Written: August 3rd, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: Line Gauthier
****************
Sapphire rays glimmer beneath willow trees;
Emerald awnings, swirling in sweet breeze.
A ledge of leaves—penumbral shadows play,
Each kin-bound heart is rooted all the way.
We meet as one, a sole breed growing whole—
Sunlight furrows the branches of one soul.
I lingered by the seaside on a cold and frosty morning,
The dark clouds overhead were billowing out a warning
Feeling them calling to me in a manner of some gloom.
That I would be better off watching them from my room.
I aimed to linger longer so took no notice of the clouds.
An imposing storm would surely keep away the crowds.
I gleefully watched the tiny sand crabs scurry to and fro,
Sensing the storm coming, weren’t sure which way to go.
I casually lingered up the stairs that led to the main street,
There I spied the ice-cream shop, decided to have a treat.
Flavour would me a momentous decision. It took a while.
Now which, Banana Rama or Choc Cherry made me smile.
Enjoying my cone, I lingered on, watching folk all scatter.
Rain by now was pouring down, to me it didn’t matter.
Many were in the little café, no doubt they took refuge.
Looking over to the sea, the waves now were really huge.
Thunder crashed and lightning flashed, the rain fell down.
I lingered slowly under awnings to the other side of town.
Watched cars slowing down and splash in a puddle or two.
I lingered further, might as well I had nothing better to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Earl struts the sidewalk like a duke,
one eye on crumbs, one on the sky.
His empire: awnings, fire escapes,
the scattered largesse of mankind.
He dodges bikes with practiced grace,
a feathered diplomat of haste.
No coop could hold him—Earl’s too wise.
He knows the cost of open skies.
The city’s his. You’re just a guest.
Watch your fries. I do not jest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Outside the Pinecone Coffee Bar,
dappled sunlight sifts through
oak branches like powdered cinnamon.
Beneath bark-striped awnings,
two squirrels sit debating
virtues of hazelnut cream~
claws tapping porcelain.
One stirs her espresso
with a twig so precise,
the other debates nutmeg~
twice or just thrice?
One sips with pinky raised,
with dainty, pawful grace;
the other gulps hers,
prefers dark acorn roast.
They chitter-chatter
and lean towards one another,
tails twitching over stolen scones,
plotting the morning’s next heist:
a sugar packet,
and in which oak to nap in
when the caffeine fades.
Farmer's Market mornings a parade of colourful awnings
Day dawning.. folks with a basket just awoke still yawning
Blokes fawning over what bespoke stalls are spawning
Queues peruse.. muse.. stroke & choose without warning
Arable fables & orchard parables the tables are adorning
rain beats in puddles
steady as an old clock’s chime
marking storm’s retreat
early lights soften the night
as people forgot sorrow
darkness abandoned
like a lover’s hand let go
lurks in empty rooms
dull chords swell behind closed doors
urging hearts back into light
lone piano chords
wander through silver curtains
slipping down stone streets—
notes weave with the rain’s soft breath
dissolving like whispered mist
Café tables glow
lamps mirrored in rain-slick glass
offering pardon—
voices rise like waves of song
as couples embrace in light
two currents once torn
flow together at day’s end
merging once again—
storm drifts into tender dusk
thunder fades to memory
shattered awnings heal
stretching wide toward the sunset
much stronger now
roots sunk deep in firmer ground
and canvas is made anew
frayed lines grip the cleat
holding mast against the gale
canvas leaps awake
love unfurls its sail once more
steered by winds that once broke it
storm once split the mast
yet the sails held fast
love remade the seams
rekindled our dreams
under the awning
after the storm passed
after the storm passed
Halted growth
Battled water
Moistures talking
Above the lawless
Days first lies
Desperate sights
Knowing not what they've done
Another March
Visits the spun
Cotton bottles broke
Twice plucked thorns
And checked
Doses of fringe
Corners of binge
Testified ends
Of witness
Miracle or Martyr's
Awnings in futures
A dancing dismay
Pleasant awkward May
No use to fret, its only temporary measures
As keepers of the gloom proclaimed in press
Suspend the longing for the simple pleasures
Amidst the circumstances of distress
Awnings are lowered, tables are removed
Everything’s minimized, except the road works
Progress develops in a spiral, and it’s proved
Shall we embark soon in a fabulous epoch?
