twinkle
freeze, thaw
broke hue
true blue
lower,
pointer
death's light
used time
baggage
collapse
fall bowels
black hole
not lost
stardust
I see the eye of an albino deer,
facing east, as I face north
It is almost silent
The sky is an empty granite gray
His eyes match
the mimosa flowers
that feather down in a fluffy rain
around us, unevenly
He looks at my hazel eyes,
probably not seeing the color
I hope he considers me
as I consider him
It is 5:15 on the road.
We are sandwiched in by woods
in the fatigued heat
of a drawn-out Sunday in June
when even the cardinals are tired of singing
The buttercups
are a dusty shade of mustard,
too dry to stand up straight
The male albino drops his head,
after figuring me out,
nibbles the hot grass
and flicks his ears
His tail swishes away a fly
A hungry mosquito
mocks this moment
and won’t leave my ears alone
The oaks and pines stop swaying
as if holding their breath
There is heavy honeysuckle
in the air, and smoke
Someone must be burning leaves
I am close enough to see
the velvet blush of his antlers
He is a four pointer
I count the seconds
and try to find meaning
in this
A red-shouldered hawk
announces itself
and the porcelain king
scampers off
into the thicket
There’s a ten-year-old in me still
hitting a home run to win the game
in the bottom of the ninth
He’s throwing a Hail Mary touchdown
to pull off the upset with no time left on the clock
And he’s drilling a three-pointer from midcourt
to force the contest into overtime…
There’s a twenty-year-old who refuses to forsake me
the one who’s going to write the Great American novel
as soon as he gets his collection of short stories published…
There’s a fifty-year-old in me somewhere who won’t let go
spending every moment of his spare time finishing that novel
and then tearing up the last three chapters as soon as he’s done…
And now there’s a wistful seventy-five-year-old looking back on it all
and wondering when all those versions of himself waved the white flag
and agreed to let him finish this poem with a sigh
In quaint quiet shadows,
a flame might flicker,
silken wisp on sight,
night channel wave,
I tap into,
as shrouded ghost,
my vocal template,
dark green leaf cast,
I cagily address,
eerie script nocturnal,
theatre of silence,
begging to erupt,
dim lit street platform,
poignant palette pointer,
fantasy in bloom,
blind seed dispersal,
for furtive audience,
spurred and spurned by,
my whispered rally,
nebulous or novel,
stark wooden benches,
empty chair syndrome,
context, conjure, cater,
traffic lights hue’d symbol,
clueless plots on queue
Against the back drop of green leaf copses, dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my route to work with ample gusto and much verve,
each metal
pointer to destination a micro mirror on its surround,
stoic indicator of direction, that upright unique urban compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur at its mint spring zenith,
and surging throngs who sashay in brisk step patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point, that fixed point usher,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad safe in the knowledge of arrival,
and in tandem with a spotless day’s heroic toil in bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on foot slog pitfall strewn road of expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid, detail for me on daily passage.
Little fingers, big fingers
Red fingers, blue fingers
One finger, 10 fingers
Long fingers, stubby fingers
Pointer finger, middle finger
Ring finger, wiggle finger
Leather fingers, soft fingers
Cold fingers, warm fingers
Stinky finger, slimy fingers
Fingers manicured with pretty painted fingernails
Fingers that can hold a pencil or a pen pal
Fingers that can tap on laptops or typewriters
Fingers that can tap tap tap on tabletops
While I transcribe or press “RECORD”
Poetry will always be the Midas touch to me
Bringing forth the Golden Age of Man
The Poet’s need to free the soul
Is as old as the knowledge of fire
Sometimes the Poet bleeds
With words beyond the funeral pyre
Never underestimate the Poet’s power
To create changes that are magically mystically miraculously
Spun into a reality that only poetry
Can inspire.
shooting
three pointer
nothing but net
victory
Before the chip, before binary code,
Before clocks showed in digital time mode,
Stood an ancient man with furrowed brow
Trying to track time and count numbers in a row.
