the towers burned -
billows roiling and twisting
into azure
an oily, angry monster to
thrash the morn
consuming two flowers of steel
raping a world of its
innocence ...
the petals fell -
colors fluttering
in the balmy breath of
late summer …
precious petals, rich with
limbs and lives and
loves, that plunged the sunny
splendor, screaming
turning earth to
crimson ...
the heavens wept -
poisoned tears
of mad malice, careless caliphates
crying ashen sin from
a foreign sky -
shrouding a free world,
brought to its knees … where it
found its greatest
strength.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
“To be or not to be”, was Hamlet‘s sole question.
We’ve a common conundrum, that’s my confession.
Burn bridges or mend fences, in my discretion…
I stand above them, pistol heavy in my hand.
They cringe before me, she’s sobbing and he’s unmanned.
My mind’s really roiling, though my expression’s bland…
She surely did me wrong, there’s truly no dispute,
In flagrante delicto, they cannot refute.
Leaves me such a dilemma, achingly acute…
The Lord tells us “Vengeance is mine, I will repay!”
Also “to forgive is divine” didn’t he say?
How is a mere mortal to decide the right way…
But wait! “Nature weeps”, a pathetic fallacy
As “either or” is just a false dichotomy
In reality both are merely sophistry…
Should I mend the fence? Overly optimistic.
Should I burn the bridge? Aptly apocalyptic.
There is another choice, neatly nihilistic…
My attention was caught, resolution was sought.
The decision was fraught, it’s a Gordian knot
Hamlet’s vexing question solved with a single shot…
New intent nicely teased, and tension slightly eased.
My mind now appeased, prior predicament ceased
With resolve swiftly pleased - the trigger slowly squeezed…
Soft colors waltz
Dancing with the shadows
A flirting sunrise
Ripples across the texture
Of breaking edges
Crowned strokes
Swirling twirls
The brush long dry
The artist unknown
Save for those who
See the wind
Taste the breeze
Hear the roar
Of roiling surf
Breaking
On the speckled sands
……..Of life’s paintbrush
Percolating perfect poppycock, pretentious, impolite.
Roiling resistance to reverent recourse, rudiment rap.
Ceaseless sass surrendered to cell; spoiled sediments settle.
Boreas, the North Wind
I am in Iceland, 90 miles from the Arctic Circle,
walking through a gorge in a valley between
European and North American plates. Fierce
Boreas funnels its headstrong wind right at me
tears my knit hat off my head, rakes my hair.
I’m in Rekjavik, at the city’s highest point
walking half-way between Hallgrimskirja Church
and Leif Eriksons’ statue when Boreas sends a gust
ripping glasses from my face. I chase them across
the square, miraculously retrieve them intact.
The is a land of extremes, powerful geysers,
roiling rivers, cascading waterfalls, high mountains,
floating icebergs, volcanoes, poised to erupt, lava
flows, one thermal Blue Lagoon, acres in size
defies frigid air, soothes sore muscles.
This is a land ruled by the North Wind Boreas, erratic,
hungry, sleeping rarely, it is terrifying, exhilarating,
raw as life itself.
The Genie’s left
the bottle
A.I. is in
the air
To rule the skies
and earth below
The ‘ultimate’
au pair
Life roiling
in the mixture
Of facts
forever spun
To take control
of all that’s told
With humans
— on the run
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
The dandelions spoke gibberish today,
their wishes in disarray from a roiling wind
sweeping through lowland fields and meadows,
and among the gnarled roots of elder trees along the riverbank~
I squint my eyes trying to shade them from the glow of the setting sun,
to watch bubbles of joy
from yesterday wash downstream
toward the dark valley of disillusionment.
AMERICA I
Born of rebellion, this place.
Yet what, precisely, does it manifest,
If anything?
The dross and dregs,
Stumblings of a much older world
Found their way here,
Carried across a wide, careless sea
That brought them to their New World
Full of desires base and profound
A New World
Carved and shaped
Wooed and won
Wildnesss beaten back by souls as wild
Flying the Pandora's Box
Left carelessly open
From its beginning, this place would be
A birthing-place of turmoil, triumph, beauty, blood
Madness and mad hope
Beginnings tied to unseeable endings
Gain and loss
Pride and shame.
The old world sent a great storm to these shores
That swept and scoured,
Shattered and rebuilt
That never stopped,
Roiling and seething,
Even to this very day.
