With the art of under over,
footprints circle back,
to the gate left standing open.
Its latch polished smooth—
As I sharpen my key once again
the blade is now worn
to paper thin.
A map covers the desk.
Mountains are creases.
Rivers arch through meadows.
The valleys cast long shadows
reaching out well beyond
the dreams they sprang from.
One flower looked right.
Another hid behind its petals.
The bouquet grew to become bloated.
The vase overflowed with stems—
there was no room left
to wade in the water.
The boat left too late—
while one eye was searching distant shores,
another feared the rising seas.
Strong arms rowed out beyond the harbour
as the daylight quietly
ebbed the tide away.
One smooth stone will skip,
from a practised wrist's keen flick;
to then, sink down contentedly.
The steady hand knows when
it's right to let go,
leaving the cleanest ripples below.
“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
— Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
Well known or not, we write our poetry
Our inner souls reflected in our ink
Also influenced by our family tree
We every now and then cause some to think
The years pass by and then away we go
Well known are some, but others not so much
‘Tis easier to honor those we know
While unknowns by the wayside fall as such
Each unknown poet lived a real life too
Their love of verse sprang from their dear hearts’ wells
Their memory forgotten, but still true
For remembrance and respect we ring the bells
This tribute to an unknown poet’s life
Shows that we care and mitigates our strife
Coin for Zoltar
On carnival night the bulbs burned low and gold,
I stood before Zoltar's wooden chest,
Turbaned prophet, tall with painted eyes of cold,
Yet burning like a secret fate confessed.
I dropped a coin of sorrow in his slot,
Heard gears hum soft beneath the dreaming glass,
My heart sprang open, unlocked by what time could not:
A flood of cherished memories let loose at last.
"Speak," I whispered to the oracle of wood,
"Can dreams wear flesh? Can lost hearts meet?"
His crystal gaze weighed all I could,
Then night ignited, warm beneath my feet.
And there, oh there, my beloved stepped through light,
A sunrise stitched in human skin,
My face bloomed, cherry blossoms after rain at night,
Joy spilling out like wine from cup to chin.
His smile, an enchanted lantern in the dark,
Wrapped my soul in velvet, dream-soft, true,
We danced on air, our laughter left a spark
That turned the harsh world into something new.
Reality may bite, but Zoltar knows this art:
Hope's a coin we spend against despair.
So I stand here still, beneath his watchful heart,
One coin of sorrow gone, one coin of hope still there.
We sat in Plato's cave,
with our backs to the door,
the fireplace behind us,
unable to see the world beyond
in the daylight.
We played with shadow puppets on the wall—
Punch and Judy, Tragedy and Comedy.
Then, one shadow learned to speak:
"Where does the light
that casts these shadows
come from?" it asked.
"It wasn't there when you stacked the logs."
"It wasn't there when you struck the match
to kindle a tiny flame."
"Yet the light sprang from the wood."
"Was it was already there,
waiting for the flame
to show it how to shine?"
For light is not passed
from hand to hand.
It sleeps within the within, of all things,
awaiting its moment to spring.
The fire did not create the light;
it revealed only what was already there.
And in that moment, the shadow wondered
whether it too had its own light source,
hidden deep within, the within of its things.
In the land of Wonky Woo
big tuxi cat meowed a moo.
By crone spells he chewed cud
He rolled about in sloppy mud.
A squeaky mouse feared no flack
and sprang upon his spotted back
to weave a nest of bouncy moss
show moo cat who was boss.
Grey, tiny forms and wood lice
gnawed his ears with tasty spice.
Baby ghost did not think about what to do
She jumped on Witch’s broom at a quarter to two
take my hat too, said the old hag, lying in the ditch
Fly straight to the hollow tree of the head witch
Baby ghost had never driven a broom
But she flew through the air in a magnificent zoom
She loved the witch, and wanted to save her life
She did this willingly, cutting the air like a knife
The head witch believed baby ghost instantly
She sprang out of a window of that hollow tree
They raced together to save her daughter
Both doing their best, to do what they ought’er.
It's shade not of night,
It's a rest from the flight
A poem more holy than any from page
A play with more grace than what makes the stage
More reverence there than buttress can bring
From the ground to the arch, apart from the wing
More grandeur than even more lofty a spire
More solid in nature than we can conspire
Giving shade through the day and rest through the night
For all who have need to retire from flight
It's a loss, there's no doubt
Whether storm, ice, or drought
Cellular, cellulose, wearing a crown
Grown all the way up… to only come down
When it's time to leave the sky to the wind
The leaves and the branches no longer to bend
Thence came the life that gave life to the lyre
That would raise up a canopy meant to inspire
More than a point, or a joint, or an arch
The oak and the elm, the maple and larch
Are reduced, as all things which sprang from the dust
To the fruit we produce to provide what we must
When it's time to be borne on the shoulder it's best
To have taken a stand between restless and rest
What we leave's what we're made of, leaf, branch, or tome
Make the most of your time, for we all join the loam
I am not..An Islamist' nor a zionist.' Neither
Am I homophobic or a climate doomster/pagan( i fear no man ) i reject the many isams..Labels that sprang from a
False idealogical dawn.' I am though an Australian
Born and moulded' in a ' hard yet fair land' above all, of what i am and am not.' Rests
The Lordship of Christ, who observes each,
And every jot.' Come Lord at whatever time
For I am yours..I pray only that you are are mine.'
