I walk among the makers
Those bright minds shaping language
Into lanterns that rise above the page
Their lines move like currents
Steady and certain carrying me forward
Even when I arrive empty-handed
In this place called Poetry Soup
I learn by watching brilliance
Unfold in quiet generous ways
Every verse I read becomes a doorway
Every stanza a reminder
That craft grows best in company
Here encouragement is a living thing
A creed beneath each comment
A warmth inside each shared attempt
As I study these talented poets’ words
I feel my own begin to take shape and rise
Clearer…braver…more wholly mine
This community doesn’t just inspire
It steadies the hand and strengthens the heart
This community encourages you to become
The best version of the poet you carry within
Thank you, fellow Soupers!
shuttle slips through threads
a soft rhythm of becoming~
pattern after breath.
on the loom of steady hours
her hidden stories take shape
Soar high with me through a magic land
A daydream in the clouds so grand
Adventure awaits in illusions so blind
When I was addicted in my fantasy mind
Limerence or love, it doesn’t matter here
The boundaries are not very clear
We are safe to leave reality behind
When I was addicted in my fantasy mind
His left-handed hugs give me butterflies
And I sleep tight with his melodic lullabies
I pulled back his armor and peeked behind
When I was addicted in my fantasy mind
Shared fantasies float into the atmosphere
Forgetting wounds that cover light with fear
A healed version of him is what I pined
When I was addicted in my fantasy mind
Hearts touch as real feelings take shape
In this place that I built to escape
Here we can leave past trauma behind
When I was addicted in my fantasy mind
Words are intangible when thought or spoken
But take shape on paper or screen
A promise that’s made that in life may be broken
For words can be harsh or serene
Words strung together may feel like a hug
Might warm you like coffee that’s sipped from a mug
Others may hurt or offend the unarmed
Toss a coin… and be charmed… or alarmed
But use the wrong word where it shouldn’t be heard
In some lands they’ll put you on ice
But, in the west, words can be free as a bird
Though we’re all free to say something nice
Words can paint pictures, the pallet is vast
To let us envisage the future, the past
Words can transport us, in need of no fuel
Yet words can be loving and words can be cruel
So words are intangible?… Who told you that?
If words can lift spirits or leave spirits flat
If words can tell stories and make peace… or war
Intangible? PHOOEY… won’t say that no more!
Diving in seeking for solace
And a peaceful release of thoughts
Inner quiet in a place of promise
Creates a rhythmic song and a waltz
Initial cold shocks the senses
And a realization there is no breath
Memories hurt. Up with defenses
Fearing now for a sudden death
Completely surreal. Just surrender
Drowning now. Is there no escape?
Flooded with tears without an offender
The mental screams begin to take shape
Plunging deeper, streamline surreal
Kicking hard and longing for survival
In poetic movement. A chance to heal
Surfacing again. A hope for revival
An arm points forward to show the way
The other motions back to where it's been
A labored dance to motion the cares away
In rhythm to propel, flip, and spin again
Distance covered in a pool of tears
Aqua blue represents the entire mood
Troubled thoughts washed in prayers
Stroke to stroke to become subdued
Streamline to memories once again
Kick to the surface to catch a breath
Distance covered to numb the pain
In a pool of tears to a mental death
Mingling in the sky
embracing each other
as they pass by
They have more depth
than one would know
parading the skyline
with an impeccable show
Their colors are vibrant
with every shade of gray
I kneel on the ground
and begin to pray
for everyone around
on this giant ground
The clouds take shape
as I speak my word
Letting me know
that my message was heard.
What you will is what you become,
a mind fed with the fruits of success
will make the world bend to its persistence,
dreams take shape in the mirror of determination,
and tomorrow is birthed by what you implant today.
Every snip feels off.
I stare at my own hair.
The sides are sharp today.
The top does not feel right.
I run my fingers through.
It is different, maybe odd.
I pause, not sure I like it.
I hope it grows on me.
Maybe they will like it.
It could be a better look.
Could even catch some smiles.
The girls might notice too.
The mirror feels more kind.
The cut starts to take shape.
Maybe it just needs time.
It might be working out.
I take a breath, step back.
Maybe it is bold, maybe fun.
A quiet pat on my back.
Light catches every line.
I let myself smile a little.
It may be different, but I like it.
I own this change, I own the cut.
It feels good, it feels like me.
I walk away with a small grin.
Feeling good about what I see.
Different, yes, but bold.
I like this new cut on me.
Ideas of an orchestral poem have spilled onto a page.
