Close to this sleeping root, in its flesh of ancient earth,
something struggles silently to become light again, to be born anew from shadow.
And we remain, with our thoughts hanging like a rope torn from the sky,
wondering whether to overlook its gentleness, sweet and annihilating.
A tumbling of black waters follows, over the forehead of my memory,
a shaken clarity, like a lightning bolt that lies, falsifies, and forgets.
Then I barely recognize the electric grace of the men from long ago,
whom I had seen carrying their rusted shirts through the swamp that scorched them,
planting themselves in the ground with arms outstretched like a cross, a condor on each shoulder,
men who wanted to die beautifully, shattering their bones like ancient bells,
their eyes extinguished like burnt amber, silent as icons forgotten by prayer —
and I feel them smoldering within me, like a root that refuses to sleep.
And I walk out into this magical, phosphorescent rain, mystical and cold,
to untie the rope that binds me across centuries and dreams,
to roll myself back into the root from which all that I am has struggled to become again.
The ancient oak
elegantly extends
its gnarled and weathered roots.
Seizing life from fertile soil,
its lustful thirst sated
from springs that generously flow,
devotedly, unseen.
It scatters beauty,
sweeping freely
'cross a shifting sky,
waltzing with
a wayward wind,
solidly swaying upon
seasonal whims...
I am that Oak
when I am with you,
firmly grounded,
yet swept away.
Quenched by your caress,
swayed by your strength,
I can bend with the years
that claim me.
I was born from the first spark
leaping between darkness and dawn~
a jewel-bright ember the sky released
when it wondered how to begin.
The wind shaped me from its longing,
taught me to hover between moments
so I could keep the world stitched
to its own trembling light.
Every beat of my translucent wings
is an ancient incantation~
a spell to keep the day from falling apart.
I drink from the throats of flowers
because they remember me.
Long ago, I carried their colors
into the empty morning,
scattering reds and golds
like seeds of fire.
They open now in recognition,
offering nectar as tribute
to the small god who once
gave them their names.
I am the keeper of swift miracles,
the courier of impossible motion.
When I cross a garden,
time bends to let me pass~
a brief shimmer, a myth in flight,
the world’s smallest thunder.
At dusk,
I fold myself into stillness
resting quietly
in the cradle of twilight.
if there is one lesson you need to learn around Halloween
it is to not irritate or double cross a skeleton ghost named Ween
He brings sorrow to you in many ways if he thinks he has been tricked
His get-even-antics and retaliations are more horrible than being licked.
He has a skeleton head; the rest of him is a pure white ghost.
A vampire living in Transylvania is usually Ween’s regular host.
As you can see right now by his determined expression and intent.
He is going to make someone miserable, it is his way to vent.
POTD
Placed 8 out of 11 placements with 35 entries.
Final days of truth approach
I'm haunted by the tragedy of living,
remembering what an ignorant fool
I was indulging only in passive pleasures
of a world that is full of lies.
I bow my head and on my humble knees
I cross a rainbow bridge,
Search for a sweet blessing of love
and find a sweet serenity.
I hear a strange whisper,
A mumbling prayer of love.
It's strange that such an invocation
should ease my penitent pain.
For if old flowers their petals shed,
then there is hope for me
since I'll shed all my transgressions,
acquire new virtuous leaves
and pray to the Almighty
that He'll forgive my sins.
Good morning, America—pull up a chair,
we’ve got a story with steam in its glare.
Four sides to every breakup tale,
but five opinions before the coffee’s pale.
Now listen—because this part matters:
love is messy, and time is a splatter.
But when the ink of old grudges is used,
and borrowed bitterness makes the news—
You cross a line with borrowed rage,
you let yesterday write today’s page.
An ex is history, a chapter closed,
not a weapon you casually load.
And parents of parents of love gone wrong
don’t belong in the review-bomb song.
That’s not truth—that’s a family feud
with a megaphone and an attitude.
We believe in grace.
We believe in growth.
We believe in letting people move on—both.
So here’s the take from the table today:
Don’t let old wounds lead your PR play.
If you want to be heard, speak for you—
Not the echoes of a war you’re through.
Because healing looks better than revenge ever could,
and dignity reads better than bitterness would.
