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Sonnet Places Poems | Sonnet Poems About Places

These Sonnet Places poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Places. These are the best examples of Sonnet Places poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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A Contest Win of Friendship

A fledgling poet round two thousand three, I found some friends who mentored me; they led me to a site called Shadow Poetry. By mental challenges there, I was fed. I learned to better write according to specific forms or themes, and I was thrilled by all the many things that would ensue the more time there I spent; I was fulfilled! The annual big contest, Shadow Ink, gave not just money, but a chapbook deal. I paid to enter it and did not think I stood a chance. How good I soon would feel! My best friend and I tied. We HAD to call our chapbook “Friendship Garden.” That said it all! Note: Shadowpoetry.com was not able to be maintained as an interactive poetry community and after several wonderful years, the owner had to pull out. All our chapbooks were removed from the bookstore and the contests are no longer done. Today it is a website for writers' development only.


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Springing Sea of Green

I love it when Spring finally comes The buds showing their little sprouts Yes indeed from this seasons of four I'm awake many sleeping plants shout I love it when I walk through the parks When these buds turn to a sea of green Forgotten are the plants being so stark This birthing season just has to be seen I love it when I sit on the park benches When the breeze caresses Sakura trees The airs scented by their pinky blossoms Mother nature and man in total agree When I retire I'll grow a green thumb for I love it when Spring finally comes


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HEROES

Near somber guards, units of children heap 
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.

Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, 
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.

Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.

You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
 I see heroes and their lines of fire.









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Fresh Pillow (Kyrielle Sonnet)

At night I lay my soul to sleep,
Closing my eyes there is no peep,
This soft bed is just so mellow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.

Forgetting the stress of the day
I am in bed without delay.
Soul at ease— the mind must follow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.

Satin sheets over my shoulder,
Keep me warm—not getting colder.
Fantasy dreams I now billow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.

At night I lay my soul to sleep,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.


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WORD ON THE STREET, 2009



Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners

wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze

on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers 

and chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays

his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;

Its forthright weave petitions for slants,

favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,

sees no need for illustration, just verdant

language. I did not intend to read

over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,

tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,

he praises and I still my chatter. We feed

on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs

a verbose woman and a man of his word.






*For David, a wonderful man, a devoted husband,
a loving and dedicated father. We know him here
as a poet who encourages, shares of himself freely,
and gives such solid advice. 

He is a poet who does not waste words, 
nor mince them. but he does send them out,
like lifeboats, when he spots chums in need.

Think the world of you, David.

I kidnapped David with a time machine.
The Word on the Street is a bookfair which
was held in Victoria park but is now held
downtown. SIGH. It was much nicer in the park,
early September. The squirrels would natter
from the trees, geese would fly by, low, aiming
for the pond

BLOG TO FOLLOW SOON


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DIVINE STEEPLES

She lets me put violets in her hair,
good-humouredly, calls me Ophelia
in such a way that I spout, But Shakespeare
pushed war, not love. Resplendent, Thalia

strolls the peaceful paths of Victoria Park,
taken with the interplay of people,
the signs of change, bridges like love at work;
Often, her hands become divine steeples

of calm prayer. Yet there is imminence 
heard in fervencies, a tremendous will
wrought with words of truth and tolerance 
that dare to preserve all that is spiritual.

Three share our views in comfortable silence,
Me, hope and a Goddess of Non-Violence. 
 





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TRUE NORTH


Loons sulk. Their search for meaning
sends us to sleep. Woods hold stillness.
As I dream of winds, ardent pines lean
towards waves, sooth brokenness.
Morning pulls us; from our tent we crawl,
hailed by daybreak, greeted by mist.
While coffee perks on the campfire, I’ll
shoulder your shoulder, find your kiss
is as smoky as the breakfast you fry. 
Later, we explore the mossy woodlands, 
stray from the path, surrender to sighs 
shading the forest floor, under a span
of birch. Night falls, winks to wet lovers
who roll in stars, rock moonlit waters.  