And thus, the winds have driven roiling surf
To torture silent stones in times abyss
Raise froth upon the rise of tidal flux
As rippling sands dance snake-like on the beach
The gulls have ridden clouds to safer skies
Umbrellas breaking bonds are carried nigh
A swirling vortex gathers up the trash
As black suited surfers wash ashore
Storm warnings have been posted yet we come
To pay homage to those who went to sea
Who clung to wooden mast and battered rail
Or touched the doors of death ‘neath becalmned sail
So, does the beach ball drift on calmer seas
And older folk bathe only to their knees
Sand castle kingdoms dread the coming tide
As pirate ships dance in old childlike eyes
It thunders through like a rampaging doom,
water cracked the stone, and carved out this chute,
the locals around here call it the Flume,
white water churning through a confined route.
Roiling, throwing mist onto the rocks,
always wet and sporting a sheen of green,
so loud is the torrent it’s hard to talk
over the noise as the water careens.
Empties out into four small waterfalls,
which widen into a wading-deep pool,
folks splash around, and the kids short and tall
dunk heads in the cascades, thinking it’s cool.
But never dare try riding the cataract,
even dumb kids know they will not come back.
I'm not a seafarer, but took a risk and dove right in,
as if from cliff height and wound up floundering
in the dark abysmal depths of a roiling ocean.
From pages of 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,'
I wore the feathered omen draped around my shoulders.
When a marriage ends, the mast is cracked, mainsail tattered.
The bottle was his failing; but the burden was mine.
His raging storm was a whirlpool of self-loathing.
Certain to drown if I lingered with him much longer,
I was in need of a way out of my wretched life.
Frowns were etched into my brow from doleful despair,
as we sailed beneath stormy skies on a battered ship.
My cries were much louder than the roar of the ocean,
but he didn't seem to care whether he lived or died.
I desperately fought to keep him tethered to my side
but he was the killick that kept dragging me down.
I couldn't save us both, broke free from the chain,
and watched Coleridge's boa floating in the flotsam.
I stood on the beach, searching each crested wave
but when the tide ebbed, I walked away.
The Ballad of H2O (International Version)
He reached his boiling point at one hundred degrees.
When he dropped to zero, he would freeze.
Everything he did, he did just like he oughter,
(in Centigrade) - that's water!
The Ballad of H2O (US Version)
Arriving at two-twelve Fahrenheit,
his roiling bubbles gave steaming flight,
but descending South to thirty-two,
he froze in his tracks. What could he do?
The seething waters took them.
I rage,
rage against the deluge,
an unmoored,
unrestrained rage.
I rage for the innocents,
a rage that drowns all else
except more broiling,
more roiling waves of rage,
an anger that unstrings
the harps of angels.
Rage I now, at the blind horror
of godforsaken moments
that snatch all away
as suddenly as a surging,
untethered,
Texas tsunami.
I rage against
the ever-deceitful aspirations
of peace and calm,
rage utterly
against all heaven-sent calamities,
rage most,
upon
this violent earthbound dream
we have plunged into,
it is a raging river
that will sweep us all away,
even little girls,
all those struggling to still swim
above such raging torrents
only to slip through flailing hands
as hope sinks below
yet more tumultuous waters,
waters which
it has been written,
that Jesus himself
once walked upon.
Niagara Falls
Aboard the Maid of the Mist, drenched from the spray,
Approaching Niagara Falls, I gaze in awe
At this wondrous sight of the renowned cataract,
Cascading fervently over the precipice
And violently crashing down upon the rocks
In a roiling boil is mesmerizing to see.
And behold! Out of the mist a rainbow appears,
Arching a span over the turbulent waters
From where thunderous roars are heard and eddies swirl
As if the heavens opened: “The Rapture is here!”
With angels descending to carry Christians home.
And I am small amongst giants (walking in the world
Defenceless against nature’s challenging forces),
Who will read “Insignificant” etched in my headstone.
Unlike those who think their works will last forever,
I’m like Niagara, trickling into the future.
Lost and floundering in an unwholesome fog,
time stood still as if in a freeze-framed mental log;
roiling clouds swirled and hovered beneath the sun,
tangerine streaks sketched on the horizon.
Amazing was this view, and it calmed my fear.
Watching in slow motion, all became so clear;
it was the scribbling of an angel child,
one whose imagination ran wild.
Melting heavenly crayons were streaked and blotched;
they began to take on depth as I stood and watched.
Oh, how they lit up the landscape so!
I love this child, don't want him to go!
Simplicity's wonder all aglow in style,
I think I shall stay here and just watch for a while.
Perhaps there's a lesson here for me,
if I open my eyes to beauty.
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.