating a different sense to it when I put them together but I want to upgrade and get people's view on my poetry.
I will soon put my poems on, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!
8/15/2018 3:31:13 PM
New to Poetry Soup and to poetry

Bev Thompson
Posts: 1
How to post poems
8/15/2018 9:38:48 AM
Lonely in this World I Stand

Deb Depew
Posts: 4
The title really jumped out at me. I’m new to poetry but I really like this. I read it several times.
8/14/2018 6:29:50 PM
Lost Cause

Crista Billings
Posts: 1
You ask if I'm okay, there's a long pause
I try to find the words to let you know I'm a lost cause
I know you tried to help, had so much hope
But your efforts were no match for the self hatred and dope
I'd like to lie and pretend it's all okay
But I can't keep pretending so just walk away
I'm sick of both of us clinging to delusions
I'm sick of the problems that stack up on top of solutions
I'm never going to be who you think I should be
My pretty face distracts you from what's plain to see
I'm not worth the effort time or the prayers
So go find a new project fix someone who cares
I've given up and you should too
Why are you here after all I put you through
They all told you I was a loser what did you expect
Just cut your losses have some self respect
If love cured addiction we'd all be okay
But I'm too far gone to pretend today
8/14/2018 11:31:46 AM
New to poetry

Deb Depew
Posts: 4
I really like your poem. My interpretation of the first verse was a baby in a crib, then the bloodstained hands of trying to hold your life together then the final box of a coffin. I’m also new to poetry and have submitted one poem on this forum.
8/14/2018 2:17:16 AM
excerpt from The Janie Pridgette Marshal Novels

Tony Vance Mason
Posts: 2
ecerpt from The Janie Pridgette Marshall Novels (Book One): A Pin Dropped

Written by Tony Vance Mason


“A pin dropped!” screamed Janie Pridgette Marshall as she was unbraiding her long brown hair ponytail and bun in front of the bathroom mirror. She had just turned forty five and was on her way to the grocers in town to pick out a birthday cake for her husband, but she couldn’t quite keep the mystery a secret about what sort of presents he was to receive for his birthday.
“You know,” began Janie’s favorite best friend Sarah Padgett, “There’s more use in a bobbi pin than there is a can of soda pop once in a while. Janie started to cry for some peculiar resaon and black mascara came down her face.

[fade to black]

