Poetry Mystery Poems

These Poetry Mystery poems are examples of Poetry poems about Mystery. These are the best examples of Poetry Mystery poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Quatrain |
Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013




Details | Light Poetry |
My Heart
Used
Still beats

My Heart
Low mileage
Over rocky roads

My heart
In vaulted box
Shipping included


No strings attached

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Couplet |
~Soup To Go~

This summer~ all I want is a bowl of soup 
A secret flavor that combines every veggie group 

                   
An outcast taste of ancient granola herbs
All kinds of extracts that create different verbs

I will leave the table only to dance out in the rain
Round and round in wonder catering out my sweet refrain

I will visit mother and tell her I forgot her recipe
Brag about my soup and how I used and stole her ecstasy

Paint about the life she gives the grounded trees
Think about the sugar that makes me surrender to her sweet debris

I will order me a special~ with the right poetry breeze
Exchange my cookie dough with mothers pollen seeds

Hide behind her oak tree and listen to her endlessly
I can even cook myself a picture making nature my enemy

Close my eyes and smell the mist of self control
Hold on to my emotion and take a sip of my soup bowl

Add extra salt and pepper to every line I manipulate
Swirl my spoon around and smile at every thing I hate

Come sit down with me and collaborate
Lets cabbage out on mothers nature's plate

Wakening up to her blossoming sauce that drips with a certain flow
Driving by her White castle, and stare at another soup to go

Order me; a soup of all the things I see
Order me; a soup  made out of mystery
Order me; a soup out of the things I wanna be
Order me; a soup made out of the sadness found inside of me

Order me; a coffee to go with my poetry soup
Type me a funny comment that will add a smile to my food group:-)

by;p.d.

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011




Details | Light Poetry |

Come gently like a winding trellis
stroking my shape as you fondle
 my vulnerability, and tease,
 tease curves of my spine with whispers
to unleash what is half-awake in my eyes,
draping my flesh with the scent 
of this moistened night…
And I am lost among fibrous roots
clinging to a warm pistil 
like a raging dart,a moonlit flame.
Your bended arms warmly mount
 my transparent skin,
only to hold back as the dizzy air
 blows these ruffled tresses
 smelling of earth and jasmine...

You gaze at the cleavage 
of an open mouth, wandering
 on a tight pulse between 
the trellis of desire...how in this
hungry glow, I cannot explain why
your irises slay me bare;
that on a sweltering duskfall
so mysteriously anonymous,
I seem to ask you to come gently
and touch my waiting steam.


Contest of Lewis Raynes That Is Sexy
6/22/2016




Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
Rosette tapestries of unparalleled glamour
Embroided thoroughly by the wittiest clamor
Magnanimously amorous in grace and wonder
Bewitching and charming though so yonder

Rhetorically out bounding my frugal thoughts
To be "irresistible", my flawless pure cause
Starlight's amiss your ornate romantic spell
Driving me sweetly to madly deep to compel

Handful of metaphors and highfalutin words
Illuminating. Inspiring. Invigorating.
Incubating anyone with one unique style
Wonderful, beautiful, matchless, they foretell

Vividly inventive and bombastic with each stroke
To hardened hearts, you can surely start to stoke
Erratically tender enough to adagio break the silence
Drawing  anyone for more and more to your essence

by:
olive eloisa
2:54 pm
Revised April 24, 2014

CONTEST: ANY POEM #24
Sponsor: POET DESTROYER A
3RD PLACE

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Cold misty clouds rise above the grates
The streets only illumination, tossing shadows like pennies
Faded street lamps at each end
The cold is biting, as I roll the collar over my neck

I received a call earlier that day
A new client, who insisted not to meet,
At my office
Just fine with me, my office scared its fair share
Of prospects away

So glancing at my watch I waited
Under the street lamp, I lit a fag
To pass the time
Where was the dame?

