she gleams
across the ocean.
leaving her mark
touching every wave.
she scours the sandy beach,
every seashell accounted for.
she is the night's security guard,
only hanging her head to nod,
till morning's early crescent takes over
Form: Seadna
Mist climbs the fields of Bru na Boinne
where cattle paths grow dim;
a lone hawthorn keeps the rath
where daylight thins to rim.
Old men passing touch their caps
and leave the thorn-tree be;
for roots run deep in hollow earth
and house the hidden Si.
When Atlantic winds go wandering
across the western plain,
a flute-note floats through folding grass
like breath from elder reign.
No hearth-light burns upon the rise,
no shepherd waits the sky—
yet silver steps set dew aflame
as though a court passed by.
The hawthorn leans but will not break
though winter scours the land;
for halls lie deep beneath its roots
no mortal hand has spanned.
Mist gathers round the fairy hill
as travellers wander wide;
for none would wake the Aos Si
who breathe on the other side.
The heat has stung the lizards numb, Elli,
the white church scours itself with glare.
Ecstatic mules devour the afternoon
by the rusty fence where poppies smudge the sun like blossoming wounds,
and your arms gleam bright as dew on a dragonfly’s wing, Elli.
A god dreams on in the olive tree’s angry womb,
the balcony’s shadow slices the street,
and your body is sweet as a knife, Elli,
your flesh is a casket of flowers.
In the valley between your breasts I hear your heart pump molten stone.
Enfold my breath in a rose of musk, Elli:
in your black eyes I see my death, Elli.
---------------------------------------------------------
Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: I'm not interested in poems that try to make me understand the person who wrote them; I want poems that make me understand myself.
Don’t care whom it ravages:
this land was always Thine.
Circle wagons, shoot all savages,
and things are (once more) fine.
The Swaggarts, Bakkers and Miscaviges
will soon be judenrein.
For far too long we’ve been contrite.
The best of cleaners scours.
We’re gonna give them fight or flight
(for far too long, they’ve gotten flowers).
There’s nothing wrong with being white:
or claiming what is ours.
Remember when Strom Thurman ruled?
A time when men were men.
For decades we’ve been wrongly schooled:
the sword subdues the pen.
Though King and Evers had us fooled,
we don’t get fooled again.
America was always mean,
until we lost our way.
The atom bomb, the mud marine –
Pacific equals prey.
You’re eighteen? With an A-15
you’ll always get your way.
We don’t need Confucian.
We’ve got Roger Stone.
Disregard the Constitution –
we’ll do this on our own.
Clear Catullus? Lucid Lucian?
Our wisdom is home-grown.
We bow, but only to our owners:
faceless, taxless, they:
they’re so rich, they give us boners:
they never leave LA:
we worship them. They’re known as donors:
we gave the store away.
Sun disgraced disheveled
the sun disgraced scours
its demeanor to defaced
at what's happening
down here on its Planet Earth
Gaia reeks restitution
jilted wallpaper flower ~ sours and appalls when blooms are sprawled as scours
a serene lake on a moonlight night,
as she paddles her canoe away,
far into distance where it shines bright,
in gentle breeze water lilies sway.
her hopes are lit she would meet her dreams,
that warmth and lips that such young hearts yearn,
she scours in shadows between moon beams,
a lost effort in daily sojourn.
knock on the door brings her to morning,
wiping the sadness of a lost hope,
turning she smiles at her love snoring,
she had with whom tied marital rope!
dreams and hearts can be split in two parts.
9 syllables with abab rhyme sequence
except the last line with a rhyme within.
My mind’s where fairy tales reside,
where a mote and castle collide;
A prince on a porcelain steed,
running away with him I’m freed;
Maybe a kingdom made of waves,
it’s wily princess misbehaves;
Locked inside it’s turbulent walls,
‘Anywhere but here!’ her soul calls;
When the darkness closes my eyes
I open them to salmon skies;
Blackbirds and vibrant wildflowers,
reality my daydream scours;
He and I doubled with laughter,
soak in romance ever after.
a morsel of this
a crumb of that
a string, a stick, a stone
a robin scours around
the nearby ground ~
discards make her nest a home
Murder on the Orient Express--just?
Shorter the fuse tighten the screws,
sharper stuns the rushed, drug delays the hushed,
marker trashed refuse, clues confuse.
'Morning after sharpened scours the given,
charming entertains the witty,
earning their forthcoming thwarts admission,
forming and sorting out gritty.
Straightforward clues like manna from Heaven,
page foreword; Farmer's Almanac,
date onward, sow-reap, from whence transgression?
Came forward all, the common task.
Burdened heavily, labored the righteous,
incessantly drew in favor,
descendancy ends by the impious,
death penalty, all-signed ... waiver.
Adieu, Poirot
Unparalleled, his heady play
court vision like a night-hawk
in the blaze of day
Unassuming shrugs, ‘no big deal’
as he scours the court for his next
basket or steal
Epitome of unselfish, personification of team
every basketball coach’s ultimate dream
But Nikola Jokic’s Denver Nuggets this season were beaten
Our disappointment next year may Jokic’s team sweeten
Sky filters through scant woods
printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks.
Only December has this light,
it both scours and forages,
it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam.
A December wind,
sings its own death song.
Ice hangs unseen upon the air.
The woodland acres shimmer,
then tremble upon a long fading note,
one that ushers in
last rites and other mixed blessings.
Her ears point forward to a sound she hears.
A sound beyond a pitch to my ears.
Her legs now crouch to attend the fears
Of the twitching nose that scours the airs.
She runs like a bullet shot from a gun.
I'm following behind on the run.
She corners and traps her small bale,
While I stoop and lift it by the tail.
Don't worry. I set it free.
THE GIRL WHO SINGS IN THE SHOWER
The girl who sings in the shower
does so to feel alive
so her vision doesn't get fogged up
in there
she let's her hair loose
and let's the water sprinkle down
with each trickle of water on her skin
her soul gets nudged
and episode of events begin to unfold
the tales all clear
and electric
each hankering for acknowledgment
on good days
she sings and smiles to the memories that make her heart race
on bad days
she scours a little harder
leaving her skin feeling flushed.
the walls in the shower
witness her unadulterated emotions
they provide a satisfying symphony of solace
she gathers and rebuilds
apprising herself of the life now
her voice and melody not puny
The girl who sings in the shower
does so to ponder on the projections of life
and to keep her heart throbbing.
Words will sour
in your lust
for power,
it is these
deeds
that come.
Prayer is lush,
it makes
one cower
but pure
is the cure
that scours.
I fend off
these baleful insults
which tumult
through my brave
innocence.
The flower
of the flesh
is stretched
into power.
I oft come
here
and smell
the daisies
by the lake,
where bones so
fresh
waste away
in your wake.
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.