Iris (the Asian granddaughter): Great-great gray haired Aunt Elbaline in her old fashioned wicker rocking chair in the corner where she was making homemade handkerchiefs: whispered once while arranging the white roses and the orchids in an Asian painted vase, in the midst of a tropical storm, that the wind pelt The House of White Roses quite furiously, back and forth, rocks and moans whilst the rain lasts for a few weeks; who would be there to help poor Penelope; who would help her to become a better painter when she stayed indoors because she was afraid?
Clouds burst and turned gray and so did some elderly people out of shock by all the lightning and the inspirations that, “Elba,” as Charles . . . her husband, that lived in the house next door to Margurite Sanchez liked to call her were absolutely breathtaking landscapes and seascapes.
Inside the house, when Charles first stepped in and met Marguerite was soaping up the kitchen sink and doing the beautiful hand crafted and painted dishes; and there was a living room decorated with art pieces filling up the shelves; and it was such a very old house that needed some new paint, perhaps some new drapes . . . and when Charles and Elbaline came over for Marguerite’s birthday, Elabaline prepared a salad for the three of them; that is until Henry Prose arrived in his old fashioned motorcar to the country manse.
Katherine Hollingford, an Science Professor who lived in the house that was surrounded by all sorts of trees and potted plants, because in her spare time was very much interested in botany . . . stopped what she was doing in the kitchen making fried eggs, toast, and ham and went next door on a Saturday, and found that her neighbor Mr. Prose had just won the professorship to teach French at the local college that was in town; but he refused to take it because he had told Katherine, “I prefer to stay home and write a plethora of books, and I have already earned my college degree; I just need some time off to prepare for something like that.”
A Butterfly with Wings of White sitting on a Red Rose in Elbaline’s Flower Garden through the Open Kitchen Window: “Well so it was that Mr. Henry Prose offered to prune the roses and to mow the yard, but Katherine had already hired her nephew Jake Hollingford who was in the lawn mowing business and that there was no need in any form of home repairs to be done. And surely she wouldn’t hire anyone she didn’t know outside her family or circle of closest friends unless she certainly had to?”
The next day Katherine went over to see her mother Elba who had lived out in the country on the farm estate where there was a horse farm and plenty of woods and a pond that she loved to sit by in a chair with Elba and talk about the day’s events and the sunrise and sunset and how much she adored Mr. Prose’s offerings to do her favors around the house; but suddenly something strange started to happen . . . Katherine was lifting off the ground and her clothes suddenly turned into a bridal dress and she had a veil over her head and just then as someone was lifting the bridal veil, it was Penelope and they were at the Bridal Shoppe in town and Katherine had no memory of being in a rocking chair by Elbaline’s Pond out in the country. Penelope was wearing a pink bride’s maid dress and then her dress suddenly turned also into a white bride’s maids dress and then they both walked through the front door of the Bridal Shoppe. And there the two ladies were . . . out into a cobblestone street where there was a carnival . . . and dear Mr. Henry Prose was there and he was telling Penelope he was her real father and that Penelope should marry William Martin who was a science writer and a poet: because everyone in this story was Marguerite’s birthday present (to have friends finally in life and to be happy to keep them): because when she got home they all had a sweet smelling ice cream . . . a vanilla and chocolate birthday cake . . . set for her at her house way out in the country too, and it was also Marguerite’s wedding day with Henry Prose, for they planned the whole surprise wedding through writing of letters back and forth like the tropical rainstorm, and there love had so much of a great deal of magic in it, because the characters lived on inside the mind of great gray haired Aunt Elbaline who told the tale of her friends that she believed were real when she made those delicious carrot cakes, and the recipes and the novel book she wrote The House of the White Roses up until the time when she moved north someplace. The tales she told though were beautiful enough and reminded one of even out door weddings and tea parties . . . that seemed to tell the tales of imaginary people who may or may not have ever lived there . . . but only in the dream . . . the flowering of the rocking chair inside the house that had a bouquet of blue hydrangeas left there once a year in honor of the women that lived nearby occurred. And the next special day . . . it was Elbaline that opened a blank paged large journal onboard a little wooden boat, sailing out to sea, and she was back home on the farm (actually on a swing and she didn’t fall off), and she was getting married all over again when she entered her private world of making her dreams come true. She turned the next page, and then Iris realized she had never left the farm at all . . . whispered the granddaughter.
“It was always Tuesdays, always Tuesdays and lemon water and fresh catch of the day; when the sun came out over Green Pond, Jeremy (or Mr. Plutodorium) got his full bucket’s worth or plateful of fresh fish for supper. And then we'd have French fries and sodas after our first class. And Aunt Celine, his favorite aunt who was wearing her best white dress to go out by the pond always thought of poems about the river, how it gushed through the stones; and over by the tall Willow tree there were poems waiting in the burst of the awesome breadth of imagination. That is, after we came out of the longboat . . .” said Palter Paten raking the leaves out of the yard.
"Last week I looked out of the window through the telescope; I saw the gleaming stars sparkle again, and I thought how cold it must be to be all the way out there on Pluto; I almost felt sympathy for it, and wished I could send it a flower to cheer it up; maybe even a flower in a paper cup with fertilizer so plants could take root once it got there and seeds dug themselves good into the ether (the soil)," began Great Aunt Dolores Innisham in a scratchy old voice who was sitting on the back a porch in a bench of some friend’s Georgian house in the early memory of the 1980s smelling the sweet smell of ripe corn that she was shucking from the green sheaths and dreaming of making kettle corn from it with her sisters Bethany and Quinn, on the old fashioned wood stove while we all sat around and made chocolate chip cookies in the oven as well which always came out warm and chewy.
