China, my secret love-hate yin-yang mistress
Not the tea cup and platter kind
But the expansive yellow blob on the map
Taking up half of Asia kind.
In other words, the actual
Flesh and blood kind,
The kind that stretches back millennia
Before Christ’s birth,
Originator of perhaps the oldest continuous
If not always best civilization
Rich in arts and culture, natural history
And sheer grandeur of such vastness.
But also at the very same time
A land of horror and terror, conquering hordes
Concentration camps and The Great Leap Forward
Organ harvesting, election interference, Covid 19
Birthright citizenship tourism, data hacking,
And the great corrosive flood of Fentanyl.
How can such a place that is so wonderful
Filled with a billion wonderful souls
Be such a horror, a sucking black hole
On a fixed smiling face of death and deceit,
Saving face as they say
For what? The hope of peace and change?
When in reality what’s needed is a complete cut.
Let it collapse under it’s own hubris,
Let it go, let it sink, let it rot in hell
And at least, at last, in memoriam,
Remember and exalt what it once was,
And not get fooled again.
(7/27/26)
VIVID SILHOUETTES
bedraggled
claustrophobic
thrillingly
sourced
imposing
a resonate
view
in
a
definite
rampant
strange
compelling
covering
to
radiate
animated
oozing
bizarre
& vigorous
struggles
untamed
inconguous
precarious
translucent
compelling
study
so exceptional
with
potential
renderings
subtle
accomplished
splendid
& a
sophisticated
painterly panache
a
colossal
gushing
&combining
the
original
curious
naturalistic
reserve
sublime
in serene
expansive
creativity
Quantifying Poetry
Poetry is idoneous – the perfect fit!
We feel the beating heart of an emotion,
absorb or express that feeling
in a nuanced format of language
that can offer a profound satisfaction.
You watch, you listen, you learn
filtering creative thoughts into a structure
that is conceived in a framework on the page.
Gradually there is removal of scaffolding
and a brevity, clarity in word distillation;
the losing of the loose change.
You continually reach for best words, best order
until you have poetic form that offers
an edifice that is poignant, elegant or humorous
while dancing to the rhythm of the words.
A sense you have drawn up an emotion
from the expansive well of language
that is encapsulated in a poem
and, hopefully, one that is truly felt.
It doesn’t take a week to read a poem
but it can take a week, or a lifetime,
to appreciate and savour it.
Poetry allows us to speak;
occasionally it empowers us to fly.
Imagination is Divinity's show
we see what is in store and stock, old or new
challenging problems from various viewpoints
non-linear timeless, moves directionless
concretises void contents self perceives pure
evidence of things unseen in moving realms
fountain spring of all new wisdoms from unknown
dust it off, open it up, ageless it is
a no cost preview of coming attractions
on expansive landscapes we project wishes
monotony becomes lucid excitement
here we wipe slates clean of misery, boredom
conceive what will be perfected colourful
not knowledge, therefore has elemental wings
lubricates creative manifestation
impacts possibilities, gives rise to will
intent, configuration, action results
holding evidence of vibrational prisms
peace tool for misqualified energies lost
imagination infinite crucial cued
foundation tool for human creation
unequalled gift given to humanity.
PLACED 3RD: PREMIER CONTEST
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Electricity turning human.
Breathing around the globs.
Like the breath of a squeaking door revealing again.
Expansive like eyebrows twitching.
And the alphabet crawling its way through the mountains.
Electricity can be human you know?
Tears can grow wings.
Bones can teeter totter a little bit painfully.
In a way we try to describe, it gets worse as we get more meticulous.
Scratches.
All that were left were a couple.
And they left their email and a grin behind.
My wish would be to visit Italy,
where my grandparents were with family.
One came from Florence, one from Sicily,
before my Mom and I were born to be.
I'd love to find out how their lives began-
those years in Italy before their plan
to board the ship- a woman and a man-
embrace the USA, their future span.
From tales they told me, Italy was home
to lovely gardens, winding hills to roam,
and special wonders, such as that in Rome,
with the Basilica's expansive dome.
To feel the rhythm of the countryside
and taste delicious entrees, well supplied;
confirm the recipes I've used stateside-
and the traditions learned and passed with pride.