I was beginning to guess this was some kind of hoax
Worse still I was missing a poker game over at the Pig&Bath
The tube was a few blocks away, and sooner rather than later
I should part company with this particular street lamp of no desire

Not a soul in site, I decided I’d been played for a fool
A pretty voice, that will get ya every time
As I sauntered away looking bored in case anyone was watching
I heard the click of my own shoes on concrete

I also heard an echo?
Was I being followed?
I crossed to the other side somewhat on edge
I had enough blokes that didn’t see my good side
Not that I ever saw much either

I quickened my pace
Whoever was behind seemed to quicken their pace
I turned the corner and now in a very fast walk
Ran for the main street, passing an alley that had seen better days

Something or someone grabbed at my trench coat
All of a sudden, here I am, pulled into a dark alley
I feel the punches, and what seems like a pipe
Hitting me repeatedly, yet I see no one

I cover my head, and try to keep silent
No use humoring this lug with the pleasure of my pain
On the ground, I feel the kicks into my ribs
Blood starts to spill from my mouth, 
Or who knows, maybe my nose

No concern of mine
As I wont have much of a face after this brutal feast
I hear the faint wisps and grunts, as I lay wounded
Whoever did this sure fancies himself a professional
I would like to say more, but I think is time for dreamland

No idea if I am unconscious, dead or dreaming
In a puddle of my own blood
I lie, in agony looking above at a strange face
My god, its my shadow!

He spits on me in disgust
Laughing, he says "finally I am free of you"
You rotten son of a Birch tree
At that he parts, off he goes to the land of the living

Walking away with some woman that I feel I should know
They laugh together, as I lie inside my own turmoil
The garbage pickup at dawn
Will dispose of my bones and dreams
Some PI I turned out to be

Murdered by my own shadow

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Poetry is a highly personal endeavor for all who write
And answer the inspiration of Our Eternal Poetry Muse.

Why do we write poetry?
This a very important question for all of us who “spill ink.”

Poetry for me is a most wonderful magical medium and
An art and methodology which bespeaks the realm of the
Mysterious, Arcane, Uncanny, Mystical, Esoteric, and Divine. 

Poetry is my personal endeavor to master the complexity of
Relating my deepest thoughts and connecting with the reader;
Developing a memorable and intriguing theme or subject;
Choosing the right words and composing meaningful verse;
Finding the best metaphors and the proper tone and balance;
Exploring key theme attributes (to name a few):

	Feelings, passions, emotions, light, dark, happiness
	Sadness, humor, good, evil, intelligence, stupidity,
	Right, wrong, ethereal, ignorance, and indifference.

Our Poetry Muse touches each and every one of us at key times
When we least expect it:  morning, noon, evening, after midnight.

Our Muse, for me, captivates my thoughts and illuminates my soul
While compelling me onward to communicate and share with others
What I see and perceive, sense and feel, think and understand about 
A theme as it resonates in the depths of my innermost psyche.

I know that I have much to say now in my life . . .
Verse, meter, rhyme, tone, metaphors, metonymy, allegory, imagination—
All enliven my efforts and make easier my attempts to mirror my
Thoughts and views to the reading public.

I want my thoughts and doubts, as my passion abounds, to connect with
Those deepest elements of my human psyche and my emotions
In making my written message to be something that is: 
Meaningful and significant, resolute and spirited; 
Full of passion or compassion, humor or sadness, courage or fear,
Strength or weakness, Heaven or Hell, bliss or misery—or whatever
Motivates and inspires the Creative Process for me. 

Our Muse is there with all of us, in reality, to inspire us and help us
To bring passion, meaning, certitude, and direction to our thoughts
As we attempt to infuse these very attributes into our poetic narrative.

Our Muse, in the end, leaves it up to each and every one of us
To go one further step beyond Her ethereal influence and inspiration:
To invest and infuse at the end of this process our own “Free Will”
In making the final decision pertaining to what our final verse or
Narrative product will look like To Our Reading Public.

