on a small branch
turtle coasts downriver
sightseeing on the way
Known through every heart's
Wild urge and fun side;
Forbids nothing, including
Desire to escape
What Summer, especially
Along its sea coasts
Reveals, laying us half stripped
About its nature
If coarse, is one glad to cure.
Laughing at our shape!
Echoes of the 90s Hip Hop
In the dawn of the nineties glow, Beats dropped heavy, spirits in flow, old school vibes, raw and true, rhythms that kicked butt shaped a culture anew/
G-funks smooth, West Coasts ride, East Coasts hustle, man, pride you can't hide, from Tupac's voice to Big L's rhyme, legends etched in the sands of time/
Boom bap beats and scratchin decks, Classic cuts that still connect, Undergrounds dance steps, popin' and deep, secrets that the old 90's school keeps diggin' on ya, that's for keeps/
Mix tapes spinning, smokin' joints alive, every rhyme a hustle, a story to survive, from Diddys
drops to Ice Cube's boombox stance, Hip hop's soul a fierce dance/
So, dig this, here's a high-five to hip hop's golden age, the craft, the passion, the music, rapper's rage, forever in our turntable hearts they stay, the timeless sound of hip-hop's "beat down" lies in its aggressive, stripped-back rhythm, take no prisoners sound, a blueprint for heavy social commentary/
Man, it's the message, hip-hop history, forever new/
The nights grows pale, stars in dead gray,
the luscious trees waving away-
with boughs so plump,ripeness is due,
though dreamy strolls light up the bay.
How the breeze wiggles, toes are bare
on sandy coasts, I feel restless
then 'round I go to a town's fair,
And there, I meet her-- nonchalant
Somehow, this view leaves me uncertain,
Would she care still after summers, absent?
Snapshots Of A Night Scene
Nette Onclaud, Sponsor
May 16, 26
From salt-stung coasts and logic’s end;
My pulse awakes beneath your pen.
A ghostly hunting throughout the night
And a steady drum near a candle light.
For every moment these ink lines take;
My spirit grows and begins to wake.
To feed the marrow of your crave
It threads the static of your days.
To etch the light in jagged ways;
Pinned fast beneath a phantom gaze.
He has a pencil and imagination.
He sits above a marble tabletop
a commanding plateau aloft -
shadow-shades of wintery geese.
A sea swept fable
overlooked by a high stool
and a six-year-old Zeus.
Eggshells grain and creamy caps,
a crystalline surf slaps swirly shores,
blue veins score billowing stone
deep unto watery bone.
Contours of light
shelf, trench and darkling nights
there jabberwocky did roam.
A vast wave engraved realm
where pencil-thin old salts
jig, and swing
upon deck or land.
Grand fleets stand
flogging savage coasts.
Guns hammer truculent hosts
with smokey enfilades
and thick odors of bacon.
Odyssean voyages are lost
in greasy spots,
while an embattled buccaneer
spreads his buttery art across
a voluminous chart.
Then he, the breakfast boy
bends above the roving,
the erstwhile and damned,
sketches a gull or three
with a sailor's hand.
With a god-like paw
the child draws shallows, sandbars
reefs and more
swallow or befog a seascape,
while great ships converge to rescue
a bold seaman
and his bandy-legged dog.
Flee the scene
before the dawn
frames the escape.
Treat with plenty of faith
& you can suspend belief,
like the irony
in how it takes a cynic
to persuade.
Poetic contracts speak
for a Man,
and a lord,
between a grave;
wonders death doesn’t come
when you’re aware of some strings,
even when waves roll back,
they tend to more often break
solely to come back again
and continue to take.
A power
to turn entire coasts
into the oceans deep.
A power
of breaking chains,
and setting free
the wings of angels
and their screams,
by tossing their guarded
and posts
into the tides
of the seas.
You’re not fleeing the scene
you’re redirecting,
and setting a stage.
Think again…
or, for once
and breathe.
Remember
of the unintended shadows
fallen in between
the ideas,
the words,
and the worlds of things.
You’re only claiming
of what you can’t see
of what we can’t know.
Anything can rise out.
Anything can become again.
That’s the curse of hope
that can never leave.
Let it go
And let it be.
What a sham,
I’m still fleeing the scene.
My dream destination is Ireland,
I want to walk in the lush green.
Visit towns of cottages, pubs and music.
I want to see the rocky coasts, lakes, rivers and wetlands,
the birds, animals, and wildflowers growing,
the mountains, pasturelands, and the architecture.
I will explore Dublin, the churches, castles and museums
to inspire my poetic pen,
and instill a peace and sublime feeling within me,
as I enjoy the friendly people I will meet along my journey.
I especially want to visit, The Burren, a vast limestone plateau.
It is a unique botanical environment where alpine flowers grow
in the limestone stone crevices to create splashes of color.
I will stay at Bed and Breakfast Inns along the way.
and mingle with the people I meet.
