amber late in life
one loosened leaf starts to fall
the book stays open
RAIN
The storm has come
The long grass sway
In panic throws
Their blades give way
But she has come
To rapture those
Their wrists
Their throats
Like beating drums
Her throne is there
Above the hills
Her loosened hair
Like blood, she spills
Upon the sills
Upon the stairs
Upon the roads
Her mist like Mare
Crescents carved
In clay, by hoof
Those too slow
Lay underfoot
A tangled mane
Her fingers strain
She runs and rides
Across the roofs
She calls the lakes
The river's wake
To drown the plain
To flood the wood
She has come
The long grass sway
She has come
So has the rain
Empty seashore
The seashore is empty!
In the sea breeze, a vision—
your form!...
a puzzle!... with the pieces of your absence
joined in the refrain of the lapping waves—
pebbles, seaweed, and seashells.
Upon the emerging pebbles,
your light tread!...
An Aphrodite passing by,
steeped in the brine of youth,
leaving behind—in the fading wave—
a note of a wild waltz for this refrain.
Amidst the tangled seaweed,
your embrace!...
tight against the body of beauty,
loosened in the storm of desire,
two rose petals surrendered to the foam,
a note of stolen love—this refrain.
Upon the broken shells,
a shared promise—
the vow of an eternal love,
violated in the shifting sands,
like a shipwreck’s keel snapped in two;
the empty shoreline—a puzzle piece.
I heard the quiet breaking of your heart
soft as rain against a darkened room
I stood in the doorway (cracked slightly) asking only
if there was space enough for me to come in and talk
You said you were alright through falling tears
but pain had made your voice too small to hide
So, I sat with you in the tender moment
and let the storm spend itself inside
We spoke until the night grew comfortable
until your sorrow loosened little by little
And when I told you I had cared for years
it was not to claim you, only to be truthful
For love, if it is worthy of its name
does not rush a wounded heart along
It waits beside your heart with open hands
and whispers, "I have loved you since we were young"
Night gathered around me~
comforting me like a soft shawl
draped upon my shoulders.
I felt you near in the quiet vibrations
between stars.
A single star quivered,
and the air folded around your memory.
It moved toward me tenderly,
like a hand brushing across time.
I lifted my face,
and the heavens inclined~
a slow, luminous gesture
from whatever realm shelters you now.
In that fragile moment,
the veil loosened.
I saw not your form,
but your presence~
bright, unbound,
woven through the night like breath.
And the darkness murmured:
Nothing loved is ever lost.
It simply learns
a gentler, more radiant way
to stay.
I met a fallen angel on a bus ride to L.A.
At first he demurred, having little to say
After a while he loosened up a bit
spinning tales full of heavenly wit
I was bold to inquire, “Do angels play the lyre?”
“Oh no,” came the reply. “We don’t even fib, sire.”
I rise through a softness
that doesn’t belong to morning~
a pale, suspended hush
and time has loosened its grip
and everything waits.
After anesthesia,
the world returns in fragments:
a voice shaped like water,
light bending without edges,
my own name drifting toward me
as if unsure where to land.
I am neither here nor gone,
just floating in the seam
between forgetting and recall,
held by a gentleness
I didn’t know I needed.
Then breath finds its rhythm.
Then the room gathers itself.
Then the body remembers
how to be a body again.
And I open my eyes
to the simple miracle
of being welcomed back~
slowly, quietly,
as though waking
were a kind of grace.
Rosemary kept its fragrance longest where your sleeve had once bent through it; no gardener ever spoke of such small fidelities.
Root by root, I forgot the names of constellations until Orion became only the interval your breathing used to cross before sleep.
Resin closed around a fallen wing; amber finished the touch that time itself had left unfinished.
Ruin admitted one white hellebore between two loosened stones; no seed was seen to enter, yet every spring returned there first.
Rapture arrived without astonishment: the candle shortened, the chapel darkened, and still the perfume of warm wax continued kneeling in the air.
River water carried away our reflections at once, yet the reeds along the bank continued leaning toward the place where they had disappeared.
Rook after rook found separate branches; when the wind grew still, the leaves between them ceased to tremble first.
