Let the gaze fold, softly shut,
a moment held—
a slow tide of breath that enters and leaves.
Within you, gently,
not demanding or rushed,
who is left there to judge?
For in this stillness the past can hold no claim.
Is it your imagination,
or the drift of fallen leaves
like papery whispers outside the door?
They gather, dry and scattered,
smelling of dust and worry—
magnetic forms of the lower mind.
You have been here before,
cloaked in yesterday’s echoes,
ruminating on the creases of time
carved like ancient riverbeds
onto an aging, fragile face.
Look out to the unveiled skies
and see the light moving across
without apology—
this endless flow where truth is found,
and the ego’s frantic season
is stripped away as illusion.
“Snowflakes are winter’s butterflies.” – Unknown
Winter is not always bitter, lifeless and drab
Snow gleams as it blankets and caresses nature
Birds become a vibrant display in reds and blues
A Blue Jay squawks as a cardinal stands ground
Perched on shimmery branches and bird feeders
As their songs warm frigid air with joyous melodies
Trees sleep as their barren branches provide shelter
While ice shimmers in artsy patterns under sunlight
Squirrels busy at feeders, hoarding seeds and nuts
Winds blow snowfall as it cleanses the drab ground
Ducks heard quacking while perching on icy riverbeds
Nature becomes a magical display in winter
Rebellion and riverbeds start to dance
with a rush flowing, slowing, then stalling.
Both try perilously to gain traction,
the current is treacherous take a stance.
It may appear that you’re barely crawling,
and then brute force takes over a fraction.
At times the first step is all you can do
but it’s enough to get something going.
Often a change can stem from infraction,
that desire to disrupt springs a call to
action.
Thank you, for being there when my tearful riverbeds -
flooded down my eyes.
And when the sun couldn't even dry them.
Thank you, for being there when I faced -
the lies, by the one who swore I was the -
apple in their eyes.
Thank you, for being you.
Be cause you told me the truth -
with no ties.
I've tied us a ribbon made of gold.
Thank you, for being there, and gracing my eyes.
RAINING IN SUMMER
There are some for whom rain is a blessing
After weeks of drought and dry riverbeds
Those precious droplets of cool clear water
Yet hardly enough to restore cracked earth
But welcome, as many rush to fill containers
Kids looking upward to wash their hot faces
Perhaps buried seeds think it may be a trick
But do begin to germinate and grow anyway
Small puddles form on concrete pathways
Soon to evaporate in the returning sunshine
A small, needed reminder of natural forces
That after such a little while, set our futures
It’s a thoughtful moment, before moving on
Close up is when you see the cracks,
the lines etched, scratched onto canvas.
An oil painting that survived a fire.
Close up is when you see the ash
loosen, drift away in a breeze. Smoke.
Something once hot white turned to charcoal.
Close up is when you see the riverbeds
dry now from drought, once drenched with desire.
Cargo stuck in the mud of the water we were.
Close up is when you see marrow, the blood
and bone bristling under transparent paper
once pink and once flesh. Once strong. Once marble.
So leave, please. See me blur as those cracks become hazy.
Retire, step back. Zoom out. Fly up with only a dot down here to see.
Take a snapshot out of focus. Forget to develop the memory of me.
brilliant wings, gentle
coasting over riverbeds ~
silencing the sun
graceful, gliding smiles
lingering on the roses ~
reassuring peace
Spring Flower, Bird or Butterfly Haiku x 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
February 12, 2023
Canyons of loss
emotional wastelands
Spires of hope
grasping for sky
Riverbeds bake
mountains are damming
Feelings once deluged
—barren and dry
(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)
Cursive Consolations
David J Walker
Heartlessly pressing words into wine
Our feet are blood red from the crushing
Our heads flowing in faint rhymes
Into dry riverbeds genially growing
An ocean of poetry waiting
Waves bathe the salted bathers
On white beaches lying
Side by side naked in the sand
Sunning themselves in the afternoon
Toweling themselves of pungent prose
After the sun rose the following morning
I remember the rhyme one will say to another
Who has fallen deep into a sleep of poetic meaning
Are you listening one says
No, I’m dreaming he replays as starfish cover his eyes
Creating cursive consolations
An impartial day
Upon lush yonder valleys,
golden sun rays glow
Reflected raindrops prism,
forming a partial rainbow
Just above my head,
darkness stubbornly grows
Interrupting one of natures,
iridescent idyllic shows
I follow blind trajectory
towards riverbeds below
To find a multicolored haze,
surrounding the meadow
Fleeting glimpse of oneness,
albeit broken as it goes
Perfection alone is nothing,
fulfillment makes it so.
By
David Kavanagh
Life clawing at
Life… fragmented-
Wounded universe
Global heart bleeds
Seeps into dry
Riverbeds-
Sleep
ROSES ON THE MOON
Midnight tickles your turned-up toes,
dawn scrapes your knees
but your head is already in daylight
kissing the setting sun and not me.
The scent of musk and the north woods
spark a scene then the rush…
don’t believe everything whispered
under a sage moon.
Memory is the landscape,
longing the river that meanders
like a lost child in dream.
The waters lead to dried riverbeds
and forgotten photographs, flotsam
on the once raging river.
Suddenly I find myself nowhere
making sunshine out of oranges,
searching for roses on the moon.
March 2011 spring is on the way
The sea is Calm slight haze on the bay
The sea is our life the fishing is good
We depend on the ocean for our livelihood
Rumble in the distance buildings begin to shake
Screaming shouting it’s an earthquake
Riverbeds are dry as the water reseeds
Nowhere to run nowhere to hide
Run run faster as quick as you can
Got to get higher every woman child and man
The town has been consumed devastation everywhere
People are in shock cries of despair
Sky drenched in flame dust in the air
Such immense power natures so unfair
The sea is usually benign but not two day
Twenty thousand souls washed away
This cannot be we learned from the past
Built the levies higher built them to last
No matter what we do it will never be enough
Natures to strong and where not strong enough
Written by M.BURTON
As I lay watching the stars colliding
Through the universe so pretty and vast
Past and present enveloped are portrayed
Colloquy within the rhythm of the…
Of the gracious, likeable beating heart
Openness of peace, openness of realms
Calming to be, righteous act of longing
Welcoming riverbeds as well the skies
The beating informed internal grand soul
What a simple and interesting life
Living for the bass of musical rhyme
Proud to be over here, having a soul
Jumping into life’s loving lava flow
She becomes part of my integration
Allowing a peace of mind to enter
Brought a palm of simplicity to me
World on my shoulders, a love in my heart
Delight to always be divine in part
You shower me with the grace of power
Immensity of all single forces…
To one inside
Russell Sivey
Of all the Little Kings climbing
Hand over foot towards viciously tantalizing, grandiose
Constellations of which whir and buzz as wind up toys,
Glow worm manifestations
Of hanging mobile stars suspended from thread
Woven by The Fates from dreams vicarious
And still-warm brick oven hopes
Nestled sweetly in the ribcages' soft marrow,
My chest, agape, crackling with never quite dried blood,
The wound steaming fresh loneliness--a shrine
To the Stillborn--
Is stuffed clumsily on chubby, greased palms
With fresh wishes on old pennies,
Words teaming with glimpses of goodnight kisses
And soft, innocent breaths stirring upstream like salmon,
By the tenderness of only one Tarot Sage
And my Heart's desert riverbeds
Eagerly absorb a rain.
"Forever Young, or; Evan The Sage"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
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.