About this poem

This is a modern sonnet. It uses off rhyme, unusual punctuation placement and contains plenty of enjambment that extends past the usual insular quatrains. 

Killbear park is a provincial park in Ontario. Its sites are quite... private ;-)


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SUMMERLAND

A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River

is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside 
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.

Though cozy the spot,  the world is at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. 

They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.











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San Francisco Fete - Co-authored with Thvia Shetley

Cornices, and Gargoyles with eyes turned low,
hold fast the passing in a frozen stare
as slow vapor rising from vents below
is churned by soles into thick city air.
 
Undeterred, the well-heeled leather bottom
wingtips fly past sandaled sloths at crosswalks
while clicking heels kick dead leaves of autumn
and wind their way through crowded city blocks.
 
Just above a breezy sidewalk café,
sheer fabric wafts a low-loft window sill,
two pair of empty vamps and laces lay,
removed in shameless haste and lustful will.
 
Beneath the sheets, a naked feet affair,
entwined, aligned, with dreamy souls laid bare.


Michael F. Lewis and Thvia Shetley
3/6/2013


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Fading Dream

I’ve loved her dearly since my childhood days
Watching her subtle movements under the sun’s hot rays
She was sheer beauty when calm and warm
And magnificent in the eye of the storm

She lured me with her magic charms
To far away places and a woman’s arms
To mysterious places and exotic sights
Under the Southern Cross, romantic nights

She reached inside me and touched my soul
She took my life and made it whole
The longing for her, my heart retained
A fading dream is what remained

I still dream of sailing her waters once more
As I stand alone along her shore.


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Just Dreaming

Walk along the shore with me and let me see you smile
Close your eyes and visualize a romantic tropical isle
Palm trees and a summer breeze, sunshine overhead
Conversation with only our eyes, nothing being said

A secluded beach just out of reach, the surf the only sound
Two hearts one in the summer sun, a blanket on the ground
A sailboat dancing on the horizon, sun is going down
Tropical evening, harbor lights, as we walk back to town

Was it real or was I just dreaming as we walk along
And as we walk, the ocean singing her enchanting song
Feel the sand between our toes and taste the salty air
A falling star streaks across the sky going God knows where

You touch my heart and my soul in this island Paradise
The reflection of the Southern Cross in your loving eyes


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On Maydays Day

I turn to my girl highlighting Mayday is near A day of spectacle that the whole village views There's Jesters of folly and Knights without fear Witnessing lances and jokes, always going askew To view such we can venture along different ways We can stroll by the river listening to many sounds In awe as we walk amidst most wondrous displays That on any given day beautiful vistas abound Decisions, decisions, as we contemplate which way It's such a special day wondering what to wear Beauty personified will my Olive be on this day Knights or Royal Princes, all they can do is stare So tomorrow we've decided to be our chosen route Two hearts in decision, declaring what's their suit <*> Mayday morn now greets as I turn next to me She my guiding light as beautiful as the dawn Excitement illuminates for into her eyes I see Onto my back I lie, that feel she's now upon Into this day we go heading along the river Crystal clear translucent such serenity in it's flow Under greened canopies cooled shaded deliver Wafting leaved dress in delightful fanned throw We sense the clearings near for scents we sense Sporadic clusters in capture of welcoming eyes Mayday games have started, distant heard suspense Knights on horseback mounted, now in espy Now we're in amidst encapsulated we now are She's here to cheer, her Sir James, soon to spar <*> Balcony she now awaits, white steed he's now astride Blinkered pairings gallop towards intended foe To win this Mayday he, to fight for her his bride Eliminate his enemy, witness his crimson flow His lance in now connect, thrown metal disperses Petals of beauty hurled of rainbows selected Images of we, now thinking marital rehearses To know on this day, her intended she's elected Moments of their previous now in recent past Knowing they're now free in kaleidoscopic stream Spectrum of feelings now in view full cast In colourful extremes, fight for your dreams .