"Well, here we are again In the Plutodorium, or the void of one leaf to another flower bud, I guess, in that same ole chemistry class in the 1980s, dreaming we were taking astronomy and studying the solar system or what to wear to class next Tuesday, wondering if prose would expand our minds,” said Bethany when she sat down next to Quinn and Dolores (all in dresses and aprons and their hair done up) . . .”
“ . . . [oh I fell out of a dream and landed in a quagmire, a scoop of the puddle I passed on my way to school this morning made me think how luckily I am to live on a planet where there's lot's to do, and to always have a library of used and new books; I wonder how first cousin Trina Martin is that lives down south is doing today; just look at this letter; Trina sent it with a white rose inside? I wonder why; is she getting remarried? She must be fast asleep under the hay stack by now on the farm all alone by herself with no one to talk to; you know she is just a lamb; oh how I love wild horses white and brown! Sort of reminds me of the following airily description, oh!] . . ,” exclaimed Clare brushing the hemline of handmade skirt that looked like an old purple and white flowered curtain [Clare was Bethany’s friend who had invited the three elderly women to stay at the home her and her husband were staying at] . . .
“Palter Paten! Look in the front row, you sir, look there’s a white butterfly on the window sill; a white butterfly, is like the roll of the sound that mends the waves and the ideas between music and poetry, and you into white buds as you stated last Thursday on break, as the cat that came to the door chased the teacher out of the classroom.”
In a vivid dream that suddenly came over Palter and elderly man at the grocery store he began dreaming of his wife running outside from a dandelion meadow, with bushels and a hatsful of white chrysanthemums, and there's more on the way, when you've made letters and conquered the delightful smell of lemon meringue pie he bought at the grocer’s while he was standing in line; and then, the dreamlike state went on as he reached for the money to pay for his groceries. There were eyes everywhere in the apple orchard, in the apple orchard (he remembered) springing down leaves in the ripening of the fruit, and the accorded wedding to be held there over the weekend; yet, what now, of the long entangled brushed leap of run-through; and Palter (which meant spiritual something or other): which seems and goeth to the heart like a fern? I would have to send Bethany to see Mr. Plutodorium, that gathered the stars as if they had been placed into a rusty tin pail: and for those who tend to plant a few bowls of irises in the backyard for his grandmother Twyla (also a mirror image of Mr. Plutodorium in the beautiful spirit): who pretends to have the beautiful qualities like a Meminsethe (or the equivalent to his great grandmother) I would have to see the royal paper of red, pink and white hearts that Mr. Plutodorium made for his unknown bride behind the house painting a wooden table filled with wax and bees: the finished way they turned into green paper sleeves and string (of woven white, and shear to the greenery of painted embroidery, as if the scene had become the lighting of an audious gala [meaning it was quite wide and extravagant once arrived in London]. And the ring dawning of an opal-star wedding ring in the center: where small flowers may grow, and yet I saw another white butterfly. And all the while the yellow one was praying for its bantering friend: a bright orange monarch landing by a stump on the old farm near the fence once Palter had crossed it’s path to meditate when he was tired of the pasture and the cows; and then at last blueberry pies were wafting in the sky as one of them turned upside down and landed square on the blanket and Palter Paten was just setting out the luncheon baskets remembering his older brother Jeremy Innisham from his tour of the Georgian manors).
“I wish they would stop their business in that old tree out there on the ole Innisham Farm where the dirt roads were once littered with plucks of lilies in their white petals thrown out of carriages. And of course there was the noisome drone of honeybees I mean; and they make me feel like the hydrangeas haven’t got enough water this afternoon even though they smell as blue as sea salt air went through their petals and I feel cordial even for a moment of smelling what I dream of the sugary biscuits with honey.
“For the waterspout that I use is not enough for all the winged-bird like angels and their likened kin of the angels’ castles where they reside; and the nymphs and dryads to think . . . pleasant about in their quandary of mermaids rolling over in the clouds and the small ponds I have traversed past, I love to remember Claude, in his paintings, they made me feel pleasant and at ease with drawing and sketching and then I was painted with oils and acrylics which smell so lovely . . . noticing, I was up in the thicket and the brilliance of tulips and white doves and owls where there is much to do, like to reap or to sew an day and the poetic night, one feels noisome to the marigolds when one writes, plucking and then higher and higher till the house is built of wood and thatch. And in the old days, I would go rushing out to the open prairies and pick the freshest daisies that smelled of their perfumes, and then perhaps a bunce or a bince (which means a lot or a few) of sunflowers and marigolds and poppies, which reminded one of afternoon tea where the aromas filled the grandmothers of crystal and decorative vases, if one were invited to an afternoon luncheon way out in the countryside spread with tablecloths and tea sets brought by the ladies,” continued Bedillia, a rich old woman (the daughter of a jewelry maker) who stopped by just to add into the conversation with Palter and his imaginary brother Jeremey just shortly after a letter came in the mailbox; Bedillia was a brunette woman and Palter loved her so, but only, as his first cousin for he wasn’t interested in her.
“It’s not fair (what the they did to us!), and judged us by the color of our skin and our human identities and culture; have you seen Annabelle today?” asked the elderly Mr. Ethan Cohen who was riding a white horse that reminded Bedilia of Palter’s unicorns when he came to the plantation down in the south and there was not much else to know about Georgia and the manses and the plantation life and the rich cultural and extravagant and luxurious life of a country nobleman or the elite homestead way back when: except for dear old Palter always that wanted to be happy, and especially, now, that he had married a Cherokee woman from the hills of South Carolina named Naomi Dove who was painting her nails a peach colour and having tortillas with beans and rice:

