When it came to iambic pentameter
Alexander Pope was no dumb amateur.
In his strict use of it he achieved a skill
often with a monotonous overkill –
a danger every poet should not commit
unless he likes his thoughts in a straitjacket,
and the flow so turgid and mechanical
the line will cease to sound natural –
more strident, unmellifluous and harsh
like a stomping, goose-stepping march.
Now here’s a fast and easy suggestion
to unclog a line’s bumpy congestion
which Pope and other poets used to great
effect when they deemed it appropriate :
they added an extra syllable or stress
which opened it and gave it smoothness.
These little extras acted like a breach
and made the line read like spoken speech.
It may not work even with a first try
and take it from me, it’s not a lie.
In fact, you may require a new line or couplet
to be rewritten with a little extra sweat.
But, hey, think back to when you started writing
how many drafts required no editing?
they arrived not in one car, bringing three
overkill I thought, a scare tactic
the entire neighborhood was watching
behind flimsy curtains, peeking between blinds
who was it going to be?
most of us had at least one relative who could be taken
I held my breath as they headed toward my house.
Was it Uncle Jesus? I let my breath go as they passed me.
No. Not Mrs. Rodreguez. She has three children in school.
And their father has been long gone.
We neighbors watched as they escorted her down the block.
She was sobbing.
We were all sobbing, silently.
Which one of us would take care of her children?
The neighbor on the other side of me caught my eyes.
We had never met before this day.
But I knew at this moment we were in this together.
We would take care of the children.
A lie that is coloured white
A lie that make things seem all right.
A lie that leaves you asking why
Discovering those lies that made you cry.
Lies exposed, were meant as a joke
The lies that many hearts have broke.
Lies to conceal a secret love affair
The liars lie, is the truth they swear.
Scheming lies to scam for money
Lies told that were deemed as funny.
Lies can relate to anything
But often it's pain it tends to bring.
That little white lie that Santa is real
Habitual liars in overkill.
A lie told in kindness to comfort or protect
When a lie is discovered what's the affect?
A good liar will hide it well
Blinds you under their misleading spell.
The question is, why do we lie at all?
Whether they are big, white or small.
Harmless lies are weaved in white
Cunning lies are black as night.
A lie means intention to deceive
Is it good or bad what a lie tries to achieve?
So many murders it's overkill
but no one cares on Capitol Hill
and some are less concerned
it seems to me
with the killing of the living
(whose taxes pay the wages of sin)
to each U.S. Supreme Court employee
than that of the unborn
or perhaps I should be more forgiving
tho' lives are broken they remain unspoken
on the Washington White House South Lawn
but when someone says,
'Guns don't kill people, people do,'
it drives me to vexation
as I've never heard someone died
of a drive-by strangulation
Have you?
Yesteryear cannot deny
memories soft as lullabies
Dreams and wishes began to fade
as tomorrow overtakes yesterday
Wiser maybe foolish still
stubbornness strengthens will
Love and loss of life's way
haunts the stillness of today
Bitterness of overkill
sweetness of exciting thrills
Words spoken in haste
love lost never replaced
I see your face in places been
idle day dreams of us when
Selfish hateful me you taunt
as I pleaded was you I want
Gone from me you tore away
I knew you would not stay
the days grow short nights long
was loving you so, ever wrong
Found others to replace the need
but I looked in them for you to see
No matter how good they were to me
all my love was to deceive
The snow is falling winds are brisk
I walk alone in winters mist
Cold I feel as cold is my heart
yesteryear of you will not depart.
It was as real as you see,
Actions painted by places and fleeting allusions.
Over time, overkill, over the top
Can you feel my will?
Look me in the eyes as I take you,
To that secret place where I can be with you,
And you make me feel like you.
Wrap me in your arms.
Life is not linear, nor straight-edged.
I lift my eyes to the coming of one,
I lower my tone to calm our bond.
when off my meds i lose my way ~ i never use them it’s all hearsay
here’s a placebo script for sham poets ~ typed AI doc straight away
oh there is one niggling side effect ~ it attacks good blogs everyday
By David Kavanagh
her need to conform us was overkill
we could not be persuaded
left her presence in droves
Storm gathers her minions, trains her army,
I watch from my window, thinking of smoke
She is unusually puffy and billowy, personable
Determined and distinguished, I feel fearful
Storm continues to bring in troops
I think it is overkill, but what do I know?
I have never been a commander of an element
I sit back and wait, worried about the possibilities.
Where do you go
Someone asked me so
if the people you love
See you as a curse from above
And they
Or so they say
don't want you to succeed
Youd be there in word and deed
Where do you go
if your are no longer
a fillment to a need
But a problem, in the way
Or on rocky turf the seed do'th lay
What is left if the space you fill
is overkill
What's the meaning
if you no longer a purpose fulfill
Storm gathers her minions, trains her army,
I watch from my window, thinking of smoke
She is unusually puffy and billowy, personable
Determined and distinguished, I feel fearful
Storm continues to bring in troops
I think it is overkill, but what do I know?
I have never been a commander of an element
I sit back and wait, worried about the possibilities.
Identity crisis
1 word has tit in it
Overall it does make you feel like a tit
Att the decisions
Who are you
Identity crisis
No matter how I spell it or shout it or whisper it or talk to someone about it
Noone listens
“Your not gay you like a boy”
“Are you a girl again”
“Are you straight again”
“Once I break up with you will become gay again
Switch it on or whatever you do”
“Who are you”
Identity crisis
Sometimes crisis feels like overkill
A mountain out of a molehill
Much ado about nothing and making a song and dance about nothing
Now that's irony
You may not feel it but your constantly questioning
Who are you
Identity crisis
Makes you feel alienated
You
You have to go through this whilst everyone else doesn't
No one can relate
I don't know who I am
Help
Shame, blame, love, longing in the air,
they mix play tricks on me it’s not fair;
Pulling my mind when it’s time to chill,
this juggling act is sometimes overkill;
Throwing faster than to a slow crawl
just then here come’s another ball;
Broad balancing display showcases
a new routine where moods trade places;
I’m spinning inside but still I stand
sifting through words til I find my brand;
An enduring game of toss and catch,
old feelings leave behind a new batch.
Lilly was dissatisfied with her beautiful living room.
She added embroidered pillows.
Two or three were lovely, sixteen was overkill, but we kept silent.
Another friend got a plaid couch.
Lilly threw out her new couch and got a plaid couch.
It looked weird with all of those pillows, but we kept our counsel.
Marge tried to tell her that the room had looked great before.
Lilly was busy trying to make her living room over in paisley now.
Apparently paisley is the new “in design” in the neighborhood.
She ended up with paisley, plaid, posies, and other playful patterns.
None that matched.
This combination made her living room look flea market-like.
The pillows were gone now, for they are "out".
Lily is striving for the perfect room, which no one has ever seen.
Her living room was almost there, until she added those pillows.
Spare me the agonizing of disaffected trolls
Who find nothing of substance worthy of note,
Desperately seeking a modicum of control
Their unconcealed nastiness a matter of rote.
Have they nothing better to do with their time
Than to criticize the successes of legitimate poets
Who, themselves, have difficulty making a rhyme,
But coming up with a dig, they promptly throw it.
Let’s preserve Poetry Soup from this pitiful type
Who comes here only to stir and create turmoil,
Making sure not to give them impetus or hype
In another place may they find more welcome soil.
Doing all we can to maintain peace and goodwill
Let’s keep Poetry Soup free of fractious voices,
Being careful not to engage in avoidable overkill,
But never failing to silence disconcerting noises.
Written May 17, 2022
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