This is my take, my view on what happens when Our Eternal Poetry Muse
Tantalizes us and awakens within each of us that undeniable Spirit of  
Inspiration, and that giddy zest and irrepressible desire to “spill ink.”


Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (October 3, 2014) (Narrative poetic format)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Ancient tombs, of long ago times
Byblos, the walled city, fortress and shrines
Shrouded in mystery, wisdom's, and thyme
The Phoenicians sailed from this very port
Their ships full of knowledge and the alphabet too

And the peoples from times long forgotten
The ancestors of merchants in the souks of now
The oldest city, charmed by the sea
The churches of St Peter, tell the prophecy

Praise the heavens, the God of your heart
In the language of Jesus, love never parts
Aramaic wisdom's, true to this day
Praise God, his love never swayed

Love of mankind
Love of your soul
Love of the creator
Marhaba

---
Marhaba is an Arabic  word  used in the Middle East   as “Hello”. 
But most people don’t know its source
Marhaba comes from a Syriac (Aramaic, Assyrian) origin and was used by the first Christians
Mar = Master or God
Haba =Love
Marhaba = God is love

As Catholic churches still give masses in Latin, The Maronite Church still gives sermons in the ancient language of Jesus, Aramaic.

Byblos is an ancient city in Lebanon, Byblos is the Greek name for the Phoenician city called Gebal. Today it is believed by many to be the oldest continuously-inhabited city in the world.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Dead Poet

Are you a poet?
Are you a good poet?
No you can not be
You must be dead
In poetry DEAD is good
We can read and NOT listen to the dead ones
Silence is golden
One day I am sure
I will be a good poet
With all my cheering fans



Dear Lord

Dear Lord, please don’t take me now
Let me here awhile longer
Dear Poet, I will let you there on earth until you
Compose the best poem ever written
Oh Dear Lord, bless you, bless you


Are you all hippopotamuses?
Some one was asking , not me

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
  The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my  palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
  It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
  "Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!" 
  The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
 

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

Details | ABC |
Alphabet Constructs 3 2 1

Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees

Bulimec Barbies browse media monkey banalaties

Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios

Dopamine dreams dilenate check cash desires

Echo endorfins eulogize bullet brain excrement

Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivoloties

Gonadial grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities

Helical hemorriods hinder senior stricken hemocraps

Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate post partem iconoclasts

Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers

Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs

Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies

Malovent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules

Nevertheless nightengales nourich ruby rich noonbeams

Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages

Pensive picses picnics lovelorny passions 

Queer quiet quintensials release rancid quotients

Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble reprocussions

Silky seafoam silohouttes fornicate frothy sandlets

Tepid torch trilogies belie beligerent tourniquets

Useless utterences utilize organize orgasmic utopias

Venimous vixens violate cruel.com visions

White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds

XY XX xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms

Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yeilds

Zen zealous zions mirror maginfy Zoneotones 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
Deep in the earth, a crypt of rock
slumber guarded by casket locked
Lips grope silence ‘ever more
 rasping thought, remembers whispered lore
Outstretched palms the roots do clench
tranquility stilled by festered stench
And eyes, sleep caked, are propped ajar
ignites no life, but collapsed star

Burned blades sigh, Winds’ dying gasp
bones brittle snap within her clasp
A lonesome howl the moon does draw
vigil broken, it twists its maw 
Upon an arena of endless stone
the granite gates they’ve passed alone
And entered a world of burning eyes
eluded the judge of smoldering cries

A faultless gait, no stumbled draw
a reaping brought  by scythe and claw
Opal edge which shrouds a cause
aberrant blade shapes nature’s laws
Dictate a script, the stars can share
an open secret, a language bare
Steps continue, feet are drawn
across gray grass, undying pawn