I have these visions that live in my mind.
Someday, I hope, the real scenes to find.
A poet exposes scenes to explore new horizons
unfolding under expansive or confining domes
We slow it down, decelerate, discern
unveiling are a fable's morals and concerns
taking pause to commune with fauna and elm
serenely does nature speak throughout her realm
our phrases linger with new colors
hues vibrant encompass as skylines
our dimensions broaden anew
sentences chosen carefully carry more import
with words nuanced, renewed
with a more sentient bite
with emotions more candid
abashedly bare, a despair founded
with paroxysm of catharsis we quill
weeping of our dormant essence shaken to life
confessions deepening, plunging in thought
letting the afflatus of passion flow
I Am Anaya
quill & inkwell love
11/14/25
Like the basement door.
Doesn’t flounder or bend.
Just is hinged.
Unlike me.
Any door can be an ocean.
As expansive and open.
Creates a passageway.
Tangled sea.
Any door can be a flower.
Attracts bees and such.
Gets gobbled up by slime.
Leafiness.
Any door can be a poem you see?
Just like candy stripes.
Just like peeling off stickers from the mirror.
Gobbling the space between those two planes.
It’s flat.
The door is flat and stoic.
Transfers me to the next realm.
But only if my feet stop trembling.
Any door can be a poem.
Attached to me.
Any door can be a poem.
Unhinged.
sliding into an equanimous zone
tranquil nonchalance laced with compassion
poised thus in blissful solitude alone
divine magnetism fuelling traction
expansive heart glows with satisfaction
dance of polarities vibratory
steers mood into mode celebratory
Heaven.
From its spout.
It’s so luxurious everywhere,
But I’m still somehow a puddle all over.
The alarms have been going off for hours.
This avenue used to be part of me.
It is now a street for others.
Fruition.
Other ideas don’t make sense here.
The ground is no longer earth.
And love is trickling through and speaks gravely.
Turn on the windshield wipers.
When you turn on the headlights.
Like a luxury sedan that I live in.
Traveling all over when there’s no reason to.
Heaven is random.
Squealing sounds of a violin.
Heaven grows exponentially.
So there is room.
Me and all my friends too.
Expansive feelings.
Spouts we don’t know of.
This avenue of alarms.
I have other ideas too.
Heaven has its own ideas.
Might someday turn us into raindrops.
Like my friend who got in too.
It’s caught up, always, in those little things:
street corners, half-familiar: shop facades:
it’s not so much expansive boulevards
as rain-worn roofs which pluck the silvery strings
of sorrow. Part of my subconscious clings
to remnants – ruined fragments, broken sherds.
They say the brain’s an organ which discards,
not hoards. Why, then, these cruel rememberings?
A tranquil helmsman, plotting perfect vectors,
is how I see myself. Wretched delusion!
We’re buffeted by failure and exclusion,
divided into Hectors or defectors.
The only shred of dignity it brings
is when we learn to love our sunderings.
her thoughts are as vast as cloud,
imagination massive,
expansive, ever-changing
much like the sky so airy~~
vivid dreams filled her evening,
becoming more symbolic,
abstract or fantastical.
Wrapped in the solitude of one blessed night
the moon-eyed moon wanders lightly and alone
inside a vast and deep, darkly expansive sky
Dark cores of light glide
through a dormant ether,
as butterfly shadows play softly against
a dense canopy of leaves.
A still figure appears as if by chance,
underneath the cadence of the light,
swaying like wavering puppets on a string
she meditates on
the fast appearing stars ...
Creating magic from the tatters of the night
she's an invisible wand to the world
but unto thyself, she is as full, as the moon.
Cozy Courage
Ok Hard
Mediocre Alive
Fine Learning
Old Level up
Regular Energy
Tame New
Acceptable Growth
Boring Expansive
Lazy
Easy
Deep Blue
Deep blue night
With starlight dancing
In soft quiet air.
Stars flicker
With opulent yawns.
I am never alone
For I am
Starlight
And am forever
Kissed by an expansive
Red shift into
Blossoms of rainbows.
6.6.25.
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.