And like the canvas of white billowing clouds a piece of paper fell from Arlene’s hand:

Narrator: Naomi was a very honest woman and there was a lot to do in the river on the mountain side where she lived and so there was one particular gratitude of thanks to a gentleman by the roadside who had stopped to pick the freshest bouquet of weedy and blossoming or perfume of Native American scents of her favorite flowers and her beloved French books where she had kept pictures and diaries written on the back of them about her family and dried white, red, and especially yellow roses in tin cans and books all her life after she divorced her first husband. Then the sunflowers burst and a light from heaven came in; and of course they were both enraptured and were in the midst of the Antebellum weather and painted sky, and Bedillia, was suddenly became the name that Palter wanted to know all his toilsome life as a farmer: a name of on particular heavenly angel that came down out of the sky with a shield and a sword and fought off the breeze when the sword was no longer needed and turned into a jutting pebble; and Naomi Dove finally through the pebble it took she threw into the lake one evening, James Hollingrath was just a memory then. James and Naomi weren’t able to find the silver gem way out in the sunflower field, and just as she passed out into a dizzy spell, James caught her in his arms and gave her breath back to her for a few moments, until he opened her eyes and smiled and said for the first tims to his love, “Breathe my love, and rejoice for the weekend is near and I shall show you the way to my plantation where we’ll talk, of Pluto and the stars for the rest of our lives,” spoke her true beloved James on an summer eve when the sunset drifted them both away to a lovely grove in old Georgia.
edited by Tony Vance Mason on 8/14/2018
8/14/2018 2:05:11 AM
Enchanted Pondell Pondhopper

