O fall, let this lore of love be the last...
as your tight, chaotic grip holds me hostage.
Don't count against me my downfalls,
but the endeavors that have stitched the fabric of my days.
Still, this mask of anguish shapes its heavy cry,
wrapped tightly against the core of myself—
absent of mercy, mocking that pure moment in time
that allows us mortals to be human.
Yet, neither dusk nor dawn can delude me.
They try to imprison me, and hate may fill me with sorrow,
but the flame carried within shall never be dismissed—
a hunger not easily satisfied, refusing to die.
Discarded, a silent alchemy works in the dark.
I am the fire the shadows could not smother;
I turn the leaf, rewriting every page,
rising far above the ashes of my pain.
Last standing—strong,
amidst the dust and foliage of farewell!
From behind velvet,
curtains drawn,
I peer with,
a glowing faculty,
of sentient,
embryonic paradox,
at entranced,
visual vine creeper,
that tiptoe cagey,
post dawn revealed,
picturesque glimpses,
stickler for the blind,
who treat with,
scorn dumbfound,
paradisal plinths,
metaphors for,
mountain tower apex,
or ground level placard,
to undulating urban,
tracts lavish,
where cerulean sky,
and town gossamer
mesh
Neither dusk nor dawn can delude me,
says the leaves that fall in the autumn.
Everywhere they are feeling the earth and the soil.
All these days, from a height, they have seen it.
It’s now the time to touch,
feel,
and be part of the earth
with their skin upon it.
The leaves of the trees
happy to be with the soil,
but a longing and a miss—
its mother-like tree
and its caring branches.
But nearing its roots
is like strength gained.
Though dried its colour,
the coarse nature of texture,
and the experience of being green all round,
and now the season of autumn—
the evening in their life.
And these leaves
always add life to our lives.
As humans,
we enjoy watching the leaves change colour,
turn different from the way they sprouted—
still they serve us humans.
And neither dusk nor dawn can delude them.
They are from nature
and always remain as one—
though autumn or spring.
a silver feather drifts across the mirror of winter dawn,
its quiet gleam widening wonder in the pale light,
as frost-soft air carries what you almost remember,
and the day opens gently around that drifting shine.
As with all things it began small,
As a whisper, a glint, a glimmer
A distant chickadee giving voice
To a sun that rose ever silently
And a morn that seemed ever,
And ever more promising of wonder
Fleeting westward the veil’d stars
And rolling thunder
Dappling tears
That shed their gladness
The growing light abate the fears
Wrought, the wet groaning night.
And it seemed a slow standing ovation
A clatter of chirps, cars and school children
Beginning their ritual’d day
A smattering of clouds forming and deforming
As the orchestra began to play
And my window became a ringing call
Beckoning me to my door,
To turn the knob that had secured me before
Symbolizing a threshold—of a freedom
That lay beyond—
And more.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ lying in my bed
I heard ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ one solemn word ¦¦¦ said
A bird began to sing.
I heard a dog ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
And a ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ cock;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ It was five o'clock.
The ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ bird sang,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
The cock ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ had gone mad.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the dark skies,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ wind and wave;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ cried out ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ "Be brave!"
The ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ market-carts,
The pounding of men's feet
Were drowned in song; ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
The song was loud and sweet.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of The Church-Bell by Elinor Wylie)
A dawn chorus of unfamiliar birdsong woke me before first light. I had slept well despite the night sounds of a nightjar and the heavy breathing of unseen animals beyond my tent. Before exhaustion finally claimed me, a feeling of inevitability had washed over me.
we can't change circumstances
embracing moments
taking stock
we are either the hunter or the hunted
what part do we play
in the dance of life?
The most beautiful poem suits you,
written simply, like your own beauty;
with the soft dawn breeze
dancing lightly upon the curtain
as it drifts through the open window;
like a rose half-open—the bloom of youth—
a stanza paused at the break of day.
May the breeze blow ceaselessly,
and you unfold from the curtain’s folds
like a butterfly emerging from the shadows,
your face a trail of light at daybreak
awaiting the rising sun,
your beauty revealing itself in full splendor—
a verse that touches the firmament.
Let the breeze rise from the depths of your soul,
stirring the curtain with a flickering pulse—
your form, a cherished vision,
drifting through the open window;
in your dark eyes, the sea
becomes a mirror of the sky,
with words like lighthouses in the boundless blue.
And should the time come for the breeze to fall silent—
as if a hand had closed the window—
you will dance lightly upon the curtain,
moving eternally within its graceful folds,
your beauty shining in the firmament;
the words in these verses
will speak only of you, forever.
soft light wakes the earth
cackling laugh echoes the dawn
pale pink paints the sky
a fragile bright thread
woven through the darkest night~
light that dispels dread
soft whisper of dawn
chasing shadows from the soul~
sunshine on the lawn
seed beneath the frost
waiting for the gentle thaw~
life will not be lost
tear begins to dry,
a quiet strength starts to grow~
shine anew in sky
sunbeam on the path,
melting away winter's grip~
greens in aftermath
a gentle warm breeze,
carrying a hopeful song~
worries start to ease
rainbow after storm,
colours painting skies anew~
peace begins to form
distant star's soft gleam
promising a warmer shore~
life`s journey still beams.
Morning Routines KOTABA KOKORO
2/6/7/6/8
coffee
drinking first thing in the morning
while watching the daily news show
the news depressing me
turning it off, drinking coffee
Coffee
Morning delight
Perfect
Conceived from the first ray of light
The infant dawn opens its eyes
Too soon the sun bows to the night
Reluctant to say its goodbyes
The dusk knows the night's just begun
The moon knows it's just the night's pawn
The morning star nudges the sun
To once more awaken the dawn
Two faint stars meet at the edge of night,
Sharing one moment in the hush of twilight.
They cannot contend with the rising Sun,
Nor ask the morning what they have begun.
So they shelter together beneath each other's umbrella,
Sharing a glance, a chance, to write their brief novella.
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn,
its tender curve ascending toward the leaf;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
Light scatters softly on the waking lawn,
confetti cast in moments bright and brief;
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn.
the dewy emerald margin, newly born,
receives the arc with quiet, trembling grief;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
in fluid dance, the fern’s first shape is sworn,
its curling vow a testament of belief;
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn.
the forest floor, by shimmering light adorned,
holds sacred space for nature’s turning motif;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
so the day begins, its promise worn
in curves that rise beyond all earthly grief~
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
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.