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River Laps Softly

River Laps Softly

The ripples of water lap river's edge
 quietly I sit, a man seeking love
The orange twilight stirs my lonely soul
 nearby, lonely call of a single dove

Sweetest place roaring river moans and churns
 fish splashing about in a soft replay
Continuance as the world slowly turns
 colors splash endings to wonderful day

The smell is that of fish , water and mud
 cool air spreading its greatest soft relief
Comfort gives to stop anger in my blood
 as Nature gifts a most calming belief

Soon its quiet , knowledge enters my soul
Victory came because I made it so

Robert J. Lindley, 08-08-2014

Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:  10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10  
Total # Syllables:  140  
Total # Lines:  17  (Including empty lines)  
 Total # Words:  101  


Contest results....
Sonnet

Entered in the contest, Any poem under 15 lines, Poet Destroyer


First Place


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MUSE


Sunset. Synergy is moving between chairs
that don't quite match, widening tight circles   
of rovers. Muses Cafe, a small cove where
views internalize, so we heave heavy troubles

outside. Minstrel Mary Anne Epp shelters 
songs about happenstance .When a server drops
a plate, she ad libs, Save cracks for later.
Heads nod to her witty vibes, bite-sized bops.

Inspiration strums as parlance sighs, Good grief,              
my journal's at home.  You say, All's fine.
but your purse offers only ONE loose leaf,
curiously room enough for TWO to lay lines.

Pens groove. Friend, you prove that poets can wage
self-determined verse while on the same page.







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THE WIT OF ROSE


Fantastically, verse decrees: Yee scribe, share.
I take its council; I'm no longer alone
as I go back, back, to the Medieval Faire
with a modern Mystic who grins at thrones,
melts frosty cones. All that is lovely glitters
about her, in word, deed and spark of eye.
We joist in play, make mirth, and twitters
fly from two lost in the far of by and by.
Yah, we toy with dreams and dismiss regret,
for a Rose hath outwitted Robin of Hood,
and brave lady-knights join prancing pirates
with nary a query whether they should. 
Modestly, she places the arrow in bow,
takes aims for a heart, then sets it aglow. 





*For our own and only Mystic Rose, who write from the heart and for the heart.

Love ya! 


(One day we must do lunch! Perhaps, meet at the A.G.O. and write side by side...;D



http://www.uwimprint.ca/article/827-knights-pirates-and-faeries-at-waterloo

https://www.facebook.com/royalmedievalfaire



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ONE TWO ONE

                                                    
                                                    PHIDELLIA'S TEAHOUSE AND ANTIQUES

                                                    121 Peel St
                                                    10 a.m. to 8 p.m. daily
                                                     



    _________________________



There, you're here, but it was inevitable  
that we would rewrite the plan. Loose leaf tea
has such allure, pulling us from our table
at Phidellia's. Those shelves are as giddy

as girls, all dolled up and flaunting cups. Blends
pester affectionately, brood like sisters
seeking attention. You sniff jars, find a friend
in Sweet Almond, but a look almost lists  

for I've dwelled overly long on Alcott 
and we haven't yet touched on Millay, Sapho
or Bronte! Two a-mused by more than pots.
"You see haiku. Well, I see Meg and Jo-"

"-Love, Et Cetera," You tease, such soft praxis,
so I kiss those cheeks with tender ekphrasis.







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TARTANS



There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses 
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed

end over end. Then, across the glen, highland                      
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins

in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. 
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull

heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin and let wee thistles bloom. 








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CHANTRY


Faithfully returning to Chantry Isle-
Though just in deep reflection-I cross the lake
with a stowaway wickie* who brightly smiles.
The boat, Our Lady, barely makes a wake.
We lean into the wind, drawing nearer  
to Great Egrets crowning one weathered tree
on the sanctuary. So white the birds are,
as white as the limestone lighthouse. We  
step onto a shore, approach the tower
and enter. I'd forgotten how reverent
even lamps, companions to lonely hours,
bless those watchers for beacons are God-sent.
Later, a found feather is clasped like a quill,                  
its keeper whispers, See?  There be angels!



*A wickie is a slang term for a lighthouse keeper as they were ever trimming 
lamp wicks.

