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Best Poems Written by Jenna Logan

Below are the all-time best Jenna Logan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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"Life is fragile and temporary. The faces of today quickly become the faces of the past. Sorrow, pain, and anger... it all fades, except love. Love is forever and there after, even when we've fallen to our graves."
~ Lee Argus

"How fragile is life in nature's forceful wind..."
Dylan Thomas wrote of October winds
and their punishing frosty fingers.
He called them an "autumnal spell."
Autumn...the season when leaves hang trembling.

Christina Rosetti's lines have been well read..
"Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
the wind is passing by."

Shakespeare spoke to zephers, "Blow, blow,"
he wrote, declaring their breath to be not as rude as man's,
but in my observances, I find them circumspect
with crude treatment of many fragile things.

Spiders weave gossamer webs to rival Chantilly lace
in labyrinthine patterns, with lengths of silver thread.
Tiny arachnids, do not let nature's force
tatter the tangled trammels you tenaciously spin.

Dandelions, awash in golden petals,
does the wind whisper, "Prepare yourself
to fly with me on a magical flight?"
You, the delicate dreamer... the wind, a wily schemer.
He'll pluck your blooms with blustery swirls
and sweep your seed tufts away with gusts and puffs.

Percy Shelley composed an ode
in which he labeled the wind an "impulsive destroyer,"
His thoughts are sad but true.
I worry over such trivial things,
painfully aware that there is little I can do.

I frown as a snowflake melts
when its misfortune is to settle on my cheek.
Tumbled from the sky to its demise when it touches me.
There's a word for my melancholia...
whispered with a smile ~ a m b e d o ~
A gentle word that's not allowed to float upon the wind.

"Come, come, thou bleak December wind,
and blow the dry leaves from the tree!"
Coleridge called out, but to him it signaled death.
The breath of gales takes many lives;
not just leaves, but the bird and the butterfly.

I wept like a child of four when a butterfly I found
lay dead upon the ground, and I think it quite profound
that a creature whose name ends in 'fly'
is killed when it tries to aviate as it was meant to do.
In such moments, I realize how hard it is for them to survive
and sorrow finds a shadowed place deep within my heart
where too often it thrives in the dark.

Yeats penned the lines,
"What need have you to dread
the monstrous crying of wind?"
My rebuttal would be...
"What need has the wind to judge what lives or dies?"
And once again I realize...
How fragile is life in nature's forceful wind.

November 3, 2020
Ambedo Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

As Morning Light Unfurls

"Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature's most healing balm."                     ~ Louisa May Alcott

Dawn's light awakens me from sleep,
as morning light unfurls.
On the skyline I see it sweep
across meadows of grazing sheep.
Dewdrops hang like fine strands of pearls
on webs of silken whorls.

Like tears, they fell in waning night
as if the sky was grieved,
but in amber rays of daylight
I clearly see the dewy sight
of moisture, to which leaves have cleaved...
their thirst has been relieved.

Lush, the grass when it drank its fill
from Nature's water tap.
My garden is happy to swill
morning mist when the air is chill.
Petals fold to better entrap
drops for flowers to lap.

Prismed by the sun's reflection,
each pearl soon disappears,
dried by Ra's heated subjection.
There will be a new collection
when in the morning there appears
dew that's been shed as tears.



Original Date of Posting ~ June 18, 2022
Dewdrops Contest

This Challenge ~ December 3, 2022
Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

The Tale of Poetry Soup Forest

There's a defender among us, a friend who never surrenders or concedes
No thief is he, who offers encouragement to people with his kind deeds

A rapscallion, devoted to negativity, brings gloom to Poetry Soup Forest,
a site near a troll bridge where scoundrels live. To this, many will attest!

To lay hold of the poetry kingdom, yon sheriff set a price upon the head
of the well-loved hero, Sir Kindness and his loyal band, so it's been said

Oh, disgruntled one of what crime do ye think Sir Kindness a criminal?
The scoundrel blubbered a bit and said, "I'll find one that's subliminal."