Tony Vance Mason
Posts: 2
*A book I am working on

Part One: Ms. Twilily Blooms; or The Lady that Lived Under a Tree

Book One: Trees in the Harbor of Bellsume

Along-side an old pond known as the Waterwheel Pond where the glistening pearl faerie-shells grew there sat a very old gray frog by the name of Pondell Pondhopper. He was wearing an old gray robe and atop his head he wore a wizard's hat and carried a walking stick that bore a white stone on it [it was his magical staff]; he was the oldest of all the Frogs in the Line of the Enchanted Frogs and the Frog Kingdom; his knowledge of wizardry went far back beyond the ages when the there were the birth of the original Faeries and Angels that Lived Over the Mountain of Gray Bliss. The deep grass that was 'neath his webbed feet where he wore woodden sandals were dipped into the cool Roaring River which was sparkly white and ran amid tall stones that could speak with Pondell whenever he was to use the magic from the staff that was bestowed upon him by the Enchanted Faeries of the Faerie Kingdom of Fellinore (where the faeries and some of the ancient elves lived in seceret all their magcial lives and sometims [if they were very lucky]: they could communicate with other magical or semi-magical kinfolk that lived in the countryside of the Land of Bellsume. There were pleanty of flowers in the Land of Bellsume and many of them resembled poppies, and wisteria as people might see down on the planet Ether; but in this realm there were all sorts of flowers that had magical flower-power [so to speak, for they were in their quitne'shaille mode which meant that faeries were said to have been born out of them [whereas, the angels were born out of crystals and other gemstones in the magical world of Celestia. With pepper and salt, inside a well-to-do mushroom house, a "Featherhead-woman" named Penche Wisteria-fetcha-flora said along the embankment of the Nueme Town where there were woods deeeper that the old women then lived in a planuishe environment of plimplety roses bouncing here and there awat-from the berry buschels that The Lady that Lived Under the Tree before her, knew all about . . . where Ellia brathed and lived for two short months and found and esquille-like a golden squirrel named Fea that dressed her up like some finne embroidered cloth pictogram [the embodiment of a stiicthing-form of the nuissance [that went in and out of the slip-dress she was sewing for a wall mantel piece behind glass] that was in fact delightful for the woman inside. Inside a tree where there were roots that gathered themselves along the plank of wooden ceiling. There was a tall tree in the midst of the woods where an woman lived under a tree. Inside a dustpan where there were scoops and heaps of old bits of twine and hair that the woman cut from her own head. Inside the cabinets where she kept olf broken pots, tekettles, and monies stores away for the winter, and then there were brooms and ettiquite in such a small place. Inside the place that Marlene the woman that used to live there along with her. Inside and next door where Marlene lived she swept up the old rugs and laid the foundations of a kindlier house, she knew not where toplace the silver dishes and the dolls. The slender and tidier brick-a-brack and the ancient perfected painterly dolls were inside the old glass bookcases where there were plants hung in the pots that swathed in aromas nearest the only bit of sunshine that came through a hole in the ground around the kitchen space where the woman lived, under the tree of course. Eppenvine [she wrote in her plethoric sense and gathered her tomiethel mosses and made a stew that brightened the lilies in their conjectures and felt no sense of apperatures the moment she filtered in the sun's rays by conglomerating the entwash to a nearby room down under the ground in a lit bedroom, the woman then began reciting, "Ba-swahl in the terrace of the unique fountains where the cines grew sundereth the baresh ein summer when the wilds of the trillioppes dance, causi shallumshelthe. I sing a fountain of the old nisterwithes, they dreameth and pondereth of the purplish blossoms, a vine grows north, a vine grows betwixt the blue bottle of clear glass and breaks the breakage of the eppenvine, with stale old cornbread pieces drifting in a metal dish, and linens falththuithe the straberrries light up the trees like cloud-ones do the metal rings of Nueme shail-leethe wilds of mesh-posh in the simplum carriage . . ." Fea was in a hurry to get the entire piece of the cloths done for the gnomes that lived next door in the mushroom house, a stone morwen she named it after the books her father read to her by candelebras in their oak tree that titter-tatted with peach blossoms nearbye and bye in the grass, the blamishes unseen when she ran from the rose bush, excited one of the Rose Princes jumped out and said hullo to her when the plinketty plank of the rain came down and they had nothing more to say than where was Ellia in her slippers tossing coins in the rivulet, sown and down stream by teh' cool rushing florescence of the blossoms and the white boat that laid upon the lilies floating in the painting of the water. The breakage of painting the mushroom-house was where an old man had sewn a tapestry of cats [each one, a part of a whole line of the forttunes of felines and the riches of all the china plates that were made in the dwarf homes under the trees in the midst of these woods, it began to snow and snowflake flowers came up and sprang their delightful shimmer of the peculiar houses that plopped up out of the ether [a word, referring to the soil of such a plant house known as the Vernish House of Plaquard Paints and Rosea-shells. Inside the fell-nithe portion of the largest of the paints, was a swatch and the woman that lived under the tree wanted to paint that early morning, and she had a ladder, she didn't want anyone whispering to her while