The story is tuneful and very poetic at this very stage.
A poem to be a rhapsody, of instruments with violins.
Instruments take shape, and as the symphony begins.
The tempo builds, with brightest intensity to engage.
Words follow the beat, to a crescendo of intense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins.
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows.
lyrics soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
The story is tuneful and very poetic at this very stage.
Ideas of an orchestral poem have spilled onto a page.
The space the distance the mind
where do i stand howe close am i
to carry my sins as far as possible
grow my brains clear of mistakes
and a place where i can pretend
so, i can just dance and let
my insanity take shape and grow
into the true moment of despair.
My true desire the fight within my fire
forests of lies deep voices and satire
lanterns in the sky fly my desire
what is it like to be buried on the moon
would my pain and stress forever rest
decomposed my bones will fly through the space
my lies will terrorize new worlds above.
I stand at the edge of time, where yesterday weaves into today in an eternal dance,
I gaze upon the uncharted path that stretches like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by my steps,
The wind whispers secretly, like an old confidant, of a future lurking beyond the horizon's line,
Where unspoken dreams take shape and color in the silence of evening that descends upon the world.
The sunset casts its golden curtain over the day, and the last glimmer of light fades like a forgotten dream,
Shadows dance upon the stage of darkness, like phantoms dissolving in the wake of a dreamer,
The stars, those beacons of the universe, light up one by one, guiding me toward the open sky,
Silent witnesses to my inner journey, they watch over me, offering courage to press on.
I yearn to soar on eagle's wings, to feel the cold air cut my breath and give me life anew,
To sail upon the waves where sea and heart sing together in a duet of eternity,
To dance freely beneath a starry curtain, where dreams become real and tangible,
To discover the magic that lies beyond the light, where the soul finds its solace and peace.
a poet’s heart is stitched with ghosts
inked in sorrow, bled in prose
each word a whisper, a breath, a sigh
woven from shadows that never die
by candle’s flicker, by midnight’s call
the verses rise, the echoes fall
secrets carved in tattered rhyme
lingering past the reach of time
the quill, a blade, it cuts so deep
wounds that fester, wounds that weep
yet in the dark, the lines take shape
a ghostly hand, a silken scrape
no rest for souls that write in pain
their voices spill like autumn rain
trapped in pages, bound in ink
forever speaking from the brink
so read these words but read them well
for poets live where phantoms dwell
their hearts still beat in lines they weave
even in death, they never leave
Heroes don’t always wear a cape
I was rescued during a hasty escape
Trouble brewed and I knew everything
Until coming face-to-face with perishing
A brave soul enabled my life to take shape
I have power at my fingertips,
Hands that scratch lyrics on paper.
A story I once knew -
Now it’s just art.
Rhythms. Twists.
Stanzas, words -
Cut and placed with care.
The poet is me - simple, complex.
Layers, knots -untold.
Pieces of who I am, what I represent.
Each word a fragment.
Some shared, others buried.
I say too much,
Then veil it behind smoke and shadows.
I don’t want to be a poem.
I’ve been silent too long,
Moulded for others -
A statue with cracks too deep to fill.
But my story?
It’s mine.
Words take shape in my hands,
Soft as wax, fierce as flames.
You can praise me.
Despise me.
Think I’m broken,
Or the answer - your angel in disguise.
But don’t lock me down.
I’m fluid. I shift.
Not always good. Not always bad.
I’ve disappointed enough.
But still, I breathe fire.
Still, I let the ink drip,
Every word a piece of my spine.
Look closer, if you dare.
You opened your heart for me
on a Friday evening
after I worked in Green Bay.
My friend who lived near
Milwaukee said you
were the best place
to be in Wisconsin,
the forests
and tourist shops
that lay between
the bay and Lake Michigan.
I glanced to my right and knew
the lake was there
the endless waters and sky
but as I was driving
to Sturgeon Bay
I looked to the clouds
I was calling out to you
to take me on a greater journey
somewhere beyond the stars.
As I turned to go downtown
a bow of a ship appeared
the frame yet to take shape.
I remembered my younger days
spent along the shores
of The Great Lakes.
Patrons at a tourist bar
near the shipyard
as the jukebox played
proclaimed your sons and daughters
built the iron vessels
with their study hands—
it was a way of life to them.
The bartender said
explorers and sailors
died in your waters
as I finished my drink.
Streetlights twinkled
as I said goodnight to you
and my tires sang as I drove.
When I turned off the radio
I heard a whisper
the sound of your voice
calling me back.
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.