A sinister smile played across her lips as her crazed demeaner grew weird
"Nay," the cry from many supporters, "Sir Kindness is not to be feared!"

He only bites the butts of those who try to make blameless poets cry
Never would he hurt the innocent; only hypocrites who continue to lie

News from the forest says there are lots of disguises worn in the realm, 
behind masked faces and fake identities, they ambush among the elm

I cannot expose the reprobates' names, although if I had my druthers.
I'd ban them from Poetry Soup Forest, away from my sisters and brothers

Little John, the giant, knows the wicked games they desire to play
Tuck, the gentle Friar, said they should get on their knees and pray

"Sir Kindness is not the one to blame for the injuries done in our wood
but I know who is because I saw them acting like they're from the hood!"

Will Scarlet gasped and lost his breath when he realized what he'd said
I guess those mean dudes will be mad, so they'll hunt me til I'm dead."

Tuck scratched his head, trying very hard to figure out what Will meant
"Hmmm," he said then mumbled, "Those charlatans have need to repent"

Twas no secret in the forest, the haughties were not as people thought
They frown as if being hounded, but the corrupt ones have been caught

Tis true the madame, long gone a maiden, reminisces of decades past
She's better known as Negative Nelly, a Barbarian who likes to lambast

Will Scarlet, handsomest of the lot, swore an oath that the tale is true, 
but don't ask him how he knew, for he'd just wink and say "Whoo hoo!"

This story continues, for Sir Kindness still lives within the forest glades,
and the villains still wish to put him down with pencil-sharpened blades

The moral to this story is...Wait! There is no moral point worth making,
no boundaries to be taken and no territories for anyone to be staking

These characters may be make believe.  I'll let you decide on your own
Bigots in Poetry Soup Forest won't stop a bulldog from chewing his bone

Sir Kindness and those who believe in him are exactly where they belong.
The forest should be fun for everyone, as long as they do nothing wrong.

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

There Are No Bounds To Where We Poets Go

Where on Earth or far beyond do we poets go, you ask. 
My thoughts willingly stretch my imagination with this task.
I would reply...in any direction our ink chooses to flow.
To the light of dawn or to dark telltale shadows of Poe
There are no boundaries that could rein in a poet's mind,
even if we have the mournful misfortune of going blind. 
        
A poet is not harnessed by sight like a horse to a carriage.
From memory our vision serves us in a sort of marriage,
a bond without rings and vows that gives us wings to fly
among stars, or to realms a common man cannot descry.
To know sin's sorrow, we would walk through a fiery hell
if it would give us the insight that living could not quell.

Inspiration is our weapon, feathered arrows we shoot,
aiming for the rhyming words and chasing in hot pursuit.
Though our muse flees, and crumbled pages lie at our feet,
our mind struggles in unrest but will not concede defeat.

On ventured missions, traveling where our hearts will lead.
Among distant galaxies, where we collect poetic seed
to plant in fertile delta land or in sandy deserts on Earth,
cultivating cogent lines, to which our scribing gives birth.
Fathering or mothering verses from infancy to fruition.
Editing until at last, our brainchild is worthy of submission.

We see far beyond mundane realities of life and reason.
Writing from the heart, rebuking the penalty of treason.
We wind through mazes of each personal poetic anecdote.
Exposed is our nakedness in each lyrical line we ever wrote.


June 20, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney.

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

Snowflake Dancers

Snowfall prancers
Ballerina dancers
Gracefully, they pirouette in the air
Frosted crystals, though never a pair
Scene enhancing
Vision entrancing
Ballet romancing

Costumes white
Tumbling flight
Snowflakes flew in for their audition
Each posed in an Arabesque position
Swift Allegros
Slower Adagios
Pointed tiptoes

Emerging sun
Recital done
With risen mercury, the sunlight pelted 
Each tiny snowflake had been melted
Ballerinas lost
Tragic Holocaust
Performance tossed

*            *             *


January 3, 2021
Trinet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

At Cusp of Dawn

Mystical Moon, languidly adrift in pallid glory,
is holding night court, clad in gold silk sarong.
Ruling her astral kingdom, amusing with a story
about a cow and a spoon; singing a lyrical song.