she was cleaning, but the birds flew past the hole in the ceiling of the underground house anyway, and lightened up her spirits of beauty anhow. The pink-plaquard shells, the drip of the old faucet under the tree root, and the blancmange she was serving to the two dwarves that came down the stairs into the living room were quite surprised that day. Fea had a vision. She dreamt all night that the night-slippers she wore tuned silver. The slippers had been made by an enchanted fairy, and the cupboard where she had accidentally put them in the dream by another elf that thought it was very clever of her to do so. Down the hole where there was a broom, that was likewise flempt up gainst an old wall in the closet that was adjacent to the kitchen Ellia began to boast to her guest about the velnishe lamp that was tilted to oneside and made of white eggshells, and so she gathered her skirts about her and made it to the closet where the broom was kept, and her heels went "clickety- clack" along the old floors of the room, and she went dusting about until she found a bottle of spray perfume that she placed inside her white frilled skirt pocket and made it back up the stairs to the living room where she haad left her guests. Fea knew not where the old red clay pot stood, with a little bit of faerie dust so shae named it like the book she had read about old wizard spells, and the folklore of the angels as well as some of her line of family friends that were elves. "Aegio Purnell, a versh-mosh?" asked the winab that was a small animal with blue fur that was hopping through the forrest and said hullo to the woman that lived under the tree; it sort of resembled a rabbit, with a bouncy fluffy little tale and it was very glad to see that the woman was having dwarves over for a cup of tea, and a little of parlettle, "Ecusame, noi vernish ketsuittle; have you heard of The White Feathertree Book?" There is such an essence of the wildflowers in th ewindowsill and about my abode, I have always wondered of that famous twiboat ride between the girl frog Petil and Prince Etheryl? Nur-lesh-there is something wonderful about doing a rain dance in the weeds, old Pondell taught me how to make the most perfect dance with his hollow reeds and make a semblence of things in my paintings, like orbs and stuff. The purplish lilacs were coming out of the ground. The woman that lived under a flower was ringing a fosforecent belle-de-blume-blanc that was displayed in the over head basket outside the hhouse and the woman and the dwarves finished thier spots of tea and rose out of the ground from the ladder and as the woman poked her head out of the ground there was a sudden wind that misted and fogged around her head and she was "Mrs. Twilily. Her hair sprouted with lilies growing out of her head and nearbye through the fog she saw that Ms. Peaseblosoom was running with a basket of eggs. Ms. Nealy Rose Petals who had roses [red, and sometims white was ploshing through the garden in slick-clak galoshes the shade of yellow because there was a rain that came down suddenly and the rose petals atop her head were drenched with peckles of rainwater. A rake and a twowel appeared outside the Home Under the Tree where Ms. Twiily was at [because of course whe was a Flower-head-woman, amongst her friends that lived in the world of Enchanting. Flowerheads, and Featherheads, of course, were like sprouting burgeons, and they knew exactly what they snipped from the rose gardens and the extreme plastic-flowers that grew alongside the embankment, as begun in this book and history of the Feather-head and Flower-head women; they were similiar to dryads only they wer good faeries of that sort, and beauty; the larlack-winged sprout woman sat in the tree nearest Ms. Peasblosom's House of Peach Flowers and opened the door to let some of the children mice out of the cellar where they had an abode as well, under a wyle [which, of course was the pleasant Doorkeeper of the World of Enchanting [in those days, when the faerie lore was just beginning in that side of the woods." Epscalome, in the varish heights og'em, the light flutters to a simme, the light gathers and brings the shar-vatum orchards of peaseblosoom flowers and their likelihood of their memzmorizing gaze toward the white mountains when they are [have been, risen] in the old ways the gazing flower face rose when the rose was at its full height og'em of the wild twilacs and the hydrangea blooms. The gastiliomes hiding in the buds brough a new sign by the old pond where Pondell Pondhopper was skinning a hollow reed and carving it to make a flute; the next day he ran into Ms. Nealy Rose Petals, and asked her for a buschel of rose-whites from the garden she was tending. In a world where there was light, there were also shadows, and Ms. Twilily knew of that. She knew that the old frog Pondell was one of her closest friends. There was a lady with a vacuum cleaner and a woman with a spray can full of rosebuds. She knew not wither the flower would turn still, or meander down the dirt road until she came across old Twickhamshire. There were other "Mounds" in those days, other doors that in and down and through the abodes of the liklihood that one might meet a gnome. Ms. Peaseblossom with her head full of sprightly peases, knew not where the garden shed grew about the adornment of the Pelicure House that was down the Road of Aesundille. Teals and trills was the fashion of sorts, that Old Agio Purnell had placed beside the Frolsome Avenues where there were places of signs and doors that led to other weerlds. There was a White Mound, where featheres blossomed and grew out of the meshce and found it's guardians filled with sprightly faeries and angel statues made by the Old Pondell Pondhopper himself in elder days when the grammar was a flailleing-superior heart and there were oldsome branches of ne'er forgotten wailthes.
8/12/2018 2:49:34 PM
Please Critique Without a Filter :)