Copyright © Avery Swarthout | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Upon the lakes they do swim gliding so effortlessly   
These species of graceful waterfowl the largest of anatidae family
In their beautiful pure white plumage with elegant long curved necks
Blunted beaks and big webbed feet living together by water's edge                                            
These magnificent creatures of the waters are a sign of purity and love	
Remind us of the blessings in our relationships a gift from heaven above
If all goes well in there pairing they will stay together for rest of their life’s
When they glide upon the waters of our awareness they bring us deep insight            




These birds of Mother Nature they’re exquisite and unique                   
Bearing exotic waves of beauty to our dreams as we do sleep                          
They swim around in our divine mind adding colours of delight  
Encouraging us to spread our wings and take our glorious flight
Courting occurs on rivers and lakes throughout the known world
Whilst they live on plant life tiny fish and scattered bread as well
You might see them duck their heads as they feed upon their foods
But you better beware of their aggression whilst they protect their broods     




The elegance of these myterious birds are displayed in a ballet dancer
Dancing into our emotions with their romantic artisticpower                                     
Transforming our souls with delightful moves bringing us into harmony
With a brilliant performance of balance, control and technical flexibility
The beautiful dying swan pours its heart out as death draws near            
Greeting this with an exceptional beautiful ending balladeer
Its modulated voice singing the swan-song of death so sweet
This harmonious sound can be heard as its last creative piece




The crown retain the ownership to all unmarked mute swans 
A ceremony takes place once a year and lasts for five days long
Swan upping is a tradition dated back to the twelfth century 
Markers row up and down the rivers paying tribute to the Queen
In England they’re a protected species and owned by Her Majesty
The wing spans on these wonderful birds can extent to several feet
These sacred aquatic birds male and female cobs and pens
Those little cygnets and swanlings on a swan lake that never ends




© Copyright KC.Leake
8th December 2014
All Rights Reserved

Copyright © kevin leake | Year Posted 2014

Details | Monorhyme |
When all the world is quiet
	And the night is fully deep,
A mystic moon is watching
	All the places underneath.
My thoughts like panthers moving
	through the jungle, they do creep.
Among the lingering shadows
	lies a naked hairy beast…
It’s too early to write poetry,
	Back to bed and welcomed sleep.


1/27/17

Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
I am Reality’s angel resting on the broad shoulders of discovery the truth feeds darkness and engulfs its target ideas and concepts in turn become meaningless to you there is a creator of all things He is just and patient many still have fallen into the masses of shadow wrapped in their own filthy idols of philosophy I have seen grown men fall like rose petals and weaklings rise into unjust leaders forever the follower of furtive evil dominating only to remain inferior the most important answers lie in the unseen regions where no sense can fully give assurance the mind that so many unreasonably twist and turn grows weary because of the distance it must take and truth be told the distance is not what frustrates it is knowing we are seeking something far that could very possibly not exist, that our minds can twist into theoretical, idealistic nonsense it is knowing all we really think we know is meaningless and yes—even a lie all that has been written thus far rests under my wings under the warmth in which you refuse to feel can you believe in me— though I am completely unseen? how much more difficult would it be to see Him?

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |





* the watchful eyes of full moon flickers again, * an alchemy of cicada nights humming a mantra like a pastoral symphony -- -as if in a twirl of primal energy --- flock of herons, band of cattle, and grasses invite smokey dusk to recite her fables on morning dew and twilight passages chant after chant * and the trees bloom of a thousand foliage gracing the winds with such opulent swagger, that the living—absent from babbling language — sigh after sigh abandon its own movements to drift on greenery floating on anklet of sky hardly recognized , except for this rare instance: the dignity of darkness, the tiers of fragrance, and caresses of nocturnal beings gathering in warm oneness of silence, reverent as it were, upon • dew soaked in buoyant wonder..* the mind forgets to speak: the branches of a landscape pivot never knowing why in solace, the breath marries light II circle II after II circle. II ^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Creative Layouts Contest Sponsor: Broken Wings 8/11/2013

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Life has a meaning that nobody knows, like the past and the present everything comes and goes. your life is a mark that can't be erased your problems get worse and they need to be faced. you think things over as you lie in your bed your whole life flashes in your head. where did the madness ever start why won't the pain go away in my heart you ask and you ask when will it be gone, will the hurting inside ever pass on. no one knows the answers except one God, so just live your life to the fullest and try to have fun. because then you may find a love that eventually falls apart and again there's a aching deep in your heart. once again there's that meaning that nobody knows like the past and the present everything comes and goes.

