The sun is out,
The day is about to unfold,
Yet somewhere deep in my bones,
I am freezing.
My eyes drift to my wrist
Only to find I’ve run out of time.
The edges of the world go soft,
My vision blurs,
And the ground rushes up to meet me.
They say the fall is part of the journey.
They say the echoes are just lessons to embrace.
But as I lie here in the dirt,
I want to know
How?
It was in the depths of winter 2010
At minus ten degrees.
There were silver wires of spider webs
And bare hardy trees.
Through the mist of my exhalation
A feeling beyond belief -
I stop and admire with fascination
The glittering outline of this hedgerow leaf.
It was stiffened by the hoar frosts sting,
Glossed by the kiss of daylight,
Holding on tight in a breezy swing,
Its crystallised edges sparkling bright.
Is it true that if you imagine cold scenes
You'll feel cold too? Worth a go!
In this heatwave I'll think of crystallised leaves
And how frost on frost can grow.
Reedth speaketh me listen
to this creaking squeaking tree
it make a bassoon proud
to speak out loud in detail
the things I see.
Speaketh me as wonderer
here in the edgy field
the moans and groans of
a tree so large
could frighten a person
to chills
fright not weary one
as I know the happenings here
the fibers within
bend with the wind
this trees end could be near
dense the wood
strong fibers too
might I brag that
it's a Black Ironwood tree
most dense of all the tree's
it was a present from
a host, a hoist that
gifted me.
It shall be felled
harvested
and made into tables and chairs
you look at me with
disappointment
do you wish the wind to prevail
oh i understand
you wish it to be fashioned
from this tree
a bassoon for those envy us
crafted for the world to see.
It expense will make
all who want
stop with a look upon there face
envy of unobtainable things
Envy and Grace
profound lyrical themes used
to explore the balance tween
artistic ambition, comparison,
Passion and redemption
at the cold North Pole...
aurora of polar bears
standing right-side up
waddle of penguins
living in Antarctica...
standing upside down
at the Equator
a hissing slither of snakes
sideways, on the edge
I speak in velvet tones,
but my silence cuts cleaner than blades.
They mistake my gentleness
for surrender.
My softness
for something they can press fingerprints into
and leave.
They have never met
the girl who survives quietly.
I do not raise my voice.
I raise my standards.
I do not beg.
I observe.
And when I leave
I do it like winter.
No warning.
Just absence.
My love is warm, yes.
Honeyed. Slow. Devoted.
But my detachment?
Glacial.
You will search for me
in rooms I once lit up,
and find only echoes
that refuse to answer back.
I was never fragile.
I was controlled.
There is a difference.
I learned long ago
that the loudest power
is restraint.
So I let them underestimate me.
Let them think softness means safe.
Until they realize
too late
Velvet can still suffocate.
I am walking the edges of what we were,
where memory meets the present,
and every step feels like a question
without an answer.
I move forward,
yet I am still here,
trapped between letting go
and holding tight,
between the ache of loss
and the pull of desire
that never truly fades.
Your face lingers in shadows,
in the quiet spaces of my day,
and I catch myself
reaching for something
that no longer exists.
Edges are strange things,
they teach you to balance,
to feel the weight of longing
without letting it tip you over.
I am learning to live
with the tension,
to let it shape me
without consuming me.
And still, when I close my eyes,
I taste the ghost of your lips,
the memory of your warmth,
and I wonder
if I will ever fully step away
or if desire
will always trace the lines of your absence,
drawing me back
to the edges
where love refuses to die.
How can I be healed when my rivers are still tender
My heart is stuck in the same sentence
Unheard points screamed at the child inside me
What am I
When the trees stick out and come out of hiding
My thoughts are disconnected from the lifeless rivers bound down on me
This penny for thoughts is meaningless
No worth inside its curves
It meant so much when I paid attention to the quietness
But the wind snatches the good thoughts from hallways of complete darkness
Do I sound crazy
Dreaming of high skies and cloud nines
I cannot see up here
It's too bright and the lines are hard to look at as wrong
How can I be healed when the tree has nothing more to wave in the wind for a look
It is invisible aging and broken edges
How am I ever healed
white as a wedding cake and bride’s satin dress
feathers as whimsical and frothy as white lace
delicate and delightful, the dove flew into the room
bringing a sense of peace and joy, hope hanging on her edges
the hawks were disturbed; they wanted war and turmoil
they cringed a bit, feeling that God was in the house
There are edges Time leaves in passing
Some of them are jagged
A few edges are grey and badly torn
Sometimes the jagged are also distorted
and leave one puzzled, confused
Some edges can cause disquiet
And we begin to wonder where they were
Were they there all along and not noticed
Or, were we able to ignore.