Via B. Real
Posts: 1
Girl, Love, Yourself


You've come so far and passed so many troublesome tests. Those who know your testimony can attest and one day you'll share it with the rest. Continue to be yourself, continue to grow, and continue to live by your heart. Block out negative thinkers and naysayers and stay on your path of purpose. Be smart. The real will recognize your efforts and those who are not meant will slowly fade away... stay true to what matters, keep your heart open and pray well wishes even for those who don't wish you well or mention your name when they pray. Pure hearts will attract other pure hearts which will, in turn, surround you with loyalty. You, just wait and see. Remember sweet child of God... this is all apart of your destiny.


8/11/2018 1:37:11 PM
My first real poem.... any suggestions?

Deb Depew
Posts: 4

Was it real....was it beautiful
Did you think it would be alright?
Was it real, was it beautiful....
Or were you just reflecting my light?

In a world full of stress and sadness,
Where every day is a fight.
You were my isle of serenity,
I tried with all of my might...
To look beyond the exterior,
To the soul I saw within...
I saw You as my person....My lover,
My soul mate, my friend.

All the times that you said that you loved me,
All the times that it seemed so right....
I sit and I think and I wonder...
Were you just reflecting my light?

You took my heart and you trashed it,
Like it didn’t mean a thing.
You took my love like you earned it...
You even accepted my ring.
The life we were making together
Was all that I had to give.
The life that you said that you wanted....
The way that you wanted to live.

Looking now at the wreckage....
Of what should have been a beautiful life....
I sit and I think and I wonder ....
Were you just reflecting my light?

I’ve never seen the reflection of what others
See in me. I’m my own worst critic...
How Can I set myself free? To cut the chains
That bind me, to finally gain the sight.....
To see the beauty within myself and
Learn To love my light.

Was it real....was it beautiful
Did you think it would be alright?
Was it real, was it beautiful....
Or were you just reflecting my light?
8/11/2018 1:26:45 PM
New to Poetry Soup and to poetry

Deb Depew
Posts: 4
Hi I’m Debbie. NEw to poetry. Posted one poem here so far. I live at the beach and am a retired photographer.
8/11/2018 7:07:09 AM
In need of critique!

Gabrielle Jordan
Posts: 1
i live inside my mothers


learning to un-breath
standing still in time

with the defiant smile
of a dying old seaman
as he takes his last dive

in the middle of the night
lying on the floor gasping for air
that finds pleasure in her struggle

just want to breath

just don't want to die

i live inside my mothers


now locked in a jeweled mosaic box
swirling in cradled cobwebs in the air

daffodils swaying
to harmonicas playing

along a pristine path
leading down a lifeless street

birds flutter overhead
but they fly not
caged from birth

babies dream as mothers wean
with just a soft hint of
soy milk and Chanel #19

toxic melodies
exhale their sorrows
into bulging white nimbus clouds

rain drops scurrying home on the strada
clad in black rubber boots
evading the sun
under large grey worthless umbrellas

toddlers bathing under moon rays
sprinkled in talcum powder
wearing stiletto booties
waiting for milk
that will not come in their mothers fairytale

i live inside my mothers


just a hint of glow only seen

at Sunday Sunrise

it shreds my heart to settle on those vanished eyes

un-panicked irony of the stow away thief

strolling freely on the titanic

the cold black water crashing against the steel beams of the

Brooklyn Bridge

the hurried barren sound

of wet high heels

striking concrete pavement

the quiet swish of a nylon slip

as it fights the skirt to keep up pace

almost there

almost safe



broke her

and now



get to love

any pieces

that I can still find

i live inside my mothers


i gaze at my own child

i gesture

go inside

close the life

be quiet

be careful

or something will happen

i know better


i live inside my mother
8/10/2018 5:38:34 PM

Bob Atkinson
Posts: 229
Poetry, "the emotional content of literature" Prose, "the factual content of literature",

OK, where's the emotion? Merely observation doesn't get it, poetry is the emotional reaction to observation, or facts, not those observations or facts. It's how we react to things, not the things themselves that makes poetry poetry.
8/9/2018 11:39:33 PM

James Ostrander
Posts: 1
The needfor understanding is at hand
Uncertaintyrevels in the mind unplanned
Searchingthrough the past for moments
Unknowinglyhaving it all omniscience

Through thejoy and heartaches one withstood
An undyinglove that is known to the brotherhood
Neverquestioned did I assume your role
By my sidethrough all, you helped console

In thedarkest of hours, we were tested
With bitterangst we, I, rejected
Ending alifetime of bonding and memories
Through asimple conversation of apparent ease

With a newfoundpurpose and willingness to feel
An apologywas only the formality of what was surreal
Never didanyone falter from the true purify
Again, onewill never need to know why
8/6/2018 11:53:24 AM
Hey there

Curtis Moorman
Posts: 8
Leah, I will read some of your poems and help you become acquainted with some great members of Soup. There are numerous people willing to assist budding poets. You'll discover this as time goes by. Best wishes!
8/6/2018 11:51:07 AM
Hey there

Curtis Moorman
Posts: 8
leahkareem wrote:
Hi, my name's Leah.