Copyright © tiffany franklin | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Three nights have passed
He was dead to the world
A pirate to some, a scoundrel to others
Whiskey bottles littered the room
On the third day
He rose again from the dead
His pal Johnny Walker by his side
Walking was not in the cards
He fell back into his shroud
Buried
A poor man with a heart of gold
He believed in resurrection
Many a time he proved this himself
One day, in the back of his mind
He hoped
God would take him seriously

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Iambic Pentameter |
It stood a while, alone, the perfect phrase
Entire and beautiful upon the stage
As lovely as two words could ever be
‘Till came the muse, the ancient bitch of days
Demanding blood and ink upon the page
Insisting passion and complexity
And sacrifice, and violent hymns of praise
Her hunger and her ardour to assuage
In wild defiance of simplicity

The poet quaked in terror, and betrayed
His words to slake her raw and awesome rage
In her cold hands they cried for company

© Gail Foster 13th December 2016

Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
Something catches me form the corner of my eye
No one's home but I swear someone just walked by
There stands a man just beyond the lower stairs
Startled yet I'm not afraid as he looks at me and stares
I wonder who this presence is who's invading my home
He moves shooting a glance at me and proceeds to roam
Who's this strange man in the shadows Is he watching over me
Is there someone else he might be here to see
Once in a while he shows up to let me know he's here
I wonder if he visits  to see someone he holds dear
Is he just letting me know we are not alone
Is he lost and wandering trying to find his way home
This presence some may call a ghost who visits me
My grandson calls him Jack as he can also see
The ghostly presence shows himself just once in a while
When he chooses to drop by he always makes me smile

Copyright © Patricia Contreras | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |
I'm sitting here
Admiring the view
Thankful for it's beauty
It's comfort
It's familiarity.

I've been here before
So I can close my eyes
and picture it still

And I know it all.

Deep breath in
Contented smile
Snapshot made
The scene is owned


Then the eyes open
As realisation strikes
- I own nothing
- I know nothing

I don't know 
how each hill was formed
the names of the farmers who built the stiles to every field
or the names of those who now own those blankets of land

I cannot begin 
to count every blade of grass
to measure the mist
to know the age and history of every tree
 
The past of the very bench I'm sat on
is a mystery to me

The winding roads have their own heritage
And I can't say who first walked it's length
Or where that plodding bus was built
Or where it's been since it's birth

The cars stuck behind are heading on their own unique journeys
I can't vouch as to where to or where from
Far less state the words and thoughts of those cocooned inside
Or declare the depth of any of the puddles they pass

I can't tell you the wattage of the bulb
Shining through that distant window
Still less how warm the sun will feel in an hour
Or the direction the wind came from, even ten seconds ago
 
The provenance and future of those clouds
Cannot be told by them
Let alone by me.
 
Eyes close once more
 
I know nothing but
the fact that this view
In this moment
Does belong to me

And that maybe, somehow
I'm all the wiser for knowing less

Copyright © David Lindsay | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
‘ A  Metaphysical  Moment ’

A Metaphysical Moment
Electrifying To The Touch
Breathless, Thru The Clouds
Can My Heart, Take So Much

… Can My Eyes Endure
All This Vision, I See
Can Voice, Even Speak
Over Roaring of This Sea

… Can Ear Even Listen
When I Am Flying So Free
Soaring, So True With You and
Metaphysical Moment and Me …

A Metaphysical Moment
Will I Ever Understand
This Mystery of Our Universe
The Mystery of Woman and Man …


(And I End This with an Haiku for
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno and
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))


Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

          Understanding A
      Metaphysical Moment …
      … Nature’s Mysteries


Metaphysical (definition) as an adjective:

Metaphysical of early 17th Century Poetry
Relating to the poetic style of John Donne,
George Herbert and other early 17th Century Poets
Who used consciously intellectual language
And elaborate metaphors that compared things

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
TIME CATCHING
©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
	blustery, blowing,
	as cold as
Winter’s first blast.

