Monica walks where amber
branches bend,
And autumn paints the world
from end to end.
The maples dress in rust and
burning gold,
While scarlet stories of the year
unfold.
A copper breeze drifts softly
through the air,
And scatters amber ribbons in
her hair.
She breathes the crisp and
quiet morning chill,
As purple shadows lengthen
down the hill.
With every step on pathways
dry and bright,
The dying leaves reflect a
golden light.
Weaving shade, nuance, deft subtle plots,
Leaving wry joke, ink commas, dots
dreams on script unfold, imbued with life,
schemes and clued-in darting figures now rife.
Taunting twist and turn in tale, pivot point,
teasing lavish scene, a buttressed hinged-joint,
matters key, core, glib, lax in broad domain,
scatters glee, sound hint, deep echo’s gold chain
Weaving shade, nuance, deft subtle plots,
Leaving wry joke, ink commas, dots
dreams on script unfold, imbued with life,
schemes and clued-in darting figures now rife.
Taunting twist and turn in tale, pivot point,
teasing lavish scene, a buttressed hinged-joint,
matters key, core, glib, lax in broad domain,
scatters glee, sound hint, deep echo’s gold chain
Display onstage rapt passion swept a coup,
convey snap gemstone verse devoid of cue,
author duty bound might accent focus,
daughter birthing play has heart light locus.
Rounds of earnest clapping greet bold set piece,
grounds for earthquake valour a bright life lease,
bowing to staunch flock who treasure art form,
wowing maestro coterie, vast novel norm
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn,
its tender curve ascending toward the leaf;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
Light scatters softly on the waking lawn,
confetti cast in moments bright and brief;
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn.
the dewy emerald margin, newly born,
receives the arc with quiet, trembling grief;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
in fluid dance, the fern’s first shape is sworn,
its curling vow a testament of belief;
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn.
the forest floor, by shimmering light adorned,
holds sacred space for nature’s turning motif;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
so the day begins, its promise worn
in curves that rise beyond all earthly grief~
a spiral rises where the pond meets dawn;
the forest breathes as new creation’s drawn.
He dies in colors, soft streaks of agony.
A brush drips red, his pulse fading pale.
Canvas glares like a silent judge,
edges frayed, stretched to rupture.
Every breath, a bruised whisper of creation.
Turpentine ghosts choke the air.
He is both weapon and wound,
hands trembling on poisoned timber.
Each stroke bleeds away his hours,
pigments crushed under frantic weight.
Living kills him slowly: waking, eating,
pinned beneath the weight of vision.
His palette reeks of ruin, marrow-deep gray.
The easel leans, a crooked crucifix.
Shadows coil beneath his feet, rooting him.
Paint wars with him; the war is his own.
Art consumes, art devours, he lets it.
Sacrifice shows teeth, most dire.
He falls, into his masterpiece burning.
Ash scatters hues, he becomes his release.
I'll wait it out. Paranoia go away.
Now where was I?
Ah here we go..
I could kiss the stars as each one gleams.
Catching my attention, whilst way up in the sky.
If I could just reach high enough, I'd wrap my arms around the moon.
I could never repay you for all you've done.
Thankful I can see you in the birds as they fly by.
Notice you in the butterflies, fluttering in circles.
The bees in the garden, while they wear sunflowers for a dress.
Dandelions are meant to be wished on.
As it scatters, seeds find a new place to rest.
The rain from the sky washes me clean, as my own tears become nysnc with the sounds of such water falling.
The wonders of everyday life. I come to realize as I write.
Coming to Jamaica
That land of magnetic Aura
Gold and green embedded in my being
Energy shifts into a butterfly dream.
I hear you calling my name.
I am home once again.
Back to where I belong
Negril boardwalk on the white sand.
From the mountains to the sea
Its deeper presence dwells within me
And flows into an infinite stream
To the warmth and radiance of my being.
Coming to Jamaica
The land of nature and nostalgia
Where the rhythm of music hums
And scatters the rhyme like African drums.
Columbus saw it on Discovery Bay
And brought into mind a beautiful display
Of the indomitable emancipation
That lives free in every Jamaican
To me she is grace, a radiant light,
Turning grayest mornings into luminous bright.
Her laughter is music, a sweet, ringing chime,
That lingers and dances a lovely warm rhyme.