Try some interesting food in the restaurants and festivals.
Shop till I drop and go to a symphony, ballet or opera perhaps.
Ride a horse on a woodland trail, country lane or mountain path,
and I must, must go for hikes in the glorious Irish landscapes.
Oh, it is a delightful dream . . . . to dream.
Poem written on 10th November, 2025
for "The Earth's Oceans Poetry Contest"
by Constance La France.
"The sea sheaths her gluttonous grip in a calm candour."
quote by the author.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the Greek myth of the Titan Atlas, your name,
In saltiness, no sea can quite compare.
Your mighty footprints press upon many nations —
Only the Pacific reaches more shores and coasts.
You bore the deceit that chained Africans —
Changed the hues of faces in the Americas.
You ferried millions into dark living shackles —
A graveyard for rebellious ones.
Upon your blue-green belly wars were won and lost;
You echoed the Cuban missile crisis.
You swallowed the Titanic mid its pleasure trip,
Still hold Gustloff's nine thousand bones.
You foster commerce and the flow of trade,
Yielding black gold with tireless ease.
You guard rich treasures for mankind,
Yet hide your deepest secrets in your vastest depths.
Is it true that with earthquake you sank Atlantis?
Do you have a triangle that vanish vessels?
Have you assigned a coast to the Sargasso Sea?
All these rumours your silence spreads both far and near.
"On the coasts of compromise,
consider the cost."
Poet
Squalls were forecast
at last evening's meeting;
sudden gusts of duplicity directed decisions.
My wild frenzy wanes, passes now
as I pray.
Today, back at work
Jesus' spirit within my soul
restages me with truth to defeat divisions
as I work to lower temperatures.
Pardon’s plea
The ghost of the haunted lighthouse, standing lonely by the sea,
Emerges every morning ‘twixt the hours of one and three,
His vacant eyes forlornly search the ocean, still in vain,
Where the vessel lies forever and the sailors' bones remain.
Up and down the stairs he drifts, and thrice around the lamp,
An empty bottle at his hip, the air all cold and damp.
He moans and wails a ghosty chant, a song that isn’t known
By men of breath who come to see a man who can’t atone.
These stories are as old as hills, the haunted lighthouse ghosts,
When lonely keepers kept lamps lit on deadly rocky coasts,
With powers sublime, when tempests raged, these souls were tested then
And stormy seas and weedy pipes meant death to that ship’s men.
I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts
But I hope when I knock your door, Death,
You would be a gracious host.
When I come to meet you Death,
I hope you would be kind.
And shoulder to carry me,
None I'd need to find.
I hope when I lay there,
There would be people who would listen,
And there would be some titles,
With which I would be christened.
I hope there would be someone,
To whom our separation would cause swan-like despair.
But I hope there would be enough memories,
To ease the pain they would have to bear.
And when I sleep forevermore,
There would be millions of days to cherish,
I hope there would be heights I had soared,
Making my name impossible to perish.
Then when I come to knock your door, Death,
You would be so kind,
That departing from my world, and greeting you
I wouldn't mind.
I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts
But when I knock your door, Death
You would be a gracious host.
I spoke to the sea,
a calm breath
though a gale raged
inside of me – both my
sails shredded, I begged
for mercy:
“Thou art the greatest world current,
what brag would be a wretched notch
like me!? Devourer of coasts!
Reshaper of vast continents! Bane
of man’s mightiest fleets! Countless
formidable have foolishly challenged thee, and now
lie silent in your crushing depths...were I
added to such esteem numbers,
a bald-headed, gray bearded, toothless
old dote, it would be a disgrace~
better toss me high into the
air, toward that island over there, for
unlike you, Great Wet Majesty, crocodiles
and lizards have no pride; then there
not be shame of yours to hide –
promise, never will I return….”
and this, dear children, is why
grandpa cannot take you fishing --
It might be an absurd idea
But we need to move on from here
Stalled in the darkness
With no moral compass
To guide us into the clear
It might be a ridiculous notion
But we can’t just float on this ocean
For the Scylla and Charybdis
With no light of forgiveness
To warn against the tide of commotion
Allow me to propose a thought
That each one do as one ought
Lest the sea level rises
With its schools of surprises
To infinitely rip us apart
If we sail forbidden seas
And land on barbarous coasts,
Who will avail us
When the great wave recedes
And we’re marooned on an island of ghosts?
Red-wing blackbirds symbolize protection, good luck, and even prosperity. They’re a reminder that something else is out there watching over us and guiding us when necessary - Quote by Vanessa K. Eccles
---------------------------------------
Zorro of lakeshores, coasts,
waterholes amidst tall reeds
Redkissed on wings, nicely earned
proud yellow shining badges,
worries so much over his
subdued, streaky brown missus
bossing around claiming digs,
ruling the roost, many gals -
fearless keeper of his lot
he whistles, she chatters mild
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.