Did we simply whisk them from our life
Along with Worry, Sadness, Fear
But, sometimes, when we look closely,
Grasping Time from its rushing
We will see colors behind the jags
lilac, red, green, blue, amber...
Some colors will simmer and pop
Some colors will magically glow
Those colors we would like to keep
For they are filled with Hope.
The skyline cuts through faded tones,
With moonglow blazing gilded bronze
And fluid my ink is interlaid
As nightfall drifts like a peace shroud
The glass pane teeters in the breeze
With my pen zigzagging on damp papyrus
I hear an old couple laugh on the alley
Their banter rolling , perhaps, of younger times--
Across them, a lone man trots, forlorn
His bent spine enduring road's travail,
Leading his wobbly feet to tangles of blooms
While egrets scuffle homeward bound.
My mixed thoughts wander at this picture show
...Receding off so gradually
From the tip- tap screech of cobblestones
To my pane's sill, fingers reach for verses
Where each day is a page to write new stories
About jagged yet sleek edges of time's folly
My hands sinking into tattered phrases, kneading
Recitals of life with unknown episodes.
The barbs she threw at him
left jagged edges on them both
torn from deep within herself
raw, bloody pieces of meat
hurled violently across the room,
the space, the endless time.
They cleaved to him, each one
slowly shrouding the man
until he became a prickly porcupine.
Some silent days, from weariness
would bring respite, closeness.
In intimacy, his spines
would prick her open wounds;
They could not help themselves,
They no longer had control.
And so they lived, or slowly died
behind soft lace curtains;
a bitter purgatory
on the jagged edges
of a new society.
The jagged edges tear apart
The cornerstones of her heart
Each day, there's an emotional dart
Thrown by her counterpart
The husband's venom impart
And sadly, she's his push cart
Where seemingly, she's his spare part
That he abuses with his mouthpart
She's fallen to her knees and kick-start
Thus, a bullseye that cries for a depart
For the jagged edges will never depart
But wisely, she needs to be smart
And distance herself from his blackheart
She yearns for smooth edges and a new start
In the end, she clears off her sweetheart
connie pachecho
7/31/25
J with Four Options Poetry Contest: Free verse
sponsor :Constance La France
Date:7/31/25
“Not all pain howls, some sharpens”
by poet
I never asked to come out clean
life carved me raw on purpose
some parts were shaped in silence
the rest I had to burn
not all soft things were meant to last
I watched them melt then vanish
while I turned thorn to anthem
and dressed my hurt in steel
you think I cracked but I evolved
I had to break open just to breathe
if I could trace the shape of my breaking
I might learn what it means to remain
still I stand here not whole but aware
jagged edges still holding what I could
I walk with wounds that never fade
but shine beneath the skin
my scars all lines of poetry
the world was too quiet to hear
there’s beauty in the splintered
when you stop calling it a flaw
Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.
Proverbs 16: 18
she stood tall on the jagged edges of the cliff
face worried as she noticed the rough seas
whilst above high dark clouds rumbled
though the sun shone straight at her face
could it enlighten her about what had happened
thoughts came and went, as she remembered
the letter he had sent her and wondered
was she deceived by her soldier and sister
he insulted her refusing to marry him
and she insulted him back vowing
she would never marry him come what may
still thoughts rumbled inside her mind
was he really proud or was she prejudiced
the jagged edges of a knife pierced her soul
could there have been some half-truths in his insults
she still hated him but admired his handsome face
facts churned in her head and confused her even more
could she face those jagged edges of truths
she turned and walked down the rough cliff
her soul lacerated with truths and pride
Placed 1
"Life levels off in importance. Days are no longer
jagged peaks to climb; time is a meadow,
and we move over it with level steps."
~ Gladys Taber
Her life is a page torn from a spiral notebook
whose jagged edges are tattered
She's bone weary and wears the haggard scowl
of a woman whose heart has been badly broken
There are jagged lines, wrinkles and creases
the kind that ages a beautiful face
where once his fingertips had left a gentle touch
her skin seems ravaged by sorrow
No longer can she peer into a mirror
none have been left hanging in her home
Into pointed shards they'd been shattered
in a moment of hysteria
There are no straight-edged lines in lost love
for the toll is measured in flesh
and the only traces of it left to recall
are memories that tussle her mind
There's an emotional mountain she must climb
jagged edged rocks will impede her way
but when she succeeds in reaching the crest
from grief she will have been freed
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.