deep waters rise
still You shelter me
who am I when Your peace holds?
Let me tell you a story . . .
After my beloved mother passed away,
I needed a place to live my life;
the problem was I had limited money,
and could not afford a modern apartment.
So, I was searching for something mature,
a refuge, sanctuary, retreat, harbor, hideaway:
then, I found her, not ancient but aged graceful,
I loved her character, mood, and mystique;
admit she was elderly and along in years.
I soon found out her windows were drafty,
her wood floors creaked, groaned and slanted:
not decaying, let's say dated and I loved her,
I had to hang my pictures crooked to look straight;
some doors are stiff but she has a respectable porch.
She meets my needs for shelter in every way,
my inherited furniture from grandma looks beatific;
and my collected treasures suit my shabby chic style,
I adore the neighborhood, the parks, and paths;
she is the idyllic haven for this girl to live her life.
Faded murmurs soothe new twilight
as a gentle smoke blows around
the wind... mild circles hushing
my Manila dwelling along
a dampened , rainy lane
bringing me back home to shelter me
after a rugged storm of heart, its pain...
breezy whiffs with the falling
of wrinkled branches
ruffle the threads of drenched sky,
yet the soft fire- glow of home
cradle these breaths ...and all else lays quiet
in the twang of sunrise.
First Place
Shelter
a cozy home
comfort from elements
safe haven for self and others
refuge
Shadowed thresholds brightening when God’s nearness settles like warm breath.
Holy calm unfolding as His presence gathers around the trembling heart.
Every fear loosening when grace moves in with its quiet, steady light.
Love becoming roof and refuge, woven from promises older than sorrow.
Tender mercies rising like dawn, covering what the night could not hold.
Even the weary lifted when His hand rests gently over their storms.
Rest restored in the quietude where faith remembers who walks beside us.
What does it take to live inside
Is there a shelter it provides?
In case it does, what shall I find
That’ll make me change my tortured mind
Presumably I’m not that kind
Like others do, I go outside
To change my sight I need to hide
From that notorious inside
But then my time goes running wild
It runs downstairs and climbs too high
Till I’m not able to define
What’s what, whose voice I hear inside.
History writes in stone,
names carved by the steady hand
of those who outlived the fire.
It remembers the crowned,
the victorious,
the ones who stood last
when the dust settled
and called it truth.
But poetry—
poetry is not loyal to survival.
It kneels in the ash,
listens beneath the silence,
gathers the syllables that never made it
to daylight.
It hums in broken tongues,
in lullabies cut short,
in letters never sent,
in the breath between a scream
and its forgetting.
Here—
no one is erased.
The fallen speak
through metaphor and marrow,
through ink that refuses
to dry into obedience.
The anonymous rise—
not as monuments,
but as echoes
stitched into lines
that refuse to end.
So hail the poets—
keepers of the uncounted,
smugglers of memory,
architects of quiet rebellions.
They build shelters
from fragile words,
and somehow
they do not collapse.
Inside,
the unheard gather—
not asking to be saved,
only
to be heard.
The woman at the shelter with 7 kids
I felt blessed in my mess
My infant won’t remember this
Her kids were cute from 10 to 2
Pitter patter a stepping ladder
How she loved on them swooned
The shelter gave her a few carts
They made do with those few
Sleeping was a Tetris game of art
I remember how cold it was
We huddle and cuddle
Warming our children with love
Watching like a hawk at lights off
Such a place often not safe
From two legged predators that walk
I told myself never will I share the story
Forget you’re here dry your tears
But trial to triumph God gives glory
I wonder about that woman still
Did her kids remember it
The cots the situation the chill
Instead of keeping it a silver secret
Told my son what was done
Hoping he won’t ever repeat it need it
Thank you for the heavenly volunteers
Working there donating care
I remember after all these years happy tears
The tree stands quiet
In the absence of birds.
Its branches, once bright with song,
Now sway with a lonely sound.
The wind moves through its leaves,
And they whisper like tired memories.
Empty nests rest on fragile twigs—
Small homes that once held warmth.
It remembers the gentle mornings
When songs rose with the sun,
When little heads lifted from the nest
And the sky seemed full of promise.
How alive those hours were.
Now the color of its leaves fades,
Turning yellow with the season—
And with longing.
The birds have flown
Toward warmer lands,
Following a softer light,
Dreaming of safer days ahead.
The old tree remains behind,
Rooted in faithful soil.
It feels the cold more deeply now,
But it does not curse the sky.
It knows that wings are meant to travel,
And youth must search for distant hope.
Still, in the long evenings of winter,
When the air grows thin and still,
It holds their vanished songs
Like a quiet ache within its heart—
Proud that it once gave them shelter,
Even if it must now stand alone.
Being in the shelter is not planned by anyone who enters it's doors. Lost opportunities,drugs and alcoholism,gambling bad choices. Open your eyes to the road ahead,you are at a crossroads, make the right decision for a better tomorrow, create your destiny at this road as to ensure its a smooth road when leaving. Find yourself and take the right steps to your dreams. Don't be entrapped by complicity and comfort of shelter live. Chose the road of advancement of your live on this path. Be mindful that tomorrow your destiny will be decided by today's choices.Use the resources at your disposal for it will not always embrace you walk tall and proud when you leaveDo not approve yesterday's choices that brought you here. Fight with yourself and rise out of your addictions and bad choices
Misty morning
Under a canopy
She sits quietly
Happy to be alive
Relishing in nature's bounty
Oblivious to the cold
Open to what comes
Managing the monsoons of the month of May
Sturdy mushrooms making the best shelters
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Welcome to the land I own
Sorry that it looks so humble
It’s a flat I call my home
Mind the threshold do not stumble
Ring the bell, and then you’ll see
If there is a green light spot
What a great idea to be
Using avatars we’ve got
All my friends are quiet and smart
Easy going people, look
They unwittingly depart
Disappearing off my book
I didn’t write another chapter
There’s no draft in my archive
Only echoes of your laughter
That reminds you are alive
In the Nowhere land of mine
It’s a shelter from the snow
And of course we have some wine
To enjoy before we go..
The world is aggressive
I feel death, I feel death
No shelter, no safe home
I can't find it. Wher is it?
"You can't find peace?
Look inside. Look inside
There is the peace. Eternal."
Said Master Satan
It's okay to live a quiet life,
to live and love in the solitude
of a forest glen
where simple things
become the song of plentitude.
Morning fog to greet the dawn,
Morning sun to filter down
and warm the ground where flowers
soon shall shout their colors
to the bees that hum.
The deer and her fawn will wander near
to eat the apples that appear
the same as every year,
they speak to me these perfect beasts
and say it is safe to shelter here.
just
before
the
wicked storm breaks
while
young birds
clinging
with
all their might
to
the
strong stiff branches
of
the
sycamore tree
yes
we
are
the
stiff branches
that
bend and sway
but
we do not break
and
here
to
shelter thee
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.