Right there, just over the horizon
And around the bend
Just this side of Fennario
Where the evergreens grow
With birch and willowed banks
And grasses always green
In fields abuzz with bees
There my love awaits
Morning, noon and night
Right there, just over the horizon
I can see her shine
And hear her voice
A murmur of summer winds
As she calls
In sweet response to mine
Where does this road lead evermore
Twisting turning, rising falling
And all the time her voice a-calling.
(7/3/26)
In savage streets it’s hand to hand
once shrapnel rips the air that’s damned,
no sin of ego in this land.
Baptismal bloodshed echoes
through rust and rebar ghettoes.
There’s bullet swarms and rocket rain
but infantry must hit terrain,
forget I’m sane and rupture veins
with melee-trench-knife flashing,
the bane of peace doves, slashing.
I wear their red of death and drive
my blade abuzz in hellish hive
to stay alive! Yes stay alive!
The apathy of killing,
and twisting morals willing.
My heartbeat kept, a victory,
it pounds just like artillery
but prized, despite the misery.
A witness to destruction
and holy soul’s corruption
and christened by the selfishness
of presidents with negligence,
we soldiers march with evilness.
The narcissistic leaders,
the preachers and the breeders
of rhythmic spates in drumbeat hate
unfurl their nation flags and fate
in bloodlust war… while heads of state
stay combat clean in bunkers.
I witness gurgling utters
your last and bloody gasp for “mama”.
I grasp with greed my breath in chest.
Thought ricochets inside my skull;
I’m still alive! I'm still alive! I'm still alive . . .
From balcony, watch stars-
Gems stuck in diadem.
I wonder where hides Mars.
Moon spills light on the floor.
Down, city is abuzz.
Like ants, move in rows, cars.
if a person knows he knows not
and another assumes he does
inquire: to whom do such thoughts come
wisps of smoke in our mind abuzz
staid silence is the direct path
immediate and intimate
thought fog clears and we see our Self
pulse of light that does not abate
Self is That which illuminates
state of ignorance and knowledge
dropping vicarious knowing
light of Self let us acknowledge
save the Self, all else is a dream
where we’re both subject and object
we’re self effulgent consciousness
therefore world of form we reject
I step beyond my front door, shoes brushing dew
And the air is crisp, familiar-something old, something new.
The sky unfolds in pale gold, the sparrows sing the same tune,
And I swear, I've wandered here before, beneath the waking moon.
Sunlight dapples over lawns just as it always does,
Neighbors wave, dogs bark, the world's gentle hum abuzz.
Every scent, each rustle, is a whisper from the past:
The rustling trees greet me-echoes that forever last.
My feet trace the sidewalk cracks, memory's soft parade,
I know the way the breeze feels, the shifting light and shade.
Deja vu in every heartbeat, in every glance I steal-
It seems, like yesterday, this day was wholly real.
Yet, as I wander outward, with wonder and with grace,
I find new meaning hidden in every time-worn place.
Perhaps I've lived this day before, or dreamed it in the night,
But outside, in the morning sun, the world feels just as right.
Airplanes scream overhead
Lawn mowers abuzz on the ground
Traffic streams endlessly by
drowning out nature's intentions
all of her creatures’ sounds...
One lonely night in the country
I picked up my weary ears
things soddenly sounded just right
Whistling and chirping
Mating calls of birds
A pond come alive
something forgotten in me
had stirred
The phone rang.
Saying “Hello,” more quietly.
Saying nothing.
And the nothingness worsens over time.
Times of hopelessness don’t exist.
It’s just hopelessness.
Not any particular time.
Not any particular tear, or frown.
I’m just some perfect circle, who is shaking imperceptibly.
Nothing really happens.
I am dead in a sparkly way.
Now I am.
Saying things about hurt, but I don’t think that exists.
If someone asked my favorite memory?
It would be me telling everyone about how sad I am.
They would just stand there.
You can’t know what they say.
Just murmuring, maybe.
People abuzz, whispering, making me happy with rumors that are real.
I’m depressed and now they know.
That never really happened.
I still live, anyway.
I won.
I thought I heard your voice last night
A sweet familiar sound
No other human in my sight
Not a single soul around
Up to the window moseyed I
Towards where the voice was heard
I called out loud while drawing nigh,
"Is that you, my Bluebird?"