Life can be dry
Often, you can cry with no tears
You grew in places that never watered you
You became strong
When others were wrong without knowing it
You grew in places that never watered you
Traces of anger sprang up within you
But you were no stranger to a barren land
Deep inside of you was a victorious Spirit!
You were the rose that grew through concrete
Mark Frank
Copyright 2026
'While stranded high and dry
unemployed skippers ate a lot of kippers'
which smacks of a red herring to me
is a tale told when we were but nippers
altho' with neither fowl nor feline
in a beautiful pea-green boat
the motley crew who put to sea
were assuredly safe and sound when afloat
but then as ocean water rose within
thereby a somewhat large hole revealing
the now woeful matelots felt dreadfully unhappy
as they smelt a strange yet serious sinking feeling
for sadly a rather bad leak had sprang in the bilge below
and their ship went down like the proverbial stone
so the jobless captains fared far better
as landlubbers secure ashore home on their own
Time has finally caught up with me —
A hush upon the bone —
The Mirror whispers differently —
Than when I stood — alone.
The Mind once fleet as Sparrow’s wing —
Now trembles — in the air —
As if the Thought — forgot its perch —
And left me — waiting — there.
The Body bends — where once it sprang —
The Pulse is soft — and shy —
The Seasons weigh their evidence —
Against a tender Sky.
Yet in the frailty — glimmers Light —
A Candle — small — but true —
It tells me even Ashes breathe —
A secret — brave and new --
And Time — has made a Friend of me--
Regretful -- yet it's true --
Four years ago, I wrote a little song
It's just a little song that's not that long
I know very little about music,
But I love the lyrics
I'm not the best romantic on the planet
Nor would I be considered musically inclined
But I thought about you and wrote a few lines
It all started when these words sprang from my heart:
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
WHAT MORE CAN WE DO?
WHAT MORE CAN WE SAY?
AT THE BEGINNING OF THE DAY
IT'S ALL ABOUT ME AND YOU
YES IT'S ALL TRUE
THERE ARE THINGS WE ARE GOING
THROUGH, AND THERE ARE SURE TO BE
OTHER THINGS BEFORE WE ARE THROUGH
WHAT MORE CAN WE SAY?
WHAT MORE CAN WE DO?
AT THE END OF THE DAY
IT'S ALL ABOUT ME AND YOU
WE BOTH KNOW THAT OUR LOVE IS TRUE,
IT'S NOT ALWAYS FRESH LIKE THE MORNING DEW
BUT OUR LOVE IS LIKE A WATER FALL
WHOSE WATERS FALL LIKE A DIVINE CALL
OUR LOVE IS LIKE THE OCEAN SO DEEP AND WIDE
OUR LOVE IS LIKE THE SEA TIDES.,
WHTHER HIGH OR LOW, ALWAYS COMING
FAITHFULLY TO THE SHORES
Not a Democrat
Is democracy good for individual freedom
a year when spring sprang early
he bought horse and cart and made a living
moving people's rubbish to the town's pit
He was not a man working from 9 to 5 in
a factory where underpaid workers slaved
putting macaroni in tomato sauce, into a tin
he had many children, but was not a pater
Familia, the children grew up with varied
success, some failed while others thrived
Besides, he liked gardening, in the poor
A section of the town people came to see his
display the beautiful flowers
In the night, people came picked the bloom
to give color to their meagre homes, that
It was what he had wanted
He lived a long life, and his wife loved him dearly
No, he was not a democrat
Upon the eve of dying
she could not speak.
And all her opened tear ducts
Sprang awake
And flooded forth from
The founts of creation
A new sea.
Oh, yes!
She cried a sea of tears
Because her words
Had passed the door of possibility,
Because her boys
Would not be there
For her to comfort them,
Because, perhaps
A whole life
Needed to be grieved.
How I loved her.
She could hear the simple, humble things
That no-one else could hear,
That I would trust none other
Than her heart to listen to.
It was like having my own wise, quiet mom, again.
And now on the eve of dying,
Now she cries,
And the seas are flooded with light,
And her form rises lightly
From her bed,
And she is gone
- Except, perhaps, for a single tear
The Storm uttered his vengeful voice
Breathing threats on all mortals below.
With power he showed his flashing bolts
And shook the earth with his mighty hands.
The trees cried loudly as they were rent.
The rivers drank more than they could bear.
Creatures hid in quivering protest
As the storm’s soldiers marched quickly by.
When he passed there came a gentle touch.
His life was squandered in his fury.
The sky shone forth his bright epitaph
And mere mortals spoke ill of the dead.
Upon the earth renewed life sprang forth
And nature was blessed by his fury.
The hatred of the Storm King withal
Became the source of much grace below.
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.