Surging storm swarms in the shattered sky,
traces tormenting terror in frantic air flowing by.
The whispering wind of joy knows not why
it should face the ruthless turbulence of despair nigh.
Afflicting anger in the spiteful mind flares up high,
smolders the sullen life to make extant ember fly.
The anguished ashes drift away, failing to find nearby
the solace of benign hope, the heart doesn’t comply.
Harrowing haze clutches the hidden horizon to mystify,
spreading the shroud of gloom in the ambiance awry.
Away from the veiled sun the charcoal clouds glide sly,
hoping from dark a bright day will appear, they’ll descry.
Seething sorrow makes marooned mind to silently sigh,
permeates pain in heart plunged in misery by and by.
Agony rescinds as divine touch illumines the soul to rely,
in blessed life’s sanctum sedate hope weaves bliss to lie.
The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
emotion
permafrost
freezes
tundra heart
in your flaming fire
my glacier soul
smolders into
desire ember
my blazing yearning
dances with your
flamingo flame
conjoined lust flies
ashes ascend
in sensual sky
from love inferno
Morning arrives wearing fog
like a warning it never removes.
The village wakes slowly,
as if afraid to be seen.
Roofs drip secrets.
Windows blink once, then look away.
Names here are spoken softly,
so they don’t attract teeth.
The mist is not empty
it watches.
It remembers everyone
who tried to leave.
Footsteps disappear
almost as soon as they’re made,
as if the road itself
is tired of hope.
A bell tolls somewhere unseen,
counting lives instead of hours.
Even prayer echoes back altered,
older, hungrier.
Yet roses still bloom
dark, stubborn,
their thorns fluent in survival.
Children learn early
how to smile without trust,
how to run without direction,
how to listen for wings.
At night, the fog thickens,
stitched with moonlight and dread.
The castle looms, patient,
a thought that refuses to die.
But still
a candle is lit.
A door is barred.
A story is whispered.
In Barovia,
hope does not shine.
It smolders
quiet, defiant,
waiting for the mist
to blink first.
Through Smoke and Laughter, Thanksgiving Holds
By Alan J Winters
The oven groans, the timer fails,
the turkey smolders, smoke prevails.
Children cough, the dog runs wild,
chaos reigns, yet spirits smile.
The table wobbles, a leg gives way,
gravy spills in a tidal spray.
Uncle trips on the welcome mat,
still insists, “It’s perfect imagine that!”
Through burned pies and forgotten rolls,
we stitch together fractured wholes.
Candles flicker, power dies,
yet stories rise where silence lies.
Grandma hums an old refrain,
her voice a lantern through the rain.
We pass the plates, we share the bread,
tradition lives in what is said.
For every mishap, every fall,
the feast is not the food at all.
It’s hands that reach, it’s hearts that mend,
it’s gathering close when troubles bend.
So let the turkey char and crack,
we’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll circle back.
Through smoke and laughter, tears and song,
Thanksgiving keeps us holds us strong.
I can feel the whine inside fermenting,
maybe it is time to cash in my chips.
A sure sign of cornucopia? Swollen lips.
All at once my self restraint is relenting.
The contour of those toned shoulders,
it’s enough to make my mouth water.
When you’re near my skin gets hotter,
dewdrops gush as my face smolders.
My chest has now begun to undulate,
dizzy and damp I’m left light headed.
Intimate spaces suddenly reddened,
hunger makes it hard to concentrate.
This bruised fist has turned blue-black,
now it’s my turn for a little bit of fun.
I know you know what you have done,
owning my ornery I can’t hold it back.
Overflowing with need I must submit,
I’m going to take what I need from you.
I have no choice but to do what I do.
Jibber-jabber? Let’s just cut through it.
My limbs unlax,
stress leaking from my body and
collecting like a basin of a
candle’s freshly melted wax;
One inhale of the plastic casket,
which burns judgingly in my back pocket,
is enough to dredge up the relaxation
my dreary, dramatic life has lacked,
smacking me in my temples
with a dopamine-injected hand.
An inhale, a flurry of smoke,
smolders holes in my lungs
until it constricts and chokes
me, until its disguised benignant nature
reveals its true form;
Stimulants create my deliquesce,
allowing my brain much-needed bliss,
but in a fine, descript disclaimer
written in purposefully disappearing ink, it’s
benevolence whispers addiction.
The dark night comes riding a razor's edge.
The day comes shining, but no solid pledge.
The peacetime smolders like untended coals.
The darkness, a blanket, for bedless souls.
The late summer leaves, ready for a fall.
The frost of winter starts its yearly crawl.
The shiver of a long-lost lover's thought.
In a timeless loop, the world is caught.
The spin of the Earth the whole human race.
We always tried to keep up with the pace.
Riding out this technological storm.
To our destiny, naked we are born.