We have to benefit from the upcoming gladness
Or they’ll take over with another war
Forgetting gradually the days of sadness
We never know, what we were made up for.
A descension of value bows night scenes,
the purple canopy edges its hoist,
spirits cool Platte River to lose its sheen,
Nebraskans wake to clarion fields voiced.
A loyal guest calls, it's the Sandhill Cranes,
dancing lessons, fields fattening corn orts,
pecking and choosing established campaigns.
Last state, go afoul, -- a date with the courts.
Locals aid their tally, most from afar,
It is nature's clock, all good things must end,
fly north to breed, and brood, and up to par,
A month's here, till next year, that's how the trend.
Awnings grey, triumphant stirs, the tension,
inspiring, crescendo ... the ascension.
Somewhere in New York City was an upbeat corner building.
Painted in bright lively colors, with awnings and such.
The corner filled with a building shaped like a canister.
colorful petunias, geraniums and daisies smiled at me from boxes.
Interesting people live here, I told myself, and often.
I sat on a stoop, watching people come in and out on a Tuesday.
Making up stories about this one and that one, it was so much fun!
New York City is filled with neighbors and strangers.
In this building I pictured a large network of friends.
Because of the colors and the prettiness and the calm aura.
I wanted to live in this building when I grew up.
My career took me to the west coast, but I thought of this building often.
It was my meditation spot, and my story-idea station.
At first my collared shirts were ironed,
And I enjoyed my thought that this meant love.
Then she stopped the ironed shirts.
She gave me keys to her house and car.
Then took them back; returned by wrinkled shirts
Now the keys I turn are only mine.
Her garden has come back from disrepair.
Porch awnings are up without my help.
Today I bought two new shirts with collars.
Both are Barney purple.
At first she hung my shirts up ironed
And that meant love to me.
Now my shirts hang wrinkled on me.
I guess she lost her love of ironed shirts.
A hot day in July
He stood in the shade of the awnings of a shop
closed for lunch, the street was nakedly empty
no breeze disturbed the fine sand of time.
A cat under a car was watching him intently
perhaps the cat’s owner was the shopkeeper
then a moggy doesn’t think it is.
Only two living things in the side street existed
he beckoned towards the feline that got up
jumped over a fence, disappeared from view.
The man sensed a scary chasm of loneliness
the sun shifted and took, the shade away, nothing
for it, he needed a drink.
Where fatso's by the fireplace
His wicked fingers teasing
A velvet suit shows ashes on
for yuling peoples pleasing
When awnings on a window top
reveal a shadow stalking
And presence through a livingroom
embark on children's stockings
That strolling down a corridor
will bring a puppy lapping
When Santa bends to pat him down
and calm him from his yapping
And move along to lend his toys
to all good girls and boys
Unloading what are gifts to bring
for promise and for joys
That every light we go to be
are Santa's for the cause
When Christmas Day means gifts to be
an evening with the Claus
Where fatso's by the fireplace
His wicked fingers teasing
A velvet suit shows ashes on
for yuling peoples pleasing
When awnings on a window top
reveal a shadow stalking
And presence through a livingroom
embark on children's stockings
That all who come to care at Christmas
Know Santa's on his way
when all who glow by fireside
are Christian for the stay
the Yanerbie Highway
The Yanerbie Highway
Is paved with white silken sands
Stretched between water’s lapping fingers
And the feet of towering dunes
The Yanerbie Highway
Runs at Southern Ocean’s side
Forever exposed to her turbulent moods
And the ebbing, flowing tides
Choose a spot
Under broad blue sky
And pull over beside
The precession of surfboards
Fishing rods, and bathers
Dogs with wagging tongues
Some chasing four wheel drives
Cruising the highway at a leisurely speed
Against a back drop
Of rolling waves and distant red cliffs
Four wheel drives with awnings
Awnings that shade smiling faces
A friendly wave, passing traffic
Possibly stop for a chat
Sometimes between friends old
Sometimes new
The Yanerbie Highway
Its silken white sands
Run along Southern Ocean’s side
Stretching into adventure
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.