So I joined this thing today because I stumbled across a Poetry Soup page.

I'm a Sophomore In high school and have been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. By the age of eight I decided I was going to be the next teen pop star. Taylor swift was my idol. Unfortunately, I soon found out I was absolutely horrible at singing. I mean, horrible. So I started writing songs. I became increasingly frustrated when I realized I couldn't even sing the songs I wrote so I began simply reading them aloud. Songs turned to poems and here I am today.

I'm not amazing at writing poetry but it brings me great happiness, which is equally important...right? Anyway, I'm pretty much the average Teenager. I play soccer, run track, am the President of my Grade, along with other attributes of the modern High schooler in the United States. I'm half afghan, a quarter Moroccan, and a quarter Salvadorian. Technically, the definition of diverse. I live with my mother and aunt in a small home in a city not far from Washington D.C. My father is no longer in our lives due to his neglect and abuse of my mother and I Yes, sad, but it definitely helps inspire my poetry.

I'm new to the site and have no idea how this thing really works but it seems pretty cool. I can't wait to read other people's poetry
8/1/2018 6:25:57 AM
Here are my books because I suck at marketing!

Gayle Rodd
Posts: 27
Thank you for your interest in my books. Feel free to visit amazon or lulu for a look and brief description of each:
Mari' Emeraude.com

Crack in the Mirror

Your Face Will Freeze Like That and other stuff mom told us

The Chatty Chameleon

Even God Hates Spinach

Tangerine Sky
edited by Mari' on 8/1/2018
8/1/2018 5:52:57 AM
New to Poetry Soup

Heni Stein
Posts: 1
Hi fellow writers!

I am new here and do not have time to check in too often but I posted some poems I wrote last year and received some kind comments. - thank you!

Is it okay to mention a poetry book I wrote and self-published? If so, if you liked my poetry on Poetry Soup, you will like 'Side by Side' written by my then 12-year old neighbor and me. It is on Amazon under the name Henia Stein. If you buy it, please comment here on my poetry inside. I think you will find it a fun and poignant read.

I look forward to reading your poetry!
edited by henis on 8/1/2018
edited by henis on 8/1/2018
7/31/2018 1:54:50 PM

J P Marmaro
Posts: 5
Hi there: nice little poem. Second line should read "used to be me"; the main problem is with line 4, which is just wrong grammatically. I infer your meaning is "praying to see me again", and you clearly want to rhyme with "me" in line 2. But I see no way of fitting this exact meaning in and still rhyming and scanning. "Praying I'll see"? "Again may I see"? or some other rhyme entirely-- be, free, flee, glee, agree, plea, sea, we... all might suggest a reworking.

As for punctuation, suggestions may be:

Searching for Someone
Who used to be me:
Exploring the mirror,
Praying me again see.

Where is that Someone
Still searching for the way
To gain peace of mind
And joy in each day?

Know God created
The heavens and the earth;
Made in his image --
Might, “Someone”, have worth?

Well done!

JP Marmaro
7/30/2018 11:01:36 AM

J P Marmaro
Posts: 5
An excellent poem: I too have bewailed the prevalence of decadence, depravity, egoistic selfishness, and crass pursuit of pleasure -- to the exclusion of all else-- which seems to be rampant nowadays.

A few minor technical notes: I think the poem would benefit from some more judicious punctuation; something like:

As the bindings of morality
Become looser every day, [not "everyday" which is an adjective]
Every adult, every youngster
Is seduced to have his way.
Inhibitions once had merits:
The lack of them was to one’s cost.
But the change of times now teaches
That those virtues are best lost. ("Best lost"? Perhaps something like "may be tossed" would say it more clearly...)
As we watch how mores and cultures
Overwhelmingly decline,
One should actually start to wonder:
’How has this affected mine?’
For a human without culture,
Without values, without belief,
Keeps on living with abandon--
All he’ll reap is woe and grief.
Though the harvest of this fruitage
Gives good reason to repent,
Still a virtuous opinion
Will most certainly offend. [Repent/offend: not a very acceptable "rhyme", I fear...)
For all evil now gives pleasure--
Who would dare to make it stop?
We're like greedy children sucking

On a poisoned lollipop. [Striking image!]
And the damage is so obvious,
But we cowardly ignore:
For we revel in excesses,
And we keep on craving more.

Anyway! I hope this is helpful... and again, an excellent poem.

Thanks, J P Marmaro

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