Just then a slumbering breeze awoke
And rustled through the bough
So quietly to me it spoke
More zephyr-like than sough,
"Yes, it's her, she sitting there
Way up on that moonbeam
She's calling you, go to her now
For this is not a dream"
Then so I did and up I went
To meet you in the sky
And time stood still the while we spent
T'was only you and I
When morning came I realized
A dream indeed this was
But something caused me to sit up
Olfactory sense abuzz
The scent of Baccarat filled the room
And then and there I knew,
Plus a vase of fragrant lilacs,
These could've only come from you
Just then I heard your voice again
This time from far away,
"I've loved you for a thousand years
And I'll wait for someday"
The flower and the bee are miracle signs.
To last forever when the spirit aligns.
The summer is abuzz with all of the fun.
A day to remember when love was outdone.
The most perfect design that holds the powers.
In the soft bosom found of gentle flowers.
Upon the summit of the holy mountain.
Flows our happiness from a godly fountain.
The masters of being steal the cosmic show.
Sending cool respite or brimstone and coal.
Redemption slips away fear fills the still air.
The crowd standing breathless with a frozen stare.
Then in the plainest sight the truth could be seen.
But in our dark vision we thought it a dream.
For life is not made fair it gives and it takes.
We chaulk up the sorrows and call it the breaks.
To find your destiny seek the promised land.
For all man's empires soon turn back to sand.
Standing there next to you the one that you seek.
The promise that you made was you wouldn't peek!
39 minutes
That is all that I have left
Before me
Not one minute more
I spent my life
Thinking time is precious
Time is fleeting
So I must hold on
But now I realize
It eludes my grasp
No matter how bitterly
I try to cling on
27 minutes
The clock is ticking
As if it was mocking me
For my imminent demise
My head is full and empty
Devoid of any thoughts
Yet all abuzz with noise
As I try to be composed
My hands are growing cold
My vision is blurred
My heartbeat weak
Yet my will to live strong
15 minutes
And what am I doing
But wasting it away
Like I wasted my life
Time only flows forward
Ever onward
Yet I stubbornly thought
I could be an exception
Perhaps it is cruelest
That I have to make peace
With my imminent death
Within precious last moments
3 minutes
Enough to fill a sandglass
With a lifetime's regrets
if aromatic, can your sound
adrift on wings like strings to sing
by tongue and some from lighted tops
of cloud aloud let fly, let fly
o solitary eagle soaring high
these aromatic overtones
of demon groans to bees abuzz
on petal roams and onto tombs
of night in flight to morning’s dew
harmonic rhythms meditate
the late, the new, the cycle through
sweet realm of realms, mine avenue
and though her breath is my breath too
the key, like she, can bloom
The world of insects is adither and abuzz
About the biggest party bash that ever was.
Their favorite time is near,
It comes just once a year,
The Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
Caterpillars, centipedes, and honeybees
Are sprucing up and rubbing rouge upon their knees.
Their costumes are brand new,
And soon they're going to
The Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
Moths and butterflies are practicing their dips,
The Arachnida are limbering up their hips,
And ants who love to dance
Hope they'll find romance
At this year's Ugly Bug Ball.
Both the mantises are planning to be there,
Such an elegant, sophisticated pair.
The husband is ideal
As dancing partner and a meal.
One mating tango, though, and he'll have done his share.
When the time comes they'll start streaming toward the hall,
Some will flutter, others scurry, creep, or crawl.
They'll frolic until break of day
To music the cicadas play
At the Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
The cemetery is alive
With freshly cut mums and poinsettias.
Gathering people make it even more abuzz.
A crisp wind blows
Over each receding blade of grass –
Slowly turning them the color of brass.
A handful of tombstones –
Sun-dappled underneath oak trees –
Are scratched by fallen amber leaves.
The crucifixion mound
Overlooking it inspires the Christmas spirit
Within the hearts of those who visit.
Audience is abuzz.
Boldly,
Conductor emerges – black tux.
Draw
Ethereal patterns with baton– marv.
Flutes, trumpets, cellos, drums dance for me, for you.
Gentle, light…
Heavy and dark…the music evolves
Into something more meaningful, deeper.
Joyous – a tranq
Killing, temporarily, stresses – they stop,
Lost to the rhythms and harmonies. And so
Melodies salve our inner woes – a balm, a boon.
Notes are born, they mix, they fade. And I’m
Overawed by power wielded. I am making a musical
Peregrination. My task –
Quixotic hajj –
Round go I,
Seeking solace in this temple of sound (sigh).
Tonic for soul grieving,
Unable from pain to calm itself –
Veritably impossible –
Without help from song and chord.
Xing over…with music,
Yes, I climb…
Zenith bound, toward nirvana.
She is much sexier than the queen
The hive was all abuzz
This Marilyn Monroe-like wasp
Was the woman that never was.
The drones almost stopped working
When sexy wasp came into the hive
I think several of them passed out
At last count it was eighty-five
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.