This poem is for an angel of Soup, Gail, who I've long called our Lighthouse. 

I know she loves them, too, so I hope she likes this.

Chantry is a small island just off the shores of Southampton, Ontario with a 
meticulously restored lighthouse and tower. The Island is also a bird sanctuary, known 
hfr its Great Egrets. I long ago toured this gem of the Great Lakes and fell madly in love with its tranquility, but there was also great loneliness in its isolation from the mainland.  

http://www.chantryisland.com/gallery.php



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Silver Strands




Silver Strands Woven in Gold ~~~~ Beneath the earth in the vale of the kings For countless years undiscovered, unseen In an old leather bag bound with brass rings A necklet so rare, ‘twas fit for a queen This beautiful piece with deep lustrous shine In beaten red gold and fine silver strands A stunning linked chain of complex design Depicting the skill of artistic hands From where had it come, to whom would belong? A Queen, or princess of elegant grace? Whose story was writ in the poet’s song Sung by the slave girls in this ancient place A priceless treasure found under the sands A link to the past in fine silver strands


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THE BREEZE OF BELIZE


                           





A nightjar’s sharp call can barely be heard,

T hough the breeze of Belize carries soft sounds,

R omance heats the white sands, whispers warm words,

O ceanids hide in waves, but stars abound.

P aradise enchants with sweeping moonlight, 

I feel its magic, its allure enslaves, 

C alypso drums pound sparks, my hips ignite, 

A nd far down the long beach, revelers wave.

L overs and loners make tracks in the sand,

D reamers and drifters walk the Oceanside,

R elaxing tight thoughts as their hearts expand,

E  ven solitude feels welcome and wide.

A ll is found in this quest for joy’s regime,

M y trip back to myself, a tropical dream.



By Cyndi MacMillan, March 11, 2012


Also an acrostic. I’ve never been to Belize, but oh... maybe someday. Here is something to listen to and watch:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBmoF1QzCmI&feature=related


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I Frame

I Frame 

As sure as I stand in the mixed of this garden, 
Glimmering gold falls to the earth by my call. 
Many are great and then some are a bit small. 
I release magnets clutching an obscene pardon. 

It is like balancing a beam that only I will harden. 
I wrap myself into a silver plated resilient shawl. 
Person place and time steadily climb up to maul. 
It’s a give or take rejection expected to turn on. 

One day ye shall see, 
My Moon half drawn, 
Ye see it was all of me. 
Your Sun will be gone. 

Only one Star shall rise up above my name. 
It’s a special place inside my heart I frame! 

®Registered: Ann Rich 2007 



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In a Hotel Room

I sit on the edge of the bed thinking Wishing you were here or that I was there These work related trips keeps me hurting But then my heart, I come to you and share I sit in the middle of a moon beam That comes into the room’s hotel window A lonely bit of light, lonely it seems Opens the room to its cool silver glow I pout as I lay onto the hard bed Seemingly to sure keep me up all night I texted her with my whole soul, I sure pled Hoping she’s up and will respond tonight It’s hard to be away from by loved one But soon I'll be home, my love will be shown
Entrant into Black Eyed Susan's "In a Hotel Room..." contest 2/7/2013


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Kiss This

<                              master of disguise menacing havoc
                                I fear not your pronged fork and wooden stick
                                but one illuminates from presents sight
                                tis I carries master key whom ends plight


                               brushstroke if must with your evilness twist
                               for I stand strong from an Hevenly bliss 
                               poke and probe away with your woven schemes
                               tis I'll be the one laughing though it seems 


                               your inferno fire from gates of hell
                               diminished by just one shake from this bell
                               so bring on your barriers and good grief's
                               tonight I'll be the one with good night's sleep 


                               sowing not fear of satin's smitten grasp
                               but turning check telling to kiss thy ass




Entry For
Thvia Shetley's
The Devil Made Me Do It
Sonnets Only Contest
G.L. All


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A SCARY DREAM OF DANTE'S INFERNO

I have had many frightening visions
of demons pulling me down into the infernal abyss:
to burn and torment my bound and shivering body...
as Dante envisioned it in his Divine Comedy.


