One door closes, another opens
different phases oft find us half-asleep
Like the moon, they wax and wane regularly
though folks don’t always see
Conditioned to think they’re spread out
they can come in bunches
Disrupting our mindsets
evading our hunches
And when we think we’ve reached the end
another phase may lie around the bend
To shake us from complacency
to stir the pot ~ to bury reverie
Let me try to fill you all in on the scoop
There are some poets that write like they poop
Though most are out there
You must be aware
There are some poopers that stink up the soup
To all the poopers that stink up the soup
I'll say this to keep you into the loop
You too... be aware
There are poets- here
That will try to poop you out of our group
And if you do get pooped out of our group
Go somewhere else to spread out your goop
So, you and your sack
Must never come back...
to write your poopy in PoetrySoup
I entrust my pension
To a silver town.
I have retired.
"I am different from others.
I was a civil servant."
The moment I enter the silver tower,
That scent of a silk road.
I drift off to sleep for a moment.
Awakening,
A dining table is spread out
Before me.
Five years later,
As the money in my pension runs low,
The food gradually grows saltier.
They are waiting for my death.
"You have basked in the sun for too long.
Soon, the moon will be waiting for you!"
Crystal ball, thy spirit.
Cast thee a mighty spell.
Vision sacred, let's hear it.
Voice of mine, pell-mell.
Tress and trawler, set thy hooks.
River bed to dredge.
Recipes we learned in books?
Formation, wild wedge.
Coal, control, bell toll, sail, soul.
Down the delta wide.
Wasteland, when you set a goal.
Woe, when you betide.
Chicken farm, thy tender.
Politics, tough thy game.
Doubtless, O defender.
Katabothron, quay, claim.
Current, channel. Atmosphere.
Particles, spread out.
Cloud cover, sere or severe?
Cannibal, red rout!
Trickle, stickleback. Code crack.
Fortresses, thy stack.
Under attack? Dinner pack.
Flak ahead? Shellac.
Yawndrift, yucca, yellow eyes.
Oceanic rift.
Circumspect the council's cries?
Petrify, wood. Gift.
Bank, holding of money.
Tornado, spinning fast.
Clown, well, life is funny.
Mead honey, my good ghast?
Light is the keratin structure
That formed covering my body
Plumage I'm 2 unique bird
Monophonically heard
I concur
Calamus hollow tubular base
I reserve...
(hello), Rachis my soul central solid shaft
Above mine quills
Plumage soft N bold
Contour feathers
~
I spread out my wings I fly
I open up my mouth I sing, high
Generating thrust I steer during flight
I sing, I fly, I cry my whispers are GOOD NIGHT
I TWEET SWEET MELODIES
Filoplumes mine bristles hairlike whiskers
Sensory feathers to feel you in AWE
Feel you in all positions, heaven sent
I soar, I fly complete in environment
I am encased in, contour feathers
Now I'm feeling such, so much better
8/24/26
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026
Oh please wake me up when September begins
Day one of September's the first day of Spring.
Here in this hemisphere on the south side
Our weather revives from a cold Winter bride.
Daffodils bloom, and new growth is seen
Lush paddocks spread out with grass oh so green.
The sun in the blue sky is a welcome sight
Our day is now warmer and so is our night.
Spring brings such renewal to brighten our moods
More time is spent outside as Winter concludes.
The earth on the north side brings September's fall
Where days become colder with Summers recall.
A change to the season with carpets of leaves
That fall to the ground when stripped from the trees.
Then Winter takes over with cold and the rain
While here in the south I'll have Summer again.
And so to you now, these words I do send
September for me brings a start not an end.
The world is spread out beneath me,
a layer of dark velvet
dusted with fluorescent glitter,
sparkles that succeed the fiery sunset.
They shimmer in clusters,
as if the fabric of the world
gives rise to gatherings of life.
I wonder how many people -lives-
I fly over each second,
and how many life-changing moments
I unknowingly bear witness to tonight.
How many of you will I meet?
And which of you will illuminate my heart
the way you illuminate the Earth?
