autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
demure hushed in Avalon fog
weaving fables at grey spindles
river was tableclothed quiet
whiteness soft enveloped bodies
silvery sheath covered psyche
maidens mature into women
protective watchful fog unveils
ripened wombs awakening pink
__________________
sponsor : Nette Onclaud // 2.8.26
contest : Eight by Eight : theme Fog
Placing: Third
Written: July 21, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
*****************
Wide leafy cradle for the westward air,
The fruit of twilight ripens in stillness.
My soul tugs at a glittering green, bare.
Sighs cover the silky vines of dimness.
It whispers below the gilt repose of dusk's rage,
Brooks warble amid the slow breath of night.
The wind's hammock rattles the soul's cage,
Till hearts unburden what load shows in quiet.
She moved through years the way dawn moves through lace,
slowly, delicately, and steady, never in a hurry.
Her hands learned patience from the cotton fields,
her voice from hymns that rose in dust and worry.
Longevity, she said, is earned by grace~
by choosing kindness even when it aches.
She taught me how to sit with what is real,
how sorrow ripens into something bright,
how time becomes a friend when we let go;
and in her final days she whispered soft and low,
life grows long only in those who learn to love its light.
The cup must be empty, self-parched bone-dry,
The ego stilled, no thirst to drink till drunk.
For emptiness becomes a boundless sky
when space opens up, to move a slam-dunk!
Joy becomes bliss when you stop chasing tails.
When you envisage, emptiness to be
incoming inclusive, to what prevails.
A playful sage, in modus vivendi.
No need to fight for what's already yours.
Your form and shape, are worthless to command
what enters, or arrives at open doors,
slipping through fingers, splayed on honest hand.
Joy ripens fully, when chase is at bay,
Blissful contentment, lingers with the sway.
Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
In the green fields of Punjab,
A dark creature stands—
A breathing mountain of dusk,
Yet gentle as a dove.
Through the long silence of day,
On weeds and dry, ordinary grass,
She gathers the unnoticed,
And turns it into a quiet miracle.
Between veins of red and brown,
A pale river begins to move—
Drawn from the dust of herbage,
A secret the earth cannot speak.
Where no light enters,
Something stirs without a sound;
Foliage becomes a silver flow,
Clay ripens into white gold.
Like moonlight poured into a bowl,
Like mercy falling unseen,
It arrives—pure, unannounced—
A gift no eye can fully hold.
What hand shapes this hidden alchemy?
What silence writes this tender law?
The buffalo knows, yet does not speak—
She stands, humble in her giving,
While man forgets the miracle,
And grows loud.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A blinking cursor laughs at my delay~
a white page, vast as January’s air.
No resolutions scrawled in bold or with flair,
no grand design, just silence on display.
I’ve known this pause before—when fingers hover
above the keys, when time forgets to pass.
The weight of what might be is brittle glass;
yet, something hums beneath, half-dreamt, half-lover.
The new year, like verse, refuses to be planned.
It stumbles, then it surges, then it bends.
A comma where you swore you’d place an end,
a metaphor that ripens uncommanded.
So let it come unwritten, raw, unspooled~
this year, this poem, neither tamed nor schooled.
this poem was written in December 2025 as I reflected upon the upcoming year
Seeing and being seen changes both the looker and the looked upon. A watched clock seems to hold its breath, hands frozen, its self-consciousness exposed. A furtive glance, once stolen, lingers too long and ripens into a stare. Awareness slips into self-consciousness. The moment the watched one feels observed and the looker looks away, the game is up, and the power changes. The watched one now has control with their stare, commanding the field of attention. It's a see-saw game of self-consciousness; power flipping with each returned look. Every watching eye casts a shadow. It's a silhouette of exposure. It must acknowledge this, step into it, and learn to dwell within, hiding. The eye sometimes seeks to be noticed. It wants to evoke a reaction and show its presence, rebounding. In that mutual eye-to-eye recognition, love begins.
when eyes meet and hold,
attention flips from lost stares—
to love caught ensnared
Priestly, abide in stillness.
Cloistered in dim hid
Woods, walled up gardens.
A reverence breathed! Of mind
Where the best ripens.
From their chastening effect
Who, for to think deep
Has kept far away
An appealing courtesy
Not so deemed this day!
It’s not about letting it go.
It’s about letting it in.
Letting it sink deep.
Letting it move through you
without rushing it toward an exit.
It’s about being honest
with what you feel.
About giving your experiences
the reverence they deserve.
Some things ask for a moment.
Some things ask for years.
There is no shame
in holding what is unresolved.
There is only truth.
“Let it go”
has become the anthem of avoidance,
a performance of healing
by those not yet ready
to sit with their own depths.
We don’t have to play that game.
We let it in.
We let it through.
We let it stay
until it is finished speaking.
Until what it carries
naturally begins to change.
Because growth is not forced.
Transformation ripens.
We write our story
by living it fully,
not by abandoning chapters
before they’ve found their meaning.
You are not behind.
You are not stuck.
You are the sign
you have been waiting for
A blinking cursor laughs at my delay~
a white page, vast as January’s air.
No resolutions scrawled in bold or with flair,
no grand design, just silence on display.
I’ve known this pause before—when fingers hover
above the keys, when time forgets to pass.
The weight of what might be is brittle glass;
yet, something hums beneath, half-dreamt, half-lover.
The new year, like verse, refuses to be planned.
It stumbles, then it surges, then it bends.
A comma where you swore you’d place an end,
a metaphor that ripens uncommanded.
So let it come unwritten, raw, unspooled~
this year, this poem, neither tamed nor schooled.
purple plum is sweet—
its peace ripens in tart skin,
when love softens core
to blush in understanding
that mercy is sweet-tart bled
Remedy Rhythms
Sometimes writers block
Sunrises at dawn
Sometimes secrets revealed
Render revolver
Rivers soothing recedes
Reckoning subsides
Rain randomly pouring
Sometimes a hole in the sky
Life ripens rosaries
Good deeds to kindness remedy
Rent is paid
Giving is a good day
Better to give than receive
Knowing to reasoning
I climb high up the tortuous path
Of a ragged hillock and
In pensive solitude I look around
Upon the universe that surround me.
There from on high
I spy so many mysterious wonders
That God endowed this worthy earth,
And blessed all His creations
With wealth, momentous and great.
The waning sun creeps down over the horizon
To gain its well-earned rest.
A reddish dusk tinges the hilltops
As swallows glide serenely below the ridge
In search of a homely sanctuary
To dream the dark night away.
The multicoloured flowers in the valley
That swing in nightly breezes,
And feed the insects bright;
The trees that grow so mighty
Whilst bushes provide haven to so many
Graceful creatures of the wild.
The glorious stars that light the dark
The dazzling sun that ripens crops,
The lakes and seas that ripple
And reflect the mountains high:
Is it not easy to understand
How blessed we all are?
Yet do we ever stop
To thank our dear Lord
And ponder on these gracious gifts?
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.