Grifting, Betrayal Vibes Alive
They broke me in pieces,
Thought I'd stay scattered on the pavement
But I ascended like a scandal they couldn't
Repose, every word a renewal.
I stitched my scars with tempo, made my
Heart beat,
A drum line, turned their lies into study,
Turned my pain into a spine.
I trudge heavier now-not with hurt, but with
Savvy, Every pace a comeback, Every breath a
Showing.
They tested to dim my fire, but I'm born with
Sureness.
But from Betrayal, activated by vision,
Unshaking, loosened up- A self- made revision.
breeze of fate blows, sometimes hot, sometimes cold
where as witness we watch destiny unfold
free from want, we are nonchalant
for ego on us has now loosened its hold
as we thus self-appraise ups and downs of fate
we count our blessings in that bliss beats do not abate
Found
I forgot where you were.
Where can I find you?
In these displaced memories,
Has now become a silent black
pale fading while being
observed in the middle,
of this hibernation travail.
Here, the distance has caused:
a suffocation, views upon views,
On the choices we made, waiting,
For the sunrise.
Distant sirens, blurring, just outside
My window. Reminding me of our
times together, that everything will
be okay. Sounds like a broken record.
Stuck on replay; I’m not the man,
I used to be. Setting here in my
living room, blues, peering out of
The windows are a balancing act.
Longing for you, where can I find
you? Trying to find you.
We’re always returning,
Too sweet an interruption.
No matter what, I’ve loosened up.
In the right place, at the right time.
What’s mine is yours here to stay.
Stay with me, in time we will see.
When the party’s over.
Now that I’ve found you.
from the book’s open cradle,
a rush of color lifted~
soft wings trembling
like thoughts just born,
those delicate immigrants
rising from ink into air.
they gathered in a gentle rabble,
a drifting, shimmering chorus
of saffron, coral,
and moon-washed blue~
each one carrying a quiet story
the pages could no longer hold.
upward they traveled
a migration of light
toward the turquoise sky,
where the wind waited
to welcome their wandering,
to scatter their small miracles
across the wide, listening world.
From the book’s open heart,
a rabble of butterflies rose~
saffron flickers,
cerulean shivers,
petals of pink and ember-gold
fluttering into freedom.
They drifted upward
like loosened dreams,
each wing a watercolor whisper
of places yet imagined~
delicate immigrants
carrying quiet stories
the pages could no longer contain.
Across the turquoise stillness
they traveled,
a bright migration of meaning
stitching color into the sky,
leaving the book glowing behind them
as if every word
had learned to fly.
"The Boy Next Door" – A Sonnet
Outside she sees the birds and clouds fly high,
Together, where the golden sunbeams pelt.
She said "Alright, let's try", it's mid-july.;
That summer, when you told her how you felt.
Inside your childhood room, only nineteen.
That loosened button on her floral dress
Between your fingers. Like a movie scene,
The world stood still before your first caress.
Down on your bed, your hands intrude her thighs,
Like icy chills that slowly crawl her spine.
You promised time, but it was all just lies,
She froze but you just said "Relax, it's fine".
Suppressing tears as I flee out the door,
Since then I don't wear florals anymore.
LB 05/31/2026
Within the painting,
an elderly woman sits~
the years have finally loosened their grip,
leaving only the calm that comes
after life’s long journey.
Her face holds the hush
of lavender dawn~
lines like soft arroyos
each one a testament
to the life she carried with grace.
Around her, butterflies drift~
not bright, frantic things,
but slow-winged keepers of wisdom,
their bodies lit with a pale,
almost holy shimmer.
They hover near her temples
as if listening
to the quiet stories she no longer needs to speak.
They settle on her shoulders
like blessings,
like memories that have finally learned
how to rest.
One lands on her shoulder,
folding and unfolding its wings
in a rhythm flowing with this truth~
nothing learned is ever lost.
She smiles,
acknowlodging
the peace she has become~
a peace earned slowly,
tenderly,
the way morning light
learns to warm a room.
Within the canvas' stillness
you can almost hear
the hush of wisdom
taking flight.
Safe in my room. As unreal
A woke vision
That seen for spiteful flashings.
Nightmarish rend.
Snug in this bed. As far-fetched
A dream echo
That heard for spirit clashings.
Nightmare-loosened.
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.