And that's the view.
On how many levels
does true genius spawn
Is its gift comprehensive
or surgically drawn
Does it drive our emotions
like intellect swayed
Or stay pointed and focused
in only one way
Is it able to migrate
to conscience from mind
Can it cross a new border
or hill to be climbed
Will it outgrow the limits
indentured by class
Enhancing our psyches
— all borders surpassed
(Dreamsleep: January, 2026)
Unto, us a child is born.
That, we might receive this new tune.
Of heavenly wisdom from
his soothing majestic horn.
A promise birthed of a new covenant,
Not a land of milk and honey outwardly,
But, inwardly treasure, kingdom of light.
Not 12 stones to cross a river,
But 12 apostles and Jesus building
Thou, into a habitation of living water.
Planted a life eternal seed within the soul.
That the light that shined out of darkness,
Might shine into the contrite and humble heart seeking in truth and purity.
A gift to all would come to be ,
In this Jesus a new birth would
be given to thee from flesh to Spirit.
Love still laments
when it was charred into ash
Then left to fill the imprint
of yesterday's tracks still frozen in my mind
When the heart of my soul was thrown into darkness
to wander, unwillingly
in a forsaken mist of perpetual pain
searching the abandoned brambles of reason
that scarred my flesh
still wet from vacant eyes that once held love
before its blood spilled upon the sacred floor of trust
staining it for eternity
Where my soul lingers to collect all its pieces
before they are carried away by windblown, desolate days
that have deserted tomorrow
Where nothing will exist but memories
that will cross a lonely sky, leaving a trail
Burned and etched into my empty eyes
Many scientists worked all through the night
To cross a snowman with a vampire's bite
They thought it would be a breeze
But then their fingers did freeze
And all of them ended up with frostbite
I have learned to walk through sorrow softly,
As one might cross a field of dew at dawn—
Each step a shimmer, each breath a prayer.
The world does not stop for grief,
Yet the roses still unfold their tender hearts,
Unmindful of the ache beneath the sun.
There is no shame in silent tears,
No weakness in a bowed head—
Only the grace of those who endure.
Pain is the shadow that proves our light,
A companion we neither curse nor praise,
But carry, folded in the heart’s deep pocket—
A secret weight that teaches how to love.
I feel best in nature far from city blocks.
Peace comes from viewing God's beautiful stages.
Medicinal are streams, trees and even rocks.
On natural land every sense engages.
I so love all of outdoors genuine sounds,
my happy inner child playfully abounds.
All earthly vistas mankind has not tainted
are heavenly views and feels that God painted.
Gray, gloomy and cold are the steel and concrete
of large, sprawling cities built to fulfill greed.
Clustered strangers press buttons to cross a street
and are dwarfed by buildings for which land did bleed.
There are blocks of humans from rich to homeless
where trauma and apathy leave hearts boneless.
Even in June, I loathe how cold cities feel.
I have no guess why to many they appeal.
I shot all the letters, my love, in the silent dawn of night,
From my last unread book, the pages remain unstarted,
The poems exchanged their corpses for impersonal words,
Full of blind ideas, like echoes fading in the valley unheard.
Turning the phrase on the erased spot of the final point,
A yellow, vegetal form becomes a banal detail in joint,
Leading us to the forgotten trash heap's communal grave,
A swirling fervor, a strange cross, a destiny tangled and grave.
After so many loves and insults, let's dream of each other anew,
Not just our most uncultured dreams, but in another view,
Conscious punctuation marks sent to the earth we embrace,
Old creations now hollow, a NULLity of words with no grace.
Let's lose ourselves in the silence of words that echo no more,
In an esoteric dance of thoughts flowing slowly to the core,
In a world where magic and melancholy meet and blend,
And in an eternal dream, my love, let's find and love again.
It's been a while since I've prayed for someone I don't know
A siren brought the mind afoot to somewhere I should go
'sif wakening vestigial impulse buried long ago
Sunk deep beneath incline that's keeping me from what's below
But something in our makeup made up by a stronger hand
Is there if we but care for care and follow it's command
For even when we scraped our knuckles 'cross a barren land
We somehow knew alone alone is not how we were planned
two individuals
finally cross a threshold
in a black hole love.
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.