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Poetry, more so than most kinds of writing, gives insight into the writer’s soul. These are words that flow from the innermost being of the writer — developing thoughts, feelings, emotions, memories, and mental images into verse.

Poetry needn’t be practical or logical like a story or thesis. It doesn’t have to be stated in complete sentences, and can fluidly flow from concept to concept. The joy of poetry is in the writing (or just thinking), as well as in the reading and reciting of it. Poetry can be very private or it can be shared publicly.

Here are some favorite verses by Pinkie Paranya. We invite you to read them with an air of reverence for the soul, that special inner sanctum, that she hereby shares with you.

Another page of poetry is here.

Yet more poetry is here.

And another here.



Live your life expectantly
each day a Cracker Jack surprise.
Treasure all the smallest joys
—anticipate your prize.

Live life joyously.
Don’t let people know
what they should expect of you.
Hens also need to crow.

Sometimes swim against the tide,
don’t travel with the herd
nor neglect your darkest corners
but go free and easy, like a bird.

Never step on another’s spirit
nor let anyone step on yours.
Be free and giving, gentle and loving.
Keep your center in reserve.

Don’t wear blinders, yet find some good
in everything you do.
If I could order the best of life,
this is what I’d want for you.



A home is a castle or so someone said.
In my Queendom I’m first in command.
I make rules for my subjects to follow
And I rule with an iron hand.

My dogs are at home in a fenced yard
They bark at the drop of a hat.
I forbid them and yell, they look rather shamed
But bark even louder at that.

My cats roam freely and allow me to buy
food they may actually eat.
They know my rules to come home at dark.
Sometimes they manage that feat.

In obedience training, my dog came in last
She’s gentle and sweet but quite willful.
I’ve learned to open the door when she rings the bells
Don’t you think that’s quite skillful?

I’m Queen of the land, in my fenced in yard,
My dominion—love tempered with hassles. Someday I may outsmart all these critters, who knows?
That’s why I’m at home in my castle.



There are lots of things that I will do
to fit within society
and maintain my propriety.
I’ll cook and bake and stew.

But one thing that I can’t abide
Is the day that follows Sunday
I’ve always known that one day
Is a phobia I can’t hide.

Washday Monday, School on Monday
Work on Monday, it’s so true
There’s no other day so blue,
They should have called it Dumbday.

What if we just had six days
to make an entire week
would it only make us seek
to find Monday in other ways?

Would Tuesday then be Monday?
Would that seem a total freak
to turnabout our week
To have an early Sunday?

All because I don’t do Mondays.



I confess to needing heroes
though admit it isn’t cool.
Sports and politics are out,
they make us look like fools.

The best heroes are dead ones;
fixed in time and space;
conforming to expectations
lends a certain grace.

The majesty of prose with
the wizardry of words,
My heroes are all writers
who dote on nouns and verbs.

I do have one small problem
to battle night and day.
Is Thomas Wolfe my prototype
or the Spartan Hemingway?


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