The truth is out there somewhere, lost in time
We search the night sky waiting for a sign.
We came to this place to find who we are.
The poor lost orphans who fell from a star!
Determined energy encapsulates what smolders silently inside.
Quiet resilience produce a bold, inspiring presence that space opens wide.
With a colour gamut of profound earthy tone,
Striking fiery reds and chilling white hot lashes stand alone.
Morgan's painting suggests the perception of dancing flames to a beat,
Within the vision, to create a physical feeling of blistering heat.
This symbolizes deepest strength of passion with his brushstrokes.
Dynamic intensity instills the mesmerizing impression of movement it evokes. Demanding attention to the potential of power below the surface.
Gifted craft accompanied by the celebration of beauty is its purpose.
As I gaze at the canvas, undeniable appreciation of this abstract can begin,
With wild untamed spirit ''The Fire Within".
Anger smolders like burning coals;
igniting flames that consume souls.
The Gaza Strip is bombed in mass,
as hearts shatter, like broken glass.
Torrid tongues of fire lick the sky,
tasting Death as the jets scream by.
And there is no safety in caves
nor shelters that morph into graves.
Israelis don't believe it's odd,
Muslim blood stains the hands of God.
For words scrawled on banners of hate:
tout that Gaza will rue its fate.
Mother and child, entombed by Death:
pray for vengeance, with their last breath.
And spilled on the altar of pride
an ocean of blood: drowns each side.
There is no pity found in age;
for the young and old, share their rage.
And as righteous flames sear the ground;
hate, mistrust, and revenge abound.
On a nameless night, under a sky sprinkled with extinguished stars,
Thoughts trickle like oil in the engine of an old dream,
And I, a lost acrobat, sway on the thin thread of life,
Trying to grasp in my palms the essence of a world that smolders quietly.
You don't have to write to feel poetry in your veins,
It's there, in the smell of gasoline and the smoke rising to the sky,
In the eyes of the one who fills tanks with untold stories,
A poet without words, dancing among car queues and time.
I am an artist of the trapeze, not fitting into molds,
With my heart suspended between a yesterday and an uncertain tomorrow,
Each leap a long verse, each catch a moment of grace,
For between falls and flights, true poetry is born.
So, in the silence of the night, among ticking engines,
I wonder, who am I to name my art?
A trapeze artist of destiny, a dreamer in the shadow of light,
Or perhaps just a soul that knows how to breathe poetry without words.
A bullet speaks loud in fleeting breath
Fires rage while weaving death
The wind cries out in a desperate wail
A burdened mind dreams to no avail
Anger smolders waiting to rise
A tempest brewing in disguise
But a smile from you is bright
Thawing hearts and restoring light
Keeping distance from the one who loves,
While longing for someone who leaves no room for us in their thoughts.
Welcome to the world of shattered hearts,
Where every step is a pilgrimage on the path of pain.
No matter where you wish to flee,
This road is all that remains.
The ground smolders beneath your feet,
A scorched earth where you cannot stay.
Welcome to the world of fractured hearts,
This is the path of pain.
The melody of the night hums soft and low,
A lullaby for the lost.
But nightmares are the price you pay,
For selling your soul the devil.
The one you gave your all to—
Was never your soulmate.
Welcome to the world of splintered hearts,
This is the path of pain.
“This way, please,”
Did you hear the devil’s whisper?
No turning back now, brother.
Your foolish heart is ablaze,
And the secrets you buried deep
Now claw their way to the surface.
No mask can hide the truth anymore.
Welcome to the world of broken hearts,
This is the path of pain.
A stretched gloaming tethers creation in a
daystar's wake ... askew parts The Old Guitarist
ebbing lambent stars strung to a yarn of spring ...
'Tis the volley of calendrical crasis
poised to a youthful Einstein that subtracts from
the sum and substance whence summer makes a splash ...
The advent of an enchanting star dulls a
chant that the Khanate only stains upon its
Golden Horde smolders beneath befriending clouds ...
A whiff that slights Aurelius' bearings yet
still trifles a chalk absence to the presence
of cheese that embellishes the languid tracing ...
The shallow space of bards decreed a crowning
flock of teary favoring san tissues of
lissome verdancy choral ode vibrant charms ...
Worshipped effervescent microscopic dew
bringing into being just one bell prayers
bearing fruits of promise in globule water ...
Petrichor emanates to a hoverance
wisp claim as wandering brevity stands still
amidst a sonder of souls ventured threshold ...
Gold beams glimpsed a bevy coup of a vast crest
as the dripping stalled in evaporating
stares chase a clinked rainbow flaunts with ... creation.
He's so gorgeous, gregarious, and also generous.
He's so fine I actually want to make him all mine.
He's so sexy, so smooth and suave, I adore him when he smolders.
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.