The sun sets in soulful silence,
Its blissful beauty paints pearlescent sky,
Lovely light spreads soft its peace,
Like learned Rumi ruminating;
Poets praise sighing Sol,
The welkin wonder soothes senses ~
A cool cause to glorify God.
(Note: "learned" is counted as 2 syllables.
It's wrongly mentioned as 1 syllable in www.howmanysyllables.com)
Through lenses cold and ground from mountain glass,
We watched the dying worlds of iron pass.
For generations, every spark we found
Was tethered to a bleeding, broken ground—
The sudden flash of silo doors undone,
The brief, horrific birthing of a sun,
Then ash that drifted like a heavy shroud
To lock a planet in a toxic cloud.
We turned our mirrors to the northern sky,
Expecting just another world to die,
To see Vaeloria’s final signature
Be etched in fire, black and premature.
We braced for the familiar, sudden glare
Of empires burning down their final air.
But what we found across the cosmic deep
Was not the final, static-riddled sleep.
The planet did not burn; it started glowing,
A quiet, silver respiration growing,
As if a willow made of starlight grew
And drank the poison till the sky turned blue.
No high radiation tore the night,
But pulses of a deep, organic light.
A lonely mind had stitched the broken spheres,
And washed away a century of fears.
We leaned into our sights, amazed to see
A world redeemed by a single tree.
She sits there perfectly serene.
Her heart is at peace.
Her soul basks in harmony.
She soaks up the sun divinely blissful.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
What a picturesque panorama this is.
My eyes peer into the beautiful landscape
Of my vast, vivid imagination...
It is such a wondrous escape!
Funny, serendipitously finding you here
In this Shangri-La, patiently waiting for me.
Believe me, there is no place
On this earth I'd rather be!
Here we are, blissfully walking among
A serene golden field without a fuss,
As the unstable world crumbles
Like Gibraltar all around us.
What an adventure! It's a sheer thrill
Getting away from it all with you
We'll chase butterflies to our heart's content,
Misspend our time taking in the view.
In this haven of peace and tranquility,
We'll repeatedly sojourn; it's our royal domain,
A welcoming, breathtaking getaway
To come back to again and again.
In labyrinthine longing,
where my weary spirit
roams,
I seek an effervescent
haven to call my home.
A luminescent refuge where
the anxious heart finds rest,
Where benediction
whisper and the soul is truly
blessed.
Amidst the cacophonous
clamor of this transient
world,
Your peace, oh Lord, is an
opalescent banner unfurled.
A paradisiacal sanctuary,
inviolable and true,
Where tribulations dissipate
in the cerulean blue.
So let me be transfigured in
this hallowed, holy place,
A resplendent
convalescence wrapped in,
Your abounding grace.
The borders fell like fever from a long-tormented frame,
No steel was turned, no legions marched, no decree spoke their name.
For when the node of silver wood began its quiet rise,
The phantom lines of sovereign pride dissolved before their eyes.
The ancient ghosts of territory, of fortress, and of crest,
Like winter frost before the sun, sank deep into the breast.
The pain that once had armed the hand and built the concrete wall
Was opened to the anchor node, unmetered, shared by all.
A mother’s cry in Sector One, the drought of Sector Four,
No longer stopped at checkpoints or the barricaded door.
The collective mind, in empathy, received the bitter sting,
And wove the ache of centuries into a single string.
Where once the barbed dividers stood to guard the hollow grain,
Now surged a tide of healing hands to wash away the stain.
The map of old Vaeloria, where blood-bought nations bled,
Became a tapestry of care, by quiet mercy fed.
No citizen was left an island, stranded in their grief;
The shared scar of the species brought its ultimate relief.
How near doth Time now stand upon the verge!
Upon our days is fallen Judgment's shade.
One woe grows still, then doth another surge,
And close behind, a third comes undelayed.
Then bitter cold shall strike, and famine loom,
Our hopes shall pass beyond the shrouded bier;
The city that we cherished, once so dear,
By Heaven's will, and war, shall meet its doom.
Believe not, people, that peace shall ever reign,
For Time already gazes into naught;
No end at all thereto shall e'er be brought—
The war returned, forever to remain.
She sees in bearded baba
a radiating white light
follows him with trust and peace
alone in the bed meets him
for mantra in the ear
only to discover
a rapist narcissist
reciting his ode to sex
in three-word phrases
Contest: Haven
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Written: 091226
Very often,
There was this place by the sea.
Although unhidden,
It was a perfect spot for me.
My great getaway,
A quiet place at the end of the day.
My hiding place.
It Sheilded me from the speedy race.
My sanctuary.
Secluded, causing a cease from hurry.
My haven.
There, the heart rests and preps for heaven.
My steal away.
It birthed a memory.
It declared war against worry.
My haven by the sea; My forever story.
Her haven wasn’t grand or wide;
no sweeping place to run or hide.
It lived in smaller things she kept~
a teacup where the morning slept,
a folded napkin, soft with wear,
a breath she balanced in the air.
She found her refuge in the pause
between two sentences—because
that quiet space, so slight, so thin,
let calm collect and settle in.
A spoon against a porcelain rim
became a steadying hymn for her,
a sound that asked her heart to stay
a moment more before the day.
Her haven wasn’t built to last
or hold the weight of shadows cast.
It simply offered gentle ground,
grace in tiny places she had found~
the ones that ask for nothing new,
yet give her back a clearer view.
No grand escape, no sweeping plan~
just smallness doing what it can.
A haven shaped by quiet art,
no larger than a beating heart.
Little Echoes spreading 1
Behind the gilded gates where history sleeps,
Huge ancient institution secrets keeps.
Yet modern spotlights pierce the palace shade,
To question how its wealth and power were made
Bound to the empires of an older age,
And written on the slave trade's darkest page.
The whispers spoke of skin and unborn heirs,
A shadow cast upon the golden stairs,
ink in Dutch translations sparked the flame,
And public voices rose to shield a name.
Then questions asked of origins and birth,
Denied a British citizen her worth.
The tabloids spun their headlines day by day,
As ancient structures blocked the modern way.
From old exemptions hidden in the past,
To broad exclusions never meant to last,
The crown still wrestles with the words it spoke,
And changes stirring in the winds that woke.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
May the rising sun warm your path,
And the whispering leaves sing wisdom to your mind.
May the waters flow clear with peace,
And the oak stand steadfast beside you.
May Awen inspire your heart,
As flowers unfold gracefully and joyfully.
Let the morning greet you with renewal and strength.
May your journey forever be guided by gentle light
And purpose!
More than hushed up refuges
A pooled water, stilly
Old, lickened benched as treed round.
Your inner depths can sound!
If not the samctums of monks
Breathe slow, too, with eyes shut
And alike, dim-lit, concealed
As holy; for what's healed.
Peace
Calming
Slow heartbeat
A nice relief
Quiet area
Pictures inside
Scenes outside
Precious
Time
Heidi Sands
9/10/26
(C)opyright
Peace Categories
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Definition | What is Peace in Poetry?
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Related Poetry Forms
reconciliation, accord, unity, truce, concord, union, treaty, neutrality, order, armistice, pacifism, tranquility, harmony, composure, congeniality, peacefulness, quiet, sympathy, stillness, calmness, rest, relaxation, lull, contentment,