He stared at stars, watched the sun,
He devised how to count when time had begun,
Using the flanges of his fingers one by one,
Counting seconds, minutes, days, and months done.
He counted numbers digitally on his hands.
One to five, six to ten, on which his pointer lands.
Strange that all our digital devices and displays.
Remembers the term 'counting with fingers' still plays.
ouija board sally
setting spiritual guidelines
shes séance savvy
soft black cloth
small silver bell and candle
silent visitors
they ask their questions
the pointer spells out a name
deception or truth
Another horrible deal, mouth, cloth, chlorophyll
Lie still, lie still, in the fires burnt chill
Tiny blue pills, professional rookie kill
Amateur without skill, dripped blood spill
Please don't ask me how I feel
Buried casket Underhill
Life is such a thrill.
Tick, tick, tick, clocked a thousand clicks
Passive pointer spun out spin stick
Decipher riddled trick, oiled up slick
Candle odor sick, the everlasting wick
Pull another lick, pistol pop click
Finger triggered quick
Dead man Dick
The Blank Page
When romantic plots and tales are sought
In the aesthetic and creative mind,
At first unseen within the empty page
Themes of lyrical verse are there to find.
Where an artist creates in pen and ink
A written scene, or speech or tells a tale;
The page, a catalyst, a passive link.
In the reader’s voice the weight of meaning rests
And this artistry the listener hears
As the speaker, as in a play, suggests.
One word and the page is no longer blank,
The word, a pointer to the ensuing theme,
A scene, a speech, a tale told to its end
Or romantic rhyme, an unfinished scheme.
Barry Stebbings
Feb 2025
she often appears in his dreams
wearing pink carnations and other flowers
those sky blue eyes staring through him
he cannot stop looking at her pink red lips
she is prettier in death than she had ever been in life
a woman who is forever twenty-two
he stares at her alabaster skin
those eyes stare back and tear into his soul
I am sorry, he tells her, I should have never been driving drunk.
the blame has stolen his life for the past twenty years
she puts her pointer finger to her lips
Reassures him, tells him to release his guilt
You are an angel, he whispers, but I am to blame
I need to focus on this, I need to suffer
A soft hand strokes him on the shoulder
She lets him know that she is where she wants to be
She was a marvelous friend, a great co-worker
A terrific listener, and now she is his guardian angel
Release the guilt! She tells him.
This was meant to be.
He has no other choice.
Tears overtake him, he sobs until he feels exo
Paradox
Appears and
Burns the story
And itself..
A shocking
Turn of events
In a story...
Stories are
Appearances
Of knowing..
Paradox points to
Not-knowing
Which may
Empty these
Appearances...
Paradox
Is a sudden
Pointer
In a story
To the immediacy
Of emptiness
In all stories...
Paradox
Sets a fire to
Separation's hold..
Impossibility
Is the new story..and
Possibly peace...
Hue and cry road map,
totem sign or lachrymose,
knee-deep self compass,
wading bird of psychic lull,
being is a misty quest,
that oblong pointer centered,
on some phantom bridge,
or other crossing transient,
poignant ache so visceral,
impulse-ridden dark patch,
end of tunnel pastel,
bogus flicker, sham beam,
bagatelle, mere hollow slant,
doomed fool’s gold water rush,
shroud of lambent steam,
wet eye craving mirror,
on false dawn ripple,
pause amid the sweep,
on the chalk freckled mall,
a canny inkling nudges
Residual finger pointer in an in-haunting,
instigator of an instigator taunting.
Infiltrator with sash of tendriled gas, or is it dust
feeling in lusts, zealing a fingering,
to find either it's way.
An agent of Death, of
imitation facsimile of breathe, stoked signature remains in imagery epiphany of
black characature spiritus blankus obscenity_uttereth
curse-ino-Djin.
Fingerprinting the wind, in it's rust
To steal it's identity particulate-dissipation, or 'bust
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.