An anchor forged of dust and bone,
we keep our footing on the stone.
The world demands a quiet weight,
a patient, unyielding state,
where hands stay rested on the wood
and do the things they always should.
Yet in the space behind the eyes,
the architecture starts to rise.
No heavy earth, no pulling line
can tame the sudden, bold design.
The walls fall back, the ceilings clear,
and distance simply disappears.
You step across an ocean shore,
unlatch a long-forgotten door,
or stand atop a wind-swept height
without a single fear of flight.
No rules of earth, no pull of stone—
you build a cosmos of your own.
And though the waking world will claim
the daily posture of your name,
it cannot reach, nor can it bind
the infinite map within the mind.
For when the heavy eyelids close,
the spirit goes where no one knows.
They told me love was gravity.
Something gentle with a terrible pull.
So I fell-
into your hands, your warmth,
the little red universe of your heartbeat.
And for a while
I thought this was it.
The house.
The ring.
The photograph
where we are both still smiling.
All those beautiful things we are taught to want.
I held them like petals,
careful not to bruise what I loved.
But petals fall.
And red fades.
And somewhere between reaching and holding too tight,
I became the moon—
always turning, always returning,
giving you
the light side of me while something darker grew behind my back.
It’s cruel really, how something so profound can be so gentle
I still love the life I imagined.
I still love the person
I imagined beside me.
I just don't know how to keep the dream
without losing
the girl
who dreamed it.
For the moment I first saw you, I was drone.
A hollow shell drifting through crowded air,
engines humming the same dull tone,
afraid of rejection, I stayed quiet.
Your presence cut the static clean.
With just a smile, my heart stopped.
The world tilted, every circuit shorted,
and silence became something sacred.
I tried to hold the distance,
to keep my altitude safe and cold.
But gravity has a new name now—
and just one look, you pull me back.
Down from the empty sky,
into the sharp, living ground
where fear still whispers,
yet I keep falling toward your light.
there is a gravity to you
an existence that bends light
into an aurora capturing each moment
a curvature surrounding existence
where memories of long ago reside outside time
when you came into my life
almost caught in a trance
where eternity dissolves into seconds
my eyes grasp you, spellbound
there is a gravity to you
Oregon 8/21/26
one law
great awe
dark space
find place
earth full
hard pull
strong grip
no slip
dead weight
fixed fate
deep curves
no swerve
mass core
sea floor
down bound
firm sound
.They think they've got us neatly fooled,By global maps and globes in school.But look outside, it's plain to see,The ground is flat as it can be.If we were spinning out in space,We’d all be flying off the place.The water would just spill right out,Of every lake and water spout.And don't get started on the moon,Or NASA’s giant space balloon.They hide the ice wall at the edge,With penguins guarding on the ledge.It’s just a giant dinner plate,No spinning core or heavy weight.So drop the math and look outside,There is no curve for them to hide.
It hurts—
because you believed the lie.
It feels unreal—
because truth feels heavy.
In a world full of flaws...
why chase perfection?
You—
were never meant to be perfect,
only real.
And that alone—
makes you enough.
My mind is heavy like the whole cosmos,
A wonder fills my thoughts about mankind.
From dawn to dusk—on Everest’s peak I stand;
My goal: to watch the world go by,
And jot a memorial note about the last days.
In those days—Carimea will rise against Nrai,
Leading to killing and famine across the world.
Covid and Ebola will spread among nations,
Their names too bitter for lips to mention.
A gender will tie the knot with itself in the open,
Saying, “Adam for Adam, Eve for Eve—no God.”
A man will rise and say,
“Better my daughter than my wife,”
And a woman will say,
“I’d rather lie with my son.”
The old will sit awhile in the barn,
Reflecting on their fading years,
Saying they need hot blood
To warm their cold blood.
A person will trade a family for wealth without shame.
The shepherd will fleece the sheep he claims to guide;
Churches will grow like mushrooms in the rainy season,
For bread-winning—not for saving lost souls.
My mind is heavy like the whole cosmos,
And on Everest’s peak, I stand in pain;
Writing this memorial note, not in vain;
Signing it:
“Conscious Wakener”
He carved a throne from burning sky,
then clasped the blaze — it praised him dry.
Who leans on glory breaks to know:
to hold is to become the hollow you owe.
Fall not once — fall dawn by dawn.
Each light: a scar. Each memory: a thorn.
He drew a sword, a crown, a lie —
the wound believed his feet could fly.
Angels kneel. He learns the real
ascension: down. Through air. No wheel,
no hymn, no harp — just the slow
unlearning of where light should go.
No hell below. No fire. Just
this cold magnificence: dust
trusting itself to be a throne.
He reigns alone. He is alone.
Each day, each moment
it pulls me to the ground.
Each morning, I look to the sky
but on earth I belong.
each day I ask
Old rock and roll plays
in the next room
a heartbeat
I breathe.
what keeps me here
An airliner streaks the sky
and contrails disappear
into clouds like dreams
but I stand on the floor.
another day in its embrace
*off-sonnet form
If today I had a rocket ship
I would blast off to Jupiter and Saturn
but writing a poem about my journey in deep space
will not be an easy one for me
because my pen and paper will be too busy
floating away from me in zero gravity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The morning the pigeons swam~
not flew, but breaststroked
through liquid air,
we knew something was wrong.
Down at the harbor,
fishermen pulled up their nets
and found only clouds,
dripping silver like mercury.
Mr. Thacker’s roses
bloomed backward,
petals sealing tight
into green fists.
At noon, the church bell
rang itself silent,
each note swallowed
by the steeple’s shadow.
And then—you.
Walking on the river,
not as a prophet would,
but laughing, stumbling,
kicking spray into the sky
where it hung, glittering,
refusing to fall.
By dusk, the world
righted itself—mostly.
But sometimes, when the wind
tugs just so,
I swear I see the streetlights
drip upward,
one luminous drop at a time.
An obscure panic
Haunts my days in reverie;
Gravity drags me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night does not arrive—it accumulates,
like dust on the spines of unread books.
A slow, inevitable seep,
a weight that presses without hands.
You think you hear footsteps,
but it’s only the house exhaling,
only the creak of old wood
remembering when it was alive.
The dark isn’t empty~
it’s thick with the unsaid,
with the breath you held too long,
with the shape of a name
you carved into your ribs
and never spoke aloud.
And when the moon slides its blade
between the curtains,
you’ll see it: how the shadows
cling to your ankles,
how they whisper,
You are not the light~
but neither are you nothing.
Retired, he is a book
fallen from the shelf
after returning
to his home town.
one drink
His ears ring as he
sits alone in clutter
of a broken house
inherited from his mother.
then another
The town once welcoming
has closed its arms
and scenes play in his mind
of when he was banned from bars.
his right, he says
He wants to live in style
wants to sing and dance
to live a prince’s life
with income of a pauper.
to be his own man
Blades of turbines
dance in the wind
and glitter in the sun
a quixotic dream.
nowhere to go
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.