It’s nice on a birthday
To hear from your friends
And celebrate where
A warm feeling transcends
All the stress you might feel
On an average day.
Just a few special people
Can make it that way.
A meal that you share
With a candle and cake
And a car ride with singing –
That joy you can’t fake.
The space to spread out,
Watch a movie, relax
In a place where the elements
Cease their attacks.
Though this birthday’s not mine,
So far I can thank heaven
It’s going so well –
And the reason? Six seven!
Tears are destined to unchain from the eye
when there's far too much going on inside.
Some eyes are not meant to ever grace light.
Like two blackbirds without a desire to fly.
A heartbeat was meant to spread out
to be felt over the earth and far beyond.
A pebble ignites the soul of a pond.
A beat and ripple are from similar cloth.
Sky ballerina, never stays in one place
, a pleaser for a panel of petaled faces.
Like a vagabond that's often displaced.
Butterfly and vagabond siesta in shade.
Some hands are meant to make love to canvas
Some fancy to finger clay or lay stain to glass.
Many go without as they yield to their passion
Most don't arise until after they're long dead.
From out of this hill's wide girth
Have shaped, and stately
Though old, and at rest
A grand dame's posture.
In folds of its lower slopes
Traced, spread out, before
With bluebell threaded
Gown's timeless allure.
Sometimes words thin, then spread out.
There just isn't very much to talk about
that hasn't already been talked about.
What lies in the soul of silence becomes paramount.
Do you hear hummingbirds whirling about
or blue buzzards of regret and self-doubt?
Do you hear silverware crashing the halls
or bells of a country church decorating homespun walls.
Do the quiet tones turn to sweet memories
or a platoon of goblins chasing hobbled dreams.
Silence can be a hand holding, dear friend
or stompers wishing for your bitterest end.
I am drenched
naked in the rain
letting cumbersome wash away
arms spread wide
nowhere left to up and hide
as the purples seep in from the side
stained glass silhouettes where the sun once shined
looking in through the emeralds
held precious in your eyes
I will bide my time
before the end of a dying day
a future is meant to stay
to slay hope in the catacombs of our dream
I once had a dream
but I don't need to dream
I was born to live
to love
a beating heart sowing up all the seams
with you as the thread
Sometimes I talk into the wind
so the silence of the words can spread out
it was third platoon’s turn to leave
the safety of the wire
our platoon’s mission
search and destroy
the air was like a sauna with no relief
the jungle closed in on us
blocked out the sun
our packs weighed on us
as we humped twenty klicks
without a break
our jungle fatigues
hung heavy on us
failed to wick sweat away
from our bodies
we felt as though a
salty monsoon had soaked us
Johnson, on point, was
out in front probing
for the enemy
we all hoped the day
would end peacefully
we spread out
to lesson our chances
of mass casualties
we reached the village
mid afternoon
it was deserted
even the water buffalo was gone
we ripped up the floors
in each hootch looking for
the hidden enemy-but found none
when we finished searching
we pulled our Zippos from
our pockets and lit
the dry straw that served as
a roof on each one
and watched as the hootches roared up
in flames like a Roman candle on July 4
our lieutenant signaled for us to
take a break and we sat among
the debris some smoking
cigarettes others catching some zees
no one was
going home in a body bag
our day was a success
I take classes in quilting on Zoom;
Quite a challenge, you’d likely assume,
But we all seem to know
How to basically sew,
Which allows us to grow and to bloom.
Before Covid, we met face to face
At a spacious spread-out downtown space.
Now we’re all on a screen
With a weekly routine,
Each ensconced in her very own place.
Our instructor, who’s really the best,
Runs the class from her home way out west.
Several others have moved
But technology’s proved
That our questions are all still addressed.
So we sit and we stitch and we share,
Holding projects so we can compare
What we’ve finished, with pride;
The computer will hide
My mistakes, for which I have a flair.
IN EXPERIMENTAL MOOD-:-
shadows
unobtrusively
eliminate
passive
scenes
in the SUNLIGHT
blossom
genuine
motifs
juxtaposed
prompts
endowed with DIMENSION
suggested
zoned
close-up
spread-out
presentations
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.