Until . . .
	as hot as, blazing,
	relentless,
Summer’s sun.

Then . . . 
	as I stood in,
	the midst of the seasons.
	I felt it,
	ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
	a brushing against my cheek,
	a landing on my bare feet,
	that I almost could not feel.
Just,
	one, tiny,
	yellow leaf,
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
	frantically, decidedly,
	swirling speedily to the ground,
	as if heralding,
Autumn.
____________________
	
TIME, 	catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . . 
	time’s flying,
	compressing,
Winding up.

Copyright © Alfreda Williamson | Year Posted 2012

Details | Imagism |


As midnight bursts like stardust on a cobblestone My raw vision transports me beyond earth’s floor, Where marbles with painted dots turn into hallways And shamans in long robes on axis roam: Here I write of gothic myths and folklore Releasing secrets through drumbeats of old tribal songs As dark mysteries lay deep on hidden pools… The acid in my bones spreading unknown lyrics While stylus of quill darts on flamed parchment Unraveling my soul … coaxing the young to dream. Ir0nic ZiNk’s Contest written 1/31/2017 It’s Too Early To Write Poetry

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |
Spirit of interpretation only rest in the hearts of sailing ships,
Following the northern star the Heaven set in place.
Soul captains the vessel in search for meaning, 
Drifting forward.
Navigating through the constellation of words, 
Compass is the Above.
Maps become written languages, 
Forming beautiful art on scrolls.
Ocean of poems, 
Breath holds the power of tongues.
Speech breathes a sweet breeze to overflow and give current.
Caught by tides, 
Making waves in the world.
Words are unlimited resources raining down-
Bringing joy, 
Giving peace, 
Seeing beauty, 
Praise life, 
Love dwells.
Found in the Sea of Poetry, 
Endless journey.
Universal language feed the mind's eye.

Copyright © Mark Hansen | Year Posted 2006

Details | Haiku |
.                                      Moonlight serenade
                                  Crickets frogs and fireflies
                                    Midnight summer dream

                                              ~~~~~~ 

                             Inspired by:  Brian  Strants contest

                                       Awarded:  Third Place

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2010

Details | Classicism |
She should have been Hera, goddess queen of heaven, the sister-wife of 
Zeus, king of the gods; she would have caught him one Friday night tipping 
Out while she sleeps to visit one of his plumy wives and over 100 relations. 
She would have said, “Sit down Zeus; let me inform you about the laws of 
Property settlement and child support in heaven with a concrete poem.”

She would have straightened up Aphrodite, goddess of love and lust.
Especially when Aphrodite was caught red-handed making love to
Her son, Ares, the God of war, she probably would have said, “Now look 
Here woman, quit messing with my son and creating all this rumblings in
Heaven with the gods.” I could see some Lanturne poems floating

She would have acted as the sister of Demeter, goddess of fertility,
Agriculture, and harvest, a sister of Zeus. Because she would have 
Blessed women with children who need them, and also farmers
With great harvest and crops to feed their families and sustain the 
People across the land, by waving a haiku poem in her healing hands

She would have screamed as the sister of Hermes, the crooked cattle-rustling
God; son of Zeus and Maia, who stole his brother, Apollo’s cows, then
Lied, and swore before Zeus, their father, “That even if I knew who stole 
Apollo’s cattle, I would not even accept a reward for finding the thief.” 
She would have gave her crooked brother, and son of Zeus, a flying senryu

