It feels uncanny, standing here at the edge
of a horizon I once thought belonged to other men.
You never truly picture what comes after the dream,
not until you’re living it.
This isn’t a mediocre victory.
This is a chapter carved out of discipline,
a moment that forces a man
to look inward and ask who he has become.
And even now
in the middle of achievement
it still feels unreal.
To reach this height and stay humble
is its own craft.
I remind myself to guard that discipline,
to keep releasing what I cannot command,
to trust the journey within.
Because all it took was a spark.
One spark to ignite the fire
fanned by trials sharp enough to break me,
forged through obstacles that tried to tame me,
and instead created a relentless version of myself
strong enough to rise
and write his name into the world.
The soft sweet potato.
Is known, like me.
I like to be a published author sometimes.
The soft sweet potato.
A pie, so nice.
If I were mashed up and sugar was added.
Then more sugar was added because the recipe was wrong…
I would burst out of the pie a published author.
Ta da!
Sometimes, I have a book.
Or not.
The soft sweet potato sounds.
Pillowly, yet crusty on the outside.
Steam trapped like me.
I can be an author sometimes.
Or growing from the ground.
A pie is so nice like me.
But a sweet potato doesn’t know how to sprout arms, just tangled leaves.
But I do.
Write and act published.
Like the best known recipe in the world.
Published Poet
I wrote a poem 24 years ago,
I have forgotten it now,
but I was paid twenty quids
and my plan was to frame it
for anyone doubt
I was truly a poet,
My wife was sarcastic about this
paltry sum, she didn’t get it
I had joined the rarefied
of a poet who had been paid
for his work.
I do not do poetry comps
anymore,
The excitement of winning was
too overwhelming.
Dying Young Lyrics by Eileen Manassian
I’m afraid of dying young
Of leaving things yet undone
I’m afraid I’ll leave this place
Yet not leave a single trace
I’m afraid I haven’t said
All that lives inside my head
I’m afraid I’ll disappear
And no one will hold me dear.
chorus
I’m afraid I’ve yet to touch ,The hearts of those I love so much
I’m afraid I’ll never see, Who it is I’m meant to be
I’m afraid, for can’t you see?, Not much time is left for me.
I’m afraid, oh, I’m afraid
Instrumental
Soon I’ll lie silent in my grave…
With my stories yet untold
With my dreams yet to unfold
With my songs yet unsung
With my words yet on my tongue
With my passion tucked away
With no more prayers left to pray
I’m afraid……
chorus
I’m afraid I’ve yet to touch ,The hearts of those I love so much
I’m afraid I’ll never see, Who it is I’m meant to be
I’m afraid, for can’t you see?, Not much time is left for me.
I’m afraid, oh, I’m afraid
Afraid
(Afraid)
Afraid
(Afraid)
Afraid
Darkest Poems With Coffee
Darkest Poems With Coffee
Released on August, 28th 2025
Hard work pays off
4th book I’ve published
Have a keen I for detail
I’m beyond grateful
Maybe a bronze metal
I’ve been writing for 6 years
Document poems here and there
Consumed by pen and paper
Be inspired to sharpen your writing skills
I’ve finally reached #1,000 poems
I’m always behind with my work
In solitude behind closed doors
All my books are on Amazon
Just type in my name, Charles Gadbois
Thanks for all of your support
The love of poetry endeavor
Read in between the lines
Before the ink runs dry
I return parted clerical error to a hall
In justice no frame
Nor corrective temp
Time as half
The titled days conveigning
That's my Monday morning appearance
This shall never be spoken freely
A civil right to act
Fine liberty
Next date, poor
Still due process
In accurate measure of published
fear the painted plays, available on amazon kindle
Who said meow, could be a cat, but what if not?
Was it a stray cat, or a cat from upper floor?
But one could imitate the sound that we’ve heard
And by the way, it could’ve been a creaking door
Let’s sort out the facts we have at hand
If they are real, not someone’s manipulation
That meow could be a bait a spy might sent
A code to hack our files, pinpoint location
As for the subsequent research we took
We’re glad to say, the fact has been established
We noted this meow in our factual book
Never before that meowing cat was published.
A Most Generous Gift
They receive our love
as it is purely intended
They offer their love
and give our spirits a lift
They'll stay close when
our hearts need to be mended
Our dogs are nature's
most generous gift
As Newton found an apple
As Einstein used his mind
In Leonardo's genius
So art and science combined
When Chaplin tugged at heartstrings
Or Mandela called for peace
A common theme unites them
Such that hope would never cease
Teresa shows compassion
Or Rosa Parks stays put
An inner door is opened
That may never now be shut
Keller's inspiration
The bravery of Anne Frank
So many souls unlisted
We should take some time to thank
These people never settled
For the current status quo
Confelicity, coalescence
Or a child-like need to know
We can learn from their example;
Dedication to a cause
Persistence in adversity
The human soul adores
The innocence of believing
The faith of pushing though
The mighty and respected
Were once like me and you
A love letter not published.
I'm old now, was old ten years ago, but less in years than at present, and not too old for warm
a embrace
She was related to my wife, which makes falling in love awkward, but infatuation falls like rain where it pleases
“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain,” I wrote a love poem, not my metier, but as is said, nothing is as foolish as an old fool, or something like that.
A poem about the way she walked, her gracious body beautiful, the way she cast her head like a filly when angry, how could I be still like a mute when confronted
with so much desire?
My intent was pure I dictated what my heart told me
in a shivering moment, when fatally shot by the golden arrows and a heart that razed like an express to an early
death in spring, when Easter Lilies smile emitting
the intoxicating aroma of as yet unfulfilled love.
I gave the poem her to read, she became ashen-faced
Quickly, I said, I hope you like the poem it's written for
a poetry magazine that takes in love poems.
Oh, she said. Yes, a nice poem, but her hand trembled when she handed me the poem
did I see a flicker of disappointment that the poem was not meant for her.
My beautiful little bluebird
How I love you so
I long to taste your presence
And what it means to know
That you and I are singing songs
Far into the night
We fade into each other
Desire burning bright
In a dream it's you and me
There's no one else around
Our synchronistic breathing
Is the only sound
In sotto voce I call out
Your name into the void
Only you can hear it
An audible Polaroid
I hear the whisper now
As quiet as the grass in the gentle breeze
Soothing and lulling
Inviting me forward with an extended hand
To dance barefoot
Despite the cloudy sky and threat of showers
Under the thinning canopy of the trees
Yet, not despite the rain
Invited because of it
To cleanse and wash away
Life's dust and debris
Returning to the freshness of innocence
The uncluttered traveller
Resting a while
Reconnecting with the ancient clay
Luscious pastures
Silent stones
To nurture, nourish and
Restore
The soul
There are moments in life
When an emptiness crowds into the space
We inhabit
How can emptiness
Be a tangible thing?
Yet, here it comes
With it's grey shadowy self
A presence
An absence
Pondering the void
In the chair where I sit
Surrounded by beauty
Internal wrestle
With the ugly hunger
Sated only by the presence of another
All the words ever uttered
arise from that one first
petulant cradle song
of 'why'?
A question
reprised and voiced
with infinite variations.
Mysterious ways test us constantly.
A mystery writer
rewards both the hearing the
and the deaf.
That One
provides every insight.
In truth, the book of life
remains unreadable
unless we write it.
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.