The sun shyly peeked over the hill
as the cold air made whispers audible
and dissipation began to rise from the dunes.
The morning breeze stirred flurries of sand from dunes
where shadows stubbornly clung to the face of the hill.
A susurrus from the copse barely audible.
Upon the bench in the lee of fickle dunes
the old brass plaque gleamed in rays cresting the hill:
an inscription of grief no longer audible.
Ridged hill of letters, promises audible among dunes.
Living
a dream ...
Reality
orphaned
Time in a
capsule
Sealed away
from our view
Embracing
the crowd
Shunning
the critic
Poseurs
retreating
To hide in
the queue
Moving
each soul
To joy
or to terror
Art
holding sway
Over darkness
and light
Onward
we move
Immune
to convention
And cresting
the hill
Our spirits
— take flight
(Dreamsleep: July, 2026)
dark clouds gathering
cresting white waves pound damp sands
songbirds stay silent
The grass is slick and cresting.
Between a thinned-out thicket,
a white light ogles through it.
A faceless sky is elevator gray,
nothing to measure, no steppingstones
for see-through lighthouses.
Here in the rootless byways
of shiftless realities,
treetops break the surface,
of leaden puddles,
frogs perch,
dripping waterlogged croaks.
There are no shores
for somnambulant seagulls.
I am too lightheaded,
miasmic margins
numb the humdrum.
Footsteps crunch upon clouds,
doubt tugs at
'out of depth' ankle bones.
Quick and slow, pulsed to jibe and rudder
A late dancing, in the luminous waves
The boats angle to the cresting froth tops.
Sails arched, full burst into the brine
Air paces, vast to the horizon’s rim
The hazing glow, communion of sky to sea.
They bob and streak, the prow's steadfastness
Each sailor guides to the compass, knowing
The importance of destination.
Glancing with a stare,
pouncing with a thought,
the jungle fever is never far off.
The sirens blare to the senses,
the sight, the scent, the glow is so soft.
The pull is there,
tugging that has no care,
these instincts howl through your soul.
Responsibility knocks,
but the door is already ajar,
marching into this passage
out of control.
There is no turning back,
with this unquenchable seduction
just within your reach.
A longing gaze
sparks the fire,
a touch, an embrace,
finally forbidden desire.
This union comes
in continuous waves,
cresting and crashing
in a turbulent sea.
Then the finale occurs,
bodies gone limp.
The waters calm,
the sun now rising,
the peaceful eye of this storm
will not last very long.
It darkens again,
this time with vengeance,
guilt, shame and betrayal
come for this wrong.
Boundless and limitless in depth,
the deep blue sea is at rest
A continuum of ebbs and flows,
easing without cause,
never ceases to gain only pause.
Then currents arise from movements below,
tranquility disturbed for a new show.
Crashing waves sending water into the sky,
every crescendo, begs to know why.
Droplets appear in desperation,
was this only due to life’s separation..
Bright beams of light break into view,
seems vaguely familiar,
somehow not new.
Now the journey seems all too reminiscent,
as the cresting comes to its ultimate end.
Droplets reunite with its founder,
completing its journey from down under.
Boundless and limitless in depth,
the deep blue sea is at rest.
A continuum of ebbs and flows,
easing without cause,
never ceases to gain only pause.
Languaging the place is happening
A voicestro of ideas
And involvement
Obstructing legislation
Command and finance
The handling of its own press
Pressing solutions
In the middle of a fraud
Yet in all time
A take part type of gal and guy
Suppose a person asked a city for funding around rent for themselves, an office, range of ten thousand a month
Today cresting 5 billion in debt of unauthorized hijacking of home development law
THE THRILL OF THE PLUNGE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
steel tracks twist and dive,
a serpent of metal coil
fear and joy collide
hands raised to the sky,
trusting the rush of the ride—
in thrill, our hearts soar
cresting the high peak,
the world drops away below
time bends in the loop
screams mix with laughter
hearts race in the weightless air—
then the silence falls
back on solid ground,
echoes of thrill linger still—
brave hearts crave the next
*Note:This poem was written for and published at Writer Monk for its weekly Poesy and Poise contest, August 18, 2025. This is my original poem.
Troughing and cresting
Cresting and troughing
Going down a bit, to rise again
Feeling the jolt but not yielding to the strain
Riding through and roughing it
Steady on the board and rising through it
Not staying low for long
Just riding through, sturdy and strong
Gathering momentum to catch another crest,
Owning the board, rising no less
Not getting too comfortable while floating above
Steady on the board is key___
Owning it and riding free with love
Feeling the splash and the zeal
Embracing and embodying the thrill
Cresting and troughing
Troughing and cresting
With each wave, keep learning and besting
Some have watched her rising
from an ocean of time.
Her sightings return at the pull
of each luna cycle.
No clamshell boats for her,
after she rises from the waves
she and the shoreline disappear
she's only to be seen driving a classic
Chevy convertible or riding
a gayly adorned donkey.
She is sister to desert nights,
and all the dance moves
of the free roaming winds.
You have seen her, you know her,
she is the one that comes to you at night
on moonlit slippers.
She's neither old nor young,
Venus is always for your best years.
When the moon begins to starve,
she returns to the sea
vowing everlasting love
to the constantly cresting waves
of your heart.
A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.
The Moment of Spring
The valley at last in full bloom
Frosty nights
And wind machines in the morning
Flowers all calling
Buzzing bees in the day.
Everywhere greens have emerged
Fresh and moist and innocent
A wave of Life cresting
Before summer’s heat
Makes it all tired and dry
Dashed upon the beach
In its inevitable fall to winter.
But in this moment
There is only the spirit of renewal
The promise of abundance
And unbridled enthusiasm
Of Life simply living life.
(4/23/25)
As sunlight paints all in gold
A cresting wave
Along a distant bay
Gulls cry high into a clear sky
Its tyrannical son burns all away.
Summer has come
What beautiful decay
As evening dies on horizons blade
A splash of crimson
Deep in forgotten May
Amber n indigo lay lazy on the shores
Autumn lingers behind the day
What beautiful decay
A chill frosts the burnt ground
Ice is deep into tomorrow
Brittle leaves are death shroud
Broken branches reach
Winter’s shadows a frozen sound
What beautiful decay
This restless, ever-cresting urge,
that pounds, incessant, in my breast,
much like the ocean's pulsing surge
that never seems to pause for rest,
will have its way.
I must obey.
So I go, in meek surrender,
find a quiet place to hide,
and placing pen to paper, render
poems from the swelling tide.
Though sweet release,
a transient peace.
The work complete, I pause, but find
no sooner is the pen replaced,
than flooding words wash through my mind,
my playful castles are erased,
and I, once more,
am as before.
If I, a child of God, would be
so strongly moved to write, create,
I wonder, is His poetry
the art my heart would imitate?
(His words, I hear,
made worlds appear!)
I realize earth may never know
these fleeting works my soul has given.
Still, from mystic depths they flow
and rise like morning mist, to heaven,
where His ear
at least, may hear.
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.