The eyes fall heavy, dropped like iron weights,
The crimson seal breaks open on the page.
A silent heart decodes its darker fates,
As lips unclose without a smile to gauge.
Out through the mouth, a stark emission flies -
A gasp of feathers leaves a bitter trace.
Black words like crows sweep through the quiet skies,
To peck the margins of a narrow space.
No whisper marks the blood the poets bleed,
Dark mulberry stained upon the sacred font.
I dip the quill to satisfy the need,
And trace the only baptism that we want.
Our drawn out paths were meant to run divine;
We cast the runes and walk the crooked line.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The world demands a path, a plan,
Beyond the reach of mortal hand.
But in this quiet, holy place,
I see her future held in grace.
No river deep, no fire wide,
Can pull my daughter from His side.
For He has called her by her name—
Through every change, He stays the same.
The font still sings its soft refrain:
He’ll be the sun, He’ll be the rain.
I leave my maps, I leave my fear,
For in this water, He is here.
As the sun begins shining to set, glorious brightness shines thru the stained glass window, Christ is shining HIS mercy upon my soul, my tears are wiped dry upon my face, I am touched by Gods mercy and grace, my body I rise to genuflect towards the tabernacle, , “Jesus I trust in YOU, the gentle sounds of the blessed font, for I have everything I could ever want.
The stone is cold, the pews are still,
I sit within my own mind's chill.
But through the shadows, soft and low,
I hear the font—its steady flow.
It isn’t a voice or a thundering word,
But the sweetest song I’ve ever heard.
A bubbling brook in the summer heat,
Where the thirsty and the broken meet.
Like a bird that lands on a mossy stone,
I’m no longer failure, I’m no longer alone.
He isn’t shouting from a distant throne,
He’s the healing water, making me His own.
My plans were a map I drew in the dust,
But the water washes them back into trust.
I see her future through tears in my eyes,
But He sees her spirit, a beautiful prize.
Not a group home, but a place in His hand,
More secure than the best of the lives I had planned.
When words fail and only tears remain, Spirit steps in to speak for us.
In that quiet church, let the sound of the bubbling water hold the weight of those fears for you. Jesus, I hand it over to draw a plan for her and trusting the One who created the "brook."
Poems settle softly on the 'Peace Race,'
But a cyclone wind whirls to birth mishap.
Each soul foresees truth at a dreamer's pace,
While blue Earth is ripe with thoughts to unwrap.
Hope clasps the trees, painting the Elven hues.
Freeing our pink hearts' lasting love that swells
When wise leaders embrace the moonlit views,
Invoking kind spirits, summoning Elves.
The moonlit council leans on bargaining.
Soft persuasion drifts gently to mainstream
Garden Sprites who charm the soul, nurturing,
With the Elves' theme of peace that reigns supreme.
Kind 'letters' soar above divisive schemes
As Peace becomes more than an Elven dream!
Desperation to breed contempt
the moment shattered
time illy spent
Choices bartered and freedom gone
the reaper chanting
old righteous wrongs
Panic stricken the nights repeat
the days long orphaned
abandoned sheep
One promise lingers in chastened air
the font of Angels
— baptism’s prayer
(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)
Frequent famines, furrowed foreheads, faint
Father's font fructified, free flowing
fare for fragile famished families
finally fullness, faith
freedom from fervent fraught
Your social construct?
Smile in a different font;
I asked for nothing;
The message is still the same;
Ridiculous dynamic.
Poetry…
not about the words
but how the words were born
(Dreamsleep: June, 2021)
Who was it that first said..
'the eyes are the window to the soul'..
who's eyes did they envision..
and how did they know?
And what of sweet wetted fingers that comb..
to straighten this messed heart cowlick I own.
Few well paired wanderlust seek a divine pardon..
still fancy the folly of youth's far flung travels.
Two trespass meadow lost to petal lined garden,
til intimacy's last mystery unravels.
Darting dawn awakes to write upon love's torn page..
parting drawn in true type font in spite of heart's age.
This old poet's words are dying...
Slipping into damp, craggy times.
Still reciting-still reciting in the bend of mind.
Exploding seeds from graying volcanic lungs.
.
Staring down the last of the embers.
No dry kindling left. It's beginning to rain.
Young poet smirking at my dog-eared years.
Yes-I am jealous of youth,
its pliable cotton candy mind.
I've definitely lost the edge
but like to think I've one good punch left
One clever thought
A brilliant line.
Yes, I'm burned out and envious
but my tattoos and battle scars
are still etched in bold font.
Any utility that allows you to change a font, its colour
can be used on Poetry Soups poets notes no bothor
this line is in the coloured white, alright
the line above is in white to see it you must highlight
this line I have used a script font and used the colour red
All the above lines were typed using the OpenOffice utility
This line and the line above typed using PS's editor.
Curious how emotional feelings can change,
Depending on the font type that you choose.
What’s written can also be swayed by the font,
This font that plays with your muse.
Times New Roman is the traditional, respectable read,
Reliable information’s read here,
Whilst Script is more elegant and creative and hip,
Like reading a poetic Shakespeare,
But, if you want to read clean, current, and stable,
Sans Serif is often the choice,
Or if you want strong, progressive, stylish and chic,
Gothic will be your print voice.
And then, if it’s a friendly short story,
A bold Cooper is what you might need,
Then ,finally, after you’ve put the right font on the page,
You’ll enhance your emotional read.
I would like to ponder wisdom
loving relationships and things
A life lived beyond good intentions
What it means to have strong wings
To know that life has a purpose
When it is lived beyond myself
I don't need to fill all my cupboards
It's better that I share the wealth
All those things I think I'm needing
are trapping me within the want
I see heartache written in graffiti
Why am I blinded by colourful font
If my more means that I'm taking
Is any of it truly gain
Others find food in dumpsters
and I am ignorant to their pain
In this world of want and plenty
I know I have more than my share
By remembering where it came from
I should know I have plenty to spare
God implores me to be giving
To have faith He won't let me down
These hands have a special purpose
If I'm willing to venture down town!
A sweet little girl named Alex.
Always put words in italics.
Plain print wouldn't do.
So when she was through.
They were known as Alex Italics.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
Calibri and Arial are nice, but a little too common for me.
If I were to be a font,
I would pick which one with care;
Old English Text, French Script and Matura are cool, but I don’t quite have that flare.
If I were to be a font,
I think it would have to be bold;
Aharoni, Copper Black and Elephant might all be in the fold.
If I were to be a font,
It would have to be descript;
Baskerville Old Face, Broadway and Forte my personality just doesn’t fit.
If I were to be a font,
I would want to be understood;
Times New Roman, Century and Courier, I think, all would be good.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
And whatever font I happened to be,
I hope that you would choose me.
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.