She would have been with Athena, the virgin goddess of wisdom, reason, and 
Heroic endeavors; the daughter of Zeus, and Titan goddess of wise counsel 
Métis, especially when Athena appeared onto Swift-footed demigod,
Achilles, and told him, “Sheathe your sword and defeat Agamemnon, the 
Greek king with words of wisdom.”  I could see some wise epigram poems 

She was probably counseled by Apollo, her brother, god of music, healing, and 
Poetry; the son of Zeus and the Titan goddess Leto. Because she has cared 
For the sick in hospital emergency rooms, and has also stimulated us for years 
With her poetic muse. She has counseled many along the way and has calmed
Many storms with loving charm. “Hail my sister in Christ—Karen O’Leary!”

Happy birthday angel and wishing you many more for years to come!





Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2010

Details | Lyric |
Everyday I wake and look forward
to logging in to our Poetry Soup,
because, I can't believe I found you
hidden among this eclectic group.

Actually, it was you, who
somehow stumbled upon me,
I have never met such a spirit
who was so alive and so free.

We talk nearly every single day
from early morning and late into the night,
your calming thoughts put me at ease
and make everything alright,

......and still nobody knows.

When we first met in the Fall
in late October of last year,
it was just after you had joined
but, I was already here.

My shy persona has changed
so much has happened since then,
only your eyes have seen me blossom
I'm more carefree than I've ever been.

We talk nearly every single day
from early morning and late into the night,
your calming thoughts put me at ease
and make everything alright,

......and still nobody knows.

I know we will always have
endless poetry to share,
you know how to take the words
to places only few would dare.

I hope to never lose you
you're the best friend that I've got,
only you can know my secret
that I think you're really hot.

We talk nearly every single day
from early morning and late into the night,
your calming thoughts put me at ease
and make everything alright,

......and still nobody knows.

...and still nobody knows.





Written by: Kelly Deschler   June 13th, 2014

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |
For Fiona Meyrick, poet and musician; a Petrarchan sonnet

Fiona, in the silence of the night
Sings songs of sorrow soft in minor key
That sigh above all formal melody
In cadences that dance like birds in flight
She rests within the dark, composing light
In subtle shades of sweet philosophy
Transposing on the stave a mystery
In spills of sound like ink on paper bright
Fiona; at the stroke of midnight blessed
Plays pianissimo the ocean’s rage
Transforming all the sins of man confessed
In gentle rhythms traced upon the page
A modern muse, an ancient truth expressed
In lullabies to sooth our restless age

© Gail Foster 2016

Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
WHITE SHADOW
-------------------
Cornered in opalescence
No walls to be found
The abyss its residence
The address unknown

Its countenance clear
As frozen solid stone
Collaged in aqueous blue
Painted misty gray

Its irridescence seen
But presence unseen
Epitomizes the trace
Of a fallible illusion
Portray as fumes of
Charcoal colored flames

Steams of vaporous smoke
Swim the swarms of air
Bounding deep its breaths
Breaded by the blare

Of pugnacious myriads of pawns
Barricading the breeze
As brooms' brushes to dust
Swept in swift and soft
Reversal rhythmic rush

Pieces' plethoras ensnared
By touching tips of the hay
Collected quick, no care
Absent a tic's delay

A patent feather has found
Its primmest of places
As paupers planted in pits
In primes of penurious spaces

This putrid particle puffs
Within subsisting liquid
As pints of pluvial drops
Descend devoid of sound
Upon the grazes of glitch
Within the greenest of grasses

A flood of footsteps fringe
Upon the ears of deafened ground
Each heels howls its horns
But gravel hears no sound

Ignites the morning spark
As gently candle lit flames
A sightless, sceneless spurt
Illumined just the same 

~Poetra Jah~

Copyright © Leonard Gage | Year Posted 2013