With a spirit so cheerful, she scatters away
The shadows and clouds of a difficult day.
Her empathy runs deep, as a crystal stream,
A comforting anchor, a beautiful dream.
She knows every word that is healing and true,
And says what is needed for comfort to you.
No awkward missteps or regret in her phrase,
Just wisdom and warmth to embolden your days.
Her heart is so pure, benevolently gleams,
The truest of treasures, the best of my dreams.
She’d go to great lengths to whisk away tears,
And quiet the doubts and anxieties and fears.
For nothing brings more to her gentle-eyed view,
Than seeing a smile gently blossom in you.
She’d do most anything, wondrous and grand,
To offer a laugh while holding her hand.
So cherish this lady, so lovely and rare,
Who meets every moment with patience and care.
A heart made of gold and a spirit so true,
She lives for the joy that she brings unto you.
The ancient oak
elegantly extends
its gnarled and weathered roots.
Seizing life from fertile soil,
its lustful thirst sated
from springs that generously flow,
devotedly, unseen.
It scatters beauty,
sweeping freely
'cross a shifting sky,
waltzing with
a wayward wind,
solidly swaying upon
seasonal whims...
I am that Oak
when I am with you,
firmly grounded,
yet swept away.
Quenched by your caress,
swayed by your strength,
I can bend with the years
that claim me.
When chaos splits the dawn and scatters early light
The path once cast as wrong may rise and prove its right
Beneath a turquoise canopy, the forest breathes
in shades of blue no daylight ever discerns~
a dream-lit hush where stars slip through the leaves
like silver secrets drifting into ferns.
The water shimmers, holding sky and shadow both,
a mirror tuned to quiet, ancient things.
Above it hovers — feathered myth, untamed oath ~
a multi-colored cardinal with lantern wings.
It circles once, as if to bless the night,
then scatters glints of starlight as it turns~
a small, impossible guardian of light
whose presence makes the whole blue forest yearn.
I've seen him everyday this week
Nurturing the plants and flowers.
Sighing contently. He joyfully whistles
While he sprinkles them with showers.
He's looking a little forlorn today.
He must have something on his mind....
I know! I'll hop by and cheer him up
For he's always very kind.
He fills the feeders to the brim
With the trusty old peanuts.
Even the more gentle birds
Will battle for them with guts!
When all is quiet with little breeze,
I like to play this game...
How close can I get to him
Before sees and calls my name?
He always smiles when I approach
And sing my merry tune.
He's there for many hours,
Even on cloudy afternoons.
He generously crumbles and scatters
His ginger nuts and digestives.
I, the ROBIN, am a friend all year.
Not just for seasons festive.
13th July 2026 for the weekly poetry challenge
A poem from an animals perspective
Heat
leans against the afternoon,
a pale shimmer trembling
on the lip of every leaf.
A single yellow kite
tugs at its string
as if the sky were soft enough
to open.
Somewhere,
a lawn sprinkler
scatters silver syllables
across the grass,
and the day
brightens its pulse
to listen.
As zephyrs tousle thro’ his hair,
He walks along the dappling shade of trees
With a flaming lily behind his ear,
With scent of pine wood and lingering rain
On the horizon, warm oak on his breath,
He wanders freely upon a midsummer.
To be a cloud as it wanders the lull
Expanse of day, as the warmth of Sol’s breath
Scatters against the skin of dark vapour —
He is a cloud.
And on and on and on and then
He stops —
Captured by a hand that wasn't there;
The grass remembered arches after gone
And dew clung in the shape of being watched,
He could hear it clearing its throat to speak.
It passed him by as a cloud.
the sun descends and light bends
scatters through dust,
through the thick exhale of the day.
shorter wavelengths scatter first,
the blues flee upward,
abandoning us.
what remains: red, orange,
the long slow wavelengths that refuse to scatter,
that push through the atmosphere like stubborn hands reaching.
it's physics dressed as beauty.
it's the earth turning away and the light catching on that turning,
catching on particles pollution, salt, smoke
all the debris we've left suspended.
the sky doesn't change colour.
the light does.
we do.
we stand here watching the visible spectrum collapse into itself,
into reds we didn't know we needed,
into the brief hour
when the world looks like it's burning
when really it's just leaving.
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.