"Wondrous Moon," said I, "lamp unto this night,
may your lustrous path stay vigilant and not stray."
In comply,  I saw strung on high, myriads of bright,
luminous stars, glinting down on a fishing quay.

Moonlight plays on lily pads, afloat on Amon Bay,
shining on croaking bullfrogs, just having fun,
bathing in nocturnal frolic until faint spark of day,
flirting with saucy winks and adding, "Hiya, Sun."

As morning draws nigh; moonlight slowly dims.
Luna will crown Sol at horizon's cusp of dawn. 
Baronial is his warmth, but now my vision swims.
I'm drowning in a whirlpool, trying not to yawn.

Mystical moon will glow tonight with vivid pomp.
Again, donning a corona, flowing in auras of light.
As sunlight lulls,  worn out from his daily romp,
I'll waltz in moonlight, among dazzling stars tonight.


July 16th, 2020
Lipogram Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet

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Shedding Thin Skin

Held unyielding in your narrow mind
is the ignorance which keeps you blind.
Building dams will only hold you back
from accepting that white is not black.
Like a slow moving, barricaded stream,
your thoughts clot like curdled cream.
Thin skin has need to slough rejection,
Your rigid stance in mirrored reflection.

Break open the dam across the estuary
that hinders your vision. It's necessary
to move in sync with malleable fluidity
instead of sputtering words of stupidity.
Shedding skin will allow you to breathe.
Release your potential from its sheathe.
Even a snake slithers out from its skin
to crawl from where it once had been.

Little is the chance you have to accept
new ideas if they are not circumspect
to the fault of having such a closed mind.
Throw off the veil that keeps you blind.
Don't become stagnant and decompose
by turning your back, continuing to oppose
any idea with which you just don't agree.
You'll drown in arrogance, acting so lordly.

Details | Jenna Logan Poem

Gilded Sun: Silvered Moon

"The sun shall shine in ages yet to be, the musing moon illumine pastures dim, and afterwards a new nativity for all who slept the dreamless interim."                                      
                                                                           ~ Nathalia Crane


Twilight and its prismed colors paint the Earth in soft roseate light. Rays of the sun descend, glowing like threads of gold, woven into clouds above the ocean's threshold. Brushed with pastels of pink and lavender, the sky is a beautiful canvas to behold. Soon, the moon will ascend, and its lustrous silver sheen will be reflected in my lover's eyes.

gilded is the sun
as it slides into the sea ~
silvery moonlight


April 14, 2021
Writing Prompt- Shine - Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France

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Written On Hands of Time

I write upon the nimble hands of fleeting time
careful not to leave my musings behind
Sometimes penning with haste and speed
trying not to forget
a relevant word or phrase seen in my mind's eye
that could be a crucial poetic thought

When tremulous mourning escapes my wistful heart
I am overcome with sorrow and cry
tears of desolation, and yet,
it is the balm I need.
Writing offers comfort, but never peace of mind
Love sonnets, I still write for him, in rhyme.

When the clock swings its pendulum and starts to chime
I become annoyed but always resigned
to accept that my heart will bleed.
Happiness owes a debt,
paid when loved ones are taken; a price much too high
as the clock mocks me, "Time cannot be bought."


January 31, 2021
My Invented Form - I Write Upon Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllable count verifed with HMS

Best Poems Written by Jenna Logan

I Am But a Grain of Sand

Fragile Is Life

As Morning Light Unfurls

The Tale of Poetry Soup Forest

There Are No Bounds To Where We Poets Go

Snowflake Dancers

At Cusp of Dawn

Shedding Thin Skin

Gilded Sun: Silvered Moon

Written On Hands of Time