Ah, Popes, Presidents, Kings, enemies and friends made no apologies...
they were glad to see me join them in their cell!
I accursed them even in that place called," Hell ."
And that gave me an opportunity to write many appropriate analogies.


" My flesh will burn, not my spirit! " I desperately hollered.
" This is not a place where I should pay for my earthly sins!"
" Eternal fire and condemnation are wrong!" I protested.
" God loves everyone, and He only demands repentance!"


Finally, that dreadful vision ended at the coming of the sunrise,
I found myself on Earth witnessing the wonders of Paradise!


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DAZZLING IN SWEET MADNESS


Beneath strands of citrine dangling in the sky arms glitter on a Moulin Rouge display neon bulbs flirt with the Arc spinning high a scenic delight, like tinted colors from Monet And byways float on a flood of traffic yellow unleashing a thousand moths on flames, scenting an evening brushed by Van Gogh as bodies grind on a roulette of voltage frames The parade of magnetic sparklers blaze the café Soon, a flushed crowd tingles on popped wine dazzling in sweet madness, more hours to sashay; while I, I lose myself in a mist of a song’s last line “City of Lights” bathes in drops of fire glowers where new romance thrills starry-eyed lovers © . .. . . Paris night. 11pm ( few years back)


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Another Sonnet Written at a Coffee House

You sink into the bosom of the chair 
And wonder if I too once sat amidst 
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare— 
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss. 

Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug 
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip 
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog 
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips? 

Did I curl my toes under my feet 
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup 
My yellow molars grinding to the beat 
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups? 

No— 
I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted— 
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.


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CAPRICE




When limbs of Montmartre tint the glow
chemise de nuit falls to the ground,
belle de jour, come moan a pale sound
through alleys winding lamp light’s flow.
Her fine heels toss on follies’ show
she, au naturel , caprice bound ;
taunting stars to rouse below.

Uphill, this mistress wraps fired lips
fleeting sighs mixing red-hot drips,
amidst night bistros’ fragrant plight
where rows of faces wet love’s sips.

Then like a dream, her bedgown flips
denying passion, oh one last bite.


©french sonnet/personification



*Montmartre—famous Paris hill where art,
music, romantic atmosphere, and bohemian
culture thrive despite its religious strains.


*belle de jour--- beautiful lady
*au naturel--- in a natural state, also, nude
*chemise de nuit--- nightdress

.        ….         .

by nette onclaud
for Cyndi Mac Millan’s Un, Deux, Trois contest
31 may 12




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C'est la vie

Late 80s, Quebec, Ville de Lasalle, A piece of my life, a piece of me, I left behind; Fait accompli. What I miss most? Je ne sais quoi! Cartoons! Lagaffe, Robin Dubois! Bicycle rides with my good friends, Next to the river, along the bends. I left behind a piece of my life…


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Night Watch

The harsh winds snarl and bite like fighting dogs.
No pity in this bull-black bitter night.
No stars nor moon can pierce the city fog.
No shelter saves the beggar from his plight.

The winds whip swirling grit and stinging grime.
Mad demons breathe out sour tasting wrath,
And wine red sky now marks the passing time
When, waking widows mourn the hour of death.

Although  the sulphurous gusts still groan and howl,
The night begins to fade for dawn's debut
While roaming dogs bare yellow teeth and growl
As smoky shadows slink through trembling dew.
 
The daybreak chimes, and morning sweetly sings,
Retreating night’s outshone by brighter things.



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Never-Ending

In the center I sit.
Unraveling a core,
I lay it by the shore.
It’s a wondrous fit.
 
It is in pieces by a bit.
It sails an ocean floor.
It has a rip where tore.
It makes the seas split.
 
It travels day and night.
A never-ending drift,
It is brilliantly bright.
Moving along so swift!
 
It travels a path lit by a Star,
Rendering miles that are afar!
 
 
© Copyright: Ann Rich   2007